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arielhopepeace · 10 months

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Welcome, my loves, to another Joel Miller fanfic! Please be sure to read the trigger warnings before reading this story since this one focuses on the traumatic past of y/n ❤️ it shows how she’s able to push past the trauma to find love in a man again. This is something I have personal experience with, and I know how hard it can be. So, I’m hoping that it may be a comfort to anybody who needs it. It certainly was comforting to write 💕

She is a successful 25 year old lawyer, and Joel is a successful 35 year old dad who owns his own carpentry business and seeks out y/n for help! This was a story suggestion from a good friend of mine, and I hope you all enjoy it.

Part two is here

18+ only

Tw: smut, talk of sexual assault, trauma flashbacks, anxiety, panic attacks, age gap, talk of death of loved ones, talk of drug abuse

Word count: 7,500

"Ms. Y/l/n, your three o' clock is here," my receptionist says gently over the intercom.

I let out a preemptive sigh, squaring my shoulders as I adjust myself in my chair. It's not common for me to take on male clients, being that I'm not particularly fond of them.

The only man in my life is my dad. Even though he lives about an hour away, we still talk every day with the occasional FaceTime chat so that we can see each other when our schedules are too busy for in-person meetings. He's my rock. He got me through the most difficult times in my life, and worked two jobs just to put me through college.

Thanks to him, I'm now an accomplished lawyer at twenty-five years old. I owe my life to my dad, and I know that no other man could ever live up to everything he's done for me. It doesn't matter if they tried. I'd never trust them, anyway.

"Send him in," my voice barks.

It's not Cynthia's fault that I'm on edge about a man coming into my office. It's only that he's the first man I'll have been alone with since...him; the name that I never allow to pass my lips, the name that any time I hear it out in public it makes me cringe and spark that bit of fear in my chest. He is the reason for my total disrespect and mistrust for men, because he showed me how truly evil they can be.

There's a knock on my office door, and I let out a short, clipped entry to the client. He steps in and closes the door behind himself, the lock clicking only promoting my apprehension for accepting his case. I wish my boss wouldn't have talked me into it; wish he wouldn't have made a fuss about me not accepting a male client and how it's not ethical. I can accept whatever client I damn well please, and I don't want a man telling me otherwise. But I have to keep my job. It's always been my dream to be a lawyer. It was my father's dream, too, but he could never afford the schooling. That's why he worked so hard to make sure I got in. He wanted it for me as badly as he wanted it for himself.

"Hi, I'm Joel Miller," the man's voice interrupts me from mindlessly shuffling through papers on my desk.

When I turn my gaze up to his I feel myself gulp, flicking my eyes briefly over to the shut door before having them settle back onto his. They're soft and brown, inviting, and seeming wholly innocent. His skin is tanned and smooth, only having slight wrinkles at the creases of his eyes. He has dark hair that's a bit longer, resulting in small, half-curls scattered sporadically on his head.

His hand is extended to mine, and I stand, reluctantly taking it to maintain professionalism. I never should've accepted a male client. My heart rate must be through the roof at this point, my palms a sweaty mess that he probably took notice of. God, get it together, y/n. It's your job.

"How can I help you today, Mr. Miller?" My voice projects smoothly, not having a hint of anxiety in it.

How did I manage to pull that off?

He shifts a bit in his seat before his eyes meet mine, still having that magnetic, gentle demeanor to them. "Well, I just wanted to say thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

I smile with a nod, even though I didn't really have a choice. My boss was so heavily insisting that I chose a male client, that he basically threw this guy into my lap.

"Of course, Mr. Miller."

"I own Miller Carpentry over on Hugh street," he gestures a tanned finger in the general direction, "and recently I hired a few new people to go do some jobs independently without me being a shadow. Well, that was a mistake. One of them took the money from a few jobs and never gave me, the company, a percentage of it."

My pen glides across the paper as I take notes of his claim, trying not to focus on the fact that we're alone in the room. I make bullet points of everything I'd like to incorporate if this gets brought to court, adding potential selling points beneath each sentence.

"And I'm assuming you tried to reach out and you had no luck?"

Joel shrugs. "It's like he's a ghost. Can't find him anywhere."

"How much did he make off with? Do you know?"

He exhales sharply. "At least five grand."

My eyes flick to the closed door again, letting out a gentle sigh as I try to relax. "I'll contact a friend at the police station and see if he can't find your worker. If he doesn't pay, he'll go to jail and end up having to pay you back one way or another."

"I contacted police, and they said to find a lawyer in the meantime because he most likely won't just give it up."

I scoff as I roll my eyes. "People are untrustworthy."

Joel beams at me once I stop scribbling, my tense body shifting again. "In the ten years I've had my business, this is the first time this has happened, so I'd like to say that's not true."

"Ah, so you're a carpenter and an optimist. Sounds exhausting."

He laughs heartily, the sound slightly relaxing me. "I think it's only normal for lawyers to be pessimists. You deal with criminals for a living."

"I like to avoid taking on cases that make me uncomfortable, Mr. Miller. So, no. I don't normally deal with criminals."

His fingers scratch at his slight facial hair as he continues smiling. The hairs are gray mixed with mostly black, like a medley of salt and pepper.

"I don't blame you. I couldn't do it. It's mentally demanding, I'm sure."

My mouth twists up slightly. "It entertains my therapist."

Joel chuckles, my shoulders relaxing a bit more. "I wanted to discuss cost with you. How much will you cost if we go to court and we win?"

"When you win, it'll be about two and a half grand."

He breathes out heavily. "Okay, I can swing that. I'll be able to use the half of what I'm owed from him, then."

"There's cheaper lawyers out there, Mr. Miller. If finances are an issue, I can refer you to someone else."

He shakes his head vehemently. "A friend suggested you to me, and she said you were great. So, I thought it would be best to go to someone that has a good reputation."

I beam. "I'm glad to hear good things about me."

Joel grins back, flashing a neat, white smile. I'm ashamed to admit that I find him incredibly attractive. It's been years since I've looked at a man in any way other than a predator, but Joel seems—kind. I'm immediately putting an end to those thoughts, shaking my head in disgust for betraying the promise I made to myself when I was seventeen. I'll never let a man in again, and I intend on keeping that promise.

Clearing my throat, I pick up my pen again. "May I have your home and email addresses, please?"

He recites them to me and I scribble them down, nodding my thanks.

"I'll keep in touch via email with any updates on what I hear back. Could I also get the man's first and last name?"

"Kevin Bridges," Joel says bitterly. "Bastard."

I chuckle, a sudden buzzing interrupting the meeting. Joel pulls his phone out and gives me an apologetic look before he answers the call.

"Hi, honey, I'm in an important meeting. Are you okay?" Joel hums sweetly.

Must be his wife, right? I glance over to his left hand and notice an empty ring finger. Okay, his girlfriend, then.

"I'll be home soon. Just stay with Mrs. Cheshire until I get there, okay? I don't want you home alone." His eyes briefly flick to mine and I smile. "Okay. I love you too, Sarah. Bye." Joel sighs with raised brows as he beams. "I'm sorry, that was my daughter."

"Oh," I grin, for some reason feeling relieved. "How old is she?"

"Ten. She thinks she's a full-grown adult who can stay home unsupervised. I just have her go by the neighbor's when I don't make it home in time after school. She's an old lady that loves my Sarah to death."

My chest aches when he talks about his daughter, so much enthusiasm and evident love in his words. It reminds me of my dad and I, and it makes me miss him desperately.

"Sarah seems like a lucky girl to have you as her dad," I smile. "It's just me and my dad, too. My mom left the picture when I was very little. Drugs."

Joel's brows knit with what I can only describe as sympathy. I don't want him to pity me. "I'm sorry. Sarah's mom died when she was a baby, so she doesn't really know what it's like to have a mom."

"I'm sorry for your loss." My voice is robotic, as I always have to be to detach myself from my clients. "Poor girl," I say with a hint of my genuine emotion.

"Ah, she's wonderful. Highest grades in her class, and quick as a whip," he laughs fondly. "Definitely gets it from her mom."

I chuckle, clearing my throat as I stand, holding my hand out. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Miller. I'll be in touch."

He stands, too, taking my palm into his and giving a firm shake. "It was very nice meeting you, Ms. Y/l/n. Thank you again."

I nod, practically sprinting to the door to allow the fresh air into my suffocating office. Joel walks out with a grin, my eyes briefly following him before I disappear behind my desk again. It feels like I can finally breathe now that he's not here. It's not that I felt unsafe or uncomfortable in his presence, but it's exactly that fact that concerns me. Last time I felt comfortable around a man, horrible things happened. I can't let a man force his power over me ever again. I won't let it happen.

My house is empty as it always is when I walk in, the crisp air greeting me in the delicious way it does to alleviate my warmed body from the scorching summer weather. It's July, and I'm convinced the sweltering heat will be the death of me.

I kick off my heels and strip off my stockings from beneath my skirt, laying them on my neatly made bed before walking naked to the shower. The hot water is a welcoming feeling after the stress of the day.

Joel Miller is the first male stranger I've been alone in a room with since I was seventeen, which was eight years ago. He was friendly and handsome, but he also needed something from me. Men are always nice to you when they need something. I can't think about his soft brown eyes and expect them to be just as inviting when he no longer needs my help.

How am I going to continue meeting him in private until his case is solved? I'm so damned anxious the entire time, and it eats me alive. Yes, he seems kind, but so do all men until it's their time to strike and you instantly become their prey.

Panic consumes me, reliving the horrible, violent memories that I've experienced as I fall to the shower floor, holding myself tightly in my arms. I was so young, and somebody that I loved and trusted took advantage of me. Of course I've somewhat moved passed the sexual abuse, but there's always my days where something triggers my brain, and I'm in a rough state for the remainder of my time awake.

Today is one of those days. Joel's presence set me into a downward spiral of all-consuming panic. I'm tempted to plead to my boss about it, and beg for him to be reassigned elsewhere, but I know he won't have it without an explanation.

Nobody knows what happened to me when I was seventeen besides my dad and a few police officers. My ex-boyfriend who abused me, Justin, got a few months in jail since he was also seventeen. The man who helped him, however, was twenty-four at the time and got sentenced to one year in prison. I wanted the judge to grant a lengthier sentence, but since it was their first offenses, he cut them some slack.

Being a lawyer, I've had several opportunities to defend sexual assault victims, and I have. I've always advocated for lengthier sentences, and almost every time I'm met with a judge who takes my suggestion. I can't help but wonder if Joel's friend who suggested me to him was a woman who I've helped with a sexual assault case.

I'm glad that it's not common knowledge amongst the public about my past. It's not something I want people knowing and pitying me for, or thinking I'd be too emotional to do my job. Never once have I lost my composure in a court room during one of those cases, and I never will.

Before anything else, I'm a professional, and I don't let my emotions get the best of me at work. I'm not the type to express my feelings, either, not even to my dad. He always knows when something's bothering me, but I normally change the subject and brush it off as to just being tired. It's just hard to open up. I hate doing it.

Later as I lay in bed, slightly wine-drunk and ready for sleep, I'm reminded of the gentle burr of Joel Miller's voice. His hand was heavy and calloused in mine, making me feel as if someone had just given me a massive weight to hold. His tanned skin flashes in my mind, and I can't help but wonder what he smells like. Does he have a specific scent that smells just as manly as he appears?

Without realizing, I'm grinning with my eyes closed, picturing my fingers in his loose, soft-looking hair as I inhale whatever aroma lingers on his neck.

***

My eyes scan the document in front of me, nodding as I copy a few pieces of information and type it into my email for a client. A slight ding hums through my computer, and I instantly click on my email notification.

To: Y/n Y/l/n

Subject: Rat Bastard

Hi, Ms. Y/l/n,

I was just reaching out to let you know that the son of a bitch was finally caught. He agreed to give me back what was owed to me, and wants to avoid court and jail at all costs. I decided to not press charges even though he's still a bastard. Thank you again for all of your help so quickly. I really appreciate it. I know that you don't need to be paid unless you win the case, but I still took up your time. If you ever need some carpentry work done around your house, I'll do whatever you need for free. Please don't hesitate to call or text if you ever need anything. My number is 276-555-0909. Thank you again.

Joel Miller

A little sigh leaves my curled lips, my heart drumming in my chest. I'm relieved yet saddened that Joel won't be joining me in my office anymore. Of course I know that I can contact him at any time, but I don't need any carpentry work done around the house even a little bit.

My washer has been on the fritz, leaking a bit almost every time I do laundry, but I was just going to buy a new one. The one I have isn't old, there's just something wrong with it. Should I ask Joel for help with it?

No, that's ridiculous, right?

How insane am I that I'm letting a strange man into my house just because I want to spend some time around him? No, I'm crazy. I can't do that. What if he hurt me? What if he tried to attack me?

I immediately halt my racing thoughts, closing his email and resuming my other one. Just because I find Joel attractive, doesn't mean that I can just start letting my sky high walls down. He's still a man, and that makes him dangerous.

