#but the trauma of being a mother / the trauma of being a daughter got to me first | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

softlyspector · 9 months

Text

Decaf

Summary: After your first tattoo session with Joel, you can't stop thinking about him or, his touch. And it terrifies you.

Read Honeyed first where: You put aside your touch aversion for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~10.1k

Warnings: a smidgen of angst for fun 😌 then comfort, slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, the 'believes they're hard to love, loving them is like breathing' trope, reader has issues with touch and is mostly touch adverse (joel's workin' on that though), tattoos and getting tattooed (the process isn't really described), description of a past abusive relationship and a bad experience getting tattooed, undefined unresolved previous trauma, insecurity, anxiety, loneliness, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this

A/N: This is dedicated to all of you who are also touch adverse. I hope you like this part as much as the first, and feel seen and heard. I love you and thank you for being so kind and open with your love and your own experiences. May you find the patience and love you deserve in your own Joel.

Once again, we’re ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. Editing this was a labor, so if there are any mistakes blame my tired eyes. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

Joel doesn’t want to walk you home, though he figures he should.

It’s the polite thing to do. The kind of thing his mother and grandmother raised him to do.

And it's got nothing at all to do with prolonging this very long day with you. No, nothing so self serving and selfish as that.

His little doe he’d lured so close, still so out of reach with hidden tattoos not on her hip. It’s scary, the want that wells up in him, the desire to see you step that much closer to him, until you feel safe enough to nestle in his shadow.

If you were the deer, he should be the tree, the shade, the haven.

Rage, incandescent and warm and comforting in its familiarity, wells up in his chest again when your earlier admission plays through his mind.

Nothing brings his anger, quick and deadly, like those he cares for being harmed. Rarely did he see cause for it to break the surface—not since Sarah was born and he had a better example to set, not since Tommy calmed down and stopped getting in so many fights.

This, though, with you—the thought of you being harmed, brings it all rushing back. He hopes to never lay eyes on your ex, for everyone’s sake.

I had bruises for a couple weeks after, you’d said. It hurt. He wanted it to hurt.

Those words had stung on their own, but then you’d continued.

I think he wanted to brand me. He wanted to leave a piece of himself on me, whether I wanted it or not.

It grates on him, that anyone could hurt you that way, that anyone would even think of it, and get away with it.

You’re happily finishing the last bite of the quartet of tacos he’d gotten you, unaware of the turmoil that drags taunting claws into the fleshy parts of his chest.

You nod along to the Cash song still playing over the outdoor speakers, though now at a much lower volume as the night wanes later, a content expression on your face.

He likes watching you eat, likes it even better knowing you’re eating something he got you. It satisfies something weirdly primal in him.

The side of your leg is still pressed to his, warm and pliant even through two layers of denim. The buzzing flaxen glow of the sting lights halo over your head; it casts your face in shadow, the long feathers of your lashes spiking down your cheeks.

You seem more relaxed now. The tension in your shoulders has loosened, the crease between your furrowed brows gone as you ball up the used napkins and toss them into the little paper boat the tacos had been on.

He refuses the last few sips of lemonade, and so you drink the rest instead.

“Well,” you say, your voice a little sheepish and shy, that soft round look coming back into your eyes. He imagines you with the twitching, sensitive ears of a doe, poking through your hair, alert and suddenly wary of the extended hand you’d been so trusting of minutes before. “I should probably let you go. It’s late.”

You say it like you think you’ve been keeping him there, taking up his time that he’s eager to get back.

But you haven’t, and he isn’t ready to let you go.

“I’ll walk ya home.”

“It’s alright,” you say dismissively, gathering the trash and standing before he can do it for you. “I’m only a couple of blocks over,” you say over your shoulder as you walk away.

“I’d feel better if you let me,” he admits, following close behind you.

You toss the trash and then turn back to him, nervously running your palms along your thighs, eyes flicking over him. “This is a safe little town, you know,” you reassure him. “Like, I’m pretty sure my neighbors don’t even lock their door.”

Joel blinks. “But you lock your door, don’t ya?”

An inexplicable smile pulls your mouth up at the corners. “Yeah, Joel, I lock my door.”

“Good,” he says gruffly, shoving down the protective feeling that had been rising in his chest. It’s an insane feeling, one that sets something he thought long dead on fire within him.

You just watch him for a moment, knowing eyes sliding over him. “Well,” you relent and jerk your head toward one of the side streets. “I’m this way, if you’re sure you have time.”

Like time had anything to do with it.

He gestures you ahead of him, his eyes falling down the curve of your spine, the shape of your hips and thighs. He’s still trying hard not to think about the bumblebee and the antlers tattooed somewhere on your body, all the parts of you he hasn’t seen.

He’s trying hard not to think about a lot of things.

Like how your skin felt under his hand, dewy and warm. How he’d spent most of the day with his hand covering yours, the hummingbird beat of your pulse against his fingertips.

He’s trying not to think about how good you smelled that close, raw and unfiltered, how irritated he had been when the sharp smell of disinfectant had chased it away.

You carried the smell of summer with you wherever you went, like sunshine and coffee, iced sugar and coconut.

He walks with you through the navy darkness in silence, the flash of amber street light the only thing illuminating your way. It feels nice. He feels like the rest of the world has turned its face away, that it's only you and him and the ghostly eyes of the white glow of the moon peeking through the quickly dissipating clouds.

The Texas dry heat would be back with a vengeance in the morning, but for now the street is pleasantly humid. The air still smells like petrichor, like damp concrete. He should savor it. Tomorrow, the blindingly hot smell of asphalt and dust will return and chase this moment in the dark with you away.

You seem almost better suited to the dark, to the quiet smooth pleasantness of it, like your fear can’t reach you there if it can’t see you, if you can’t see it. Like a prey animal that only ventured into the safety of night.

So he lets the silence last, because it's comfortable, and he’s never been one to fill silence with unnecessary chatter anyhow.

He can’t remember the last time he did something like this, felt the brush of someone else’s fingers through the dark and the accompanying zing it sent up his arm. He forgot how amplified everything could feel, especially in the low light.

The walk to your apartment is short.

You only live a few blocks from the center of town, and only a few streets over from the studio. He imagines you walking this path each day with the intention of coming to see him, with the intention to walk by the studio, even before you knew him—in the sun, all summer.

You live above the town’s sole bookshop. It’s cute, like the rest of the town is. It’s unbelievable how idyllic the town is, like it’s cut straight from the pages of a romance novel, or one of those shitty Hallmark movies.

He stands just outside the circle of the security light that blinks on over the door. You fiddle with the lock for a solid minute, jiggling the knob just so and then twisting the key in a pattern that you seem to know well, until it finally yields and opens.

Joel clears his throat. “Y’need someone to look at that?”

You don’t seem to hear the question mark tagged onto the end of the question, or to realize that he’s offering to fix it. “Yeah, I know,” you roll your eyes. “I’ve asked my landlord to look at it a couple of times already but they haven’t gotten around to it—”

“I can take a look for you sometime,” he clarifies. “It won’t take but a minute—”

“That’s alright, Joel,” you interrupt quickly and dip your head, embarrassed suddenly. “I’ve let you do way too much for me today. Everyday.” Before he can contradict you—because he isn’t sure what the hell you feel he’s done for you, you step back through the door and hover there in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.

The security light casts your face in harsh shadows, the dark stairwell behind you reaching black claws out to hook around your frame.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. You just linger there, fidgeting with your keys, looking for all the world like you have something you want to say to him, like you don’t want him to go either.

Joel watches you, waiting for you to say something, to be the one to sever the connection between you and say goodnight. His chest feels tight as he waits for you to decide, waits for you to decide his shade was a place you could be safe.

Besides, he’s still trying to figure how to say goodbye to you, still trying to figure how he’s supposed to pry apart the sticky want that thrums against his skin. Still trying to figure out what exactly had gotten into him, what had gotten into him in the weeks and months you’d started coming by.

