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softlyspector · 10 months

Text

Honeyed

Summary: You hate being touched, but you might be willing to put aside your discomfort for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~11.7k

Warnings: slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, reader has issues with touch and is mostly touch adverse, tattoos and getting tattooed (the reader only has one tattoo that is described in any detail), description of a past abusive relationship and a bad experience getting tattooed, insecurity, anxiety, loneliness, implied undefined past trauma with men, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this

A/N: We're ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. I love this fic with everything I am and hope you all like it too. I'm trying something new with this header because none of the gif were giving me what I wanted, so I hope its not too cringe as I am not an aesthetic girlie. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

Summer is at its peak when you first happen by Joel Miller's tattoo studio.

The sky is a jewel bright, cerulean blue, the shining yellow saturation of the sun blurring the air around you in a washed out haze that reminds you of childhood summers past.

Main Street’s sidewalk is hot enough to fry an egg, hot enough to boil soup. It sends shimmering waves up from the asphalt. Blinding sunshine pierces through the tired trees that line the road, undulating waves of emerald green and twinkling golden light shifting over the pavement. The leaves wilt in the heat. A single cloud floats on the sky’s horizon.

The sun feels nice, maybe a little like you’re baking alive, but you don’t mind it. When you suck in a deep breath of that sun warmed air, you feel at home—it tastes like dust and heat and the slightly floral desert bloom.

The town, just a couple hours outside Austin, already feels more like home to you than the city ever did. It’s idyllic, lush with shaded parks, an ice cream parlor and a coffee shop, plenty of restaurants and food trucks, a walkable little main thoroughfare not far from your apartment above a bookstore.

It’s more than idyllic; it feels like a town straight out of a novel. Quiet and quaint and safe.

And, apparently, it has a tiny tattoo studio that you’d somehow missed on all your walks through town.

The shop looks a bit rustic—all raw wood tones and metal—but the art that hangs in the front windows is beautiful. Paintings that seem to be for sale hang next to artfully taken photos of healed tattoos.

You step closer, pressing a hand over your brow to block out part of the glare that rains down from the sky in glimmering waves.

The lone cloud in the sky slides over the sun in what feels like a moment of divine intervention, just for you, so you can see the displayed art properly.

It’s lovely, and your skin begins to itch and tingle with a need you know well. You know exactly what you’d ask for, from the hand of the person who’d created that which hangs in the front window.

You want—need—another tattoo. You need this person’s art to live on your skin, to make a home there.

You step back from the glass as the cloud drifts on and the sun reveals itself again, perfect golden rays slipping over your exposed skin. The world seems to filter back in to you then. The heat of the day, the hush of the breeze that does nothing to cool the air, the sweat gathering at the base of your throat.

Children shriek at the park a block over, splashing in the fountain at the center of it all, parents reclined on benches in the sun, cold lemonade close at hand. The scent of sugar and sun and fried food burns through the air.

The buzzing need only increases as you note the name of the shop and move on to the record store and then the clothing boutique, your mind still hovering in front of the studio.

As much as you would have liked to just burst in, you want more than what a walk-in appointment could probably get you. That, and you needed to do some research about the place before you decided, no matter how much your skin itched with want.

To your dismay, the tattoo shop seems to only have one artist, though it shouldn’t have surprised you, considering the size of the shop. It’s tiny and you doubt there was room for more than one artist to comfortably work there.

A fairly new instagram account lists his name as Joel Miller, owner of, and soul artist at, the studio you had passed. The shop doesn’t seem to have a website, but the few google reviews that it does have are all glowingly positive.

Bookings appear to be wide open according to the instagram bio, but a different kind of itch crawls under your skin at the thought of being tattooed by another man. Your stomach goes foamy, gives an uncomfortable lurch, at the thought of any man at all having to touch you.

You scroll through the few posts that have made their way onto the account, the last dated two days ago. And, for the first time in years, you feel the need for this person’s art on your skin begin to outweigh your aversion to touch.

There are no pictures of Joel Miller, just his art, though some of the posts give glimpses of strong hands and thick forearms. Despite yourself, arousal pools in your belly at the sight. A few scars run beneath the wiry black hair on his arms, thick veins snake beneath his skin to collect in rough, strong hands that speak to hard labor. It makes you wonder if he’d always been a tattoo artist or if he’d made a career change at some point.

Some of the captions on the posts make you snort and you have to wonder if he runs the account himself. You somehow can’t picture the owner of those hands typing out the cheesy, often pun filled, lines.

You ruminate on it for weeks, passing by the shop anytime you have to walk through town to admire the ever changing line up of photos and art pieces hung in the windows. The second week a drawing of a doe appears among the photos and paintings—big eyes wide, ears alert as she looks over her shoulder, surrounded by a thick forest bright with sun and shadow. Bumblebees hover around her alert ears.

She looks familiar but you can’t quite place why.

Sometimes you go out of your way to pass by, just to check out the new photos, even making a day of it, buying yourself an expensive iced coffee and lingering far too long in front of the window, just looking, pretending like the small shop doesn’t take up your every thought.

You spend each evening hoping for a new post to the shop’s instagram page, hoping, too, that the new post contains glimpses of more than Joel Miller’s hands.

The man remains an enigma, a mystery, and if he’s ever in the shop when you stand in the window, you never see him. You convince yourself that if you could just get a glance at him, you’d know. You’d know if you could handle being tattooed by him.

You find yourself rolling your eyes at yourself often. You avoid hugs with friends, cringe your way through having anyone unfamiliar do your hair, tense at casual accidental touch. Phantom echoes of pain and want twin themselves around your heart, slide thick and cloying around your chest, breaking your breath from your body.

It’s inexplicable, how much you crave touch and fear it. It’s terrifying, how you wonder what Joel’s hands would feel like.

Probably it would feel like everyone else’s touch always has. Like your skin is too tight, like your heart might stop beating, like there’s something wrong with you for feeling like prey near capture, like the soft press of another person's hand might start burning.

One hot afternoon, you finally find out what Joel looks like.

The heat is relentless that day as it has been for weeks, the ice cream you’d stopped for at the local parlor rapidly melting as you completed your, now weekly, routine of stopping by the tattoo studio. As unbearable as the heat is, you somehow still find it blissful. On this day, a young woman stands outside the shop cleaning the front window. The door is propped open, frigidly cold air swirling out onto the street.

“Sarah?” A voice calls from within, graveled and gruff and warm. “You ‘bout finished up out there? We need to get goin’. Tommy’s waitin’.”

The girl, who could only be Sarah, turns away from the window, swiping a few errant strands of her hair away from her forehead, her opposite hand anchoring on her hip as she answers back.

You don’t catch her response, too distracted trying to glimpse the man just inside the door.

All you’re able to see for a moment is a crop of dark hair laced with a fine sprinkling of gray before his broad shoulders that test the strength of the t-shirt he wears comes into view. Dark wash jeans fit snugly around his thighs and narrow hips, worn but well kept boots on his feet. He’s certainly handsome and looks rugged, and that both scares you and thrills you.

When you glance back up to his face, you meet his eyes. The slash of sun, a spinning shard of light falls over his gaze when he pokes his head out the door. In the warmth of the Texas sun, his eyes are cast in honeyed tones. The man you know must be Joel Miller smiles at you, one forearm lifting to brace against the doorway, the lines by his eyes crinkling up. His beard is threaded with that attractive gray too.

“Howdy,” he says and he looks like he means to say more, but something seizes your throat and you avert your eyes and keep walking, barely managing to nod back politely. You don’t dare to breathe until you’re well past his shop.

It takes you two blocks to realize the ice cream in your fist had melted over the edge of the cup and dripped over your fingers and that the man whose art you’ve been lusting over for weeks is just as pretty as his hands.

Joel noticed you the first day you lingered outside his studio.

He’d watched you cup a hand over your eyes, squinting against the glare of the sun. Your nose had scrunched up too as you gazed in at what was hung in the window.

A curl of nervousness that he couldn’t exactly place had settled hard in his gut. But you just looked, eyes filled with wonder as honeyed sunshine fell in drafts around you. He half expected a colony of bees to buzz around you, like some long forgotten god.

You’d reminded him then of a deer caught by surprise, big eyes and searching gaze pulling him in, something skittish and troublesome looming around you.

It wasn’t in Joel’s nature to bother folks on the street anyway, but he suspected if he even cracked the door open you’d go flying down the street in a cloud of warmed sun, just like a deer that hears the first snap of a branch under a hunter’s foot.

Eventually you’d moved on, and he’d tried not to feel too bad about it, not that he had any real reason to.

His hand had itched as you walked away, to pick up a paint brush or a pencil or a whittling knife.

To his surprise, you start coming back all the time. A least once a week, and sometimes it seemed like you came by just to come by, like you didn’t have any other reason to be out.

His girls notice, too, when they visit because of course they do.

Sarah is kinder about it than Ellie who tells him to man up and talk to you.

He just tells her to mind her own business, watching you look at the things he’d created with wonder and reverence. It flatters him, really, makes an embarrassing blush he’ll never admit to heat his chest. He considers himself a pretty average artist.

But each time he thinks about following Ellie’s advice, he sees your doe eyes and knows he’d frighten you.

There’s a drawing that hangs in the window now—several actually—of a doe with wide, curious eyes, not necessarily afraid but cautious. He can’t seem to stop painting, drawing, whittling deer.

One deer really, a very particular doe that bees seemed to want to follow.

He wonders if you know that that painting in the front window is of you, if you recognize yourself. You surely don’t, because you keep coming by.

“Since when are you so obsessed with deer?” Sarah asks one evening. The light has faded from the sky in an orange and red blaze, the close blanket of night wreathing the street outside, street lamps buzzing haloing yellow light in patches down the sidewalk.

“Always liked deer,” he comments, mumbling it more than anything.

Sarah rolls her eyes. “Sure.”

He’s right not to disturb you though. The day he finally gets the chance to say hello to you, when Sarah had insisted on washing the front window free of the accumulated summer dust despite his protests that he would do it, fear darts behind your eyes, nervousness seizing your shoulders. You don’t so much as look at him, head ducked, feet carrying you swiftly down the road away from him.

A thread of worry that you’d stop coming by wrapped around his chest until the next week when you’d again lodged yourself in the window, peering in at the ever rotating catalog of his work.

He figures that’s fine for now.

He’d rather you be there, unreachable on the other side of the glass, than have you disappear entirely.

You are a creature of distrust. Of longing and starved skin, of loneliness and want. You aren’t sure where those things begin and you end, you aren’t sure where it started. Maybe you had been born that way, shoved onto the Earth and into existence with a mistrust of the world that shaped you into an infinitely lonely thing, an incredibly wary thing.

There’s always been something missing inside you, that might let you bridge that chasm inside you, climb to the other side and put yourself in someone else’s hands and hope they didn’t burn the path behind you.

Maybe you are skittish and adverse to touch by nature. Maybe it started when you were a kid, with your parents who have never been tactile, not even when you were a child, not even when you were hurt or in pain.

But you aren’t sure, you have never been sure.

What you do know is that it's left behind a raw hole, aching with a loneliness you can't figure out how to battle.

The times you had slipped your heart into someone else’s palm, wet and sticky with blood, the viscera of who you are, admitting to the pain that vibrated always at a low level frequency below your skin, you regretted it.

Mostly because you’re never able to explain it. It just is. You just are.

It’s who you’ve always been, and sometimes one step forward necessitated two steps back with how much you could handle.

Touch wasn’t even always bad, sometimes it was just too much. And no one wanted or tried to understand that sometimes it just felt too good, overwhelmed you to the point of exhaustion, and sometimes to pain.

You’ve always wondered if there would ever be anyone who’s touch felt safe, felt like it belonged.

The aversion you have to touch and the deepening trust issues that grew wilder every year were only solidified by your last boyfriend, by the tattoo he carved into your skin. He confirmed everything you ever needed to know about yourself, that you were not worth cracking the code on, that no one would ever be willing to try to handle you with care, to expose you slowly, to meet you halfway. To know when you asked not to be touched that you weren’t mad or punishing them.

If he wasn’t willing to put up with you, he’d said, to figure it out, then no one else would be.

You swore off having a relationship, content in the loneliness that you were destined to have claw at your heart, at least in that way.