At home, I finish my call with my dad. We caught up on our current work lives and anything new that's happened. It's luckily all the same as usual, and we made plans to see each other soon.

My bare feet patter into my laundry room, seeing that there's a puddle on the floor, making me scoff and curse. It feels like the universe is telling me to call Joel and have him come over to help me, but I'm too afraid.

If I invite him over, he'll be the first man ever in this house, and I don't want to forsake my promise. Deciding to throw caution to the wind, I let out a sharp exhale, pulling up the email app to copy Joel's number, pasting it into my phone. My thumb hovers over the "call" option, my heart feeling like it's about to leap out of my chest.

Before I realize what I've done, the line is trilling, and it's too late to hang up now.

"Hello?" he answers curiously.

"Hi, Mr. Miller. It's y/n y/l/n."

"Oh, hi!" Joel says brightly. "I take it you got my email, then."

"Yes," I say shyly, clearing my throat. "Um, are you busy?"

The line is quiet for a moment, then he speaks. "No, actually. I just settled into the couch with Sarah to watch some show that she likes, but I don't think she cares whether I'm here to watch it or not," he laughs. "What's up? Is everything okay?"

"How much do you know about fixing washing machines?"

Joel chuckles. "I'm a very handy man, Ms. Y/l/n."

"Mine has been leaking for a bit, and I just walked into my laundry room to find a huge puddle. You think you can help?"

"Definitely. I'll grab my tools. Could you send me your address? I'll leave now."

I clear my throat, panic constricting it. "Uh, if you're comfortable with it, you can bring Sarah. I know you said you usually leave her with the neighbor if you can't supervise her."

Joel laughs lightly. "I'm not sure if she'll want to come, but I'll ask her. Thank you for thinking of her. That's sweet of you."

I giggle, the thought of Sarah being here comforting me. "Of course. I'll see you soon."

"Bye."

"Bye." I hang up.

I'm suddenly scrambling to my bathroom, drying my wet feet on the carpet that lays in front of the sink. My fingers run through my hair in an anxious manner, attempting to tame it a bit. I opt for throwing it up into a messy bun, reapplying my subtle makeup just a bit to my eyes.

Why am I trying to look good for Joel? God knows. I haven't been this way in years, but something about him just draws me in. Everything in my mind is screaming at me to not give in, and to stay alone as I had planned to. It's safer when you're alone. There's no one here to hurt you. It's just you and solitude.

When I hear my doorbell, my heart picks up its pace, and the panic has settled in to my bones. I'm letting in deep breaths, breathing them out slowly. Joel won't hurt me, right? He's only here to fix my washer. He wouldn't do anything else...right?

I swing open the door and see Joel with a smile fitted onto his face, and a large toolbox in his right hand. He's wearing dark blue jeans that hang from his hips, a white v-neck shirt and large brown work boots on his feet.

My eyes search for his daughter, desperately hoping that she's here. "Hi, thanks for coming by." I gesture him inside.

Joel nods and steps in, standing in the living room. "Your house is beautiful. When did you buy it?"

"Last year," my voice croaks, making me clear it. "But thank you. I like it a lot. It's my favorite home I've ever lived in."

He chuckles, his eyes briefly on the floor before they meet mine again. "Care to show me to your flood?"

I laugh, beginning to walk toward the laundry room. I open the door, revealing the several towels that I've laid out to clean up the mess. Joel steps right onto them, his boots leaving a distinct print in the fabric.

"Did you turn the water off to the house?"

I nod. "Yes, actually. I figured that might be a problem."

Joel settles down onto his knees on the damp tile, opening the washer door. "Just don't want to be sprayed."

My eyes linger back to the closed front door, shifting in the entryway of the laundry room. "So, Sarah didn't want to come, I take it?"

"Nah, she wanted to watch her show. I told you she didn't care if I was there or not."

I giggle, admiring the flex of his biceps as he stretches into the washer. "I'm sorry to pull you away."

"No, don't be," he beams at me. "I'm more than happy to help you."

"Would you like a drink, Mr. Miller?"

He chuckles. "Water would be fine, and please call me Joel."

"Right," I smile, my cheeks feeling hot.

I leave the laundry room, making my way to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge, walking it back to Joel where half of his body is inside of the washing machine. My lingering gaze admires the strength of his thighs in his jeans. He's such a man.

God, what is he doing to me? I never think like this. Not even about handsome celebrities I see on tv.

"Here you go," I finally say, setting the bottle down beside him. "Is there anything else you need from me?"

"No. I think I see your problem, though."

"Oh, yeah?" I ask hopefully. "What is it?"

"There's a bit of a hole in your water connection. I'm not sure how that happened, but you'll need a new pipe."

I sigh, shaking my head. "How much do those cost?"

He leans out of the washer, standing up. "Free, because I'm buying it."

My eyebrows fit together. "Joel, I can't have you purchase the part and install it. It's too much."

"You helped me. Now I want to help you."

"I barely did anything."

He smiles vastly. "But you were willing to do everything."

"It's just my job." My voice is small.

Joel eyes me. "Do you not like people doing things for you?"

I sink in to myself, my cheeks feeling hot. "I don't know. I guess not."

"Hm," he smirks. "Would you like to go to the supply store with me for a new hose?"

"Sure," I say before even thinking.

Joel beams as we exit the room, my hands shaking as I slide on my shoes. I grip my keys, feeling them jingle more than necessary from my trembling as I lock the front door. I turn around to see a large black truck, relaxing a bit at the roominess of the cab.

Why did I agree to having Joel drive me around town? The last man who ever drove me anywhere was Justin, and I was stuck where he took me, having horrible things done to me with no escape. The memory makes me wince as panic twists in my chest.

Joel opens my door for me, and I look to him with a shocked expression. He holds his hand out for me to grab and surprisingly I do, loading myself into the passenger seat of his truck.

He steps into the driver's seat, my eyes adverted away from him as I buckle my seatbelt. My leg is bouncing anxiously, my gaze fixed out the passenger window.

"Are you okay, y/n?" Joel asks gently from beside me as we drive down my road.

"Yeah," I say breathlessly. "Sorry, just a long day."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

My head turns to look at him, and he's giving me a gentle smile back, the wrinkles by his eyes deepening. His eyes are still that puppy-dog style brown that is alluring and comforting all at once. He isn't looking at me any differently than he was in my office, and he no longer needs anything from me.

"Oh, uh, just a difficult case, I guess. I can't give too many details, you know," I fib.

He nods, "Of course. Well, from what I've heard, you're a wonderful lawyer. My friend raved about you."

"Who's your friend?"

"Vivian Meyers. You helped her with her sexual assault case."

My body stiffens. Damn, I knew it. "Oh, yes. I remember her."

His eyes soften as they look to me. "You really helped her get justice."

"It's just what should've been done. Too many of those creeps get away with light sentences. I don't let that happen, if I can help it."

He beams wide at me, turning his gaze back to the road. "You're an incredible woman, y/n."

My cheeks warm to his compliment, my body wiggling in my seat. "Thank you."

After the supply store, Joel gets right to work on the washing machine, shoving his body behind it to unscrew the faulty hose on the outside to replace it. My stomach turns with hunger, my hand flying to it to grip it tightly. I was far too anxious to eat earlier, and now I'm suffering the consequences of that decision.

"Can I treat you to dinner?" I ask Joel, gazing at his legs since it's the only part of him I can see.

He laughs. "You don't have to repay me for this, y/n. I really don't mind."

"C'mon," I laugh, "please? You've been so kind."

Joel lets out a loud, dramatic sigh, making me giggle. "Fine. What did you have in mind?"

"Ooo, something simple. I'm not much of a cook."

He laughs. "That makes two of us. I'm good with anything. I'm not picky."

"Chinese food?"

"God, my stomach is growling just thinking about it. Yes, please," he says loudly.

I chuckle as I pull out my phone, adding a few things to the basket that I want. "What do you like? I ordered chicken and broccoli, egg rolls, pork fried rice, and steamed dumplings."

"Oh, god," he groans playfully, the sound stirring something unfamiliar within me. "Yes. All of that sounds perfect. Maybe just add a general tso's chicken and that'll be good. That's my favorite."

"You got it."

"I'll be done in about five minutes. The old hose is almost off," he grunts as he exerts himself. "Forgive me for not being dainty for dinner."

I laugh, watching him reach his hand out for the new hose. "Please. I'm just in my comfy home clothes. You're fine."

"I'm a mess and I smell like old water. You sure you want me to stay?"

"Joel, please," I almost scold. "Yes, I want you to stay."

My eyes widen as I realize what I've just said. I've broken so many of my rules today, and I don't know what to make of it. I've let him in my house, let him drive me around, and now I'm insisting that he stays for dinner. What is this man doing to me?

Joel pops out from behind the washing machine a bit later, the Chinese food saying it'll arrive in twenty minutes. His white shirt is dampened on the side, causing it to be a bit see through. His body looks soft, but still in shape. I'm not even sure how old he is, but I know he has to be older than me by at least a few years since he has a daughter that's ten.

My eyes linger on his wet shirt. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you to change in to."

He shrugs with a smile. "If you don't mind, neither do I." His eyes look around as we leave the laundry room, making our way to the living room. "So, you live alone, I take it?"

"Yes," I breathe. "Being alone is one of my favorite things."

Joel chuckles. "Not me. I couldn't stand it if I didn't have Sarah. She's a blessing for many reasons."

I smile as I walk into my kitchen, bending down into my fridge to pull out an amber bottle. "Beer?"

He nods. "Didn't take you for a beer drinker."

"I keep them around for my dad, actually," I chuckle. "More of a wine drinker, if I'm honest."

Joel twists off the top and discards it on the counter, leaning against it as I take out my wine that I was drinking just last night, thinking of the man standing before me as I fell asleep.

"Where does your dad live?" he asks.

"Oh, about an hour from here. We see each other when we can since we both work like crazy."

He grins wide at me. "What does he do?"

"He works in a warehouse. I'm always worried he's going to hurt himself, but it keeps him in good shape."

"I'm sure he'll be fine. How old is he?"

"He's forty-five. My mom and him had me when they were both young."

Joel's brows furrow, seemingly wanting to say something upsetting, but it looks like he decides against it when his face changes. "Yeah, my wife and I had Sarah when I was twenty-five."

He's thirty-five?! God, he's still so young, but older than me by a decent amount. Why do I find that so attractive?

"You said your wife passed away," I begin cautiously, "how did she die?"

He gives me a soft, small smile. "Car accident. She was on her way to work and someone t-boned her on the driver's side going sixty miles an hour. They told me it was quick and she didn't feel anything."

My hand reaches out and grips his forearm. "God, Joel, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. It was nine years ago. I've come to terms with it and learned how to cope. It took a long time, but—" his voice trails off. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be depressing."

"No! I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." I suddenly move my hand, realizing that it was lingering against his skin.

"Y/n," he chuckles, shaking his head, "you can always ask me anything."

We stand there smiling at each other for a moment, the air feeling electrically charged between us. I take a sharp breath in as the doorbell ding rips me from my little daydreaming bubble, and I slightly jump before scurrying away to the front door.

The young girl hands me the food and I thank her as she leaves, gathering the bags in my hands and settling them down gently onto the coffee table.

"Not the dining room?" Joel asks with a slight chuckle.

I grab the remote and flip on the tv. "Thought we could do with some entertainment."

He leaves to go to the kitchen, returning with my wine and his beer, placing them on the table beside the food. "I'm good with anything."

Joel sits beside me on the couch, and I'm hyper-aware of how close he is. I pull out all of the food, quickly finishing the wine in my glass before I pour myself some more.

I turn on a random movie that's playing, not really knowing what it is. "Chopsticks?" I hand him a pair.

Joel takes them and breaks them apart, giving me a slight smirk. "Do you want me to grab a plate?"

"Only if you want them. I'm fine with just eating out of the containers. Doing dishes might be my least favorite thing to do."

He laughs loudly, his head cocked back. "For someone who doesn't like doing dishes, your house is extremely clean."

"Well, I'm a bit of a control freak, I guess. I'm lazy, but my brain doesn't let me be."

Joel chuckles, flashing that gorgeous smile of his. "Being a control freak probably comes from being a lawyer."

No, it's because I don't trust anybody and I must do everything that I can myself.

"Yeah," I lie, chuckling slightly.

I dig my chopsticks into the chicken, pushing the meat and broccoli between the thin wood before bringing it to my lips. I groan at the flavor, my stomach growling in delight.

"This is so good," I moan, nodding my head.

Joel takes a bite and rolls his eyes in enjoyment. "This is exactly what I needed. I usually eat dinner by now."

"Me, too. I was just too distracted with the washer. I'm sorry for dragging you out here."

He shakes his head. "I wanted to help. Please, stop apologizing. You don't ever have to apologize to me."