He supposes it's just been a long time. He supposes he’s just out of practice at having feelings for someone.

It’s been just him and his girls and his brother for so long.

He must take too long trying to figure things out because you smile at him and glance away, your expression apprehensive and unsure. “You will let me get you back for the tacos someday,” you warn softly. “‘Night.”

Then you shut the door. He hears you bang up the steps, your footfalls fading until he can’t hear them anymore. The security light flickers out and he’s plunged into semi-darkness, but he doesn’t move until a light finally comes on in one of the upstairs windows a few minutes later, the silhouette of your body outlined behind a sheer curtain.

It’s only then that he turns away and walks back the way he’d come. He smiles to himself and then feels stupid about it.

He’s too old, he thinks again, for his chest to be twinging the way it is, to be smiling in the dark, and missing someone he just left.

He’d see you tomorrow, anyway.

Just as he always did.

Just like you always do.

Joel is distracted the day after your appointment.

Your scent lingers in the air of the studio. He mistakes every shadow that passes the front window for you. The image of you under the soft light in the center of town is imprinted behind his eyes. The way you’d smiled, the feel of your skin under his fingers—soft and damp in the humid air that had ballooned after the day’s rain, consumes his every thought, has his eyes shifting to the front window every few seconds. His back gives an unpleasant spasm from how quickly he turns at even the slightest noise, always thinking it's you finally pushing the door open.

But he sees more than your shadow and the ghost of your silhouette in the window.

Joel sees all the imagined, soft skin under your clothes where an antler tattoo is hidden. Untouched, unexplored skin that he would very much like the chance to explore and touch, if ever you gave him the chance, if you ever wandered that close.

It’s a fine idea.

That you’d come into the studio and lean against the counter and watch him work on a design for someone that isn’t nearly as important as you are.

But, the day wears on, and you never show up.

The day after Joel tattooed you and bought you sugary lemonade and tacos under golden light that you etched divine, you don’t stop in.

You don’t even walk by.

It isn’t unusual for you to go a few days between visits to the studio. He tells himself that it’s normal, fine, that you have a job and a life and that sometimes you don’t get the chance to come by. He tries not to worry about it.

On the second day, with your image still fluttering behind his eyes, the weight of your gaze still heavy on his skin, he starts sketching another design for you. It distracts him, at least, because you don’t come in on the second day, either.

You don’t come in the day after that either, or the day after that. His girls stop by for dinner on Friday evening, and Ellie crashes on his couch for the night to help out in the shop the next day. All that Saturday, all he can think about is you, pushing the door open slowly, pausing in the entryway like you always do with watchful eyes, skin shimmering with sweat from the sun and heat, cups of coffee in hand, one for you and one for him, just like always.

He imagines you smiling at him, your shoulders loosening when your doe eyes land on him, the uncertainty and trepidation melting away because it’s him. Because it’s just him. It’s just the two of you.

But the image, the fantasy, never comes to fruition.

Ellie snaps at him around noon to stop being so fucking weird, dude.

Sundays—the shop is closed, so he doesn’t see you then.

By Monday, five days after he tattooed you and walked you home in the dark, as the sun sets on a ragingly warm evening, Joel is convinced that you aren’t going to come by the studio anymore.

He keeps working on your new design.

Then, a whole week goes by, and then another, and you still don’t drop by, you don’t even walk by, though he catches a few glimpses of you down the road—in front of the boutique, the coffee shop, the record store a few doors down. He sees you at the farmer’s market that pops up every Saturday in the town’s center.

He dreams of you, dreams of the willowy, softly plush curves of your body. Joel dreams of you at home with him, in his bed. He dreams of pushing your shirt up, palming every delicate part of you, tracing his fingers over your hidden tattoos.

He always jolts awake when the dream version of you pushes him back and kisses him hard, his hands cupped around you, your thighs, your breasts, the dip of your waist and belly.

It’s distracting, the ghost of you everywhere he looks. He can’t even bring himself to take your painting down from the front window. The doe you don’t see yourself in.

Adjusting to your absence is hard. He hadn’t realized you’d wormed your way into his daily life so firmly, like an invasive species the environment grows around, and turns when it's taken away.

In one particularly low moment two weeks on, he takes a stroll a few blocks over, worried that something might have happened to you, that something might be keeping you away. He sees you inside the bookstore you live above, newly purchased novel in hand, feet curled beneath you on a sofa in the window.

You seem fine, though an inexplicable twinge of jealousy plucks at his heart. He never thought that you might hang around the other shops like you did with his.

And you never come by.

You don’t owe him anything, certainly not your company.

He resigns himself to not seeing you until your second session, when he’ll finish your tattoo and probably never see you again.

Joel scares you.

His hand lying over yours all day; his offer to fix your door; the way he looked at you intense and heavy and waiting, wanting—it all terrifies you.

The words to invite him up for something to drink had sat heavy in your mouth before you changed your mind and left him where he stood. You’d bothered him enough, taken up enough of his time.

You aren’t sure what southern manners had led him to take you to get tacos and lemonade but surely he’s had enough of you.

I’ve let you do way too much for me, you’d said. And he hadn’t disagreed.

Instead, you lurch up the stairs, let yourself into your apartment and stand breathing hard in the dark entryway, back against the door. Your forearm aches just a little, but in the pleasant way it always does after getting tattooed, instead of in the painful, raw way the one from your ex had.

The familiar itch below your skin that had started with Joel’s art is now overwhelming, because you know what the shape of his hand feels like. You know the precise weight of his palm over the back of your hand, and against the column of your spine. You can’t forget how his jean clad thigh felt against yours, how nice the brush of his fingers had been through the dark.

His voice was so low and graveled when it brushed against your skin, it tingled through your whole body, down to your toes, to the pit of your belly. It was low and intimate and felt like everything he said was just for you, like it had brushed against every tiny hair on your body.

I’m not markin’ you, because it's not mine. It’s yours. It’s for you.

They were words for you, special for you, reassuring to you, spoken so kindly and in defense of you against someone he would never meet, over something that was not his fault and that he hadn’t been around yet to prevent.

There’s a kinetic energy under your skin that burns, like pages of your story with him are already set aflame. Don’t burn this bridge, you think and lean hard back into the door. You close your eyes and tangle your fingers together, squeezing so tight it hurts, until you pinch your skin. Please don’t let me burn this bridge.

You like Joel, more than you have any right to. He feels safe and sure and solid; he’s kind. He scares you, but in a way that makes you want to claw your way through the dark back to him, to see if he’ll touch you again, speak low and kind just for you, work on art made just for you.

When you finally catch your breath, you flip on the lights and toss your keys down as you cross your small apartment. You scrub a hand over your face and take a deep breath from between your fingers.

A moment later, you pluck up the courage to glance out the window, just in time to catch Joel’s broad shoulders turn the corner in the distance back onto Main Street.

Something in your chest pangs, the strings of your heart pull tight and hard up against your lungs until your throat closes.

The feelings he planted in your chest, nestled among your ribs and wove between your veins, seem unfair. It seems horribly unfair, harsh even, that you should be left with the tips of your fingers smoldering, hesitantly reaching out for more.

He’s left a sea inside you, a lonely dark hole. You knew it was there, that black, open emptiness. You’d felt it all your life, but now you know what it feels like when someone sees it, shrugs, and asks to be a part of it. You know what it's like, now, to have someone stand, patient and still on the shore.

He’s left you wanting, craving something that you’ve feared for so long, that always felt wrong. And when your skin started to go tight and your muscles contracted and pulled, he’d somehow known, heard the pain buried away, and released you.

You can still feel the ghost of his knuckles brushing against your wrist on the dark walk to your apartment. You can feel his thigh against yours while you ate tacos together and listened to the folks of your small town laugh and dance to old country music. You can feel his palm cupped around your wrist, dwarfing your hand beneath his.

You can still feel his calloused fingertips, catching at your palm and the inside of your wrist.