But with that tattoo came too a deep mistrust, an aversion to anyone getting too close to you, a swearing off, a final nail in the coffin of trying for things to be thrown back in your face. He’s the reason you moved to this tiny town, away from Austin and all the memories that he’d left in you like jagged shards of mirror, reflecting everything you didn’t want to see.

Before he tattooed you, you’d been tattooed several times before. The experience had always been good, one of the few ways you didn’t mind being touched. It had always been the making of a happy memory for you. And he had taken that from you.

He hadn’t just stolen something you loved from you, but shut the door on vulnerability or intimacy with almost anyone.

Joel Miller’s tattoo studio, his stupidly attractive hands, the deep drawl of his howdy, and most of all the beauty of his art in the front window of the shop, captures your mind, ensnares your every thought. It’s woven a net around all the thoughts and worries that normally flutter around your head and calls for them to be silent.

“All I do is think about this damn tattoo,” you say to a friend back in Austin one evening, phone squished between your shoulder and your face as you cook dinner. “Is that normal? Like, I can’t just go get one somewhere else, by anyone else.”

No one knew about the sharp fanged demons that lingered in your past. The distrust and loneliness that ate out parts of your heart, bite by bite, year by year. But Leah does know about your ex, about the tattoo on your shoulder that still aches with long healed pain.

“You said it looks like he does walk-ins, right?” She asks, not unkindly. “Why not just go talk to him for a bit,” she eases you into it. “See if it might be the right fit. I know. . .things in your past haven’t been easy. But he might be alright. I can go with you, if you think that might help.”

And that doesn’t seem so bad. Just talking to him doesn’t seem so bad. You find that you want to. Then you would know if you couldn’t be tattooed by him, no matter how much you admired his art. Leah reminds you again of the nice google reviews, the funny little captions on his instagram posts, that he is not your ex even if he is a stranger.

“He’s running a business,” she says gently. “It isn’t like then.”

She’s right, you know she is, and you miss the experience, you miss getting tattooed.

So, the next morning you brace yourself and make the now familiar walk to the little studio, picking up an iced coffee to sip on the way so you hopefully won’t be too sweaty in the early morning sun that blooms rose pink on the horizon. It gives your hands something to do too, and you fidget with the rim of the plastic lid as you walk.

When you push the door open, Joel is standing at the counter. He has glasses perched on the end of his nose and is paging through a leather bound appointment book that sits next to an ancient computer that looks as though it hasn’t been switched on in a decade.

Something about the sight makes your shoulders loosen just a bit. You certainly hadn’t expected him to look like that, domestic and relaxed and calm. His pen scratches across the paper, a landline phone slotted against his ear.

He glances up at you in the still open doorway, surprise pulling over his features for a brief moment before he makes a hasty end to the call. It makes heat crawl up your body, the way his attention latches onto you and sticks. “Hey,” he greets when he sits the phone back into the cradle, sliding the glasses off. “I’ve been wonderin’ when you’d finally come in.”

There’s something light in the rough, drawling timber of his voice, like he’s trying not to startle you, like he’s inexplicably glad you’re there.

You stiffen and he chuckles, cold air pulsing around you in the doorway before you finally step fully into the shop and let it swing closed behind you. You remain there, just inside the door, trying not to feel like a fish in a barrel, easily caught, even more easily killed. “Caught me, huh?” You try to keep your voice light, waiting for a striking arrow that would never come.

“S’alright. Thought maybe you just walked this way a lot but you always stop to look,” he gestures at the front window. “My daughter is the one that’s always changin’ it around.”

“I appreciate her efforts,” you say, taking a hesitant step forward. “I look forward to seeing the changes. Best part of my week.”

He nods, looking just a tad embarrassed, and then closes the appointment book, giving you his undivided attention. “Lookin’ to get tattooed?” His eyes trace over your exposed skin, noting the few you already have.

“Maybe,” you answer, giving a half-shrug that you hope comes across as nonchalant. “I saw on instagram that you’re, uh, taking appointments.”

“That I am,” he answers easily.

You swallow and glance around the studio. It’s as tiny as it seemed from the outside, but homely and comfortable. The walls are a deep green that remind you of forests you’ve never seen. The walls are covered in photos and art, both created and bought, the styles too different to have been made by the same person.

When you squint closer, you see that a few of them have tiny plaques beneath them, etched with names and dates. Shelves line the walls filled with knick knacks and children’s drawings in frames, and what appear to be family photos. One shelf is stacked with records and coffee table books, an ancient turntable perched precariously on top. A door is propped open behind the dark wooden counter, through which you can see the actual tattooing space, clean and sterile looking.

A lone guitar is hung on the wall, and you wonder if he plays. Your imagination conjures up hands that you’ve been studying for weeks softly plucking at the strings, curling around the bridge.

It’s shameful, the way your body flushes at the thought, the ghost of strummed notes floating in the air around you.

“Darlin’?”

Joel’s voice pulls your eyes away from the guitar and back to his face. Embarrassment drops like hot coal into the pit of your belly. You like the shape of that word in his mouth.

“I just wanted to stop in and see if maybe we’d be a good fit,” you explain hastily, not thinking about the words before they fall like broken promises from your lips. “If you’d be interested in tattooing me.” Before he can open his mouth to respond, you continue, “That wasn’t what I—I don’t mean to take up any of your time. Just if you have a moment. I should have messaged maybe—”

Joel waves you down and gestures around at the empty space. “No, it’s alright, hardly got anyone comin’ through here. Next appointment ain’t ‘til this afternoon.” He reaches below the counter, callused fingers catching on another notebook which he sets on the counter with care.

You follow the motion of his hands, your eyes snapping back to his when he continues, “What are you lookin’ to get done?” The knot of anxiety in your chest loosens a little when he seems to take your nerves for concern over the piece you want done.

Joel’s hands are ones that are familiar to you now after all the times you’d spent looking at the spare pictures of them online. That want, the heat, crawls back up inside your lungs and curls up to stay, making a home among the throbbing tendon and muscle. Though you’d glimpsed him that day on the street, it's a very different experience to stand for an extended period in front of him. His voice paired with the broad set of his shoulders, the cut of his brown eyes focused on you, all adds up to something devastating.

Another vinegary squirm of nerves in your gut is accompanied by your treacherous heart squeezing tight in your chest, battering something long abused, long closed off.

“You can show me reference pictures if you’ve got ‘em,” he offers when you don’t respond again, instead just looking at him, his presence calming in a way you can’t really explain. You blink and pull out your phone, approaching the counter slowly. The ice in your half finished coffee rattles as you set it on the counter, away from the appointment book so the condensation won’t accidentally get on it.

Joel unsettles you, but not in a way that people usually unsettle you. Not in the way your ex-boyfriend had from the very beginning. Instead of feeling the need to flee, you feel the urge to stay.

You show Joel the inspiration pictures you’ve been collecting the last few weeks, swiping slowly through what you have saved in your camera roll and describing what you imagine as best you can. When you lean closer to show him, the scent of clove and cinnamon and leather washes over you. The smell makes you a little dizzy, runs circles around your head.

His brow is furrowed, concentration etched into his features. “I’ll need some time to work out some designs for ya.”

“That’s alright,” you nod, watching those rough fingers sketch broad lines in the notebook he’d pulled out.

“Sorry, sweetheart, don’t know where my manners went. I didn’t get your name,” he says, and glances up at you. “I’m Joel,” he holds out a hand.

Sweetheart. You’ll be hearing the low timber of his voice whispering that and darlin’ in your dreams, you’re sure of it.

You find yourself smiling, your mouth involuntarily pulling up at the corners. You take his hand without thinking. His hand is warm and firm; his fingers engulf yours.

He hums as he takes his hand back, pencil already between his fingers again, and you’re left feeling chilled, like there’s an empty space in the middle of your hand that needs filled. “Real pretty name y’got.”

Oh. You like the hum of pleasure in your chest that chases the nerves below your skin. It’s a pleasant kind of warm.

“You can send ‘em on to me on that. . .app,” he grumbles. And you have to laugh. Between the landline phone, the physical calendar book, and that app he sounds just like the kind of cranky that you find endearing. “Uh, just so you know if you get a reply that don’t sound like me, it’s because my daughter runs it for me.”

“Sarah,” you guess, thinking of the young woman you’d seen cleaning the window.

“Ellie, actually. She thinks she’s a goddamn comedian.” He rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the affection lodged in his gaze. He gestures at one of the pictures framed on a shelf where two teenage girls are slotted on either side of him. “Got two of ‘em,” he clarifies. “Sarah—she does the window. You saw her that day you passed by, the taller one there in the picture.”

You tilt your head, Joel’s eyes following the motion. “They help you run this place.”

“They’re my marketing team,” he grumbles. “Self-appointed, if you couldn’t guess.”

You find yourself leaning on the counter, watching Joel’s pretty hands sketch absentmindedly. “That actually sounds like fun.”

“They seem to think so,” he agrees, glancing up at the same time you do. A touch of pink colors the high points of his cheeks. The delicate little shading makes something warm curl into your gut. “Anyway,” he clears his throat. “We don’t get a lot of foot traffic around here, you might have noticed. Ellie’s thinkin’ that account might lure people up from Austin.”

You nod. “It’s a good idea. People have traveled further for tattoos. And we aren’t too out of the way up here.”

“I take it you live around here,” he glances down again, like he finds looking at you hard.

“Not far,” you confirm. “That’s how I found you.”

He goes silent for a moment, fingers continuing to twitch around the pencil before he looks back at you. “I’ll, uh, have somethin’ to ya in a couple a’ days. You can let me know if you want any changes and we’ll set a date.”

You straighten, feeling only slightly dismissed. “Oh, yeah, sure. Thank you.” You start to turn when you remember yourself. That’s not really what you came here for. “Actually, listen, I don’t want to waste your time. You don’t need to start on anything. Not yet. I’m not sure just yet, I just wanted to meet you. I really admire your art.”

You leave it at that. Pouring out all your other issues would just make you look insane.

Joel raises a curious brow at you, waiting, a question in his eyes that he doesn’t ask as you take a step back. “Alright,” he agrees. “I won’t start on anythin’ just yet.”

“Okay,” you back further away, trying desperately not to turn and run, aware you must look odd. “I’ll see you around.”

“I hope so, honey.”

Though the tattoo shop is cold, heat that rivals the temperature outside dissolves the bones in your chest from the way his eyes linger on you.

But that want—need—is within reach now, and something tells you that you can trust him.

At least with this.

Joel sees you more often after the first day you actually come into the shop.

Well—

He supposes he sees you about the same amount, but now you actually come inside. You always pause in the doorway for half a second, those watchful doe eyes going wide, like your instincts always kick in a second too late.

But once you make it inside, you talk to him, share snippets of your life as you watch him draw, eyes focused on his hands.

You breakup the monotony of his days, those times between appointments and the few walk-ins that he does see.

Sometimes, most times, you bring him coffee from the shop at the end of the road, and he hates that you feel obligated to bring something for him. “For letting me hang around,” you always say.

Most times he feels like he’s trying not to scare you away, like one wrong move will send you bolting right back out the door. But he comes to rely on your presence, the sunshine earthy smell you bring inside with you, the cautious questions and wide eyes, the way you dart to your feet and disappear the second a sign of work for him appears, even if he wouldn’t mind you waiting, taking up room in the tiny front room.

Joel has to wonder what happened to you, if anything, or if you’re just a nervous person. Maybe it’s just in your nature to be distrustful. He doesn’t mind you coming in all the time, in fact he likes it, hates the empty spaces you now leave behind. The studio seems impossibly empty and cavernous without you around now, asking about the guitar on the wall, about where he learned to draw, about his girls.

Still, summer passes by slowly, like a jar of molasses catching sun in a window. He watches you come and go, watches you get to know him through tiny encounters that loosen your shoulders more each time you stop in.

He doesn’t tell you that he spends most evenings working on a design for that tattoo you may or may not get, that he has a dozen different versions of it clogging up his notebook.

He figures if you don’t end up getting it tattooed then he can just give you some of the sketches to keep.

Like he’d ever find a damn way to do that without feeling like a fool.

Toward the end of summer, with heat still burning up all the air in Texas and showing no signs of abating, you push the door open with your chin lifted and a smile on your face. Heat, like the rush of burning air from an oven, whips around you and into the shop.