I swallow the dry lump of attraction that has formed in my throat, leaning forward to pour myself more wine, quickly downing the glass.

Joel laughs as he glances at me. "I guess today was really tough, then?"

No, being near you is next to impossible.

"Yes," I lie again, pouring myself another glass. "I'm glad you got your money back. I'm surprised he was so willing to give it back once he was caught. Most people would fight it."

He shrugs. "He's stupid."

I laugh, shoveling some rice into my mouth with a hand beneath the chopsticks to prevent any rice from falling onto the floor.

"Most men are," I blurt out.

Joel laughs. "I'd love to say you're wrong, but you're not."

I laugh with him, the alcohol lightening my anxieties. "You're not, though."

"Oh, that's not true," he chuckles. "I've done some really stupid stuff."

"Like what?"

He leans back slightly, wiping his mouth with one of the provided napkins. "When I was a teenager, probably about sixteen, I really wanted this girl to like me. So, I thought the cool thing would be to light fireworks off in front of her house. I swore she would think it was the most romantic gesture she's ever seen. Well, turns out that the tree she had in her front yard was incredibly flammable."

I gasp with my hand to my mouth. "Oh, my god!"

Joel nods with a vast grin. "Yup. Tree burned to the ground and she never spoke to me again. Damn thing nearly fell onto her house! I was lucky her parents didn't try to get me in trouble for that. They were furious, but they knew it wasn't my intention."

I laugh loudly, my head cocked back. "I can't believe that. That's hilarious!"

"She did not think so."

"I've never had anyone do something so crazy for me before." My laughter fades, flashing back to Justin and his friend cornering me in that unfamiliar room.

Quickly, I down more wine, my leg beginning to bounce again as I attempt to push away the negative memories that are replaying in my head. No, no, no. This can't happen now.

"Are you okay, y/n?" Joel asks, cutting me back to reality.

My body is trembling, and I'm doing my best to remain calm, but the terror in my mind won't stop. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Y/n, you're shaking." Joel goes to reach out but I quickly retreat. "Was it something I said?"

"No!" my voice answers quickly. "No, Joel, you're fine."

He lets out a sharp sigh. "You're having a panic attack, I can tell. I had them all the time after my wife died. Talk to me, y/n. What's happening?"

"I can't tell you, Joel. It's—too much."

He backs away a bit as he nods. "Okay, how about I tell you another story about how I'm stupid?"

My eyes squeeze shut, nodding my head. "Tell me."

"When Sarah was born, I hadn't gotten much sleep that night before my wife went into labor because I was so nervous about being a dad. I hadn't been eating or sleeping well for a few days, actually. Anyway, she finally goes into labor and I'm wide awake, running through the house to collect all of her things and get her to the hospital. Well, when we get there, and she's finally having the baby, I faint."

I laugh, my heart rate beginning to settle. "You fainted?!"

"It wasn't the blood, the screams, or any of that. It's because I freaked myself out so bad that I couldn't sleep or eat! So, I basically missed my daughter's birth because I'm an idiot."

My lips quiver up. "You were scared to be a dad?"

"Oh, definitely," he nods, beginning to smile, "but once I held Sarah, I knew being a dad is what I'm meant to do with my life. I loved her from the second I saw her, and I still get that feeling every time I look at her. That girl has my whole heart with her."

My brows slant, emotion welling up in my chest that I force down. "Joel, you're an amazing dad. I can already tell that."

"Thanks," he laughs shyly. "I do my best. It's hard being two parents."

"My dad has been two parents from the time I was Sarah's age. He's everything to me, and I know you're everything to her, too. My dad got two jobs just to get me through law school, something he wanted but never had the money for."

"He sounds like an amazing man."

I nod with a small smile. "He is."

Joel's eyes flick to my legs, then back up to my gaze. "Your legs stopped bouncing. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," I breathe out slowly. "Thank you, Joel."

He nods. "You're welcome." His eyes flick between mine. "Do you get those often?"

"Not super often, no. Just lately I've been having some triggers, I guess."

Joel frowns with furrowed brows. "What I always tried to do was just take deep breaths and distract my brain by watching something light. Have you tried that?"

I nod with a smirk. "Therapist recommended."

He chuckles. "Mine too."

"You helped a lot, honestly. My dad is the only one who was ever able to help talk me down from an episode."

Joel looks to me with those soft eyes, my living room light shining off the velvety brown of them. "That's a very nice compliment. I had to go through them completely alone. I only had my one year old daughter when they were at their worst. If you ever want to reach out when you're panicking, you can. You shouldn't have to go through them alone."

My gaze softens, those tears trying to make their way to the surface again but I shoo them away. "That means a lot, Joel. Thank you."

"You're welcome, y/n."

After the movie ends, and I'm tipsy from the wine, I lean onto Joel's shoulder, my eyes beginning to flutter closed. I feel calm in this moment beside him, and I'm not sure if it's the alcohol or just Joel.

"Y/n?" he whispers.

"Hmm?"

"It's getting late and I have to get back to Sarah. Will you be okay if I leave?"

I nod, lifting my head to look up at him. "Of course."

His eyes search mine, concern etched into them. "Promise me you'll call or text if you're panicking again. I don't want you going through them alone."

"You're sweet to care, Joel," I beam at him. "Thank you."

He grins as his slightly glares at me. "You didn't promise."

"That's because I can't. I don't open up or express my feelings to anybody, not even my dad."

Joel goes to touch my face, but stops himself. "I was that way too. I promise it's better to not face whatever you're going through alone."

With a steady hand, I grab his and place it on my cheek. "I'm sorry for freaking out earlier. I'm embarrassed."

He tucks some hair behind my ear, cupping the side of my face. "No, don't be. I'm glad I was here to help."

I lean into his touch, my eyes closing a bit to savor the feeling of his skin on mine. When I open them, I see Joel gazing at me, giving me a look that I know is want. Normally it would completely freak me out, but the tipsy affect of the wine mixed with Joel's gentle aura have me feeling incredibly—safe.

"You can," I say softly, my eyes on his lips.

Joel cocks his head. "I can, what?"

"Kiss me. I can see that you want to."

He chuckles slightly, rubbing his thumb against my cheek. "Do you want me to?"

I nod. "Yes."

Joel slowly leans in, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest as he gently takes my lips against his. His mouth is gentle and eager, my own mouth parting to allow him to slip his tongue into it. He does exactly that, eliciting a quiet moan from my throat. He tastes of beer and Chinese food, mixed with his own unique flavor. It's intoxicating, making me feel more drunk on him than the wine.

My fingers go into his hair, gently tugging to control the kiss as our tongues swirl together. My body is alight with a passion I've never experienced, and there's an ache between my legs. Joel's right hand stays on my face, the other at the small of my back, pulling me in closer to him.

I part our lips and kiss his stubbly jaw, moving down to his neck and throat. He lets out a small groan of approval, the sound further arousing me.

"Y/n," he breathes out, stopping me in my tracks. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but we should stop."

My lips come to a halt from his bobbing Adam's apple, moving my face into view of his. "You want to stop?"

He strokes my face, his gaze having a bit of heat to it. "I've thought you were beautiful since the moment I walked into your office, and I've wanted to kiss you all night. That being said, you drank a bit, and I don't want you doing something you'll regret."

I stare at him with a dumbfounded expression, the rate of my heart only increasing from the realization that Joel might actually be a good guy.

"I—" my voice trails off, "I can't believe you said that."

Joel cocks his head as he chuckles. "Why? Who the hell would take advantage of a drunk woman?"

"A lot of people."

"A lot of fucking creeps," he mutters. "It makes me a bit sad that you're impressed by the bare minimum from a man. Have you ever had a decent boyfriend?"

With tears filling my eyes, I shake my head. "No."

Joel's eyes soften as he pulls me in to a tight hug, my body weakening in his hold. He embraces me for a moment, the tears finally spilling over my lids and onto my cheeks. Is this the way men are supposed to treat women? Am I supposed to feel this safe and cherished? I barely know him, yet I feel like he'd go to war to protect me.

"Joel," I say through my sniffling.

He pulls away, swiping my tears away with his thumbs. "Yes, y/n?"

My shoulders sag as I let out a large sigh. "Would you like to go on a date with me some time?"

Joel beams, nodding his head. "Definitely. This Saturday?"

I giggle, "I'd love to."

When Joel leaves, he gives me a soft, lingering kiss at the front door, smiling as I watch him walk away with his tool kit in his hand. My body stays leaning against the doorframe until he drives away, letting out a sigh of pure contentment.

I haven't felt this giddy since Justin and I first started dating, but the fuzzy feelings towards him were short-lived. We didn't date for very long before we slept together for the first time, and after that it was like something switched in him. I was upset that I gave him my virginity, but I trusted him when I did. It was probably about two weeks later when him and his friend took me to his house and had their way with me.

My eyes close as the vivid images of them come back, doing my best to shoo them from my mind. I'd like to be honest with Joel and tell him just how scared I am of being intimate with him, but I don't want to freak him out.

Maybe I will after our date this Saturday. I was more than ready and willing to jump his bones tonight, a feeling I never thought I'd get again. But Joel seems to be changing me, and though I'm terrified, I'm somehow also hopeful that it'll be okay with him.

****

#pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fic #smut #yn fanfic #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #joel miller #joel miller fic #tlou fic #tlou smut

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northoftheroad · 10 months

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Recently I read this story where Batman supposedly breaks his leg and Robin and Superman work together and when Robin gets back with Batman—he’s apprehensive that Robin won't like to work with him after working with Superman. To which, Robin says that no matter what, Batman's his partner and he prefers him over Superman and it made me think of all the times when the situation was reversed and Robin felt unsure about his place in Batman's life.

And in all those cases Batman never says that doesn't matter how good anyone else is, Dick's Robin for him. No. When it comes to Robin's place in Batman's life it's not unconditional. Every one of those stories shows that how Robin is better—and not that Batman would want him even if he isn't the best.

Do you happen to know any story where Batman wants Robin solely because Robin's his partner and it has got nothing to do with what he can give Batman? Or is it always conditional on Batman's part.

Idk, I guess it just hurts to see that from Robin's part it is unconditional. He'd want to be with Batman even when Batman's not at his best. But one mistake and Robin's out.

Sorry, this took me a long time to get around to answer…

I'll be honest; I never thought to read WF # 75 from that perspective. It's one of the old World's Finest stories I'm particularly fond of. But it is from a time when comics were written quite differently from today. (I enjoy trying to puzzle together stories from 80-plus years of comics to a somewhat coherent timeline as much as the next fan, but there's no denying Golden Age Bruce and post-Miller Bruce are two very different characters.) You're definitely right that Dick being unsure of his place in Bruce's life is a staple of Batman comics from the 1940s to the present. I guess it's a good way to catch the reader's interest and sympathy. (Another thing about old comics – there are many repeating storylines. It's evident the writers/publisher didn't expect the same kid to read Batman comics for many years, so plots were reused liberally.)

Anyway, the closest I can think of for Bruce expressing how he values Dick for his own sake, not what he can contribute as Robin... Maybe "Dick Grayson, Boy wonder" in Batman vol 1 # 32? Or that time when Bruce (the lying SOB…) promised Dick there would never be another Robin… Unless you're satisfied with one of those times Bruce said Dick is like a son to him? :-)

Batman vol 1 # 32

Detective Comics vol 1 #237

#dick grayson #bruce wayne #robin #nightwing #batman

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practically-an-x-man · 28 days

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Your OCs get a job at a floral shop! What's their favorite flower to work with, and how artistic do their arrangements get?

Oh cool! Thank you!

Fair warning, I know very little about flowers or plant husbandry in any way, so I'm pretty much going off of appearance and vibes here lol

Rae: I could see her being really partial to dusty miller in her arrangements, since she thinks that silver color is just so cool. She's not much of an artist, so her arrangements are probably fairly simple/not particularly sophisticated, and she chooses flowers solely based on what she thinks look cool together.

Robin: Would create very elegant, coordinated arrangements, and would be partial to the delicate filler flowers like baby's breath or Queen Anne's lace.

Madison: I don't know why, but I could see her really liking the flowers that come in cones, like foxgloves or snapdragons. Her arrangements would be a lot of filler greens with a few notable pops of color, a little more understated.

Ophelia: I'm gonna be honest, I have no idea what these are called, but one time my family got me this bouquet for opening night at one of my theatre shows and it had a bunch of little spiky leaves and burrs as filler plants, and tiger lilies as the main flower - anyway, she'd also think those spiky filler plants are fun. In general her arrangements would be well-structured but fairly standard, since she'd be more inclined just to pull from whatever guidelines her superior gives her, and in her personal life she's more the type to give someone a cactus or succulent for a gift instead of a bouquet.

Gia: I mean, this is literally her whole job, so she definitely knows how to put together a wide variety of beautiful arrangements. Definitely artistic, definitely well-made. I also genuinely can't pick a favorite, since she'd pick one based on more factors than just visuals and I don't have enough flower knowledge to know what would work for her. Any suggestions?