He makes you feel safe and seen, like it’s okay that you lingered in his studio for weeks, bothered him endlessly, without any guarantee that you might one day schedule an appointment and actually get tattooed.

You thought the wantneedpull would subside after finally starting the tattoo but its only gown. The pain you waited for, the urge to flee from your own body never came with him. You want him closer, want the warm rough press of his palm against yours. You just want—you’ve never really wanted anyone closer but you want him closer.

You want Joel so close that nothing else bleeds through. You want to melt into the palms that cupped you so gently, so carefully.

You want to become carefully molded wax in his capable hands.

Inexplicably, for the first time in so long, you want someone to touch you. You want to feel Joel’s hands everywhere, anywhere he could reach and even all the places he couldn’t.

And it terrifies you.

You mean to go back to your normal routine, but the first morning you try to stop by the studio, you can’t make your feet carry you there. You pause halfway between the coffeeshop and the studio, Joel’s usual order clutched in your hand.

The gnawing, empty, raw hole inside you has only grown. You look at your pretty tattoo and think of the gently rough hands that had created it, the furrow between his brows while he worked, the scar over his nose, the strong, broad slope of his shoulders, and you feel anxious.

You want it so badly, and yet—

He’s just your tattoo artist. He probably only put up with you hanging around his shop everyday, bringing him coffee, talking his ear off, because there was the promise of money, the promise of work.

You’d just done the stupid thing and gotten attached to him, to the studio, to your fucking tattoo artist. You are just a client and you long to melt into him. You long to press yourself against him, feel the crush of his body against yours.

That want makes you wary, phantom pain, phantom aversion crawling beneath your skin right after.

It makes your head spin, it makes you feel crazy, that you can’t even decide what you feel, what you want.

It’s better if you stay away, give yourself time to forget the itch, forget the feel of his hands, so you turn away and circle the block, back to your apartment where you set the cups on your kitchen counter and take a deep breath.

Your chest is tight, your mind a snarl of half formed thoughts.

Tomorrow, you think, will be better.

But it’s not.

Each day you think about going over, and you don’t. You feel wound tight, like clockwork left to rust. You dream of Joel, his hands everywhere and nowhere, the warmth of him like a ghost you can’t shake off.

The feelings you try to avoid, the desert dryness of need and emptiness that the loss of his touch inspired, doesn’t go away. It gets worse; it outweighs the fear, the aversion.

You only dare to go as close as the record store, checking he was still there, like the whole place would suddenly disappear if you stopped going by, like a witch’s cottage after a botched, half-worked spell.

You feel cursed, like soot, like a monster waiting to steal the soul of the light.

You’re burning your bridge and you don’t know how to stop.

Joel is still there, where he’s always been. His art is still there, though you’re so far away now, you can’t see it clearly anymore.

But you notice among the still ever rotating collection of art and pictures in the window, one always remains.

You know without seeing it that it's the painting of the doe looking over her shoulder, bees flocking like long forgotten gods around her ears.

Ellie and Sarah ask about you on the third Friday that goes by without you stopping in.

The temperature has cooled off a little, the warmth of summer receding just the tiniest bit. The kitchen table is laden with chinese takeout boxes, rice already spilled across one of the placemats.

“You haven’t been talkin’ about her so much,” Sarah notes curiously.

“Yeah, and you’ve been way more cranky than usual,” Ellie adds.

“Ain’t had cause to see her,” he deflects, reaching for the yet un-spilled carton of rice. “Hasn’t been in the studio since her first session.”

The kitchen suddenly falls silent, the clatter of cutlery deadened as it’s set on the table. “What do you mean?” Sarah, he thinks, sounds mildly offended on his behalf.

“Just what I said,” he grumbles.

He doesn’t need to look up from his plate to know Sarah and Ellie are exchanging a look. “Why not?” Sarah ventures to ask, her tone calmer.

Joel shrugs and finally looks up at his kids. Sarah’s head is tilted to the side ever so slightly and Ellie’s brow is furrowed. “Busy, maybe,” he explains. “Got better things to do.”

“Bullshit!” Ellie explodes suddenly. “What happened? Did you do something stupid?”

He sighs hard through his nose and shovels orange chicken onto his plate with more force than necessary. “No.” Then he reconsiders, goes over every moment of that day again in his mind. How much he touched you, selfishly, when he knew you were adverse to it. “I don’t know. Could be she was only around this summer to see if we’d make a good fit.”

There’s another beat of silence before both girls are arguing with him. He lets them go on protesting it for a few minutes before he waves them down. “She’s got a lot goin’ on that you two don’t know. Somethin’ might’ve spooked her that I didn’t realize.”

“Like what?”

Your ex-boyfriend and your badly healed tattoo flashes through his mind. The bruises you said you’d had for weeks afterward, how badly it had hurt. The way he’d held onto you all that day.

Guilt pools in his chest, floods his lungs.

He doesn’t know what might have spooked you.

Just hopes it wasn’t him.

“Well, have you tried to talk to her?”

Sarah peers at him with wide eyes, fingers delicately folded around a pair of chopsticks. “No,” he admits.

Ellie makes a discontent noise. “Just fucking talk to her, man,” she says.

“You always do this, dad,” Sarah says suddenly, shaking her head.

“I do not—I don’t—” he stammers. When was the last time he’d had the opportunity to fuck something up? “What are you talkin’ about?”

They both shrug. “It’s like you don’t ever wanna be happy sometimes. She makes you happy and you always think of everybody else, it's okay to think of yourself sometimes. Maybe whatever’s going on with her doesn’t have anything to do with you. Not everything is your fault.”

He can’t figure a way it's not about him, though, that it might not be his fault.

Joel clears his throat and looks down at his plate. “All right, tell me what you two’ve been up to this week.”

“Hey Joel.”

Joel glances up, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. You’re distorted in his vision for a moment before he reaches up to take them off.

Your shape comes into sharp relief, a balm after not seeing you for so many days. You look cheerful, happy to see him.

Excited, even.

He hasn’t seen you in a month.

You’d messaged back and forth with his kid about your appointment, about today.

He hasn’t heard your voice in a month.

Seeing you now, despite thinking about you, dreaming about you everyday, makes some part of him close off, go cold and hard. “Howdy,” he says, his voice toeing the edge of polite and flat. The smile on your face fades a little.

Though the sunshine is bright as always, the air outside is chilly for Texas. You’re wrapped in a sweatshirt. For the first time since he’s known you, all of your tattoos are hidden, most of your skin is covered.

You blink owlishly, your fingers flexing nervously around the cups in your hands. “I brought you coffee,” you offer.

He makes a noncommittal noise and jerks his chin towards the door behind the counter. “C’mon, I’m already set up.” Joel turns.

“Oh,” you say, your voice following him to the back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I was late.”

“You aren’t,” he grumbles softly. “Had another client this mornin’,” he says, needlessly adjusting and straightening the supplies he had set out, keeping his back to you.

He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to get through this with you—ain’t sure how he’s supposed to make sense of how much it hurt that you’d stopped hanging around. There’s a feeble little thread of hope in his heart that you’ll explain it away, that you even noticed you’d changed your routine. A tiny, weak little thing that makes him hope you thought about him too.

Stupid.

That painful tug of hope makes him feel like a teenager, like an idiot kid who read into every little thing like it was a sign until reality started to distort.

He’s always been that way, hopeful and goddamn stupid. It’s why he hasn’t really been with anyone since Sarah’s mother left. It’s how he got tangled up with Sarah’s mom in the first place. He gets stupid when he thinks he feels something, and he’s never been good at figuring how to hold onto something like that, something so delicate.

He always ends up loving too hard, too much. He always crushes the thing before it has a chance to bloom. His girls, they were his only exception, the one thing he was mostly good at taking care of.

“Guess the coffee was a stupid move, huh?”