He tells himself the heat is why his mouth suddenly feels dry. He tells himself it has nothing to do with how your ass looks in those jeans you always wear or the curve of your hips in the snug fit or the tank top that shows off your shoulders and arms and chest. All topped off with you smiling at him.

“Hey Joel,” you greet, crossing the studio in a couple strides where you deposit a cup of coffee onto the counter next to his hand. He likes the way you say his name, breathy and quick. “I think I’m ready.”

“Ready?” He questions, bewildered.

His mind takes a moment to catch up to what you mean. The tattoo. You’re ready to get your tattoo.

And Joel becomes aware that he is distinctly not ready for that. Because then what excuse will you have to stop by so often? “Right now?” He asks.

You smile. “Not at this exact moment, obviously,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “Just…generally. Whenever you have time for me. I know you’ll need time to work on a design. I’ll send the inspiration photos to the instagram account so you can look at them again.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, the notebook with your designs tucked under the counter burning a hole in the corner of his vision. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

Your smile widens. “Thanks. I can’t hang around today.” You wave a hand back in the direction of the front window, “Errands to run. I just wanted to say that I really love the new painting.”

“The—”

“The new deer. She’s beautiful. More confident than the other ones. I think, or maybe it’s the same. I really like the new one though. You’ve been doing a lot of deer lately.”

He swallows and nods. “Yep.”

Your head tilts to the side before you take a step back, anxiety pulling at your face. “Okay,” you say, your voice noticeably smaller. “Well, I’ll see you around. I’ll message Ellie.”

Before he can stop you, you’ve bolted out the door.

He sighs and rolls his shoulders back as he watches you walk down the street in the honeyed sunshine. When you’re finally out of sight, he pulls the sketchpad out and starts on yet another design.

“Dude, you’ve got it baaaaaad,” Ellie accuses as she sets a platter of fried chicken on the dining room table. “He didn’t even ask for a fucking deposit!”

“No deposit?” Sarah asks, adding a bowl of salad next to the plate. “That’s just bad business practice, dad.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Not everyone takes deposits.”

The girls glance at each other. “Yeah, but you usually do. You told me not to ask for one!”

He grumbles under his breath, settling at the table, just glad that his girls were there at all. He’d half expected the standing weekly dinner to fizzle out once he moved out of Austin, but they always made the drive up, or he went down to them each Friday.

His girls had their own lives, Sarah still in college, Ellie still trying to find her footing as an apprentice at a tattoo studio in the city.

“Did she seem interested?”

Joel assumes Sarah is asking about the tattoo.

You seemed exactly as he’d thought. A little nervous and wary, but mostly curious and eager. He’d been blushing like a kid, the warmth you always tugged along with you into the shop no match for the air conditioning.

“Yeah,” he answers, shrugging. “Ellie’d know more than me—”

“I mean does she seem interested in you?”

Joel glances sharply up to find both his kids grinning at him. “I’m talkin’ about the damn tattoo,” he says, exhaling sharply through his nose before he reaches for a plate.

“Well, that’s obvious,” Sarah mutters with a roll of her eyes.

“Yeah, c’mon, man,” Ellie leans back in her chair. “Isn’t she there, like, every fucking day?”

Joel frowns at her. “Manners,” he reminds her.

He gets an eye roll from her too, before she tilts her chair back down onto all four legs.

“Watch it,” he says, “Your eyes are gonna get stuck like that.”

“Joel—”

“She’s nervous enough as it is,” he grumbles. “Never met someone s’damn skittish.”

“What, like a horse?”

“Like a deer,” he corrects. “She don’t need me makin’ passes at her. I think she’s just now comin’ around to the idea of trustin’ me so don’t say something stupid to her.” He directs the last bit to Ellie. “Clear?”

She spears a piece of chicken. “Clear,” she grumbles.

“I think she likes you dad,” Sarah says, primly cutting into the chicken on her own plate. “I don’t think she’d mind it.”

Ellie sends you scans of a couple designs two days after you abruptly tell Joel you’re ready to get tattooed. It’s accompanied by a message that makes something in you squirm in such a pleasant way that you worry there might be wrong with you.

the old man told me you know i manage the account for him. he’s really excited about this one and can’t wait to tattoo you. he worked on the design for weeks - ellie

Another message pops up almost immediately after the first.

don’t tell him i told you that

A warmth that has nothing to do with your open balcony door and the heat pouring into your apartment floods your veins. He’d said he’d need to work something out for you.

The two designs she sends are beautiful, and it's easy to see not only the talent but the time he put into them. Clearly he’d been working on a design since you first talked to him all those weeks ago.

Your whole body goes awash with heat, warming you pleasantly from the inside out.

You message her back to figure out the day and time, before flopping your phone face down on the couch, a nervous thrumming centering in your body. It folds your veins up into anxious little knots. The phantom echo of his low, drawling voice reverberates around your brain, the casual little sweethearts and darlin’s he throws your way kicking your heart into overdrive, a skittering pounding knocking against your ribs.

A thrill goes up your spine. At the prospect of a new tattoo, at the thought of spending so much uninterrupted time with Joel, of his hands on you.

The last thought jolts you a little.

That that’s something you’re looking forward to.

You aren’t expecting another message, not after finalizing a date only a few days in the future. But your phone buzzes again, yet another message waiting for you.

just a heads up - joel said you’ll have to sit for two or three sessions. he doesn’t want to wear you out.

Well, at the very least he was more considerate than the last man to tattoo you.

A rare rain splashes down the morning of your appointment, driving away the humidity that had curled in the air like a choking wraith the last few days and cooling the temperature down to something mild. It’s the first false start of what will always turn out to be a warm fall.

You take your time getting ready just to ease your nerves, hydrating and eating a bigger breakfast than you normally do.

In the afternoon, the walk to the studio is dreary. The street smells like petrichor and summers long gone. The gloom only makes the interior of the shop feel more cozy.

And more intimate.

When you push the door open, Joel’s daughter, Ellie, is standing at the counter complaining loudly about how old fashioned Joel is as she slowly pages through the leather bound appointment book that seems to never leave the side of the ancient computer you suspect is rarely, if ever, switched on. She seems to be logging appointments from her phone into the book.

Her eyes snap to you the moment the door swings shut, then glances at the clock. “Early,” she says. “Joel is still setting up.”

“That’s okay,” you say, pointedly sitting down on the leather sofa that takes up most of the floor space of the front room. “I can wait.”

You snap your mouth shut to avoid the waterfall of words that want to cascade from your lips. Nerves tingle under your skin, buzz lowly just beneath the surface.

Waiting makes you hot, makes heat rise from your skin in painful waves, as your anxiety continues to crest.

At the counter Ellie snaps the appointment book shut, now grumbling about Joel’s chicken scratch, when you peel off your sweatshirt. “Oh,” she says, surprised. “I didn’t know you had tattoos already.”

You jump a little, eyes flashing to the woman leaning on the dark wooden counter. Her chin is propped in her hand. You aren’t quite sure what to make of that, that she thought you didn’t have any.

“Yeah,” you stand and move closer to the counter. Maybe she’s just trying to distract you. “Why is that such a surprise?” You smile and offer her your arm. “I not look like the type?”

“Joel just said you were nervous,” she says, turning your arm in her hand, inspecting the tattoo on the top of your shoulder, and then the one that wraps around your bicep. “So I figured it was your first.”

Joel had talked to his daughter about you.

Maybe he talked to her about all his clients; she did manage the instagram account for the shop after all.

“I’m always a little uneasy beforehand.”

Your excuse is weak but Ellie doesn’t call you on it. Her eyes are latched onto the tattoo over your shoulder, the one your ex had done. You know what she’s seeing, how a few of the lines are blown out, how it healed badly.

She releases your wrist with a nod, her eyes more knowing than you would like. “Scared of the pain?”

“No,” you shake your head. “It doesn't hurt much, usually. It's relaxing more than anything.” You nod to the tattoo on your shoulder. “But, that one was the last and it did hurt and, uh, it put me off getting more for awhile.”

She looks it over for a minute, brows furrowing at what you know is shoddy work. Your gaze slides to the tattoo on Ellie’s forearm. “You don’t have to worry about that with the old man,” she informs you and releases your arm, her tone serious. “He might not look it, but he’s got a light touch.”

Before you can respond, Joel emerges from the back, rubbing his hands together as he glances between the two of you, his eyes wary. “Ellie,” he says, his voice that low gravel. “You stickin’ around, kiddo?”

“Nope.” She stabs a finger into the top of the appointment book, “Get fucking rid of this.” She grabs her jacket and hops up onto the counter, swinging herself over it, as Joel snaps at her not to. “Too late,” she chirps already out the door. “See you Friday.”

When you turn back to Joel, those splotches of pink and cresting red are back in his cheeks and neck and you have to wonder if he heard what Ellie had said. “That girl,” he grumbles. “Come on around here, darlin’,” he gestures with a roll of his eyes. “You don’t have to climb over the counter like a wild animal.”

You round the end of the counter and follow Joel into the back room where he’s already meticulously prepped everything. He sits on a rolling stool and gestures you in front of him. “I take it you already know the drill?” He asks.

You hum in affirmation and try not to jump when his hand brushes yours. “Easy,” he mumbles, almost to himself. It doesn’t stop a flare of heat from spiking in your blood. “You already decided on your left forearm, right?”

“Yeah,” you answer, holding your arm out to him.

You wonder what it is about Joel that makes him so magnetic, that makes him feel so safe. His hand, already in a sterile glove, slides around your wrist to hold you steady while he cleans your skin thoroughly. The sharp scent of antiseptic blooms around you, chasing away the clove and leather scent that usually lingers around Joel. “You alright?” He asks, glancing up at you to watch your face.

“Yep,” you answer tightly.

“Alright,” he agrees warily, like he doesn’t quite believe you. “I’m gonna haveta shave the area.”

You nod, you already knew that, and watch him pick up a disposable pink bic razor from the tray to his left. Despite having gone through this whole thing more than a few times before, this feels different, it feels more intimate and reserved.

He drags the razor over your skin slowly, carefully, then sanitizes your skin again when he’s finished, the cool flush of the moisture against your skin almost shocking. You go back and forth about the placement of the stencil. Your body tenses when you waffle for what feels like too long. You expect him to get frustrated with you but he doesn’t. His voice remains unbothered and patient.

Maybe your standards are in hell, maybe he’s just being a proper tattoo artist like all the others that had tattooed you before your ex, but it still makes a knot form in the back of your throat.

Eventually Joel presses the stencil into your skin when you give the go ahead. He rubs at it gently, warming your chilled skin, before he peels it away. The warmth of his touch is surprisingly soothing, the loss of it leaving you cold. “If it ain’t right, we can do it again,” he says, jerking his chin at the mirror in the corner, the picture of calm. “Go on and take a look and let me know.”

You both agree the placement looks good, and then comes the moment when you have to climb onto the table and put yourself in his hands. You will have to lie there and let another person touch you, albeit professionally. It doesn’t make it any better, any easier.

Your skin is so empty, so hungry, and Joel’s attention makes you feel like wax held too close to heat.

It already feels like too much and he’s barely touched you.

A cold prickle of fear slides down your spine too, pulling your shoulders in tight. The last time you did this you—

“You comfortable?” Joel is watching you, his eyes shaded and attentive.

You nod, aware that you are the picture of uncomfortable as Joel changes his gloves. Your hands are in fists, your spine hard and tense. All the air seems to have been sucked out of the room, cold and sterile and icy in your lungs.

“I ain’t touchin’ you until you relax,” he says when he turns back to you, settling next to you on a stool, hand hovering over the tattoo gun on the tray by his elbow. “You don’t gotta—”

“I am relaxed,” you interrupt in a bite, harsher than you mean to. You grit your teeth, your hand only curling into a tighter fist.

“Sweetheart you’re as taut as a bowstring,” he says gently. “Take a couple breaths.”

You do and your heart rate slows. Now isn’t like then. Now is different. “Good,” he says and the praise slides warm against you. “I’m gonna touch you now.”

You nod and the buzz of the tattoo gun starts, his free hand curls over your fist, warm and reassuring and so present it makes tears sting at the backs of your eyes. You realize then that Joel has been touching you quite a lot, and that you haven’t exactly minded.