Jasper: Would create very loud, fun arrangements - they might clash a bit, but in a cool way. I could see them being fond of peonies or roses because they come in so many different colors.

Kestrel: Would choose their arrangements based on native plants and what would effectively grow together, drawing off of nature instead of just choosing the flowers based on visuals alone. They feel like it's more coordinated that way, and it's honestly a minor pet peeve of theirs to see flowers that natively grow on opposite ends of the globe in the same arrangement. Their favorite flower is a dandelion, though not necessarily to put in an arrangement.

Katherine: Oh, she'd create some lovely arrangements! She's an artist, so she understands how color and shape fit together very well, though she's more focused on the appearance than the longevity of the flowers together. I don't think she has a favorite - maybe pansies? They look cool.

Quinn: Oh, she's going wild and you know it! She'd probably be the carnivorous plant type, which doesn't exactly go in an arrangement - she'd probably just end up giving someone a pot of Venus flytraps or pitcher plants instead.

Eris: Honestly, they would not have the patience for any job that delicate. He probably creates very eclectic arrangements based on nothing but his own bored amusement, and they're probably all either toxic or covered in thorns.

Nikoletta: Her arrangements are generally very dark, because it disguises any slips she might have with her shadow-touch on the petals - black irises, black Barlow Columbines, etc.. She also probably could make a lot of money selling "authentic" black roses for the more macabre crowd - they're real roses, not painted or anything, and nobody has to know they grow as just regular reds.

Jimmy: Eryngium is a cool ethereal sort of blue, so we're gonna go with that for him. I think he'd try to stick to fairly simple, clean arrangements, with just a few types of plants and not much filler.

#my friends!!!#answered asks #my ocs #jasper wilson #ophelia octavius #oc quinn/aces #madison douglas #oc kestrel #rae mckinney #robin cassidy #gia pantazis #oc eris #nikoletta bordeaux #oc katherine johnson #jimmy luciano

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notbadmagoo · 2 years

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i am coming out of my shell to antagonize all of you dumb daredevil gatekeepers because even though i've been trying to live my peaceful star wars life in this hellsite, y'all won't shut up and keep appearing on my dash and i want to remind everyone that i am a daredevil stan first and a human being second

it's great that y'all enjoyed your netflix version of dd and all that, i did too. i am particularly fond of season 3. and i do really like the cast. i have my opinions about the storyline the writers chose to go with through seasons 1 and 2 but overall i was satisfied with it

however

yeah they went for a mature rating in that show, and chose to operate on darker plots and use violence and such to make it targeted to adult audiences. and that's cool. that appeals to me too. bendis's run in my favorite and i've been vocal about it very often in this blog

BUT THAT'S NOT ALL THAT DAREDEVIL IS

in fact if you take every single dd issue, the darker themes trend will probably be in less than 50% of them !! because daredevil is also supposed to be FUN and CAMPY and TACKY and it was created in the 60's by STAN LEE

yes, frank miller made daredevil history with his tragic runs, and bendis and brubaker kept the spirit going

but daredevil is also MARK WAID AND CHRIS SAMNEE it's colorful it's cartoony it's lighthearted

so, to wrap this up:

you want to see dark brooding bloody daredevil? bitch you got 3 netflix seasons to watch and a bunch of comics to read. don't be so entitled that you'd rather gatekeep the character for yourself and not allow it to be presented to a different kind of audience who might have never known it otherwise

i'm not saying i am sure i will enjoy disney's version of dd. i am pretty sure i won't. BUT THAT'S OKAY BECAUSE I DO NOT OWN THE CHARACTER. i don't like 70% of the comics and i have been vocal about it here, but that doesn't mean i wish they were never written

let people enjoy things. a bad new season doesn't undo 3 good previous seasons.

#daredevil #matt murdock #foggy nelson #karen page #wilson fisk #kingpin #charlie cox #elden henson #deborah ann woll #vincent d'onofrio #marvel #marvel's daredevil #marvel's defenders #disney #yes i am tagging this insanely because i want everyone to at least read this #i am done with fandom gatekeeping #grow up

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dameronscopilot · 1 year

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For the favorites thing: what's your favorite totally silly and totally serious headcanon/thought/idea about Benny and/or Santi? And unrelated but also: what's your favorite color?

It's honestly hard for me to narrow down all of the rogue thoughts i have about these two floating around in my head 😂! But this is a Benny one that I'm particularly fond of—

I love the idea that, beneath his rough and tough exterior as an MMA fighter/ex-military, Benny Miller is actually a goddamn nerd. Be it for Star Wars (which I like to write) or something else. But also he's the kind of guy that just falls down Wikipedia and YouTube rabbit holes late at night and ends up with a ton of random facts about anything and everything. (If anyone reading this watches 9-1-1, I'm channeling Buck vibes here lol.)

and for colours...it's a tie between greyish purple and dusty pink!

send me what’s your favourite asks

#answers from the cockpit

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bzedan · 1 year

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Sure sure: “9. A book that was better than you expected it to be”

Thank you for the ask! A surprisingly tough one! I am jealous of my time and don't often invest it without knowing I'll be happy with the result, so I rarely dip into a book I'm sceptical of. But I think I've two actually that fit:

Circe, by Madeline Miller

This book had the unfortunate weight of being talked ecstatically about by people I did not trust the opinions of. I'm often easily overcome by the desire not to read/watch the thing everyone is reading/watching (partly because sometimes I don't want a group experience and partly because I am a stubborn brat), and also it was Greek myth, which I am familiar enough with for making jokes and playing with tropes and motifs but not like, enough to want to read a whole load about. If I may just make a hash of a metaphor to explain the vibe, it was a vegetable I didn't hate but wasn't particularly fond of unless it was drenched in something I really loved or cooked in a specific way (Cross the Stars, which is Odyssey in future tank war dressing, for example).

But then a very dear friend recommended it to me this year because there is a scene about Asterion's/the Minotaur's mother and there were other bits they thought I'd like. And since they are smart about the best application of this sort of intellectual vegetable I put it on hold at the library, and when it arrived I read it in two days, according to the Libby app.

Why Fish Don't Exist: A Story of Loss, Love, and the Hidden Order of Life, by Lulu Miller

I had almost no expectations, and certainly not high ones, going into this book. I do not read non-fiction much, and I am hesitant to read books lauded by certain publications (less due to the reasons above but more thanks to proven differences between tastes), but a coworker had summarised it in a fun way and I do love fish.

A common theme that I kept encountering throughout the year was obsession, natural history, and the human need for order - whether that be an insect heist that wasn't in the case of the documentary Bug Out or the recent Wired piece on carnivorous plant obsession. It is easy to see something everywhere if you are looking for it reading this book at the start of the year ended up priming my brain.

This book is half memoir, half history, had one AMAZING footnote only and lots of lovely woodcut illustrations. It feels like a nice bookend to have more or less begun the year with this book and then more or less ended it with The Name of the Rose. I feel like saying too much about it spoils a bit of the story (though if you are a Certain Type of Science Nerd you already know the reveal), but the tl;dr is that our brains are wired to want order and we seek it to madness and often allow it to calcify our paths of thought as a bulwark to the gentle wildness of chaos.

#asks #I am doing better on taking a chance on things I distrust #but I do rely on those I know who know me to point out what I've missed #meche answers

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soul-heart-and-beyond · 4 years

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'Try this mask' How about a bit of Darkwarrior Duck please?

The Masks That We Wear

“I’m only going to say this once, make this easy for yourself and try to change your ways. If not… then I’ll have no choice but to put you down. If I were you, I’d never be in this situation, but take the chance anyway.”

“You’ve just landed yourself into a whole mess of trouble, and I’m gonna have to clean it up. What do you say to having oh….. life in prison for public disturbance?”

“Now listen here, young citizen! Don’t you know that by not washing your hands you’re spreading germs and bacteria onto thousands of surfaces and objects?! I think you need a little time out, in jail!”

“Well, looks like another night’s work in the safe, clean, and crime-free streets of St. Canard, and it’s all thanks to me, Darkwarrior Duck! Hold the applause, after all, I’m the only one who can get the job done.”

#Anonymous #(Man... I'd try to find the balance between him and Frank Miller's DKR Batman... since we don't talk about All Star Batman here.)#(...Not in a positive light anyway.... Just imaging Drake getting into some 'fun' with another superhero he may consider a criminal.)#(All on the docks of St. Canard while goons are set ablaze...)#(Nah; I'm good on that.)#(But as much fun as Darkwarrior would be... he has a problem that I've been trying to avoid; which is...)#(I'm not particularly fond of Darkwing Duck.... 1992 Drake I mean. And since Darkwarrior was first Darkwing...I'm kind of worried.)#(I'd have to take into consideration about the stuff that Drake has done... which I don't exactly have to do for Negaduck.)#(Which makes Negs more fun for me.)#(I guess my mind will change later but for now; here's a try at him?)#Out Of Soul (ooc)#Extra Survival Mode! (Asks)#Extra Arcade Mode! (Memes)

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littleferal · 2 years

Text

sleeping habits 7

headcanons for agent whiskey (kingsman II)

a/n @0celesteisthebest0 reminded me (indirectly, through some very sweet tags :") that i hadn't finished this series. so i'm allowing myself to post them out of order while i finish javi and santi's. it's time for a yeehonk 💖 thank you @loversandantiheroes for helping me with the terrible t-shirt slogan :) rating general word count 1411 words. warnings mention of anxiety, co-dependency and separation issues. mild angst

At all times Whiskey finds a way to be draped over you, or to have you over him and you don’t get much choice about it

If the mood is right it’s endearing, the way he presses himself against your back, peppering sweet kisses and words against your neck until he drifts to sleep

(and even then he’s not rolling away in the night, he is koala’ed to you, good luck moving)

If it isn’t though… well it’s downright annoying because the man is persistent

Roll-on-top-of-you, pull-you-tight-into-his-chest, wrestle-for-cuddles kind of persistent. He just doesn’t want to go a night without you in his arms and there is no such thing as less is more with this man.

Plus Jack doesn’t just crave that physical contact - and all the intimacy it denotes to him - he needs it. He’s over-protective, over-indulgence and - at times - over-invested in the tiniest of actions. But it comes from a place of fear, something you both learnt the hard way, so you let him have it.

Although it’s not so common now, there was a time when Jack actually woke up quite a bit in the night - once, twice, three times - on a regular basis.

It had started as a habit, born of the number of times he’d slip out after a one night stand. He’d wake some time in the early, early, morning, press a kiss to their forehead if he was feeling particularly fond, then slip out of the door in near perfect silence. He had it down to an art.

What Jack didn’t realise is that this then became a habit triggered simply by sleeping next to another person. It served him well in those days but then it didn’t go away.

It became both a blessing and a curse.

Blessing because there has been - and of course still is - many times when he’d wake and the first thing he sees is you sleeping peacefully next to him, and he gets to bask in that warmth. Sometimes he wakes and you’re tucked under his chin, your leg over his hip. He traces mindless patterns over your thigh, holds your head to his chest and enjoys the feeling of someone - you - clinging to him before he slips easily back into sleep.

(And what bliss it is, to be able to wake to a soft dream and slip right back under)

Other times he wakes and you’ve managed to slip from his hold, seeking the cooler side of the bed. But even then your arm still reaches for him and it’s that one small thing that comforts him. You’ve been woken by Jack more than a few times on nights like these, just to find him pressing soft kisses to the back of your hand where it’s held in his, or against your shoulder where he’s slid in next to you. Those nights when you sleepily return his affection are the most soothing to him.

But the habit has also felt like a curse because despite settling in, despite all the love he has for you, it’s stayed, and that has nearly broken his heart.

How could he still be waking up in the night, even now? He doesn’t have any desires to leave, not now, not ever, but the echo of who he had been still haunted him.

In the early days there were times when it was near on every night, was every night whenever stress got to him. He’d wake with his heart already racing, particularly if you weren’t in his arms - have you already left? Or worse, has he already run? The only thing that calmed him on those nights was to wrap himself around you or pull you onto his chest - sometimes so abruptly it woke you up - so he could reassure himself you’re both still there

But he wouldn’t - couldn’t - speak of it. It was his own shame, his own little broken pieces he thought if you saw and knew why you’d be the one to up and leave in the night.

When it was like this he couldn’t even bring himself to leave the bed to seek sleep elsewhere, an irrational fear he couldn’t be trusted to do even that.

It was when you woke once and saw his tears in the moonlight that he tried to run; immediately dismissing it, hoping you wouldn’t ask - please don’t ask, please don’t make me say it, I’m scared - and promptly making an excuse to sleep on the sofa that night so as to not disturb you.

Of course you don’t let him - if you want to be in a relationship with Jack Daniels you need to have some skill in holding him down for his own benefit.

In the end the conversation turned out as short as he’d feared, but so much better than he could have imagined and it went a long way to helping you both understand each other better.