Joel turns at the sound of your voice, pulled away from the half self-deprecating thoughts floating through his mind, and finds you hovering awkwardly in the doorway, fingers fidgeting anxiously around the cups. You look like you did the first time you came into the shop, stiff and unsure, wide eyes peering at him like you’re waiting for him to give you a reason to run.

The doe waiting for the snap of the twig beneath a hunter’s boot once again.

Something twinges in his chest, the sharp pain slicing through bone and tendon.

He doesn’t want to be the hunter to your doe.

“No,” he straightens, making an effort to soften his voice. “‘Course not.”

You step cautiously closer, extending one of the cups toward him. “Well, it kinda is.” You smile a little. “You won’t be able to drink it while you work, contamination and all. I just—I was on autopilot again, I guess.”

He takes it from you, the paper cup warm in his hand, and tries not to think about how autopilot for you meant unthinkingly buying a cup of coffee for him.

Again, you’d said. Have you done it before? Accidentally bought coffee he never received?

“Well, thank you, sweetheart.”

You swallow and glance away, nodding at the ground instead.

A long silence stretches between you, and unlike all the times you came into the studio before—it's awkward and heavy. He takes a sip of the coffee and finds it sours instantly in his stomach, mixing unpleasantly with the nerves.

Yeah, he’s exactly like a damn kid.

And he’s not good at this. He’s never been good about bridging silent gaps.

Not with words, anyway.

It doesn’t help that you seem to take up the whole room, the smell of sun and coffee and leaves curling on the air.

He sets the cup aside and goes about washing his hands instead. “Go on and get comfortable,” he directs over his shoulder. “Just like before.”

When he’s done scrubbing his hands in the sink and putting on gloves and fighting the urge to inhale the scent of you penetrating every cubic inch of air in the room, he turns to find you sitting and stripping out of your sweatshirt.

He inhales sharply when the shirt beneath lifts with the material, exposing him to a strip of your skin. You tug it back down, hiding skin that he’s dreamed of in the last three weeks, that he’d like to tease his fingertips along, if you let him, if he could lure you that close, convince you to trust him that much.

It seems like a fucking pipe dream now.

You look soft and rumpled as you fold the sweatshirt, fisting your hands anxiously around the edges of it in your lap.

The tendons in the back of your hands flex, bone straining against the flesh. You’re tense, nervous.

“You’re alright,” he drawls, despite himself. The words come out soft, and your shoulders loosen and slump as you release a breath. Whether you stopped coming around or not, he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable. “C’mere and lemme see it.”

You offer your arm to him and Joel takes your wrist in his hand, just like he had the last time he’d seen you. He’d touched you a lot that day, and you had let him. You’d let him touch you even after you left the studio and he hadn’t had a good excuse to keep doing it anymore.

Now, he relishes the feel of your delicate skin against his again.

“Looks good,” he says, stepping unconsciously closer to you. “Healin’ good anyway.”

You glance up, the side of your knee brushing against his thigh. Warmth radiates from your body, and settles into him in the invariably cold studio. A smile tugs at your lips and the tension disappears from your forehead. “You’re allowed to compliment your own work, you know. It’s beautiful. Probably my favorite.”

He doesn’t answer, fighting the clawing ache in his chest. “I do okay, I guess,” he concedes, turning your arm. “Just glad I didn’t hurt ya.”

You frown but don’t say anything as he goes through the motions of cleaning your skin and settling in on the stool next to you. You settle back in the chair, a cloud of your scent caccooning both of you, undercut by the annoyingly sharp smell of the disinfectant.

He covers your hand and squeezes the tight fist your hand curled into until you release the tension and relax. “Good,” he murmurs. “Good job.”

You chest hitches and you glance over at him, the movement sharp, but he doesn’t look back at you and you don’t say anything.

It’s quiet for a long time, just the buzz of the tattoo gun to keep him company.

He wonders what it is you’re thinking about. Though your body remains loose, the furrow between your brows is pinched tight in thought.

Joel doesn’t bother you, focused instead on his work, on monitoring the flex of your hand beneath his. He doesn’t strictly need to touch you like this, but he wants to, and it seems like you don’t mind.

At least, you hadn’t minded a couple weeks ago.

Maybe that’s what has your forehead so scrunched up. Maybe—

“I didn’t think you would.”

He glances up, those big eyes he sees in his dreams staring down at him. “What’s that?”

“I didn’t think you would hurt me. I mean—really, I’ve only had one bad tattoo experience,” you say with a roll of your eyes, dismissive of your own pain, like that’s not one too many times. “The rest of my—the rest of my issues are mine. Even from before that happened.” You don’t look away from him. “Besides, Ellie assured me beforehand that you have a light touch.”

Yeah, he thought he’d heard her saying that. He’d been both embarrassed about it and warmed.

“Well, I guess she’s right. Never had any complaints.” He leans back and takes his hand off of yours, flexing his fingers and stretching out the pinch in his spine.

One thing he did not relish about tattooing was the way he had to be hunched over. It makes him feel achy and old even if he knows it’d be much worse if he was still working with Tommy.

You nod and fidget with the hem of your shirt with your free hand. He watches you for a long moment, still not saying anything.

Even though things are a little awkward, he feels better, having you there again; knowing for sure that you’re okay because he’s seeing you with his own eyes. His kids might be right, that it’s all right to think of himself for once. Or, as Ellie put it, to just fucking talk to you instead of making assumptions.

“You ain’t been around much lately,” he offers, extending that metaphorically slow hand to you as he always has, asking for the nugget of whatever truth you held onto so tightly.

Maybe it was never about him, just as Sarah had said.

He looks away from your eyes, goes back to tattooing your arm, filling in your piece, the design he’d worked on for a whole summer. Just for you.

The tattoo suits you. He feels an odd kind of pride that you liked his art enough to trust him with designing something, with putting it onto your skin, and your trust is something he never could have hoped for.

“No,” you start, your voice a bit hoarse. “I guess not. I—I just figured that I didn’t have an excuse to stop by anymore.” You pause and swallow. Your voice is clearer when you speak again. “And you’d already been so nice about me taking up your time.”

Joel has to pause again and glance up, just to judge your expression. To see if you’re serious.

You aren’t looking at him, but staring at the far wall as though the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen is etched there. Your features are tense, like you’re trying not to show what you’re feeling. “Taking up my time?”

You shrug, the easily startled anxiety threading back into your eyes. “And,” your voice is shaky as you continue. “I was a little—I don’t know. Afraid. I guess.” Something must show on his face, the swoop of his gut visible on his features because you hurry to explain. “I just…I’ve never trusted someone the way I think I trust you. So. That’s scary.”

There’s a lot of things he could say, a lot of things he should say, but Joel isn’t exactly good at that kind of thing. He just knows he hates when you look at him with trepidation and weariness.

So instead, he covers your hand again and squeezes tight. He refocuses on your tattoo, on the transformation of your skin. He isn’t sure what to make of what you’d said about trust, or your honesty about it, so he pushes down the feeling that wells up into his gut at that admission. “Well, it ain’t no trouble. Havin’ you here. It was mighty quiet without you around.”

It’s hard to say, somehow, the words sticky and catching in his mouth. A quiet descends in the wake of his words, the low buzz of the tattoo gun driving him crazy. He wishes you’d say something, anything, but he doesn’t have the heart to look up and see if you’re looking at him with big, startled eyes.

“Oh,” you say eventually, softly.

And then—“It was quiet for me too. I missed coming by. Why didn’t you ask after me? Ellie could have gotten to me.”

Joel had considered it. He’d figured you’d had good reason to stay away. And he guesses you had, just not the ones he thought.

It hadn’t been about him, really.

“You’re real skittish,” he settles on telling you the truth. “Didn’t want to push you further than you’d already gone.”

He nods, wipes your skin gently with a damp paper towel. “I looked out for ya. Kept thinkin’ y’da come by.”

“Oh,” you say again and this time the word is laced with surprise. “I…didn’t know that. I looked for you too.”