“Relax, I got you,” he reassures. “You’ll tell me if you need a break,” he says and it’s not a question.

You nod anyway, not sure which part you’re agreeing with.

Joel talks while he tattoos you, mainly about his kids, his two daughters who are clearly his entire world, the point that his life hinges on.

The pride in his voice, the love there, makes you smile.

Joel is much chattier than usual.

Normally you talk his ear off while he works as he silently listens and nods along. Joel is the gruff quiet type, not that you much mind. You’d expected to sit in relative silence, to listen to the rain still drumming against the roof and the low hum of the tattoo gun.

Listening to his voice is a welcome change. You would listen to him read from a dictionary.

Sarah is from his first marriage, Ellie adopted. Sarah is going to college— “Gonna be a doctor someday,” he says proudly. “For kids. Pediatrician.” Ellie is following in Joel’s footsteps, apprenticing as a tattoo artist. “Hope it's what she wants to do,” he says, equally as proud. “She’s got some art out there on the wall—well, I’ll point it out later, much better than mine—it took me long enough to make this switch.”

“What did you do before?” You ask as Joel swipes a damp paper towel across your skin. Ellie had been right, he does have a light touch, a gentle touch.

“Carpenter,” he answers, and you can’t decide if the way he squeezes your wrist is conscious or not. “Long hours, hard work.”

So you’d been right about the look of his hands. Hands that so carefully held yours as his other drew over your skin. “Mm,” you hum distractedly. “What convinced you to take the jump?”

“My girls convinced me. Gettin’ outta Austin helped. Havin’ the money to finally slow down.” He chuckles to himself. “That’s why the marketin’ is a little ridiculous. Moved all the way out here just to complain about the foot traffic.”

You find yourself smiling, watching the flex of tendon in his forearms as he works. His mouth is set in a concentrated line, a divot between his brows. “Looks like you’re doing alright.”

“We manage,” he says with a groan, straightening from his position hunched over your arm. Something in his back creaks and then cracks before he goes back to work. “Although I regret not startin’ a little younger. My brother, Tommy, manages our business now.”

“Carpentry business?”

“That’s right,” he hums, leaning in closer to your arm, his breath ghosts over your arm, goosebumps racing across your skin. You swallow and your hand clenches reflexively beneath his. “You doin’ alright?”

You wonder if he knows his hand is still cupped over yours, if he can feel the racing of your heart beneath his fingers. Maybe he did that with all his clients, just a way to steady himself and you.

You don’t expect him to be looking at you when you lift your eyes back to his face.

Heat blooms in your chest, the flutter of wings beating against your ribs. “Mhm,” you give a nervous hum, trying not to show the feathering thoughts that float like down through your mind, swirling and impossible to bat down.

“Y’have to tell me if you need to take a break.”

“I don’t,” you say quickly, wondering if you should explain yourself a little, if it would be better or worse for Joel to know exactly how fucking nerotic you are.

It shouldn’t matter if he thinks you’re crazy or not.

But it does.

“Just…I’m not so good with touch,” you admit. “I never have been and my last tattoo was…”

You aren’t sure how to phrase it, so you stop and look at his hands again. His hand swallows yours, barely any of your skin visible beneath his touch. You wait for your skin to prickle, for the urge to rip your hand away to swim up the back of your throat, but it never comes. “I’m fine, really. I’d tell you if I needed to stop.”

“I know it,” he says, not blinking, watching you carefully. “I’m just checkin’.” He looks back down, adjusting his grip before he continues, his thumb sweeping over your wrist. “Was it the one on your shoulder?”

“What?”

“The tattoo that was a bad experience?”

You suck in a deep breath through your nose and look away from the top of his head, away from the graying brown that makes your belly clench and the butterflies that live permanently in your chest swing back to life.

The breath you pull in does nothing to steady you, instead flooding your senses with the clean woodsy smell of him. It’s dizzying. “That easy to tell?” You sigh.

“Just a few of the lines are blown out,” he says, not unkindly. “Thought maybe an apprentice did it or somethin’.” Joel’s voice is mild, only lightly prying, an extended hand that you could lie a pearl truth in if you wanted to.

The nerves subside a little. “Apprentices aren’t usually that bad,” you joke.

“No,” he agrees. “Ellie’d never get ya like that. Shouldn’t be tattooing on people yet if you’re gettin’ ‘em like that.”

He doesn’t ask what actually happened, but you find yourself answering anyway. You find that his hand still securely over yours acts like an anchor rather than a weight.

“I had bruises for a couple weeks after,” you admit. “It hurt. He wanted it to hurt. And it healed really badly.”

Joel’s hand pauses, the needle lifting away from your skin, but he doesn’t look up. A long moment passes, and his voice comes out in a forced calm. “Who wanted it to hurt, honey?”

“My ex,” you say and Joel leans back, dark eyes flashing to yours. “He wasn’t my ex then, obviously. He wanted to tattoo me, but he wanted it to be his name. I wasn’t going to do that. He wanted to compromise for initials but I just…couldn’t. Something about it felt wrong. I let him—” you wave your free hand at your shoulder. “—do that. And…I don’t know what happened,” you say. “I think he wanted to brand me. He wanted to leave a piece of himself on me, whether I wanted it or not.”

Joel doesn’t say anything for a while, just blinks away from you and slowly leans over your arm again to continue working.

The tattoo your ex did is the only one that ever hurt, but Joel is gentler than you remember. Or, maybe you simply can’t remember the other times as well, pain of the most recent one blotting out the memory.

“I don’t want you to think about this like that,” Joel says eventually, not looking up. “I don’t.”

“What do you mean, Joel?”

His hand stills, his fingers flexing around your wrist, thumb subconsciously sliding against the side of your wrist. “I mean—I’m not puttin’ something of mine on you,” he says. You frown and open your mouth to protest. “I made it for you. This is yours,” he says adamantly.

You watch him for a long moment, not sure what to say, an emotion you can’t name welling up into the back of your mouth, swollen and trembling.

“I want you to think about it like that,” he says, looking up at you from beneath his lashes, his mouth a hard line. “I’m not markin’ you, because it's not mine. It’s yours. It’s for you.”

You just nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

You avert your eyes, blinking away the water that crests against the edges of your lash line.

Though you’ve been bothering Joel for the better part of the summer, you don’t really know much about him. Today is the most he’s talked, about himself or otherwise. All you know is that he makes you feel oddly safe, that he has gone out of his way to try to make you feel comfortable. You can hear the words he doesn’t say, the quiet anger that vibrates under the surface of it. What happened to you was wrong, I would not do that to you.

He wants you to believe he’s gifting you something, and you suppose he is.

You remember Ellie’s message, how she’d said he’d been working on the design for weeks. You think of every moment you spent hanging around his shop for the last few weeks while he worked on a design for you, never saying a word about it, knowing you might decide not to get tattooed.

“Joel,” you murmur, carefully lying your free hand on his shoulder. Muscle flexes beneath your hand, thick and warm. “I know you wouldn’t do that. And you know I wanted to do this, right?”

Joel’s hand squeezes yours again. “I know it,” he shrugs and leaves it at that.

Something unspoken passes between you though. He would not do that to you, but you also sense he would never let anyone else hurt you like that again either.

You watch the feathering of his lashes against his cheeks, the firm set of his mouth, the way he keeps sliding his thumb over your wrist. You study his nose, the line of scar on the bridge, the hard ridge of his brow, the wrinkle that pulls at the skin of his forehead.

“You don’t have to be mad about it,” you say. “I already have that covered. I think I’ve been angry for a long time.”

The room is quiet, the sound of rain on the roof having abated in the hours you’d been there. Joel doesn’t say anything for another long moment, the only sound his breathing and yours, the sound of the tattoo gun buzzing its familiar tune. “I could, uh, fix some of it for ya,” he offers, eventually, leaning back to study the progress he’s made on your arm. “The lines where they’re blown out, we could think of somethin’ to blend it into.”

You look away again, not able to answer around the thick knot braided into your chest. You try swallowing around it, trying desperately to think of something to say. His hand is starting to feel a little heavy on yours. The aching clawing that is two steps back begins to threaten you.

This time, unlike the others, you aren’t quite sure if you want him to stop touching you or for the feeling of his hand to melt into yours, if you’d just rather he became a part of you instead.

You decide to try to ignore it, to focus on the nice parts of it all — how warm his skin is, the calluses you can feel, the scent of his skin and hair, so close you could press your nose into him if you leaned forward a little.

“You have really nice hands,” you comment, entranced by the flex of muscle and vein and sinew even through the black nitrile gloves.

Joel glances up, his face close to yours. You can see the threads of honeyed gold and warm hazel in his eyes, almost sun-spotted “That so?” He asks with a quirk of his brow, fingers tightening over your hand.

You swallow, glancing away from his eyes to focus on anything else, and give a nervous hum.

“You still alright?” He asks, his thumb slipping back and forth over the back of your hand. “Still comfortable?” When you just nod, suddenly too anxious and warm to do anything else, he leans back and releases your hand to strip off his gloves. “Let’s take a break.”

The loss of his touch is—you aren’t sure what it is.

You just know you hate it, and that has never happened before.

“I’m alright,” you protest.

“You’re startin’ to shake, which means you’re goin’ into shock. I’m sure Ellie told you this’d take more than one session,” he says, matter of fact about it.

“She did,” you breathe.

He grunts and offers you a hand down from the table. “Let’s get you wrapped up and then I’ll take you to get somethin’ to eat.”

“Oh,” you say, surprise and that spark of warmth flooding you again. “And you do that for all your clients?”

“Just the ones I like,” he deadpans, fitting a second skin over your tattoo before giving you the usual spiel about how to care for it once the second skin was removed. You hardly listen, thinking only about how Joel said he likes you. “But I assume you know all a’ that,” he says, twisting your arm. “And ya know where to find me if somethin’ ain’t right.”

“Mhm,” you hum, trying not to let the disappointment show when he releases you again. “I’m something of an expert with tattoo care, I think.”

“Three tattoos makes you an expert?” He asks, not looking at you as he meticulously cleans up.

“Well, three that you can see.”

He turns, eyes sliding over you. You’re awash in that warm feeling again, the one that is an anchor and not a weight. “You got more than three, honey?”

You just smile and make a show of looking over the work he’d done on your arm, ignoring his question.

Joel chuckles, “What else do you have?”

“If I told you I’d have to kill you.”

He laughs again and herds you out the back room when he’s finished cleaning up, keys jangling in his fist. “Shouldn’t I pay—”

“Nope. You’ll do that when it’s done. Should just need one more session.”

“Joel really—”

But you’re already out on the street, the door firmly closed behind you. You watch him lock up and then gesture you down the street with a jerk of his head. It’s dark outside, the sky still tinged with dark blue on the horizon. The road smells like heat and rain, like damp dust and lightning.

“You really ain’t gonna tell me what other tattoos you got?”

“You really ain’t gonna let me pay?” You ask, imitating the gruff cut of his voice.

He rolls his eyes. “Alright, fine.” He walks away, leading you down the street, light from the streetlamps cartwheeling over his face, throwing his jaw and eyes into sharp relief and then plunging him into shadow. “C’mon now. You need somethin’ in you.”

You’ve never ventured into the center of town after dark. You’re always at home long before that, curled on your balcony with something to read.

Cicadas light the air with sound, the crisscross of wired lights spear butter yellow onto the pavement below where a bar is serving drinks and a local food truck still idles.

Someone has set up a speaker that folks twirl each other around to, old country music, the good kind. Others park themselves on benches, chatting and eating. It’s nice.

It makes you feel incredibly lonely, reminded of all the gaps in your life, all the places people should be, all the places love and familiarity should be.

Before you can sink into that mire, Joel’s guiding you into line with a careful hand against your back.

His palm is broad and warm, heating you from the inside out. It rivals the warmth pulsing around you, the leftover heat of the day leaching into you.

“What d’ya want?”

“Shouldn’t I get you something?” You offer. “You worked all day, I just laid there.”

“I drew a nice picture,” he retorts. “You lost blood. Pick somethin’ sugary.”

“Bossy,” you comment, feeling alight with nerves as his fingers flex against your spine.

“Mhm, that’s what Sarah and Ellie are always sayin’.”