And then slowly, but surely, the habit faded and Jack started to sleep the night through much more regularly. He can still be a light sleeper, but with you in his arms Jack could sleep through anything.

So you let him hold you tight when he needs it and he lets you have space when you need it, finding a balance that sometimes means sleeping at awkward angles to accommodate you both.

Still, Jack can’t sleep soundly at night unless he has a hand on you somehow, somewhere. He’ll sleep on his front, side, back - any which way is comfortable as long as he can reach you

Although he is becoming a bit of an old grouch about sleeping on his front, Jack can easily be the little spoon because - as established - he just needs that physical contact and if his partner is initiating it he’s in heaven. He’ll happily spend the whole night sleeping on your chest and wake up all stiff with zero complaints.

On bad nights Jack actually prefers to hold you and not the other way around, wrapping himself around your back and holding you close. It feels less vulnerable that way, although he learns to let you face him when he does it, tucking yourself under his chin and kissing his neck and chest softly in reassurance that you’re there.

In fact, Jack likes being the big spoon a lot because it makes him feel like he’s doing something right, that you want to be in his arms.

(This is, of course, one of the reasons he used to have such a hard time if you tried to wiggle out of them, because that meant he had done something wrong.)

The compromised, favourite position on hot nights is for Jack on his back with you curled over his chest but it comforts him more than he ever recognised because it means you are actively choosing to be there.

(Yeah, Jack had to learn how to give his s/o the space to show their love for him instead of trying to immediately grab it and hoard it)

And now Jack has a great respect for how you let him hold you all night long through summer nights that he’s truly thankful. He gets extra affectionate when you do, somehow even more than he used to be.

But it’s a good thing he has learnt over time to be able to sleep without you pressed tight against him all the time because Jack runs hot. But at least you don’t stick to him because he prefers to sleep in an old loose tee. His favourite one - when it doesn’t mysteriously disappear - is an old Statesmen shirt which proudly proclaims across the chest to be “The Whiskey Of Your Dreams”. He thinks he’s funny. It’s only endearing because he’s obviously so proud of the joke.

Jack always - without fail - kisses your forehead when he wakes, a new habit he’s formed. Dipping his head to find yours or shuffling about to find you under the sheets so he can kiss you gently, he can’t leave the bed until he’s kissed you, even in you’re asleep and won’t know it.

At one point he realised, made the connection, that it’s a thing he used to do before ducking out. But the pain of the comparison is quickly dulled by you waking and sleepily reaching for him, reminding Jack that you’re both here to stay.

my masterlist

#pedro pascal character x reader #pedro pascal x reader #agent whiskey x reader #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x you #lissie writes #headcanon series #soft hours #cant believe i've written the most for the yeehonk #i dunno who to tag for this so i shall let it float off on the breeze

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dinthehottotty · 3 years

Text

Something About Teeth

A/N: You know that tik tok that ends with "Oof, sorry, that was kind of a lot..." Yeah, I don't know where this came from. I blacked out and when I came to this was just... nasty. ENJOY!

A/N 2: After rereading this I want to edit it. So warning there are a lot of spelling errors and I really need someone to proof my shit. But I'm particularly proud of the gratuitous smut. So if yall can get passed my awkward dialouge because I was a little toasted writing the first bit... that'd be cool. Would recommend.

Summary: Benny gets to choose the hang out spot this time, and he chooses a club. You're all bordering on too old or sore, but the idea of Frankie with his hands on you is enough to get you out on the floor... and then into his truck.

Warning: References to pining, dirty dancing, grinding, smut, feral!Frankie, consensual groping, switch!Frankie, teasing, mutual masturbation (kind of), begging, oral (fem!recieving), fingering, thigh riding, cum eating, cum play, this is absolute filth, Frankie calling us mami makes me feel things, hair pulling, biting, slight pain kink, Frankie's kind of a brat, brief ass eating.

NSFW below the cut. +18 only.

Frankie wasn't usually the type you thought would join you in a club like this. The kind that the dance floor is caked in people. Frankie's the kind of guy who'd turn you down for a dance because he wasn't sure how.

You should have known better.

Francisco 'Catfish' Morales may look nice and respectable but you'd underestimated him. There's something about his palm pressing your navel, pulling you just flush enough that the fabric of your shirts were rubbing and riding up. It gave just enough allowance for friction.

It was Benny's turn to choose where you'd all hang out. Santi was fond of boat parties. Just drifting on a lake and drinking. Jokes and laughter twinkling with low lights. Will liked low lit bars with good pub food. Frankie was partial to the quiet nights by a fire on a chilly night. But Benny was the youngest and wildest still. He had energy to burn. Tonight he'd chosen a club.

You could feel the bass in your feet as lights strobe and streak across the room. Its too much at first. But after a few drinks your yelling yourselves hoarse over the music. And it slips when Benny is looking for someone to grind on. Will is getting back with drinks from the bar.

"When are you guys going to go dance?" Benny calls. "I'm aiming for the red head in the corner there." He gestures with a shot glass.

"No fuckin' way tonight, I just pulled something in my back Thursday." Santi denies.

"Eh, not feeling it," Frankie agrees which makes you scoff at them.

"I was waiting for that, you guys just don't want to admit your just old," you tease. But there's no missing the confused look from everyone.

"Are you saying we can't dance?" Santi demands. You send them a doubtful look over your whiskey.

"There's no harm in admitting it guys."

Frankie shifts closer than, you could see the mock offense written on his face. "You'd be very wrong in that regard. I'd wager were better than you."

You laugh at his smug look. "Please, Miller's. Can you guys even back that up?" You demand. The brothers give amused looks at that.

"I think you're just gonna have to show her, Fish." Will urges.

"You're in for it!" Benny shouts, obviously delighted.

Frankie is up for the challenge evidently because he sweeps his arm toward the dance floor. You lift your brows, pushing down the twist in your gut of excitement that Frankie's asking you to dance.

"Oh shit, you're really commiting," you yield, sliding off your stool to join him. You lead the way, tingling at his hand guiding on your lower back.

You find a small pocket on the dance floor to wedge the both of you in. He stands for just a second, one corner of his lips twisting up as he's rolling his sleeves up to elbow.

"Last chance to take it back."

"What got to stretch first, Morales?" You demand, stepping toe-to-toe because this fun little game was electrifying you. It was rare that you saw this deadly Frankie. You were an honorary member, Benny's best friend that he was always trying to hook you up with one of his friends. You didn't get to see the soldier side. You never got to see him prowl or kill with the deadly accuracy that they were known It was just soft spoken Frankie. "Need a little more liquid courage? I'll get you a vodka-cran." You jibe.

You expect to see a change of expression but he just continues his cool, smug gaze. He never broke the eye contact, just silently stepping so close you were nearly cross eyed. Staring up at him, gazing down at his half smile, he was still staring evenly into your eyes. Burning you with his gaze darkened by the brim of his cap.

Your gut swells under the intensity of his gaze. Internally, you waver. You weren't even dancing yet and your already feeling short of breath. You can smell his cologne, something warm and addictive. The kind that makes you dizzy.

"Oh, that a yes, let me get you a shot." If your being honest it's because you don't want to give up this little game. But also because you can't stand the intensity of emotions in his dark gaze. Like he was about eat you alive.

You'd probably have a heart attack if he'd actually asked.

You barely turn to the bar when a hand fists the hair at the base of your neck and yanks you back into a body. It didn't hurt, but it's firm and leaves you're whole body weak. He's tilting your head back so he can look unwavering into your arms. "You running?" He rasps in your ear, his lips brushing your cheek, tickling you with his patchy beard.

He's able to watch the harsh bob of your exposed throat. Then you shake your head and a dark grin spreads across his face. When he releases your head you snap upright, not able to move forward at all yet. "Show me what you got, mami."

Fuck. Your glad he can't watch your eyes flutter and roll when his fingertips brush over the fabric of the little skirt you wiggled into for the occasion. The matching top a separate piece. You could feel his fingers grasping your hips, but not hard enough to hurt or hold you in place. His thumbs stroking under the fabric, brushing skin with warm fingertips.

The fanning of his breath prickles your neck just before he glides his beautiful nose over it.

You savor for just a moment that it's actually Frankie's hands on you. And then you begin to roll your hips to the beat. He follows your movements, just matching them at the start. But quickly you melt into him.

He guides it, leading with the roll and push of his hips. You want to touch him, shivering against him when his mouth drags against the apex of your neck and shoulder, not quite a kiss.

"There we go, loosen up a little, baby." He urges sugar sweet in your ear. Then one hand wanders further under your top. His palm skims your belly, low before pulling you closer. "Perfect, just like that."

Jesus, did he have to say it like that? It was burning you up, the heat of the bodies around you. His other hand lifts to pull all your hair to the other side of your neck, dragging his fingers over the back of your neck as he goes. You want to moan.

"We're gonna add to this now, just follow me, okay?" You nod helplessly in his grasp.

And then there's twisting and spinning too. He incorporates little moves in it.

Frankie is an amazing dancer. He doesn't just bounce with you. He's leading, dragging you against himself intimately. It was a blend of salsa and grinding. By the second song, you find yourself face to face with him.

Those brown eyes are hooded, still holding yours. His hands guide over your back and down your ass to hold you to him. Your throbbing between your legs at the sharing of your breaths. "Good girl," he praises, and you get to watch his mouth form those words.

"This is black magic," you whimper. He leans in then, and you close your eyes in anticipation for him to kiss you. It's a slow, magnetic lean... only he just barely kisses the corner of mouth. It's slow, lingering.

"I won the wager," he murmurs next to your ear. "What's my prize?" And then his eyes are light again when he scoops you completely off the floor, jerking your thigh against his hip. You can feel the firmness in the front of his jeans, pushing against your groin.

It dazes you. You're helpless. Frankie is throwing you like an undertow. You feel like you can't swim and sink to his mercy. The movement has jostled your skirt up and there's only a thin layer between you and Frankie's tented jeans. A whine, high-pitched and short, sears past your lips when he begins to slowly sink you down. The friction pulls just right against your core, your thong tugging just a hair tighter.

There's a split second of Frankie looking shocked because you can't bare to look at him and bury your face in his shoulder. Your panting against him. Clinging to his tucked shirt and broad shoulders.

You're so desperate for a moment because your holding your self back from just grinding harder against the hard on in his pants, that all you want to do is cry. You were in for it because this was no longer a fine line. Frankie was full blown seducing you.

"Sweetheart," he coaxes, "look at me."

You can't though. You can't look at him when all he does is break you.

"Can't, Frankie," you whine.

"Does it feel good?" You pause, debating if you should admit that it was better than just good. It was a first high, trying a new drug.

You cave, nodding against his neck, overwhelmed by his smell, his skin damp with sweat. Your hands wander on him trying to find something to hold onto. It's his belt that grounds you the best. He's still got most of your weight against him.

"Do you want to go our to my truck for a minute?" Do what? When you hesitate, he begins to sink you closer to the floor again, painfully slow. It's just enough pressure, friction to have you begin to shake and cry in his hold, a tease, a satisfaction.

You're hesitant because you fret that he might discard you after. Not in the 'played with a new toy' kind of thing, but in his delicate and guarded way. Because Frankie was good. He didn't hurt women just for a good time. He was messy and broken but good.

"Kiss me," you beg, rolling your hips against his and pulling back enough to look into his eyes. You were going to milk this because even if this was just one night, you wanted it. You wanted to hold on just a little bit of Frankie. "And then," you tight your leg around his ass, squeezing him closer, "I want to swallow your cock."

Frankie blinks before fisting your hair again, there's that look again on his face. Like he's about to eat you alive, and now you believe it. There's nothing brown in his eyes anymore.

He tastes like the overpriced beer they have on tap. And you know that because his tongue is carving out your mouth. The air is foggy around you both. Hot with body heat. Skin is too tight. He continues to lean into, guide your hips. But it's no longer a twirl and twist of your bodies. Frankie's hands are everywhere. The skirt you're wearing is somewhere dangerous because you can feel his finger tips bare on the cleft of your ass.

Your vibrating to the beat, energies bristling and plucking uncomfortably. They need. You're souls are both searching and tangling for something to devour and satisfy. Something wild and primal.

You're panting into each other's mouths. It's too wet and slippery. There's several songs of dry humping and rocking of hips. You want him. You've always wanted him. But he finally has enough when your hand ghost between you both to palm him.

He's cursing in Spanish and his fingers take revenge, gliding along under your skirt to feel. And his disoriented eyes, half lidded and drunk, they snap to yours with something beastly. Not quite cold, but hungry and feral.

"Truck. Now." And he doesn't wait for a response, he just dragging you through the crowd. You swear the crowd parts for him. You want his unbearably warm body against yours.

You barely have enough mental process to fix your bunched skirt.

The Flordia heat sears your skin more. It's impossibly muggy. You nearly trip across the parking lot, scrambling for him. His truck is in the back but he leads you to the passenger side, opening the door.