Joel shrugs in what he hopes is an offhand manner. He cares more than he wants to admit, more than he can admit.

“It’s just because you missed having someone bring you coffee,” you tease gently when he doesn’t respond.

He snorts and the lingering tension dissolves. “Don’t do that again,” he says, still not looking up at you. “Coffee or not.”

Joel shrugs on a dark red flannel before he shuffles you out the shop’s front door.

The air is chilly but dry, and it burns the inside of your nose. In truth, the temperature is mild, not worthy of shivers or flannels, but compared to the unending heat of summer it's practically cold outside.

The skin of your forearm feels warm beneath your opposite hand clutched over the fresh ink, safely and carefully wrapped. You can’t stop looking at your now completed tattoo, still smiling to yourself about the way Joel seemed irritated that you not only paid him for his work but tipped him too. You told him to think of it as repayment for the tacos and lemonade but that had only made him frown harder.

“You don’t have to walk me home,” you say, even though the last thing in the world you want is for him to let you go on alone.

“Sure I do,” he says, turning away from the door.

Arguing wouldn’t change his mind, and you don’t really want to anyway.

Joel urges you down the sidewalk, his gait jilted and slow.

There’s an inch of space between you as you walk down the lamplit street. The horizon is a haze of orange, casting the wide open sky in shades of lavender and periwinkle as it darkens and evening sets in. You can feel the heat of Joel’s body, so close by.

It’s nothing compared to his hand over yours, the warmth and all consuming size of it. You don’t know if you’ll ever have cause to feel his hand again, now that he was done tattooing you.

Joel shifts so his hand hovers at your lower back, guiding you lightly. The gesture makes your skin prickle pleasantly, itchy with heat and that strange want that never went away. You wish he’d put his hand against your spine like he had when he’d gotten you tacos, so you could lean back into it, so you could feel the pressure of his hand.

He doesn't. Joel walks you along the street quietly, his hand painfully close to you and yet not close enough.

That alone makes you ache.

You don’t expect him to say anything as you walk along, mainly because you’re the one that’s always nervously chattering at him, half waiting to be snapped at. He tells you about Sarah’s course load for the upcoming fall semester and how Ellie’s nearly done at her apprenticeship. He talks quickly, like he’s trying to catch you up on a month worth of things you’d missed, like it mattered to him that you had.

He tells you about the clients he’d tattooed, and the designs he’s still working on. He wavers when he mentions the designs and you hope maybe he’ll ask you to look at some of them but he quickly moves on.

When you get close to your apartment he abruptly goes quiet and pulls his hand away from your back. Just like the last time he hovers just outside the halo of the security light over the door.

You struggle with the door like you always do until it finally pops open with a groan. This time when you hover in the doorway, you pluck up the courage to ask what you hadn’t been able to the last time.

“Would you like to come up for some coffee?”

“Late for that, ain’t it?”

Your heart sinks, breaks somewhere along your ribs. “Guess so,” you admit, gripping the edge of the door. “Thanks for walking with me, I’ll, uh—”

“But I would like that,” he cuts you off. It's so unlike him that you just stare for a moment. “If you’re offerin’, that is.”

You smile. “I am.”

He gestures you forward, reaching out to catch the door in his hand.

You slide into the dark entryway and Joel bolts the door shut behind you before following you up the stairs to the landing where you unlock your apartment door without so much struggle. “I can look at that other door,” he offers again, sounding sheepish this time, like he’s sorry for bothering you about it again.

“I’d like that,” you say, and let him in ahead of you.

You flip on the lights as you move past him to the kitchen, tiny and cluttered and too warm. You sweep your mail off the breakfast table and point Joel into one of the chairs when he starts to shrug out of the flannel.

Both chairs have jackets hanging from the back but he just drapes his over what’s already there. His shoulders strain at the material of his shirt, bunching around his biceps and under his arms, across the incredibly broad plains of his chest.

You yank your eyes away from him when you start to follow the vein in his arm, thinking you’d like to know what his skin tasted like there.

Heat floods your chest at the thought. It’s unlike you, makes you feel shaky in a good way. It’s been years since you’ve thought that about someone, and try as you might you can’t remember if you’d ever looked at your ex and thought something like that.

You wonder what that bit of skin feels like, how soft and firm the inside of his bicep must be.

He looks comfortable and domestic in the warm glow of your overhead kitchen light when he sits down.

You can’t look at him for too long without something in your pulse jumping, a raw little needy nerve that demanded attention. You want him to touch you again, to reach out and hold your hand so delicately in his.

Instead of dwelling on that thought, you turn to your coffee pot, deftly fixing it to brew before you turn to rummage through your fridge. “I have something stronger, if you want it. I don’t like drinking after getting a tattoo.”

“You shouldn’t,” he advises. “Ain’t good for healin’. You should eat somethin’, though.”

“I figured you’d have something to say about that,” you roll your eyes and turn to put the blackberry pie in your hands onto the table. “I won’t complain this time as long as you have some with me.”

He stares up at you, an odd look in his eyes. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it was affectionate. “All right, dear.”

Dear. That’s new. It makes you feel light, like bubbles are popping in your veins.

You nod at him, warmth spreading beneath your skin, before pointing to the pie. “From Flu’s. You been to Flu’s? She has the best pie. It’s blackberry.”

“Sure, me and the girls have been a few times. Coffee’s good there. Blackberry’s one of my favorites,” he rumbles, and you can’t tell if he’s lying or not. You have a feeling that even if Joel hated pie and was allergic to blackberries, you’d never hear a word about it.

Joel doesn’t look away from you. His gaze slowly shifts from your eyes, to your hand planted on your hip. He slowly reaches out and curls his hand around your wrist. The slow way he does it stills your heart and all the worries shelved inside it. All the room he gives you, to be skittish, as he called it, and afraid, makes your throat go tight and hot. He handles it like it’s not something to fix, just something to accommodate, figure out with you. “Thank you, sweetheart. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get the coffee?”

“It’s my house,” you gripe softly, no bite behind your words. His skin is fever hot against yours, like an ember pressed against your jumping pulse.

But just like the last time he tattooed you and insisted on something to eat, he scoffs at you. His thumb slides across the inside of your wrist. “And you were the one that lost blood today. Sit, and tell me where your mugs are.”

You slowly sit across from him, your wrist still in his hand. “Good,” he releases you and stands. The little bit of praise goes straight to your belly, just like it had at the shop. It settles warm inside you, a good kind of tense. “Cups?”

You point him to the correct cabinet, exhaustion overcoming you all at once now that you’ve sat down. You watch him pour the coffee, offer to get you cream or sugar even though he doesn’t know where those are either. You have to point him to where the plates, and then the cutlery, are kept.

It's an odd little hope that flits through your mind, one that wishes for a day when he would be familiar enough with your things that he wouldn’t need to ask.

He returns to the table and cuts two even slices of pie and plates them before returning to his chair.

You’re just about to dig your fork into the pie when his hand curls around yours again. He isn’t looking at you when you glance up, glad that he still wants anything to do with you, that he so carefully touches you, gives you the thing you crave and fear and are too afraid to ask for.

“Don’t do that again.” He squeezes your wrist gently, voice that quiet, low drawl, an echo of what he’d said earlier.

It’s the same thing he’d said at the shop and you don’t have to ask what he means. You wouldn’t anyway, not when the vulnerability in his voice seems to cost him.

He’s not sure how it happens, how he spends all night at your kitchen table with your trembling pulse beneath his hand.

He’s too old to be doing this type of shit.

He’s got an ache in his neck now that’s going to get him teased by just about everyone. His girls and Tommy already get on him about being a crotchety old man—between the glasses he refuses to wear besides anytime he needs to read something small and the landline phone and his attitude generally.

Yeah, his neck and back issues are going to be next on the docket.