You glance at him—at the rough cut of his jaw, the thick tendon in his throat—and swallow, nerves pinching at your belly in a way you haven’t felt in a very long time. You press back, so his hand rests more firmly against your back and hope he doesn’t notice. If he does, he doesn’t say anything, just humors you by tracing his hand up and down your spine. “Maybe they’re onto something then.”

“Definitely are.” He glances back down at you, “Pick somethin’ yet?”

You look over the menu as the line inches forward, and pick something to drink. Something sugary, as Joel had demanded.

But when he orders he makes a show of not letting you pay and ordering something for you to eat too.

“You should after sittin’ for as long as you did,” he argues when you settle at one of the picnic tables. “You don’t gotta, just thought I’d offer it.”

You and Joel face each other, one leg on either side of the bench, knees brushing. With each tiny touch, lightning zings up your spine, settles in amongst your bones and blood. You have a feeling you could lie all the bones and blood and viscera of yourself right at Joel’s feet and he wouldn’t so much as flinch.

“Right,” you say, picking at one of the tacos he’d ordered. “I can see why you have such nice reviews on google if you’re taking your clients out on your dime after tattooing them.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re that,” he scoffs.

“Mm,” you nod, not sure exactly what he means by that. “What does that make me then?”

You glance up at him and Joel just stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “You really not gonna tell me about your other tattoos?” He ignores your question to go back to his own.

“Nope,” you take a sip of the lemonade you’d ordered. Despite what you said to Joel, you are exhausted, muscles still trembling in little starts, and the sugar does help. “But you can guess.”

You know he won’t try to guess. He’s too gentlemanly, too mindful of his manners to go around pointing at body parts and guessing if there might be something inked there.

Joel raises a brow, taking a bite of his own taco. “Are you using my manners against me?”

You shrug, smiling. “Maybe.”

“That ain’t playin’ fair,” he accuses, leaning in, the inside of his jean clad thigh brushing against the outside of yours. Your belly clenches, the center of you suddenly aching.

“Who said anything about fair?” You manage. “Do you have any hidden tattoos?”

He shakes his head and glances briefly up, like he’s asking for patience from the stars. But he doesn’t answer your question.

It makes you smile. “Fine, you can keep yours a secret. I won’t pry,” you tease.

“Mhm,” he grumbles again, ignoring your jibe. “You’re mighty brave tonight.”

And suddenly your teasing feels dangerous, falls flat against the stone shore of Joel. The air seems to go frosty, a shiver raking down your spine as you shuffle back a little, suddenly aware of how close you are, how very brave you’ve been. You aren’t sure when Joel started to feel familiar to you.

Since you first met him, you suppose. You’ve carved out a place on that rocky shore whether he wanted you to or not.

“Sorry,” you say, starting to stand, thinking of how annoying you must have been all evening, all day, every single day you’ve taken up his time. You let him comfort you, plied him with trauma you’ve barely touched yourself, let him buy you something to eat against your better judgment when clearly it’s his manners that made him do so. “Don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ll message Ellie to figure out the second session. Thanks for everything. You didn’t have to—”

“Your hip,” Joel says, curling his hand around your wrist so you can’t move any further away than you already have. You pause, your mind spinning as he clutches you gently.

His voice is steady, like you’re a spooked animal that might dart away at any moment.

“What?”

“I bet you one of your other tattoos is on your hip,” he drawls.

He squeezes your wrist again, now familiar and comforting. You fight the urge to pull your hand away, and instead let the feeling of his skin sink into yours, no cheap plastic gloves separating you now. You can properly feel the calluses on his fingertips, the catch of them against your skin, the soft center of his palm and the lines carved into his skin.

“No,” you lower yourself to the bench again, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “None on my hip.”

“How many other one’s you got?” His hand stays around yours.

“Two, not including my new one,” you say, laying a hand over the ink, your skin warm under your hand. “That’s my prettiest one, for sure. And it’s not even done.”

Joel ignores your compliment entirely, like he always seems to. His eyes rove over you, trying to guess the places you were inked, trying to picture it you would guess. It makes you squirm, the thought of him trying to imagine your bare skin, all the hidden places you might be tattooed.

He nods, his gaze heavy on you.

“I’ll just have to keep guessin’ then,” he says, taking a long sip from your cup of lemonade.

You glance away and bite the inside of your cheek. “You’ll be guessing a long time, I think.”

“I’ve got time.” He releases your arm when you start to squirm under his attention, chest burning, lungs compressed into too small a space. Your chest doesn’t seem large enough to contain the feelings beating to life in your heart. “So long as you keep comin’ by.”

A smile pulls at your mouth again, feeling unreasonably charmed. “Okay, fine, I’ll tell you what they are, but not where they are.”

“I ain’t askin’ you to,” he says, even as a smile tugs at the corners of his lips, mustache twitching, like this concession is the only thing he’s ever wanted for.

“One is a honeybee,” you answer. “The other is antlers.”

Joel goes still and doesn’t say anything for a moment. “A bee?” He asks, like he’s never heard of the creature before. “And…antlers. Like a deer?”

“Yeah, like a deer. With flowers and vines and moss all tangled around it.”

“Huh.”

“What? Don’t like deer?” You smile. “Funny isn't it? You’ve been drawing them a lot the past few months.”

He eyes you and then shakes his head, “Don’t like ‘em? Jesus Christ, no. I think I’m gettin’ to be real partial to deer.”

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

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

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blindmagdalena · 6 months

Text

The Cuckoo's Nest

18+ 6.3k siren!homelander x f!reader. dub/noncon, infidelity, mind/emotional manipulation, gaslighting, voice kink, masturbation, penetrative sex, fingering, blood, gore, cannibalism? creampie, stalking, minor character death, praise kink, good girl/pretty girl.

The gentle and pleasing voice of the cuckoo bird has made it a renowned herald of spring, and perhaps one of the most famous of songbirds. One would never guess merely by looking at it that it is a predatory parasite.

What you thought would be a dream job working for Vought as Homelander's very own secretary turns into a surreal waking nightmare as reality and dreams converge in a confusing mess. The only coherent thread that strings it all together is the alluring pull of Homelander's unnatural voice.

written for Monsterlander Mania. fair warning, this fic is fairly dark! thank you so much @anon-nee for this amazing banner art. 🖤

When you were hired as Homelander’s secretary, the gig had been pitched as a cushy desk job. Now that he’s the new face of Vought, and Ashley the company CEO, he needs someone who will keep his day to day affairs in order. Apparently, you’re just the person for that job.

“You probably won’t see much of him,” Ashley tells you distractedly. She rarely ever looks away from her phone for long.

“There are two landlines on your desk. The left one is for general business, and the one on the right, the red one, is exclusively for him. Don’t make calls on it. He has the number memorized, he’s the only one who’ll ever call it, so make sure you always answer it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you say diligently.

Glancing over, Ashley does a double take. “Aren’t you married? Where’s your ring?”

You falter, looking down at your hands. “Oh,” you say, taking said ring out of your pocket. “I put hand cream on earlier, I just forgot to put it back on.”

“Make sure you keep that on,” she says, giving you a critical look before returning her gaze to her phone. “He’s particular.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Nevertheless, you make sure to always keep your wedding ring on while you’re at work.

True to Ashley’s word, you see neither hide nor hair of Homelander during your first three days. You make his appointments, you take calls on his behalf, and you organize his bookings.

In your office, directly across from your desk, hangs a borderline comically oversized portrait of him that stares relentlessly at you as you work. You often find yourself staring back at it, the back of your neck prickling with the irrational feeling of being watched.

You know that it’s just in your head, but you can’t help but be put off by the feeling. Sometimes you consider covering the portrait, but the last thing you want is for the man to appear out of the blue and see a blanket thrown over his likeness.

Your instinct proves correct.

“Hey you,” comes a voice like silk. You startle, looking up from your desk to find a shock of red, white and blue standing in your doorway, his arms folded casually behind his back.

“Homelander,” you say, nearly choking on the name. “Sir, hello. I’m–”

“I know,” he interjects smoothly, cape swaying behind him as he passes the threshold, making his way over to your desk. That voice. He’s not even said five words to you yet, but it lingers in your ears like warm honey, causing a flush of warmth to roll through you. You convince yourself that you’re just embarrassed to have been caught so thoroughly off guard. “My new secretary. Sorry I couldn’t stop by sooner.”

“Oh, there’s no need to apologize, sir. I know better than most how–” you hesitate, watching as he takes a turn and begins walking directly towards you, circling behind your desk. “–busy you are,” you finish, looking up at him as he looms over you. You wonder if you should stand, but he’s so close to you now, you’d just knock right into him.

He smells good. Earthy and slightly sweet, like vetiver.

“That’s pretty,” he remarks, gesturing to your ring finger. “Sapphire, huh? Unusual choice.”

You swallow, trying desperately to reign in the cadence of your breath. Your heart is pattering as wildly as rain drops. “Thank you. My husband chose it, it’s his birthstone.”

To which Homelander giggles. It’s a delighted, slightly off-putting little noise. “P’wow, he gave you a ring with his birthstone, huh? Really staking his claim,” he says, reaching down to take your hand. He looks at you just before he makes contact. His eyes are even bluer than the stone in your ring. “May I?”

Dumbstruck, you nod, lifting your hand and placing it in his upturned palm. He sits on your desk and turns your hand this way and that, watching the way your ring catches the light. Eventually, his gaze slips back to yours. “Happily married?”

“Very,” you say immediately, your throat suddenly dry.

He smiles, and only then do you notice how unusually sharp his canines are.

“Good. Glad to hear it,” he says, giving your hand a gentle pat before he lets it go. You immediately drop your hand into your lap, touching your ring. You feel strangely lightheaded all of a sudden, unable to look away from his piercing gaze. Even when he isn’t speaking, you can still hear the warmth of his tone echoing all around you.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you,” he says, standing from your desk with preternatural elegance, as if he’d floated more than lifted himself.

“Please, the pleasure was all mine,” you say with a smile, somewhat dazed. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

He looks pleased as punch at that. “I’ll try not to be such a stranger, hmm?” he purrs, reaching out to give your shoulder a friendly squeeze. You feel the rumble of his voice roll all the way down your spine and into the core of you, leaving a light throb nestled between your thighs.

“I’d like that. Thank you, sir,” you say, your voice sounding dreamy and distant in your own ears.

Flashing that same toothy grin, he shoots you a wink before he turns face with a slight flourish of his cape, the fabric billowing in his wake as he takes his leave, disappearing down the hall.

The second he’s gone, it’s like the spell of his presence breaks and you come crashing back to yourself, eyes wide. A hot broil of shame rolls through you when you realize how aroused you are, that throb lingering. You’re equal parts shocked and disgusted with yourself, sickened by the hot prickle lingering on every inch of your skin.

Holy shit. What the fuck was that?

You wind up leaving an hour early, eager to be home. The shame makes you desperate to see your husband, as if touching him will erase the residual traces of the effect that Homelander had on your body.

It doesn’t. In fact, that feeling of being watched follows you all the way home, the feel of it becoming a specter haunting your house. When your husband seeks intimacy from you in your bed later that night, you push his hands away.

“Sorry,” you say softly, shaken. “Not tonight.”

Your body still remembers him too viscerally.

That night, you dream of songbirds.

Two days later, the right landline rings for the first time. You stare blankly at it, your stomach immediately twisting into knots. It rings, once, twice, nearly a third time before you hurriedly snatch it up off the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” comes Homelander’s familiar drawl. His voice falls over you like a wash of sunlight, warm and heavy. “Thought you might be ignoring me for a second there.”

“No, no, never. Sorry, sir,” you say, reaching for your water. You take a quick sip. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing too dire, just a little shuffling. Can you bump tomorrow’s 4pm to Thursday for me?” He asks, voice slipping around your throat like a noose. The press of it makes you slightly breathless.

“Of course,” you say, balancing the phone on your shoulder while you manipulate your tablet. “That’s no problem at all, done.”

“That’s my girl,” he says, the phone turning his voice into an intimate rumble in your ear.

You blink, feeling like your mouth is full of cotton. You can’t seem to form a response.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He asks, and you swear up and down you can hear a smile in his voice. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Was there anything else, sir?” You manage to blurt out, words leaving you in a clumsy spill. You’re breathing shallowly, mouth parched. You snatch up your water and take another quick sip. There’s a long pause on the line, the silence so deafening you think for a moment you must have missed something. “Sir?”