You think he's going to step back, watch you climb in. As your approaching he crowds you. You can't break away from that dark gaze. The burning intensity of his lust. He hoists you onto the seat and crawls in after you. Legs only dangle a moment because he's hoisting you higher on the seat, dragging you with his whole body. Just absolutely man-handling you out of desperation. And you let him. He glances back, hooking his boot on the door and jerking it shut.

He's on you again only now he's biting. His teeth sink into the muscle of your shoulder and groaning like a wild animal. It hurt as much as it felt good, his knee parting your thighs.

"Frankie," you whine.

"Can I touch you?" He begs. There's a hardness to his voice. Clear, direct, urgent. It's half a demand.

"Yes, please." All you want is his fingers on you, in you. But he doesn't touch your cunt. Instead he keeps the arm he used to haul you across his seats tangled around your waist. His other hand palms your belly again. He seems to be savoring this as much as you are him. You're waiting so patiently under his mouth for his hand to tilt and tunnel his fingers beneath your skirt or his hand to glide over your thigh and in.

He goes the opposite way, mapping the fast and shallow rise and fall of your abdomen achingly slow. His fingers splay wide, covering so much more than you'd imagined. There's a dry heat to his palm as it gently chafes your damp skin. It doesn't glide well enough, rubbing over too sensitive skin and dipping to the valley of your breasts. But he doesn't stop there despite you reluctantly accepting the idea of hip playing with your nipples.

He ignores your needy whine as your top catches his wrist, following it up until he changes the angle of his arm. It tilts down so he's not exposing you, even to himself. "Touch me," you rasp.

"Shhh," he insists. And then his fingers slip past your collarbone. They tighten around you jaw and throat. It's not enough to hurt or stop your breathing for more than just the hitch in your breath.

Oh, you think as his lips brush up your cheek. This is about his control, your realize just as you meet those eyes. Dangerous and endless.

"You trust me?" You nod up at him. "Then trust that I'm gonna take care of you, mami." Fuck, that was nice to hear roll off his tongue in such a kind way. His fingers flex on your throat.

The club is thudding across the parking lot. You can see yellow streetlights mixed with the neon blue color of the club streaking across the fogging windshield when your eyes roll. He grinds his thigh against your crotch.

You jerk against him when he uses a roll of his hips like he did inside, over and over and over again. When he's sinking his cock lower, climbing further between your legs to grind himself against the hot core that's throbbing, you soak in the way his rolling against you. Hickeys are being sucked onto your neck and shoulders, muffling his quiet groans and pants against you. Most of his thrust are the slow and on beat to the music but at random moments he'll shiver and then ripple his hips against you like he can't help himself.

It's only like a heartbeat. Satisfying and wild and full of life. It's deep and throbs through you. "Please," you beg every time he does it because you ache for him. He just scoffs across your neck and bites just enough to make it hurt just a little. Not enough to draw blood or bruise.

It's not enough. You begin to get more desperate, tears welling at the corners of your eyes. The cadence of your voice getting louder, raspier and it cracks through the stuffy air. You tug at his hair, his clothes. "Please, just wanna cum, Frankie," you nearly sob. Your body follows after him, needing more friction on your clit.

"Not yet, baby girl," he denies.

Now your getting frustrated, a little mad in your lust haze. Your fingers tighten in his hair hard and jerk. He gasps when you jerk head back and winces. "Frankie," you hiss.

He pries at your fingers in his hair and then fixes you with a hard look. "Not yet," he repeats, "you can do it. Don't pout." It makes you want to cry when he drops his head.

"Fine." He goes stiff with the finality of your tone and then your shoving him off. Your pushing away from him and he's not fighting it.

"Shit," he mutters and withdrawals a bit his expression crumbling to something akin to regret and devastation. You lean back against his window. Propping yourself away from him.

Don't dish what you can't take. Your knees part and your fingers dip to where you really need it. A cry of relief leaves you as soon as you get a real touch on your clit. A tilt of your head has a flash of heat cracking your skull as it knocks against his fogged window. Its the tender touch of his hand on your thigh, trying to press it wider.

Your eyes snap open and you pant your heel against his shoulder, slowly but firmly pushing him back from where he's crowding you. "Stay there," you command. "Watch."

The regret on his face twists into awe, his dark eyes bright and shiny. "So pretty, baby," he praises and sinks to the floor of his truck on his knees. He flattens his upper body across the seats, trying to gain a better look of your pussy. "Oh, shit," he breathes as you sink your fingers between those puffy lips and are rewarded with a wet squelch.

"Don't touch above my knees." Because you still need him to be touching you somehow. You still need him. He doesn't hesitate to press closer, kissing at your ankles and stroking your calves. But he can't break eye contact with your pulsing pussy.

He's actively listening to you now, so you reward him. You don't have to hike your skirt up to grab the edges of your thong and slowly drag it down your thighs. When it gets to your knees he assists and fists them tightly in his hand. It's the first time he looks away from the haven between your hips.

The fabric is pressed to his face desperately, he closes his eyes as he inhales. You gape at the filth of it. "Fuck, your so wet, I can see it on the seat. Can I keep these?"

"Yeah," you manage, "Do whatever you want with 'em." He leans back then, still illuminated by the blue and yellow, dimmed in the fogged window. Sweat is trickling down his face and neck. His hat is half cocked on his head still, rumpled like his clothes. But there is a distinct shape pressing through his jeans.

And that's where he reaches.

The zipper doesn't still your trembling fingers as you nudge them somewhere warm and sticky. Two fingers of one of your hands suck you in. It's as loud as your panting. Only he's not actually pulling his cock out, yet. Instead, he's shoving his hand, your thong into his pants and groaning.

Frankie's whole body shivers and he dips his head for a moment, lips pursing around his moan. It wears at you.

"Fuck, Frankie!" You immediately tilt your head back again, your sex demanding attention at the dirtiness. There's no crack this time as you tighten on yourself.

Frankie flattens against the seats again, hips rolling against the seat for his friction. His hands back on your calves. Even though his fingers would feel so much better than your own, you'll worry about that later.

Electricity is burning through you and your so fucking close. Your shaking with it. The orgasm is right there, barbing itself in place after being neglected for so long. He whimpers your name lowly. When his hand sprawls on your thigh, you want to punish him because he's not supposed to- but you're not willing to give up on finally cumming.

So he pushes your thighs further apart.

It blazes through you, ripping you to pieces. And that's when his hand replaces yours. His thumb coaxes you into over stimulation by barely stroking your clit, other fingers parting your labia so he can watch the way you flutter and gulp around nothing.

When you sink down a little he gives you this breathless smile, drawing back his thumb and shimmying between your splayed thighs again. "Oh, damn, mami," he rasps over the last word and leans down into your space. His mouth lapping into yours for a long kiss before he draws back. "You creamed all over my seat." You can't speak yet but you arch and cry out when two of his thick fingers press into you slowly. "Yes," he rumbles like distant thunder.

An obscene noise makes those depraved eyes flash when he meets no resistance. He curls them, scooping you out slowly. You can see the thick, creamy film of his fingers when he holds them up. The sound sticky when he parts them. It doesn't break apart right away and then his gaze flicks over yours.

You gulp because that look is back. The endless one. The unblinking stare never brakes as he lifts those fingers to his mouth and opens it, drawing the film down across his tongue. His shoulders begin to rise and fall a little faster. Then he's closing his mouth around them and cleaning his fingers. There's a groan so low you almost mistake it for a growl with the way it rattles his chest.

He lowers himself over you, eyes burning you back to where you were just before your desire like magic. You're desperate again to cum. He makes you churn in a good way.

"Let me eat you," he whispers. This time he sees the rolling of your eyes. Words fail again so you grasp his hair in your hands, pushing his head down.

You sob under his tongue parting you, one smooth motion that wedges at the top of your labia and then slowly carves you open down to your cunt. He moans when he ruts against the seat below him.

Frankie is dirty about it. His tongue goes where so ever it pleases. He's cleaning you to begin, slurping up anything creamy he can find before. And then he ruins you. His teeth are scraping, his nose pressing and rubbing. He regularly forgets that he needs air because devouring you is so much more important. Every so often he tilts the bridge of his nose against you to draw in a deep breath before sinking back into you all over again.

He doesn't stay between the lines. Shock and surprise of the hot flash of his tongue a little lower, lapping experimentally at the ring of muscle a little lower makes you tremble and jerk. His name is your only mantra. And when you start pleading desperately again about nothing in particular he's quick to circle back to your clit, knowing not to push you this time.

When your getting close your eyes draw up to his ass. Your babbling and watching the way he's grinding hard against the seat below him. It's as desperate as his mouth. And then you see where his hand is. Tucked beneath him. Touching himself as he eats you out on the floor of his truck. His hat tumbled to the floor long ago.

"Cum with me," you beg. He groans, stuttering his hips just moments before you tilt over the edge with him. You get experience him gasping and groaning and cursing. The fingers of his other hand digging into you thigh.

It's several minutes before either of you speak. Instead he's just sprawled across your slouched form, hand in his pants as he rolls to his back. You play with his hair as you catch your breath.

"You won the wager," you hum. He passes you a sweet grin that reminds you of warm pecan pie for some reason. Then grimaces and glances down. Slowly he drags out his hand and your ruined underwear.

"Fuck," you breathe out as you see just how much of everything that he coated with cum.

"I'll keep these for my win," he rumbles.

"You sure about that?" You ask pulling them away from him. Untangling the wet fabric, you lift you legs and he groans as you carefully pull them back on.

"Jesus, how the fuck am I not supposed to get hard again after that!?" he complains. You grin down at him, and snatch his wrist. Then he's groaning more when you take your time to clean his hand of the cooling cum it's covered in. "Filthy fuckin' girl." He rumbles.

"I never finished my whiskey. I have some back at my place," you reply.

"Shit. Okay," he responds. "Scoot over baby," and then he's fishing out his keys.

Taglist:

@lxdyred, @boliv-jenta, @amidjarin, @qhbr2013

#filth #filthy frankie #freaky frankie #frankie morales #frankie x reader #frankie x you #frankie's a switch #soft frankie #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier #smut #just smut #dirty dancing

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robert-de-niro-only-fans · 3 years

Text

Dewey Decimal System

Max Cady x Reader in the library, no plot, just smut

Dedicating this little work to @droogiesanddiscourse who just today found out she's graduating with honors!!! I'm so proud of you bb!!!!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️

TW: smut, public sex, explicit/raunchy dialogue, Max Cady in general?

Word Count: 2.2k

“My baby’s so smart, knowing how to find any book in the library,” your boyfriend, Max, coos quietly to you as you saunter through the aisles and aisles of books, softly leading him with his hand in yours. “You know I didn’t learn to read until my stay in the big house, but I never did learn numbers all that well. I’m glad my little princess can navigate this, uh, what do you call it? Dew something?’

“The Dewey Decimal System!” you whisper in a giggle.

“The Dewey Decimal System...” he tried the words out on his tongue, “Well, I’m glad you can lead me in the right direction, angel.”

“Oop, right here!!” you point up at a tall shelf. Max’s body crashes into yours, nearly landing you both on the floor, as you stopped so suddenly.

“Goodness gracious, girlie, you must be excited to do some reading, huh?” his voice rumbles lowly next to your ear. His muscular arms wrap tightly around your midsection, pressing your backside against him. You can feel his arousal stirring already; he really has no qualms about doing nasty things to you, any time, anywhere. “Oh, baby, I’m already thinking about you reading to me... Hearing that sweet little voice say such naughty things, those pretty little lips forming unholy syllables...” And in true Max Cady fashion, his fingertips are already teasing at the edge of your skirt, threatening for his rough palms to attack your delicate thighs.

You feel a single finger creep up to your hip, teasing at the waistband of your panties, “I hope you aren’t particularly fond of these, ‘cuz they’re coming off now, honey.” And with that, his other hand quickly follows the first one up your skirt and before you could even protest, the man is on his knees and the lacy underwear around your ankles. He helps you out of them as is you were a toddler, getting them over your shoes.

He quickly snatches a book from the bottom shelf and flips it open to a random page before stuffing your panties in it and shoving it back on the shelf. “Max!!!” you whisper-yell.

“What?” he plays dumb, standing back up to press himself into your backside again. “You don’t want someone findin’ your panties? Knowin’ what we did in here? Mmm, well I wanna spread the word about you, baby... Besides, they can use it as a bookmark.” His hands grip your hipbones and he gives you a sloppy kiss on your neck, making a loud slurping noise.

“Max! Shhh!!”

“You’re so cute, all worried about getting caught. You think we’ll get in trouble if someone sees us, or god forbid if someone hears us in this quiet place?”

“Maaaaxxx...” you whine.

“Mm, yeah? You like that idea? Someone hearing the way I turn you into a whore for me? You don’t sound as innocent as you look once I get you goin’.” His hand slides around to your sex, teasing you roughly through the smooth fabric of your skirt, and when you let out a little whimper, it only proves his point.