But he can’t really bring himself to care, not when he’s gotten to sit with you through the night and listen to your voice, not when your hand is still securely within his and you haven’t given a single indication you’d like him to let go, not when your calves are crossed with his beneath the table.

He lets himself imagine it better, imagine it more.

You curled in his lap, head on his shoulder, fingers tangled up in the fabric of his shirt or knotted into his hair. In this stupid little dream of his, you’ve just woken up instead of staying awake through the night. You say good morning and he pours you coffee.

He thinks, too, of pressing you back into the table, finding what lay hidden on your skin. He’d go to his knees for you, he’d worship at your feet, if you asked him to.

He wants it so bad he can taste it, but he settles for what he has here with you, the limit you’ve guided him to, hands tangled and legs crossed.

The sun dawns a white gold through the sheer curtains over your kitchen windows. You’d never pulled the heavier drapes closed and the street light had cast your face in shadow when you flipped out the harsh overhead light.

You watch the sunrise, and Joel watches honeyed light shift over your face.

He likes your little apartment. It’s cluttered and homey and reminds him of his parent’s kitchen when he’d been growing up. You have art and photos stuck to every inch of bare wall. The blanket over the back of your couch and the shaw over one of the chairs is crocheted. There’s evidence of all kinds of little projects scattered around your apartment.

Even the little breakfast table he sits at is hand painted.

“You never said you were an artist,” he’d said early on in the night.

“I’m not,” you’d ducked your head and deflected. “Not like you at least. It’s not like I’m any good.”

You’re plenty good. “Right,” he agreed. “Not like me. It's better than mine. You could do your own sketchin’ for a tattoo.”

Even though you’d been embarrassed he could tell you were delighted he thought so.

Now you turn your face toward him in the comfortable silence that’s descended, half your features in shadow. You smile and your teeth shine. “Good thing today’s a Sunday, right? You don’t have to worry after rushing to open the studio.”

You tug your hand back from his and stand, gathering both mugs before you cross your tiny kitchen to set about starting a new pot of coffee.

He watches you, absently stacking the plates crusted with blackberry filling.

Your shirt rides up a little when you reach for the coffee canister, a thin strip of skin showing between your rumpled shirt and your jeans. He’s reminded again of all the places he wants to touch you, to touch the soft curves of your body, trace that line of skin and seek out each of your hidden tattoos.

Not on your hip, you’d said.

So where? Where hasn’t he seen?

The velvet of your thighs, the silken skin of your ribs and back, between your breasts, your sternum.

The kitchen fills slowly with light, orange and red on the far wall, undulating lines of light slicing apart the worn wooden floor. He picks apart the place with his eyes while your back is turned—the paintings and photos you don’t think anything of, the postcards stuck to the fridge, the hand painted, hand knitted-ness of everything, the mismatched mugs and glasses, chipped at the corners, the tiny dish of kibble on the floor—

“You got a cat?” He figures he would have seen a dog by now.

You turn and follow his eyes before you smile. “Sometimes. He comes and goes whenever he likes. He’s not really mine.”

“How’s that?”

“How’s what?”

“That he comes and goes?” Joel stands, meanders a couple steps toward you, trying to discreetly stretch out the throbbing nerve in his back.

“I leave the window cracked in my bedroom.”

And he hates that, just like he hates the thought of you leaving your door unlocked and he just like he hates the thought of you struggling with the door in the middle of the night when he hasn’t walked you home. “Shouldn’t be doin’ things like that.”

“Knew you wouldn’t like it,” you smile, repeating your earlier sentiment and he has a feeling it’s going to become a common refrain. “He’s probably sleeping just now.”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’ll drive me crazy.”

“This town is the safest place I’ve ever been.”

“Hate to see where you’ve been before.”

You laugh and ask him if he wants to get breakfast when—

“Shit,” he slides a hand over his face. “I told my girls we’d have breakfast. Start of the school year tradition, Sarah's first day back is Monday. I gotta drive down to Austin.”

“It’s still early,” you reassure him without turning, but he can see the way your cheek curves with a smile he can’t see. “I’ll put your coffee in a thermos to go.”

Joel takes the last few steps toward you and leans against the counter. Your breath hitches and your eyes flick up to his, big and shining bright as they always are. A slash of sun falls over them, lighting up your irises. The coffee pot bubbles and hisses, percolating slowly and you don’t look away.

Your lips part softly and your breath fans across his chin. “Don’t gotta leave this minute. I got some time,” he says, watching those doe eyes of yours flick across his face, to the corner of his mouth.

You move a bit closer, your foot slotting between his, and he feels like you’ve finally drifted close enough. Finally come close enough to feel safe, to rest.

You lean into him first, eyes fluttering closed, shoulders relaxing against the line of his body. Joel presses one arm around you, slides his fingers along the column of your spine, and for a moment you stiffen in the cage of his arms.

“You’re all right,” he murmurs and loosens his hold a fraction, but your body suddenly goes lax against him. Your nose slots against his throat, fingers curling gently into his t-shirt. You release a long, slow breath against his throat. “You’re okay.”

He isn’t sure what he’s trying to reassure you of, but it doesn’t much matter because you seem to know, to get his meaning.

“I know I am,” you sigh.

He can feel you breathing, the rise and fall of your lungs, the press of your breasts against his chest. You’re soft in his arms. “Good,” he says, nose against your temple as he slides his hand to the back of your neck, keeping you pressed there. “Good girl.” He feels you shiver and holds you closer, tighter than should be possible.

Your hand is hot when it slips beneath his shirt, pressed against his lower back for the briefest moment before it disappears and roots down into his shirt again, your breath shaky.

When he rubs the tense muscle of your neck you make a noise that forces him to stifle a groan and pull back just slightly.

“You okay?” He asks, ignoring the fire burning low in his belly, trying to temper himself.

Your eyes are damp, the corners wet. “Sorry, sorry. Yeah, I’m—”

He cups your cheek, tilts your face up, sweeps his thumb over your cheek.

“I’m just a fucking mess, Joel. I always have been. For a long time, I have been. And I don’t know why.”

“Why what?” His eyes are on your mouth, then your eyes, the image of the divot in the bottom of your lip lingering in his mind. “Sweetheart?”

The big, scared, doe-eyed look you send him breaks his heart. “Why it’s so hard. To touch people and be touched.”

“You’re doin’ okay,” he strokes your cheek again, slides his other hand to your hip. “Seems to me anyway.”

“For now. I’m work. I always have been. And I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

He thinks of your pretty little apartment decorated with your own arts and crafts that you dismiss with a wave of your hand, the way you think you bother him, your insistence of paying him back for his time. You make yourself small, and he thinks you have more scars and worries from the past than you realize.

“Trouble? You’re the least troublesome person I know,” he says. “My idiot brother, Tommy, now he’s trouble. Still gotta bail him outta trouble sometimes. You? Nothin’ about you is trouble.” You lean into his hand, watching him closely.

He can’t believe his silent extended hand, his patient hand, has been rewarded with this. “And I don’t mind hard work.”

You search his eyes for a long time, not blinking, not looking away, as you reach up and hook one hand around his wrist. He can see you trying to convince yourself to believe him. You swallow and place your trust in him again, if not necessarily your belief. “Okay.”

“All right. You wanna get breakfast with me and my girls? I’ve been wantin’ you to meet Sarah.”

“She won’t mind?” you ask, gently pulling yourself out of his hands, tugging his hand away from your face.

He lets you go, recognizes the trapped, pained, fearful wanting on your face. You need space. “They think I don’t know it’s more for me than them. They stopping carin’ about it sometime in middle school. Hell, Ellie ain’t even in school anymore. I’m holdin’ on to them bein’ kids, I guess.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He stands aside and lets you fix the coffees. He pulls his flannel off the back of your chair when he passes it on the way out and drapes it around your shoulders.

When you’re in his truck, fiddling with his radio, he catches you clutching it closer, your nose dipped into the collar.