“Touch yourself.”

Your heart falls into your stomach, but that feeling is nothing compared to the unbidden liquid heat that those words erupt throughout your body.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says patiently. Amused, even. “Touch yourself. Take your hand–no, no, the left one,” he says in response to your right hand drifting down. You weren’t even aware you’d started moving. You swap the phone from your left hand to your right, and grab hold of your thigh with your left hand.

“I don’t understand,” you say, the words feeling as thick as molasses on your tongue. “Why are you–”

“That’s good. Now, move those pretty fingers in. Just like that,” he directs, and to your own distant horror, your hand moves, sliding between your legs and lifting up your skirt, your sparkling ring disappearing beneath it. You press your middle finger directly to your beating clit and let go a shuddering breath, massaging it through your panties.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Show me how you like it, mm? Bet your husband still doesn’t know the first fuckin’ thing about how to make you feel good. He ever watch you do this to yourself, ever bother to learn how you like to be touched?”

Disoriented, you shake your head. Your hips reflexively lift to meet the smooth figure-eights you rub yourself with. You’re sure you’d agree to anything he said so long as he keeps talking.

“Didn’t think so. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, sweetheart. I know exactly what you need.”

The heat of his voice envelops you, makes your whole body feel aflame. You’ve never been so sensitive in your life, already shuddering and squirming in your seat from the intensity of sensation building beneath your fingers.

“Slow down. There’s no rush. You’re as good as mine now.”

His voice is like velvet but his words sting, needling something inside you that squirms. You screw your eyes shut and shake your head more fervently. “No, no, m’not… I don’t…”

“Shhhhh,” he hushes, the hiss of it like a serpent in your ear. “Give it up for me, sweetheart.”

A whimper escapes your throat, the noise all but choked out of you. You can’t move, save for the increasingly frantic stroke of your fingers. His voice is a physical caress that slips down the line of your throat, between your breasts, slinking in serpentine patterns until it spills over your fingers and–

You gasp awake, staring wide-eyed at your blurry ceiling as wave after wave of pure euphoria crashes over you, stealing your capacity for breath. You ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm in a state of delirium, the shadows on your ceiling dancing like a voyeuristic crowd. You’re not sure if it takes seconds, minutes or hours to end, your perception of time distorted by the sheer intensity of sensation.

Looking to your side, panting, you see your husband sleeping soundly beside you. His snores are faint and peaceful. The curtains of your balcony door billow softly with the night’s breeze.

Your day comes back to you in a slow blur. The phone call was real, you’re sure of it… Aren’t you? Reaching for your phone, you hurriedly log into your Vought calendar and check the schedule. Sure enough, in your history, you can see that you bumped his next day R&D meeting to Thursday. That was real.

You wrack your brain for the details of your day, trying to piece together how you got from there to here, and whether or not any of Homelander’s voice cooing lewd commands in your ear was real.

It couldn’t have been.

The more the dream fades from your mind, the more you remember the rest of your day. You remember hanging up the phone, finishing your work day as per usual, and going home to your husband. Though it’s all something of a strange blur, the memories are there.

Even so, the dream somehow feels more real than any of it.

It’s 5am and you doubt you’ll be sleeping again. You get up early, shower, and make breakfast all before your husband even makes it to the kitchen. Your dreams and the haze of yesterday fade with the rising sun, as all dreams and memories often do.

You’re in the process of putting your dishes away when he walks in, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You got an early start today?” He asks, biting back a yawn.

It’s cute. He’s cute. You feel an irrational spike of guilt.

It was just a dream.

“Didn’t sleep well,” you admit, kissing him on the cheek. You wrinkle your nose. “Oof, morning breath,” you say playfully, but there’s an edge of truth to it. You can’t explain it, but there’s something off about the way your husband smells this morning.

Your mind drifts wistfully to the pleasant memory of sweet vetiver.

By the time you make it to work, your morning is nothing but a distant recollection at the peripheral of your consciousness.

Nonetheless, the sight of that bright red landline still makes you blush.

You don’t see Homelander again for another three days. At least, not at work. In reality, you’re more aware of him than you’ve ever been in your life. His face is everywhere, be it TV or billboards. You see him in the grocery store, the post office, and even the goddamn DMV. You never really noticed until now how inescapable Homelander truly is.

It’s no wonder he continues to appear in your dreams, too. You can’t seem to remember any of them very well, but you know without a doubt each time you wake that you were haunted by sapphire blue eyes and a voice as decadent as sin.

Sometimes you recall a gorgeous view of the city hundreds of feet in the air. Other times you recall a blue bed, but the thing you remember most is mirrors. You see yourself clearly in them. You see him with you.

All the while a budding friction between you and your husband continues to grow. You find yourself telling him more often to brush his teeth, shower, anything to combat this bizarre stink he’s taken on. Some days it’s so bad, you swear you smell rotting meat before you realize it’s him. Even the sound of his voice grates on you, both rough and shrill in a way that agitates you further and further into isolation in the house you once happily shared.

On that third day at work, you’re penciling in a meeting regarding a potential collaboration with Superplastic when a rhythmic knock at the door jostles you from focus. You look up to call them in, but Homelander is already striding inside, stealing the words right off the tip of your tongue.

“Goooood afternoon,” he drawls, the door falling shut behind him. For as much as you’ve continued to see and hear of him, you had forgotten how different he sounds in person, the force of his presence instantly a weight upon your body.

Your brain completely malfunctions. Night after night of erotic whispers suddenly crashes down upon you in visceral detail, how multiple times you woke to the throes of an orgasm with his voice still echoing in your ears. Humiliation and arousal flood you in equal measure, turning your skin hot.

Homelander smiles at you from the other side of your desk all the while.

“Cat got your tongue?” He asks slyly. The question hurdles you backwards in time to the moment you were seated in this exact spot with him whispering downright pornographic filth into your ear, coaxing you into touching yourself into a frenzy.

It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was a dream.

“Good afternoon, sir,” you finally manage to say, wincing internally at the sound of your own voice.

“Don’t be so formal,” he says, giving a dismissive little wave. “C’mon, call me Homelander,” he says, once again circling around behind your desk. Your eyes widen slightly, mouth bone dry when you try to swallow. He sweeps his cape out of the way before taking a leisurely seat on your desk. He lifts his brows, pinning you with an expectant stare. “Go on, try again.”

“Uh, good afternoon, Homelander,” you correct yourself. His proximity to you is making it hard to focus–there it is again, the scent of vetiver. He smells like summer grass warmed by the hot sun, and he has a gravitational pull to him that has you leaning subconsciously towards him.

His smile widens. “Much better.” His eyes narrow a touch, flickering down briefly before snapping back up to meet your gaze.

“So! How’s the office, everything nice and cozy?” He asks, one hand braced next to him on your desk, the other gesturing vaguely about. Before you can even answer, he points to your lap.

“Chair good? I know how important lumbar support is when you’re sitting all day.”

Discussing your lumbar support needs with Homelander certainly had not been on your bingo sheet.

“Uhm, yes, it’s–” Again, before you can get a real answer in, he’s sitting up and making sweeping motions with his hand.

“Let’s see, up, up, lemme take this bad boy for a spin,” he says, making your heart leap up into your throat when he catches you by your waist and effortlessly lifts you up out of your office chair, turning to set you on your feet. With a flourish of his cape, he drops down into your chair, legs spread wide.

You gawk momentarily, watching him spin side to side.

“Oop, there’s that lumbar,” he says, leaning back into it. He’s grinning at you all the while, the moment entirely surreal. You huff an incredulous little laugh, crossing your arms. He’s a little ridiculous, you realize, but personable.

Have you been the problem this whole time, turning him into something he’s not? You’re starting to lose yourself in your thoughts as you watch him.

“How about we test the suspension? C’mere,” he says, giving his thigh a pat. “Sit.”

You snap back to attention, your smile falling away. “Pardon?”

“Sit,” he says again, his smile a predatory curve of his lips. He pats his thigh again “Right here.”

You look down at his lap and then back up, your ears buzzing with the timbre of his voice. Logically, you know that what he’s just demanded is wildly inappropriate, yet the silken tone he said it in leaves you utterly agreeable. Slowly, you lower yourself into his lap, uncertain of why you wouldn’t abide by such a request.

“That’s my pretty girl,” he coos, bracketing your waist with his arms.

”That’s better, isn’t it?” He asks, his hands moving up and down your thighs. You shiver, a chill running down your spine despite the fervid heat of his body pressed along the back of yours.

A distant voice in the back of your mind whispers it wasn’t a dream, though you can barely hear it over the pounding of your own blood in your ears.

“Relax,” he murmurs, the word a warm huff on your neck.

Like a marionette whose strings have been cut, your body goes slack against him. Your heart continues to race even as a wave of calm sweeps through you, the two sensations frantically battling one another. Eventually, however, your pulse succumbs to the warmth seeping from him, and you begin to calm, soothed by the slow sweeps of his palms and the way he’s muttering sweet nothings into your ear.

“Good girl,” he breathes, the smile audible in his voice. “That’s it. Feels good, hmm?” His hands move more firmly on your thighs, closer to a massage.

You make a thin noise of pleasure, tipping your head back to rest on his shoulder.

“When I tell you… that I have been looking forward to this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck.

“But I had to be sure you were the one. Most people start to go insane after the first night, maybe the second, but not you.” His teeth, sharp as razors, delicately graze your throat. “You’ve been… perfect.”

“What’re you talking about?” You ask, feeling slightly slow and disoriented.

Homelander chuckles, the rumble of it moving from his chest through your back.

“My voice. It tears apart people's minds… But not yours. Why is that?” His lips are warm on your skin, trailing lower. He lifts a hand to pull your collar askew and kiss at the exposed crook of your neck.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, eyes flickering shut. His mouth feels incredible, the slight dampness that his lips leave behind making you especially sensitive to the air as he exposes you to it. It’s difficult to focus on anything other than the drag of his mouth.

You don’t even realize he’s unbuttoned your shirt and slipped it off of your shoulders until he’s kissing that newly revealed skin, nipping playfully at your bra strap.

“Here I was thinking you were just a pretty, tasty little thing… Turns out you’re so much more,” he purrs between kisses. A jolt of pain makes you gasp and then whimper, the sting of it soothed by the way his tongue drags over the spot afterwards.

It takes you a beat to comprehend that he’s just bitten the junction between your neck and shoulder, sunk his sharp teeth in so deep you smell the faint tang of blood.

“Turns out you were meant for me all along,” he says between slow drags of his tongue, lapping at your soft skin. He moans for the taste of it. “Watching you writhe in your bed, wanting me, touching yourself while your useless husband slept. I thought I was the one going fucking insane.”

Comprehension is a slow, creeping thing to your addled mind. “You were watching me. The dreams, you–”

“Whispered them into your ear while you slept,” he interjects, kissing at the shell of your ear. “You took to ‘em like gasoline takes to a spark,” he says, that voice of his wrapping around your body and limbs like a dozen slithery tendrils.

The touch of his voice is just as tangible as his hands sliding up your thighs, your stomach, cupping your breasts through your bra. You let out a shuddering moan.

“Every night, I was so sure you’d break. But you didn’t. You won’t.”

His confession brings back images in a flood, untangling dreams from memories. You remember a silhouette standing over you, you remember piercing red eyes glowing in the dark, and you remember the filth he spoke over you that made your body twist and sweat and come harder than you ever have.

All of it intertwines with this very moment, with his hands on you, his body against yours. It has you moaning, writhing back against him the same way you did in your bed beneath his gaze.

“Call your husband,” he tells you, hand slipping between your legs, hooking under your skirt.

“What?” You rasp, clutching at his wrists. You shiver at the hot slide of his tongue just behind your ear.

“Call your husband,” he repeats, thick gloved finger rubbing sparks between your thighs. “Tell him you’re coming home early. Tell him to wait for you in the bedroom.”

Leaning forward, Homelander snatches the left landline off the desk and pulls it into your lap, resting it atop his hand while he fingers you in slow, precise circles.

You pick up the receiver and dial unsteadily. It doesn’t sound like something you shouldn’t do. Even as it rings, you feel no dread or apprehension. Just the drive to obey the voice cradling your mind and body so very sweetly.