"Alright, princess, why don't you grab us that book we're looking for?" Following his question, Max's strong arms easily hoist you off the ground, lifting you up, up, up to reach that top shelf and pull down one of Max's favorite books: 𝘛𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘤 𝘰𝘧 𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳. Oh, and don't think that he missed the opportunity to peak under that skirt...

• • •

As you and Max relax in two adjacent armchairs that he scooted close together, you recite prose from your boyfriend's favorite author. Just a few pages in, you're already at one of his favorite parts. You can read the sheer excitement on Max's face when he says, "Alright, darlin', you better speak up for this next part, you know how much I like the dirty bits."

You look around, making sure no one is nearby, and you start, "'At night when I look at Boris' goatee lying on the pillow I get hysterical.'"

"Louder," Max tilts his head forward, looking at you from under his brow bone.

You raise your voice only slightly, "'O Tania, where now is that warm cunt of yours, those fat, heavy garters, those soft, bulging thighs?'"

"I can't hear you..." he chimes devilishly.

"'There is a bone in my prick six inches long...'"

"And what's he gonna do with it?" Like he doesn't already know.

"'I will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big with seed,'" you look around again, checking for any poor passersby, "'I will send you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned inside out.'"

Max let's out a low whistle, "That Henry Miller suuuure knew what he was talking about, huh?" He leans forwards and rather directly slides his hand under your skirt, thumb quickly parting your lips to find that special little bundle of nerves.

You gasp loudly, and Max continues, "Yeah? You want me to turn your womb inside out like he did to Tania? Make that little cunt smooth with my big cock?" His voice is just loud enough that it still sounds intimate but anyone walking by could easily hear.

In an attempt to quiet your moans, you press on reading, "’Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire-‘"

"’But I know how to inflame a cunt!’" Max finishes your sentence for you before pulling you up out of your chair and into his lap, where his fingers quickly find their place between your thighs as if it is the most natural thing in the world to him. "Keep reading, princess," he whispers softly in your ear.

You become aware of his hard length pressing into your thigh, as you read the line, "’I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent.’”

Max lets out a deep moan that rumbles your eardrums and presses some kisses to your cheek and jawline.

“‘Your Sylvester is a little jealous now? He feels something, does he? He feels the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores a little wider. I have ironed out the wrinkles,’” Max starts to rut against you in his lap. His hands take a firm grip on your hips and slide you back and forth against the erection trapped in his pants. You keep going, “‘After me you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, drakes, St. Bernards. You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. You can shit arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across your navel.’”

His moans become quite noisy and his hands search for your flesh; one hand slipping under the edge of your shirt to feel the soft skin of your tummy, the other getting an anchor hold on your hair and giving it a rough tug. You inhale sharply wincing at the pain. You can tell Max is getting needy for you; it would never cease to fascinate you how some little girl (anyone is small next to his towering muscular frame) could have so much control over him.

“‘I am fucking you, Tania, so that you'll stay fucked. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately-‘“

“Damn, that sounds like a good idea,” Max grunts out and unzips his pants, “I sure hope you aren’t afraid of being fucked publicly.”

His next few actions only take a few seconds, and before you can even realize it, you’ve been hoisted up and swiftly dropped down onto your boyfriend’s thick cock. You somehow let out a gasp and a squeal at the same time, and Max claps his hand over your mouth. The only other sound is the thud of the book hitting the floor and closing. Where Max wanted you to speak up before, now it’s time for the quiet game...

“How’s that feel? Daddy’s big cock stretching out those tight walls, huh?” Clearly, it’s a rhetorical question since his hand stays clasped over your mouth. It’s Max’s turn to tease you with his words. “You always take me so well, my little princess. You think if anyone walked by they would know that you’re filled to the brim with my prick? You’ve been trained well, baby girl, you can take me and no one knows I’m inside you, but I know how turned on you are, I felt how wet you were when I was touching you. You wanted this, and I bet everyone knows how much you wanted it, I bet that librarian in the next room knows you have your pussy stuffed right now.”

In all honestly, this guy Ryan had just started working at the library; he had hoped it would be more a bit more relaxing than his job at the local drive-in movie theatre. But Ryan recognized you and Max when you came in, and he really, REALLY doesn’t want another awkward interaction with your boyfriend, so he’s gonna leave you to do whatever you want in the back room of the library...

His hand still covers your mouth as you lean your head back onto his shoulder, looking at him out the corner of your eye. His other arm braces your hips, keeping you flush to him so you can feel every time his member twitches. “You feel me, princess? Feel that ‘bone in my prick’ and how bad I want you?”

You nod your head as much as his grip will allow, eyes never leaving his.

“If I can be frank, sweetheart, Daddy’s never been good at this whole cockwarming thing like you are. It always leaves me wanting more, and you know Daddy can’t resist having more of you... Whaddaya say we play horsey instead? I’ll bounce you on my lap like the dumb little baby doll you are, just like your old man did for you when you were a kid."

You let out an excited little whimper, and Max moves his hands to your hips. "Now I can't keep a hand on your mouth anymore. Think you can keep quiet for me?"

You nod your head excitedly and whisper as quietly as you can, "Yes, sir, Daddy. Can I have a kiss?"

"Aww, of course you can, angel," his lips meet yours in a wet, unrefined fashion, giving you the rough kind of kiss you need. Max also takes this moment to start bouncing you in his lap, just like horsey. With your lips pressed to his, it muffles any sounds that escape the two of you.

His thrusts are small and quick, but actually really satisfying at this angle. The girth of him presses against that special spot inside you. That combined with the thrill of possibly getting caught already has that feeling creeping up in your belly. Your nails dig into his hips looking for something to ground you as you find ecstasy in your orgasm.

But your climax isn't gonna stop Max from what he's doing. He continues to bounce you on his lap, whispering, "Mmm, finished so soon? You must like bouncing on my cock. Bouncy, bouncy..."

You bite your lip, still riding out your orgasm as he continually slams into your g-spot. When a drawn out little whine hums out of you, Max shushes you with a "Shhhh, shhh, baby. You're doing so good, such a good girl for Daddy. Just a little longer, I'm so close, princess."

With your brows furrowed and eyes closed tight, you brave yourself on the arms of the chair. You feel two calloused fingertips at your bottom lip, and you open your mouth, taking them in.

"There that'll keep you quiet for this next part," Max warns before absolutely plowing his hips up into you as fast as he can. His other hand maintains such a firm grip on your side, you think he'll probably leave bruises.

Max chokes back a deep grunt and pulls you down into his lap to spill his seed inside you. You feel his length jolting and that warm gooey liquid. You both sit there catching your breath, and Max wraps his arms around you in a loving embrace.

He gets you to look at him, placing another dirty kiss to your mouth. Then he pulls you off of him, stand up, places you back down on the chair, and gets his pants zipped up.

"Um. Max?" you whisper, a little tense.

"What is it, little darlin'?" He gets on his knees in front of you, placing his big hands on your thighs.

"Uhhh... I think there's gonna be a little mess on this chair," you get right next to his ear and oh so quietly tell him, "it's, uh, leaking."

"Aww, are you worried about leaving some of my cum on the chair?" he places a hand on your chin, "That was the point, baby. The librarian can handle it." Max gives you a wink before taking you by the hand and leading you out of the library.

Poor Ryan.... Scarred again by Max and his girl, and now he has to clean up after them.

#max cady #cape fear #robert de niro #robert de niro x reader #robert de niro fanfic #fanfic

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nightowlwriting · 3 years

Text

summary: you've always known there's a soulmate on the other end of your injuries. when you're working the victory pit during the harvest close festival, though, it's the furthest thing from your mind. ironically, it's the closest mollymauk has ever been to you.

word count: 4.0k

warnings: canon level violence, mentions of molly activating his swords, canon level allusions to war and corruption

title credit: the steve miller band

note: takes place during episodes 17/18, requested from the soulmate abc list: damage done to a person also translates into their soulmate’s body (cuts, bruises and all).

masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Throughout your childhood, you’ve been called blessed. It started with bruises and scuffs. Little things that are perfectly normal for a child to receive and not remember. The problem with your bruises and scuffs was that they were not your own. When you grew into your celestially gifted powers, it started to make more sense.

Your family had stories of soulmates bestowed upon their clerics, but it wasn’t something that had happened in many generations. Nobody was really concerned until the wounds you received from your soulmate began getting worse - deeper, taking longer to heal, more life-threatening. It worried you, and your family, but it pressed you to become a better cleric. To find your source of power and lean into it. You heal yourself each night before bed, hoping that you’re giving some sort of comfort to the person you’re connected to. Even if you have no energy spells, you pull a pearl you were gifted when you left your hometown and press your lips to it and let it fill you with the love and warmth of life and still heal yourself. It’s your nightly ritual and, since you’ve started doing it, you haven’t missed it once.

Except once, but really that doesn’t matter because of how you miss it. It’s the Harvest’s End festival and the Victory Pit, and you’ve been conscripted to work it. You hate working for the Crown, but it pays well and allows you to help people. Your clerical skills and magic get used every day and you help the people that really need help. Still, the inevitable war looming over the Empire worries you. You’re skilled for your age, more so than the other clerics who perhaps have years over you, and War Clerics don’t have the longest life expectancy. After the last time that your soulmate died, and the grief and pain it inflicted upon you, you don’t want to do that to them. You try not to think about the several times you’ve felt their death and resurrections, though, because it worries you.

Most of all, it tells you very important information about them. They’re some sort of adventurer, best case scenario. The worst case, though, is that they’re a criminal. Regardless, you’ve become fond of them. The cuts don’t really hurt as much anymore, but they still pucker and scar when you heal them at night. There have been a few times when you’ve gotten hurt and you know that they’ve received those wounds, so perhaps they know about you as well. You hope they do because it would be awfully lonely to be the only one out of a pair to be aware that there is, in fact, a pair.

Still, your soulmate is the furthest thing from your mind as you funnel people into the Victory Pit. Clerics double as security, mostly because the Guard want to watch the fights more than they want to keep people safe, and you grit your teeth trying to keep your prepared spells at the back of your mind. You have several healing spells in your mind, but a few offensive ones as well. In Victory Pits of the past, you’ve had to use them. Now, you’re just sore and aggravated with the hickey that appeared on your chest last night - that you did not receive yourself. It doesn’t bother you that whoever you’re linked to is getting lucky, but it would be nice if you didn’t have to look at the proof for the next week or so.

Someone stamps on your toe and you bite back your curse, skittering backward and colliding with someone who is cursing. “I’m sorry,” You apologize on instinct, turning and grabbing the person by the arms. You’re momentarily struck by how beautiful they are, but you’re at work. “Are you okay? I’m a cleric working in the Pit today.” They glance down at you, baubles and trinkets swinging from their gaudy horns, and you realize with a start that they're purple. It’s not that tieflings are rare in Zadash, but purple ones are. The group they’re with also has a blue tiefling, a small green halfling, and a half-orc. Truly a strange band of people.

“No, no,” The person you’d run into says, voice smoother than you’d anticipated, “I’m alright. Are you okay, darling?” They smile down at you, completely red eyes smiling with merriment as they settle their hands on your biceps in a mirror of how you’re holding them.

“Please, I ran into you,” You shake your head, “Besides, I’m working. It’s my job to make sure that you’re okay.” You give them your name, telling them to seek you out if they shall become injured.

“Oh,” They sweep you grandly underneath their arm, squishing you into the side and stepping toward their group for a few steps, “I will get painfully injured today, but I will seek you out specifically, darling. My name is Mollymauk Tealeaf, and I am fighting with the Mighty Nein. You may call me Molly, all my friends do. I am a man of many friends, and you are one of them now. Keep your eyes on me today.” He winks and then sweeps himself away with a flourish, leaving you standing and a little flustered.

After that, the Victory Pit starts faster than you anticipate. You're stationed in the Pit itself, one of the more powerful offensive clerics on the roster today when you start to put the pieces together. You're not sure why you didn't notice at first, but Mollymauk - Molly - has a lot of scars. A lot of familiar scars. You trace a particularly deep scar on your collarbone as you watch the first Pit fight and wonder. What are the odds? Could Mollymauk really be…? A horrible thought hits you, and you can feel yourself pale. He's fighting in the Victory Pit today. He's going to get hurt, which will either confirm or deny whether or not he's your soulmate but if he is… Shit, you're in for a rough day. You know that The Mighty Nein is slated for the first fight against an Otyugh. They're nasty creatures, although not really native to Zadash you've still had to heal up some rather awful sucker wounds in your time.

You're glad to see that Mollymauk holds his own in the fight, and stays far away from the Otyugh. It's hard to keep your eyes off of him with the idea that he might be your soulmate and you get the sense that he's a melee fighter more so than a magical fighter in the beginning, but then he activates his swords, and the pain blossoms in your ribs as he drags his blades along his.