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

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

2K notes · View notes

certainlynotasimp · 11 months

Text

Our Love

(Miguel O’Hara x Female Reader)

A/N: Hey everyone~✨ I’m writing this request thingy after I um had kind of a bad day. Not to get too personal, um parents can suck. Like they can hurt your feelings and not care. So I wanted to write this because I kinda wish that I had parents like Sunny and Miggy tbh. Anyway enough with that~✨

A/N: TikTok spoiled some of the movie for me so I’m kinda mad but I got to think up some more Sunny lore for you guys. This is part 2 of Our Girl and forgive the ending because I ran out of ideas. If you like my work please check out my master list and if you wanna stay up to date with the series, then comment on this Taglist and you’ll be added. To see what’s coming up next then check out my upload schedule.✨

If you are someone who has struggled with Postpartum, Child loss, anxiety with pregnancy, or any trauma related to child birth and child bearing, feel free to skip this if you don’t think you can handle it. Your well being is more important, so go read some fluff, drink some water, and if you don’t have anyone giving you kisses then here: *platonic kisses*

Warnings: Grumpy x Sunshine, Female Reader/Female pronouns, Barely use of (Y/N) ((Sunny is their nickname, not their name)), angst, trauma, mentions of child loss, anxiety around pregnancy, and Google Translated Spanish.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bouncing fear blooms as the repeating drumming of her pacing feet in the confined walls of the bathroom stall. The constant nagging of her god mother comes back to haunt her like the remains of her muffin tries to climb it’s way back up.

The three minute timer on her phone felt like an eternity as the white piece of plastic continues to load up the bullet that will end everything she’s built up for herself so far.

She was head of the undergraduate at her biology department at NYU and she had stupidly decided to go out to some party with her friends to celebrate the end of the school year. An embarrassing hook-up occurred with her having to sneak out without even getting a good look at the guy. Of course she assumed that her drunken self would have used protection, but unfortunately, alcohol doesn’t always encourage good decisions.

She thought that the sudden spouts of tossing her lunch up was simply due to nerves as she was applying for a work study program with Alchnemax, but the sudden repulsion to her god mother’s cooking is what really set the dread into motion. A dread she swallowed down with a big smile as she pretended her whole life wasn’t changing in an instant. She held onto the hope that maybe it was just nerves bothering her until today.

Her interview with Alchnemax went exceptionally well. The woman was aware that her chances of being accepted were low despite her high academic achievements due to A) she’s a scholarship student, B) she’s some poor kid from Brooklyn, and C) she was an orphan without any cushy family legacy behind her.

Two of the three department leaders of the Genetics department already decided her fate as they had those noses turned up at her, but one just looked at her with kindness. He gave her a chance. And if it wasn’t for that the others wouldn’t have heard her creditials and wouldn’t have looked at her completely impressed. The man who looked at her so proudly gave her a wink as a way of showing he was sure I was gonna get it. Not in the creepy sexually charged man way. But like how a father would their child.

Her first friend here. Dr..

The beeping from the phone alarm catches her attention as she turns to look at the white stick of destiny. Her whole life is forever changing today one way or another….

~~~~~~~~~

“I’m what?” She gasps as she looks up at the red and blue man in a lab coat in shock.

She had just awoken hours after she had experienced the most bizarre incident that landed her in the infirmary. She had met a girl from an alternate dimension where she and Miguel were normal people who had a family together, and their daughter was that universe’s Spider-Woman.

Their Daughter…their baby…

“You’re pregnant, Miss. (L/N).” Spider-Doc says cheerfully as he places a cold device on her stomach. A monitor appears from the small device with a familiar picture of a small little bean inside the black vast of her womb. A baby…

“It looks like you’re about 6 weeks along based on the size of the fetus and it’s a good thing we found out when we did. Mr. O’Hara would have had our throats if he….”

The doctor’s words fell on deaf ears as the woman’s eyes focused intently on the image in front of her. The sounds of their pounding heart beat challenges the drumming of her own as her fingers lightly trace the image. She was so small…so defenseless.

Just like he was…

“D-does Miguel know?”

~~~~~~~

Positive.

The test mocked her as she watched her Godmother hold onto the plastic piece with an unreadable expression. The twist of her dark mauve painted lips causes her glowy skin to crack under her dark eyes. A hand pushes back the freshly installed knotless braids as the clinking of the golden charms twisted her stomach more.

April was the one person the girl could always rely on the most in the world, having raised her since she was eight years old. She was the only real mother figure she’s ever known and always pushed her to her hardest. April always made sure that the two were always fed, clothed, and pampered, and the only thing she ever asked for was for her godchild to bring home all A’s and to have a smile.

April taught her to value education both in and out of school. She made sure she could solve any math problems as best as she could without a calculator and how to make sure to know which doors she can knock on if someone was following her at night. April made sure she knew her Spanish well so she can have bigger opportunities in the workforce and to know respect for the Parra’s down the hallway.

April had a baby the same time as her best friend Maria and promised each other to be each other’s godmothers so their daughters can always be best friends just like their moms.

But, Maria lost her life while April lost her baby.

“How far along are you?” The older woman asks with her dark warm eyes misting over as she looks at her god child.

“I don’t know, maybe a month and a half…” The own girl’s body shaking as sobs built up in her chest as she looks at her now smiling godmother.

“Do you want to keep it?…”