“Hi,” you exhale when he answers the phone, screwing your eyes shut. It takes everything in you just to focus on speaking.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m coming–” your breath catches as Homelander pushes your panties aside and breaches you with a single finger, sliding into your soaked pussy in one slow, continuous slide.

“I’m coming home early today,” you say, holding both the receiver and Homelander’s wrist in a white-knuckle grip. “Can you wait in the bedroom for me?”

He’s thoroughly confused, but all that does is frustrate you. His voice comes through ugly and nasally over the phone, grating through your nerves instantly. You feel the urge to yell at him, but the breath is stolen from your lungs by the sweet press of Homelander’s thick gloved finger crooking inside you, stroking exactly the right spot to make you see stars.

“Just–just do it, please? Wait in the bedroom, I’ll be–I’ll be home soon.”

You slam down the phone just in time, letting out a cry, lurching forward. The phone tumbles from your lap with a clatter and Homelander catches you with an arm across your chest, pinning you back against his chest.

“Good girl, that’s it. Give it up for me. Lemme feel that pretty pussy come,” he moans, grinding up against you, the sound of his finger pumping into you obscenely loud and wet.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Whet my appetite. Gimme something before it’s time to fucking eat.”

You come loudly, clenching your legs tightly around his hand. He stops just to feel you tighten and convulse through his glove, his lips and teeth and tongue all wreaking havoc at your throat.

“Fuck,” he sighs, followed by the low rumble of a chuckle. Your thighs shake as he pulls his hand away. You can smell the heady smell of your own slick when he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you from it, the sound lewd in your ear.

“You even taste pretty,” he hums, voice frayed like a growl. There’s an inhuman split to his voice, like there’s three of them layered over top of each other.

The whole world feels like it’s spinning. You have no center of gravity, just the sensation of movement as Homelander effortlessly maneuvers you up into his arms. Your head lolls against his chest, vision swimming.

Warm lips press sweetly to your forehead. “Rest up, pretty girl,” he murmurs. The words instantly make you drowsy. “I’ll wake you up when I’m done.”

The world slips into darkness. The last thing you’re aware of is the feeling of flying.

When you come back to consciousness, the darkness remains. You recognize your bedroom ceiling above you, familiar shadows dancing across it, beckoning you awake.

A dream…?

Your limbs are leaden, weighed down to the bed. You try desperately to untangle the fantastical from what is real, walking backwards through what you remember. Touch, smell, sound, and pleasure unlike anything you’ve ever known. You remember Homelander’s hands on you, in you, his body and voice all around you, the sound of–

Sound. What is that sound? It’s close to you, but you can’t move your head to see. It’s a series of wet, soft squelching noises akin to someone manipulating piles of drenched laundry. Then you hear a crunch like a tree branch snapping, and you start to recognize another sound; panting breaths followed by an erotic moan of pure indulgence.

You open your mouth to speak, but your throat is too tight, and nothing escapes it. As you come back to yourself more and more, you realize the bed beneath you is warm and wet.

You manage to force a noise from the back of your throat, a strained sound born of the effort to move. Next to you, something shifts.

“There’s my pretty girl,” coos Homelander’s familiar voice. Your heart crashes against your ribcage, the only part of you that can freely move expressing the shock of hearing his voice here in your bed.

“Shhhshhhh, no need for that,” he murmurs, moving into your line of sight, hovering over you. His face is spattered in something dark, but when he smiles his sharp teeth are white and bright, even in the dim moonlight of your bedroom. His voice soothes your frayed nerves almost instantly.

“Take a deep breath,” he says. You do so easily, as if you were never paralyzed. “Good. Perfect timing,” he tells you, his tongue sliding along his teeth, his lips, threads of saliva stretched between his teeth snapping. “I’m still plenty hungry for you.”

He kisses you, swinging his leg over to envelop your body with his. All at once you can move again, your bones no longer weighed down. You relax beneath the press of his lips and the weight of him, exhaling a breath through your nose.

“Kiss me,” he mumbles fervently. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him with everything you have, your lips sliding slickly against one another. He licks the taste of copper into your mouth.

Blood, a distant part of you realizes. Whatever horror you should feel is replaced by building excitement, his touch reigniting heat throughout your body. Like gasoline takes to a spark.

His lips move to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, trailing bloodied kisses down your throat. He has less patience for your clothes now than he did in your office, tearing your shirt and bra from your body with a feral noise. His hands are upon you instantly, spreading the blood on his hands down your chest, massaging your breasts until he works a needy moan out of you.

“Can’t believe I almost ate you, too,” he says with a smile. Before you can respond, he leans down to suck your nipple into his mouth, hands sliding lower. You gasp and push your hands into his hair, slicking it back with what sprayed into it. His mouth is inferno hot on your skin, goosebumps erupting over every inch of you. His tongue is a devilish thing, working your nipple in circles, but it’s the light pinch of his teeth that make your whole body lurch.

He makes quick work of your clothing from the waist down, too, stripping you until there’s nothing left between you and the blood soaked fabric of his suit. His hand disappears from you, and you hear a metallic click followed by the hiss of a zipper. He nudges your legs apart to settle properly between them, pulling off of your breast with a satisfied pop. He licks his lips of the blood he had spread to your breast, eyes wild and glowing faintly red.

“Let’s get rid of this while we’re at it,” he says, lifting your hand. He kisses the tip of your ring finger before taking it into his mouth, gaze flickering up to meet yours as he takes it all the way down past your knuckle, your ring disappearing past his lips. He catches the metal band with his teeth and drags it slowly off, sucking your finger clean of it. A chill runs down your spine at the crunch the metal gives as he effortlessly chews and swallows it.

You stare in numb, abject shock, but even that rapidly fades to the fires rolling through you.

Hands on your thighs, he easily pulls your ass into his lap. You look down to see his cock freed from his suit pants, thick and nicely curved. He bends over you, hitching your legs up over his shoulder, and you feel the flat curve of the bottom of his cock press against your cunt. He grins down at you, rocking his hips to grind through the slick mess he’s made of you.

“Let’s see if you feel as good as you taste,” he says, claiming your lips once more. He pulls his hips back, and you feel the head of his cock drooling precome as it slides over your clit, down to your soaked cunt. The dull stretch of it splitting you open burns, has you keening against his lips. He kisses you again and again and again.

“That’s it, baby. Open up for me. Lemme feel that perfect pussy,” he grits out, voice frayed at the edges like he’s finally beginning to lose that cocky composure of his. Even still, his voice retains that otherworldly aspect to it. He bottoms out with a low moan, hips flush to your body.

“Oh fffffuck,” he groans, cock throbbing against the velvety walls of your cunt. You can feel the pulse of him, even more so when you squeeze. It gives you an unexpected and intoxicating shot of power when doing that makes him gasp. “Perfect. My perfect fuckin’ match, fuck. I knew you would be, I knew you were made for me,” he babbles, bordering on incoherence as he starts to thrust, gripping your ass with one hand while the other goes to the headboard, slamming it against the wall with each snap of his hips.

“H-Homelander,” you moan, tangling both hands in his hair, dragging your nails harshly down his scalp, the back of his neck, throwing your head back against your pillow.

He gives your ass a sharp slap just to feel the way your cunt clenches with it, a growl rolling from his throat.

“Come with me,” he demands, instantly sending the pressure building in you into a soar. He moves faster, deeper, each slam punching out pitchy noises from you. Every drag of his cock feels like a spark inside you, like the strike of a match igniting stars in your peripheral vision. You come with a near scream, nails biting fruitlessly into Homelander’s skin.

He rides your orgasm fiercely, fucking you into the bloody mess of your bed until he, too, succumbs to the clench of your cunt. He lets out a guttural cry, the wood of your headboard snapping in his grasp as his release floods you, so hot that it nearly burns.

You’re both panting into each other's mouths, lips occasionally brushing. There’s a possessive growl to the edge of Homelander’s breaths, as if warning anything that might hear of the danger of approaching.

“You’re mine now, you understand?” He says lowly, his velveteen voice hoarse, almost animalistic. “My match, my mate, mine.”

Deliriously, you nod, mind still lost to the aftershocks of your climax, your pussy quivering around the girth of his cock. It’s not enough for Homelander, who gives another sharp thrust, knocking an overstimulated moan out of you. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” you gasp, meeting his gaze. His harsh expression softens at that, the crimson glow fading from his eyes, leaving only that familiar ocean blue in its wake. He kisses you leisurely, but with no less hunger. He lets your legs slip carefully from his shoulders, but remains buried deep inside you, staking his claim as thoroughly as possible. He kisses your neck, makes you wince when he sucks at the mark he bit into your skin.

“You got no idea how long I’ve been looking for you,” he mumbles, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You stroke your fingers through his hair, soaking in the feeling of his superhuman body thrumming against yours. You tighten your grip in his hair and lift his head, bringing his gaze up to meet yours. He looks curiously at you until that curiosity flips to surprise as you kiss him, earning a pleased little hum from him.

When you part, his surprise has melted away into something dazed and soft. Something like love, or maybe satiation. The two look so very similar.

Homelander kisses you a while longer before he nestles down against you.

Your head lolls to the side for the first time, and only then do you see the full scope of the horror resting next to you; bones jut out from the mess of viscera and meat, shredded clothing thick with blood and innards. It looks like the work of a rabid animal, something vicious and hungry.

You know instantly that the mess is all that remains of your former husband.

It occurs to you that you should feel a dozen different awful things about the pile of gore splayed out on your bed, but ultimately, the only thought that lingers is how he finally suits that rotten meat smell.

Looking back to the ceiling, you continue to comb your fingers through Homelander’s hair. His weight is a comfortable thing upon you, and beneath the smell of gore, you’re soothed by the gentle, warm scent of vetiver. Your eyelids grow heavy, and within minutes, you drift to sleep.

When you wake, there is no tang of blood heavy in the air. You sit up in a bed that is both alien and familiar. It isn’t until you see the mirrors around you that you realize that this is the bed from your dreams.

You feel warm, despite the early morning chill beyond the blankets. You feel a tug, and as you look down, Homelander pulls you back down into his arms.

“Mornin’, pretty girl.”

“Morning,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him. He hums pleasantly as you touch him, your hands roaming the naked scape of his body, testing that he’s real. You draw back, brows furrowed.

“Everything alright?” He asks, his voice as rich and creamy as ever.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, a touch uncertain. “Weird dreams.”

He smiles, bringing your hand up to kiss. “Well, you’re awake now.”

Somehow, you’re not so certain.

Regardless, you huff a little laugh and snuggle back into his arms.

“Love you,” you say, losing yourself to the familiar comfort of a partner in your arms, in your bed, in your heart. The longer you’re there, the more the dreams fade away, replaced with the reality of your waking world and the sweet smell of vetiver.

Homelander squeezes you to his chest, stroking idly up and down your back with his knuckles. You can hear the smile in his voice as he returns, “I love you, too.”

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #terato #monster x human #monster romance #monsterlander mania #my writing #Y'ALL THIS KNOCKED ME ON MY ASS LOL #dark fic

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b0nten · 5 months

Text

IT’S YOU AND ME AGAINST THE WORLD (THE CRUEL ONE I’VE DRAGGED YOU INTO)

[SYNOPSIS] ˚⁀➷｡ kakucho takes you to meet his family. or, the closest thing he has to one, besides the one made by you two.

[NOTES] ˚⁀➷｡ FIRST KAKUCHO FIC WOHOOOOO. timestamps may be a little off so yeah. sorry4dat. anon i hope you like it!

today is the day.

straightening your clothes with your palms, your eyes scan your body in the mirror.

“i thought i told you something casual was enough?” a shirtless figure emerges from down the hallway of the apartment, toned muscles flexing as he stretches.

“and i thought i told you you should ditch the blue and go natural, kaku.” you sarcastically answer, turning to him.

he’s got an amused expression painted across his face, eyes softly laid on you and mouth corners sewn into a delicate upward smile.

“so you really hate my aegean blue hair that much?” he jokes again, and, as if teleporting himself, emerges from nothing next to you.

“that’s not true, after all, this aegean blue is the one that charmed me the second time around, but your natural hair color is beautiful, and you know that!” by fake-punching his chest you earn a laugh, “i’ll dress casually when you stop dyeing your hair!”