There's no question now. Mollymauk Tealeaf is your soulmate. Watching the way he fights and interacts with the Nein during their fight with the Otyugh everything about the injuries you've received from your connection with him makes so much more sense. You actually find yourself… Weirdly proud of your scars, then. You've heard about the Nein, how they're swords for hire and defeated the Fey Spider in the tunnels, but still. Mollymauk seems like good people. Maybe it's naïve to hope on your part because he's your soulmate, but you'll take it until you're proven different. You've been doing things like that for most of your life, and you'll be damned if you stop now. You know you can hold your own, too, so that helps. The next fighters pass in a haze to you, as you stand ready to save someone from death the Banderhobb fight passes with no need for clerics, and the fights with the Giant Crocodile and Ice Troll are much the same.

When the Mighty Nein is back up, your senses fire to life. The next monsters are Winter Wolves, nasty creatures with powerful ranged attacks. You steady yourself against the half-wall you're stationed behind, readying yourself for whatever pain Mollymauk is about to feel. The beginning of the fight is tense, and your fellow clerics watch you curiously as your hands grip tight and relax intermittently on the wall in front of you. When one wolf whirls and releases a nasty, icy breath you heave a sigh of relief that Mollymauk wasn't hit but then the other does the same thing. You feel it more than see Mollymauk get hit, sharp shards of pain washing over your skin so intensely that your eyes roll back in your head and the only thing that keeps you from collapsing is the fervent grip on the wall. Someone lays their hands on you and you feel a swell of magic before you shake them off. "I'm fine," You grit out, "Save your spells for the competitors." Even though you could use the healing, there's a reason clerics wait in the wings at the Pit. It's very possible that someone could be on death's door before the end of the day and if they die because you wasted a spell you'd never forgive yourself.

By the time you fight the darkness from the edges of your vision, Mollymauk is delivering the killing blow to the final Winter Wolf. You're not sure how he's still standing, let alone aware of his body enough to swing his swords like they weigh nothing. Your knees practically knock together as you gather your wits, wiping a hand down your sweaty face. The trials only get harder, and one hit almost took you down. You know you should heal yourself but you're not really sure if your nightly heals affect Mollymauk and, while you have no love for the Empire, it wouldn't be fair if your heals do help him. (And, again, there's the preemptive guilt of maybe not having enough energy for a lifesaving spell. You're just too selfish to use your pearl, too, so you have to make do and conserve your energy.)

The next group comes out and whispers flitter down the row of clerics to you: Owlbears are next. They're awful creatures, nasty when there's only one but two are damn near unmanageable. You happen to know these two aren't even mated, but that hardly matters. It's going to be a bloodbath at best, and at worst there'll be a death. Reaching over the wall, you unhook the latch that keeps it connected just in case you need to rush into the field. The beast-keepers are technically supposed to be the first on the scene, but you're also technically more powerful than they are. You rarely listen to the rules at the Victory Pit, mostly because you're a Crown Cleric and not from the Temple of the Platinum Dragon.

The fight is intense and the clerics next to you barely hold you back when several members of the team go down. They have clerics on their team, yes, but it's hard to tamp down your instincts when you were practically raised by your family for clericdom. It's only when you hear the whispering chatter that the beast-keepers are gathering the magical manacles that you jump into action, flinging open your door and sprinting into the field. The gasp from the crowd barely registers in your mind as you dodge an attack, skidding underneath and stopping next to what looks more like a bloody lump of cloth than a humanoid. The beast whirls on you, but you're faster. You've cast spiritual weapon before it can strike, the air in front of you and the injured party member shimmers and then, the first thing you thought of, a replica of one of Molly's scimitars but three times the size, appears and blocks the strike.

The Owlbear reels back again, going for another, but you're right there to block it. The beast-keepers are going to get an earful from you when you're done with the Pit, but for now, you're relieved that they've managed to subdue the beast and you can focus on the fallen. They're not in great shape, and with a precursory feel of their pulse, they're incredibly close to death.

You put your hands on either side of their neck, close your eyes, and pray. It's not necessarily a religious relationship with the deity that gives you the powers you have to heal, but it's still technically a prayer. The contestant heaves a deep breath, and you can feel the life rush into them from the fold between this plane and the next. The other clerics have gotten everyone else, so you focus on your patient. They probably need two or three more spells before they’re fully stabilized, which is going to burn through either your higher energy spells or all of your lower levels. You grit your teeth as you roll your patient onto the blade of your spiritual weapon, using it as a makeshift gurney. They’re already calling for the next team as if the clerics they’ve hired aren’t already spread thin trying to keep this team from dying. The Mighty Nein are at the doors, holding them open for the clerics, and you barely catch Molly’s eyes as you bring your patient off of the Pit floor and into the waiting room. The scimitar disappears as you lay them on a cot, quickly finding the worst wounds and sealing them with magic, burning through a lot of the spells you prepared and the arcane energy that it takes to cast.

The next beasts are angry and wily - displacer beasts - so you don’t really have time to think about how Molly is lingering near you, trying to find a time to talk to you while you’re trying to keep this person from dying. You stabilize them eventually, but the scarring will be intense. There’s nothing that you can do about that with what you’ve got now. Outside you can hear the next team win against the beasts and stress begins to bundle in your shoulders at the thought of how quickly the Pit is moving. Molly is hovering over your shoulder as you step back and begin clearing the blood off of your hands, despite his group being called out once more.

“That was my sword,” He rumbles, keeping his voice down and stepping even closer to you when you turn around. You track his tail thwipping through the air behind him, either very agitated or incredibly curious. Either could be incredibly accurate, and you don’t really have enough time to parse any information from the rest of his body language.

“Yes, it was,” You want to grumble, but it comes out softer than you intended, “Sorry, but you’re being called and I have to get back to my station so that you don’t die.” Molly tries to catch your arm when you slip around him, but with a promise and a smile you turn back to face him. “Don’t fucking die out there, and then we can talk, okay?” You wish that you could tell him, warn him really, that they’re about to face a Hill Giant. An incredible creature, really, but pushed to a near unreachable limit by the beast-keepers and their prodding, angry spears and arrows. It makes you sick to your stomach, but this is your job. The Empire pays your bills and keeps you fed - they would not tolerate any dissent from you on the matter of the Victory Pit and the treatment of the creatures captured specifically for death, no matter how strong of a case you can make. Instead of telling Molly what he’s up against, you casually brush the back of your fingers against his hand and let your magic make its way into his system. He should be okay, you think, the blessings of a cleric are strong.

Making your way back to your station, you fidget with your uniform. One of your friends - using the term loosely because you’re more like coworkers - catches your sleeve as you pass him. He’s grinning, mischief in his eyes. “You’ve never given a contestant your blessings before, what’s so special about him?”

“I didn’t do anything,” You pull away from Brock, “I just told him that if he wins, we can have a conversation. That’s all.” You shoot him a pointed look and then, after glancing around to make sure nobody else is looking, a wink. Brock grins and relaxes into his station, shaking his head. You’re known to push the limits, but outright break the rules? It’s almost unheard of for you. Everyone knows you’re blessed with a soulmate and Zadash is a bustling metropolis, frequented by the sort of people who get the injuries you sometimes show up to work with. They know you’ll need to stick around to find them, so you’ve only pushed the limits the Empire gives you, not outright shoot past them. By the time you’ve found your station again, the Hill Giant is almost out onto the Pit floor, and Brock has probably figured out why you’re so soft on one particular contestant.

The giant knocks out one of the pillars, roaring so deeply it vibrates in your chest. He’s pissed, rightfully so. The spines sticking out of his body make you sick to your stomach, and you have to look away. Your eyes find the halfling that was with Molly earlier, but as she sprints off toward the human woman, you realize that she’s a goblin. An interesting myriad of people traveling together, but you’ve seen strangers come through your town. She fires off two of her bolts, missing entirely, and you watch one arc through the air and strike off of the helmet of a Guard, who yelps.

You snicker as she takes off again, and the human man fires off his magic. It’s strange to see magic come from another person, especially magic that is clearly learned and not given. It almost makes you wish that your magic was learned instead of bestowed upon you but that would mean losing Molly, who you’re already rather fond of. You’re watching the man try to keep his cool and almost miss the other tiefling casting - a giant fucking lollipop appearing out of the air, smacking the giant, and then flames rocketing out of her hands to hit him, as well. You grin when you realize she’s a cleric, too. You wonder if she has a soulmate, but it would be improper to ask.

When the giant reels back and hurls a large chunk of wall, you suck in a breath. Everything is happening so fast, and Molly… Not only will it hurt to take the hits, but he’ll get hurt. It’s not just about you, but if he goes down so will you, and then you can’t help anyone. You’re almost relieved when the giant turns toward the half-orc, but then Molly is sprinting up toward the giant’s legs, his swords out. He’s a melee fighter, getting right into the thick of it and making your skin crawl. Molly’s swords carve through the giant like butter, making you cringe because the giant is pissed, and Molly won’t have time to get away from whatever is about to happen to him.

When the giant whips around, his eyes are fully black and bleeding down his face. You’re almost certain that’s Molly’s doing, but you don’t really have time to figure it out. The giants club swings up, and then down, and before Molly hits the ground your world has gone hazy with pain and darkness.

The pain and darkness keep their hold on you for what feels like forever. You know that eventually you’ll wake up, but floating in the darkness of unconsciousness you think of Molly. Did someone heal him? Is he okay? You’ve felt the other times he’s died, the way it rips you apart inside, the way you sleep for what feels like days before you wake up. Is this the same way? Has Molly died, even for a second, and you’re left to suffer the consequences? The stories your family told you all ended with soulmates together, no longer bearing the injuries of the other, because of the love that they share and the way they give and take equally. Nobody told you stories of soulmates where one dies over and over again - or at least comes close to doing so rather regularly. You’re still floating in the abyss when you hear his voice. Molly’s voice startles you because normally it’s the deity who blessed you with magic that comes to you, reminding you that everything is going to be okay.

But this time it’s Molly. He’s saying your name, asking you to wake up so that he can see your eyes again. Faintly, as you drift closer and closer to the surface, you can feel the light tracings of fingertips against the crest of your cheekbone and the faint wisp of breath against your hair. He keeps speaking, telling you things that you’re not sure you’ll remember when you finally float to the surface.

That happens faster than normal. When your eyes finally feel light enough to open, Molly is there. He looks a little worse for wear, but you can tell he has at least one healing spell in him. When he realizes you’re awake, a large grin splits his face. “There you are, darling,” He sighs, leaning forward in his chair to be even closer to you, “Scared me for a moment there.”

“Now that I’ve found you I highly doubt that you can get rid of me, Mollymauk.” Your voice is hoarse as you push yourself up, one of Molly’s hands curling around your shoulder to help you sit up on the cot. When you’re upright he moves from the chair he had set up next to your bed to sit next to you, his entire side pressed against yours. “You are a man who is constantly in danger.”

“That I am,” He leans against you, his horn pressing into the side of your head but you don’t mind. He’s warm and nice. The aches in your body numb a little bit just by being near him, but Molly seems like he has a bit of an ego so you don’t mention that. “Do you know why we feel each other this way?”

“Have you heard of soulmates, Molly?” You drop your voice to a whisper and turn your face to him, your lips pressed against his lavender forehead, “My family has legends of them, given to clerics to help them become the best healers they can be. Pushed to their limits by the other’s injuries, but also filled with an overwhelming need to be good enough. To have enough power. To protect, and love, and heal.” You kiss his forehead, hoping it’s not too bold, and let one of your last healing spells flow through his body. The last one you cast on yourself.

“It’s rotten work to love me, darling.” Molly finally says, one hand searching yours out, “But I do feel much better having met you. I feel connected, loved.”

“It’s not rotten work to love you, Molly. I’ve loved you for a long time, and I do not plan on stopping now.” You kiss his forehead again and his head turns, his own lips pressing against the side of your neck as he sighs, “Perhaps your work is not done in Zadash, but it should be soon.” You drop your voice to a conspiratorial whisper so that only Molly can hear you, “War is coming, Mollymauk. You, The Mighty Nein… You should run before you’re conscripted to fight.”

“And you?” He asks, red eyes never leaving yours as he pulls you impossibly closer, “What about you?”

“I… I’ll come with you, if you’ll have me.” You watch the shock flicker across his face for a brief moment, but then it settles into something that you can’t find a name for. “But if not, you don’t have to worry about me. I won’t be conscripted to be a War Cleric, not at first. They’ll take the clerics from the temples before they take me.”

Molly caresses the side of your face with his other hand, a small and hesitant smile playing on his face. “Darling, of course, I’ll have you. The Nein will, too. We’re meant to be together, after all.”

#critical role imagine #c2 imagine #cr imagine #mollymauk imagine #mollymauk tealeaf imagine #mollymauk / reader #mollymauk x reader #campaign 2 imagine #critfic

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