“alright, alright,” he muses, “are you ready to go?”

“shouldn’t you get dressed first, princess?” you question back, stressing the second word and inspecting his ‘outfit’. “you look handsome like this, gotta give it to you, but i’d like ti think i’m the only woman that gets to see you like this.”

“shoot, you’re right.” he laughs as he grabs the neatly laid out shirt from a nearby chair, “what would i do without you?” he asks, awarding you with a forehead kiss.

“go to work half-naked, apparently..” you fake a disapproving head-shake and make way to the door. “i’m gonna wait in the car, try to not be late, please.” you warn, jingling his car keys in your right hand.

“yes ma’am.” kakucho fakes a military greeting rushing to the bathroom to brush his hair.

✣ ✣ ✣

looking at the high building in front of you, you let out a shaky breath.

“you ready?” kaku asks, blue hair shining in the hot summer sun.

in response, you only hum a weak ‘mhm’, accompanied by a slight nod. you ponder — are you really ready? — you know what kakucho does for a job, he’s a mafioso. not only that, but he’s the no. 3 of japan’s most feared crime syndicate. if every single one of his coworkers is as serious as your kaku is whenever he talks business on the phone (which happens very rarely, as he values his time at home and with you more than drug deals and murders) then you’re screwed, to put it lightly.

“hey, c’mon,” he looks at you, face contorting into a goofy grin, “you really don’t have to be nervous. they look scary but each one is dumber than the other, i promise you. you’ll like them, and they’ll like you.”

his reassuring words tug at your heartstrings a bit, and warm your worry-frozen heart just enough to get it to pump blood again. so, you take a deep breath and nod again, only this time, confidently.

“let’s do this.” with the corner of your eye, you see kakucho smile proudly, before stretching out his arm, allowing you to loop your’s through.

you enter the building: the lobby is cool and and feels so much better than the scorching heat of the outside. the decor is nice, it brings a certain richness to the place, with accents of gold and spanish oak and baroque elements here and there. it’s not flashy, and certainly not like any other japanese office tower interior you’ve seen before.

your heels smack against the macael marble as you allow yourself to admire the interior.

“ran redesigned this whole place when we bought it.” having observed you until now, kakucho chimes in with some fun facts.

“he really has the eye for art.” you add, and watch his eyes light up as he presses the elevator button.

“and he’s quite the snob too. god forbid we touch his montblanc pens or he goes apeshit.”

“oh, kaku…” you can only sigh as he bursts out laughing. “i really don’t know what to expect from you guys.”

he calms down his laughter before entering the lift, “and that’s just the beginning.”

the elevator ride is long, their offices being the second to last floor, which is not so bad as kakucho gets to tell you more about the guys.

“the pink mullet with the piercings is sanzu. he’s quite… eccentric, sometimes.. even uhm..” kaku swallows, uncertain if he should say more, but sure enough that this slip-up may cause you some fright.

“sometimes what, kakucho?” you urge him to continue his sentence.

“well, he can be scary or creepy sometimes. but just sometimes. other than that, he’s a dumbass.” your boyfriend scratches the back of his head, almost relieved. “he’s also no. 2.

as you know, I, your handsome boyfriend is no. 3, while the advisor is takeomi, sanzu’s brother. he really likes trench coats for some reason, so he’ll probably be wearing one today. he’s got a long scar on the right side of his face. oh, yeah, and sanzu also has two scars at the corners of his lips.”

“two down, five more to go, including montblanc guy.” you comment, leaving kakucho somewhat surprised.

“ye— wait, how do you know?” confused, his head darts in your direction.

“by paying attention to your phone calls, during conversations and doing some simple maths.” you reply, sarcastically.

“oh, my beloved einstein.” he kisses the crown of your head gently, “yeah, we have montblanc guy, ran, and his younger brother rindou. ran has short hair, black and pink and rindou also has a mullet, blue and purple. and they both have the tattoo on their necks.

then there’s mochi. well behaved guy, but his beard almost makes him look like an npc or the daiso version of a pimp. he’s the guy with the jumbo dumplings i told you about!”

“oh, that’s mochi! good to know, good to know!” you reply, just as excited as he is.

“and last but not least we have koko. he’s got really long blonde hair and a… unique hairstyle. his tattoo is on his head.

i think that makes them all.”

“are you not forgetting someone?” you quirk up a brow and kakucho mimics you. “maybe… that mikey guy? your leader?” you finally ask, long pauses between each word.

“it’ll be easy for you to see which one’s mikey once he enters the room. but don’t be fooled! he’s tougher than he looks.”

you nod and run through the information one last time before the elevator light pings and the door opens. you step onto a soft carpet, kakucho right next to you, eager to explain more about his workplace.

“we each have our own offices but usually meet in the conference room, where we do most of the work. for separate tasks we use our own spaces, tho. mine is… right here!” the turns left and points to a black door. it’s not hard to see it’s his thanks to the nameplate.

“across from mine is sanzu’s and the one behind us is mikey’s. over here is akashi takeomi, just beside the elevator is mochi, across from his is the conference room, and then there’s kokonoi’s, and the haitanis’ offices towards the end of the hall.”

you would’ve liked to see how the offices looked, being sure kakucho’s was just as neat as he keeps the one at home, interested in the older haitani’s the most, to be frank. you could’ve bet money he also took charge of the floor’s design, this time more simple and elegant than the ground one. muted colors, different textures and simple paintings; the guy really seems to know what he’s doing, maybe he should ditch organized crime and do interior design.

“let’s get this over with.” you turn over to kakucho, who’s just looking around, as if it’s also his first time visiting the place. when he hears you, he smiles, and takes small steps toward the conference room, hand still looped through yours.

you un-loop your arm from his, resting it on his shoulder as he opens the door. he enters, aegean fringe bouncing with every small step. you come in just behind him.

analyzing the room, you really can’t believe these are japan’s most feared:

ran is filing his nails. next to him, legs propped up on the table, is his brother, playing a video game on his phone, occasionally hissing as his eyebrows twitch in frustration.

across from them is sanzu, pink mullet covered by a long white towel, dripping on the wool carpet. just beside him is his older brother, takeomi, wearing a tan trench-coat. he’s reading — you rub your eyes to be sure you’re seeing everything exactly as it is — a guide to becoming a multi-millionaire through bitcoin.

mochi is doing paperwork, and koko — god have fucking mercy on their souls — is reading the same book as takeomi.

“can you close the fucking— ” the younger haitani bangs his fists against the table in a fit of rage, freezing completely when he sees you. “oh my god, it’s the lady whose picture he keeps on his desk! KOKO GIVE ME MY FUCKING MONEY YOU MOTHERFUCKER HE HAS AN ACTUAL FUCKING GIRLFRIEND!” he grabs his hair while pushing past every chair to get to the mentioned, disturbing ran in the process.

“rindou, try to look whenever you’re running around like a wild boar, i hurt my nail when you pushed me!” his brother accuses, but rindou is long gone.

when he gets to koko, he’s met with a book in his face.

“i’m not giving you jackshit, bitch!”

“come on man, you can’t go back now! we had a bet!” he whines and pleads, but koko is nowhere near turning his decision around.

all of a sudden, rindou kicks koko’s chair, sending him flying into mochi.

the bearded man looks up from his papers distraught, an evil look in his eyes.

“do you even know how long it took me to convince this corn company to deliver corn directly to my house?” he asks, and both shake their heads no. “do you have any idea how long it took me to write this goddamn ‘thank you’ letter?” he asks again, and they both shake their heads again. “THEN ARE YOU TWO GOING TO WRITE IT AGAIN FOR ME BECAUSE YOU JUST MADE ME THROW AWAY A MONTH’S WORTH OF CALLIGRAPHY CLASSES?” this time, they nod.

from the left, sanzu groans.

“CAN YOU FUCKERS STOP SCREAMING? MY HEADACHE IS GETTING WORSE.” he roars, ripping the towel off his face, ready to jump out of his chair. thankfully, takeomi holds him back.

“i think you should all calm down. this is no way to greet the lady.” he says as he closes his book and stands up, bowing to you from afar. “akashi takeomi, bonten’s advisor. nice to meet you.” he says, smiling slightly.

“thank you takeomi.” kakucho starts “this is y/n, my girlfriend, just like rindou has correctly observed.” he shoots the man a judging look, “we’ve been dating for a little shy of, what? nine years now?” he looks at you and smiles, and you give an approving note, signaling he has gotten the time right, “she wanted to meet you all, so i brought her here.”

he steps forward, stretching out his hand toward you. you take it and follow him, nearing the guys on the left side.

“y/n f/l. nice to meet you, everyone. i hope we can get along well. i heard lots about you.” you take your turn and bow, looking at every single one of the guys as you speak.

every one of them continues with the introduction, except for takeomi, since he had already done it while lecturing the guys.

kakucho pulls a chair out from under the table and gestures you to sit. he sits down next to you and surprisingly, the boys are all eager to talk as soon as they get the possibility to.

rindou and koko apologize for their behavior and you just shrug it off with a laugh, reassuring them smilingly that it was funny. you compliment ran’s interior design skills to which he seems very grateful and laugh with mochi, hinting that you know about the jumbo dumpling incident. sanzu compliments your ear piercing setup and asks you about some more jewelry and you offer to go with him shopping sometime, and bond with takeomi over your shared interest of the sengoku period, finding out that he shares the same birthday with his idol, samurai akechi mitsuhide.

everything is going smoothly, when all of a sudden, the door flies open, every one of the executives jumping up in an instant, with you closely behind. when they bow, you do the same, although you didn’t get to see who came in.

when you all pull your heads up again, the short blonde who has entered looks at you puzzled.

“who are you?” he tilts his head to the left, analyzing you carefully.

“mikey, this is y/n, my girlfriend. i brought her to meet everyone!” kakucho explains instantly, and watches him approach you.

“you… you’re the one … that makes those cute bento boxes for kakucho?” he asks, serious look plastered on his face.

unable to control your excitement for your work being recognized, you beam up, hands clasping each other happily: “yes! that’s me!”

as if he wasn’t the ruthless leader he is, mikey’s eyes widen with the childish love for food he’s had forever.

“do you think��,” he starts off shy, unusual for him, “but only if you have the time, do you think you could also make one for me?” the head of bonten inquires, eagerly awaiting your response.

ever so flattered, you smile so hard you can barely see anymore, screeching out in a delighted tone.

“of course!” you’re amped, ready to cook fifty bento boxes because of how happy you are, “do you have any allergies or themes you like?”

as if having been offered a million dollars, mikey answers you enthusiastically, “i don’t like spicy food, and… i like omurice, and if you could add a mini- flag on top, please…” he says, hands meeting behind his back.

“of course!” you affirm, high on the rush of dopamine and continue asking mikey about how he’d like his bento boxes. he himself feels like a kid in a candy store.

the rest of the guys are left dumbfounded, kakucho’s mouth having hit the floor long time ago already.

he picks it back up when mikey interrupts his own conversation.

“i’m sorry to cut it short, y/n-san, but we should start the meeting. we can discuss after it more, if you want!” he apologizes, subliminally saying he wants to talk about these upcoming bentos more with you.

“that’s alright, and of course!” you smile again, “kaku, i’m heading to your office!” and turn around to face your red-faced boyfriend.

“of course, i’ll see you there after we’re done.” he smiles, nodding, assuringly.

“kakucho, does she know where your office is? are you not gonna walk her?” mikey intervenes and before kaku can say anything else, he offers himself to guide you to your lover’s workroom.

“take your places, guys, we’ll start when i come back.” the blonde orders, closing the door behind him.

“looks like boss is gonna steal your girl, kaku.” sanzu teases his subordinate, while ran makes kissy noises and coos ‘kaku’ in the background.

“wait…” rindou interrupts abruptly, “you said you have been dating for nine years? that means.. koko! do the math, please!” he orders.

“you’ve been keeping her secret ever since kanto manji!” the blonde gasps in shock.

“you bastard! you kept her hidden through that— ” mochi is just as angry.

“and tenjiku too?!” kokonoi, having redone his math, is in utter disbelief.

kakucho tries to drown out the sound of the guys accusing him of treachery, thinking about the end of the meeting and heading straight for his office to get you home and spend his time with you, alone.

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