The question hung in the air as the women’s combined shaking forms as the woman honestly didn’t think about it before.

~~~~~~~~~

When the spider got released from the infirmary, she immediately turned off her gizmo as she turned invisible. She shakily avoided everyone she could so she could go to her room without seeing anyone.

She couldn’t bring herself to see anyone. Not with this. She knew if Miguel wasn’t on a mission right now then he would have already been at the infirmary waiting on her, but she wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes. It wasn’t fair.

One of her hands rests on her stomach as she navigates the hallways before finally reaching her room. She waited until no one was paying attention to slip in and turn back to normal with a painful sigh. She forgot how painful it was to do that without her suit helping her. Miguel specifically made it so her powers wouldn’t put as much strain on her heart than it already did.

Her back hits the door as she finally collapses with a shaker breath. The reality of the situation was finally kicking in as she placed both hands on her stomach. She was pregnant with Miguel’s child.

Something that definitely wasn’t supposed to happen. Sure, she can argue that if the anomalous event hadn’t have occurred and destroyed her dimension , she would have never known about the Spider Verse or even met Miguel…

But she’s accepted that whatever relationship they were in wasn’t going to be able to manifest more than what it was. Two broken people who fell in love and were trying to make the best of their circumstances.

Due to her being from an alternate dimension, there isn’t a canon event that could possibly let her be able to live with Miguel and start a family…it would just destroy every thing…

‘Would Miguel even want this baby?…’ She though as she runs one of her shaking hands over her cheek as anxious tears rolled down her face. ‘What if she has powers like us? What if they aren’t healthy? Would he want to get rid of it because she’s an anomaly….’

She didn’t have the same support system as she did when she had her son, Ben. She didn’t have April who would sooth her anxieties of motherhood and made sure that Ben had diapers at home. She didn’t have the Parra’s who would bring her supper some evenings in exchange for letting the infertile Valeria babysit her boy when her and April were busy. She didn’t have the corner stores where they always hid back some cans of formula for her and gave her son lollipops.

Her son…her baby boy that she failed…

The image of his lifeless little body appears in her vision as she remembers the way his body was limp in her hold. The way his little face was so frozen in fear when he used to always have the biggest smile on his face…

“What if I fail this one too?”

Her thoughts cause sobs to rip from her body as she curls her knees up to her chest as she thought about all of the possibilities that this baby would ruin it…

Then Maria’s face came to mind. The young spider girl that was only a few years younger than she was when she found out she was gonna have Ben.

With the girl’s face burning in her mind, the woman stands up and immediately storms out of her room. Her blurry eyes burned as she made her way to the one place that she knew would have answers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ba dump ba dump

The pounding sound fills the room as the pair of women stared in awe at the monitor. A little squirming being about the size of her hands shined against the black background of the screen as the OB-GYN wiggles around the cold wand over her stomach.

“Oh my…” A teary smile appears on the older woman’s face as April clenches onto her astonished Goddaughter’s hand. The 14 week old fetus was facing the camera as his little legs wiggled around enough to barely turn him over.

His mother stares at him with such wonder as to how she could have made that.

She knew the whole biological process of how it’s down and what to expect at each step, but just seeing him there, barely even big enough to see him, was her baby.

“There he is. A perfectly healthy baby boy.” The OB smiles at the mother and gently traces his little face on the monitor. “Do you have any ideas for names yet?”

April smiles at the girl lost in wonder and decides to let her have the moment she remembers so well from her own pregnancy. April runs her thumb over her child’s knuckles as she answers.

“She wants to name the baby after her parents. They died in a car accident when she was young. If it was a girl, her name would be Maria and if it was a boy, his name would be…”

“Ben.” The mesmerized girl finishes her sentence as she looks back at the doctor with a bright teary smile. “His name is gonna be Ben.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey boss.” Lyla cautiously calls the man who was frantically trying to find his missing love.

After he returned from stopping a Prowler anomaly, Miguel immediately went to the infirmary to find that she had left hours ago and no one else has seen her since the young SpiderWoman was sent back home.

He thought she was fine when he last checked on her when they shared a happy tear feast over how wonderful their daughter was before she had fallen asleep from crying.

“Not now Lyla. I’m trying to find (Y/N).” He grumbles as his nerves twist his stomach around.

It wasn’t like her to go off the grid like this, not without at least telling Miguel that she wanted some quiet time. He clenched his fist as he feared that meeting Maria may have caused his Sunny to fall into a bad spell of depression since…

“She’s in the observation room looking at the Web.” Lyla answers like she was annoyed that Miguel was listening to her. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. There’s something strange happening to your-“

Lyla is cut off by Miguel turning her off as he speed walks towards the observation room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tiny wail broke the chaotic tension in the room as tears of joy flood out of the exhausted woman. The squealing babe was placed on her chest as the doctors returned back between her legs to remove the placenta. Her trembling hands came up to soothe the baby boy as his slimy body trembled in the new environment. His dark hair matted to his soft head as his mother placed a delicate kiss on her baby boy’s forehead.

“Hello, Ben.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Miguel storms into the observation room as the target of his search stared silently at the glowing red spiral of webs. The images of the Maria of Earth 1784-B played out on a holographic image as she looks like she was tussling with the two boys he recognized as Maria’s brothers. An image of that world’s Miguel comes up and playfully picks up the three with a stumble before throwing them on the couch with a laugh as his wife comes up and laughs behind him.

The family that Miguel dreamed about every night. The one he tried to achieve twice in different ways before it was stolen from him. The one he can’t help but crave with his beloved but knows it probably won’t happen.

“Cariño?….” His voice barely as whisper as he approaches his lover as she jumps in surprise.

Her teary eyes stared at him in alarm as a protective hand was placed on her stomach.

Miguel ignores that detail, believing that she was just mourning her lost baby boy, and gently placed his hand on her cheek, softly wiping away her tears.

Her eyes shine with untold anxiety as her choked sob caused Miguel to pull her into his chest. “Estoy aquí mi amor. Háblame....” He whispers softly into her hair as he wraps his arms tightly around her.

Her own grip traps him against her shaking body as she cries into his chest. Her worries slowly spilling out as she sobs, “ It’s not fair…”

“I know. “ Miguel mumbles as he rubs the base of her skull softly to provide some relief from the pain. “The universe is cruel…”

“It is…” she agrees as her breathing eventually evens out enough for her to pull away slightly to look up into his concern burgany gaze. “Miggy…Tengo algo que decirte... pero tengo miedo de que te enfades conmigo…” She admits with an unstable edge in her voice.

Miguel frowns at this as he cups her face. His concerned love filled eyes closes as he pulls her towards his lips. He kisses her forehead before resting his own forehead against hers. His eyes opening as an encouraging smile shines at him.

“No, mi sol, nunca me enfadaría contigo. Especialmente si te está causando tanto estrés.” He mutters as he feels his beloved’s hands wrap around his thick wrist, using his pulse to stablize her.

“Really?” She looks for reassurance as her swollen eyes searched his for any doubt.

“Yes. I’m sure…”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, beautiful!” A voice cheers as she enters the hospital room.

The new mother was propped up on a the hospital bed with her newborn son swaddled up in a soft blue blanket. She stops admiring the sleeping babe to smile up as April walks over with a bright smile and a beautiful bouquet of Carnations. Their petals were a soft pink with a baby blue ribbon wrapped around the glass vase. April places the arrangement down as she sits beside the bed.

“So that’s my grandchild?” She asks as she reaches over and gently caresses the bundle. Ben stirs for a moment before settling back down. The young mother nods and slowly moves the baby into her god mother’s arms.

The new grandmother accepts the baby happily as she leans back and gently coos at the sleeping Ben.

“You’re gonna have him spoiled.” She jokes as she admires watching how the older woman’s eyes light up as the baby’s face twitches.

“Grandbabies are for spoiling while children are made for scolding.” April quips back playfully as she giggles at her Goddaughter. “Oh, your boss brought those by the apartment. He said he hopes you’ll bring the little guy by the lab when he’s big enough.”

A confused frown takes over her face before she realizes that her mentor must have been the one she met. Working at Alchemax during her work study and pregnancy allowed her to get close to the board member that gave her the chance to work here. Him being a father himself, he took the pupil under his wing and helped her a lot during this time, even easing her worries with embarrassing tales of his own parenting blunders . He was more of a friend now than her mentor.

As April entertains herself with the infant, the mother reaches over and plucks the card placed on the top of the flower arrangement. She holds the card gently as she read the note, a soft smile.

‘Congratulations, kiddo. You made it to parenthood. You better bring that boy here to hang out with us because I need something more interesting to do than listen to Osborne’s voice all day. Signed, Dr. …. ‘

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Excuse me!!” A visual of Lyla appears beside the couple with an annoyed expression. Her irritability can be heard as she stares at the startled pair before glaring at Miguel.

“If you’re done being a couple of cry babies, I have some urgent news!” She snaps before pulling up a familiar red webbing with an odd addition wrapping around its nodes.

Miguel frowns in concern as he sees a blue web intertwining with the red nodes of his canon while his sunshine looked shocked.

This was not a normal anomaly…

“What is that?” Miguel asks while Lyla scoffs.

“Your canon is changing, but not from an anomaly.” She explains. “Your universe is fixing itself.”

“Fixing itself from what?” Miguel growls as he’s growing frustrated at the rude behavior the AI was expressing.

“From the bun in your sunshine’s oven.”

And with a quiet what, the big bad Miguel O’Hara falls over and passes out.

~~~~~~~~

Translations:

Estoy aquí mi amor. Háblame….—-I'm here, my love. Talk to me....

Tengo algo que decirte... pero tengo miedo de que te enfades conmigo…—I have something to tell you...,but I'm scared you are going to be upset with me…

No, mi sol, nunca me enfadaría contigo. Especialmente si te está causando tanto estrés.—-No, my sun, I would never be upset with you. Especially if its causing you this much stress.

~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@ameliadraws

@tojisrightnut

@whyareyoubored

@silly-lovestruck-em

@luvil1y

@chims-kookies

@himesuedi

@22carolina08

@chaoticevilbakugo

@boredwithlifeatthispoint

@hoshhoshh

@isaidoop

@pheroineux

@rosiepetalss

@aniya7

@savannahlynnes

@boldlypessimistic

@dilfaddiction

@xsuvs

@bunnybopug01

@tanakaslastbraincell

@brivers

@mistermouseshideyhole

@paranoiac-666

@reypolaris

@beeframon

@sofiahowland376

@bby-lupin

@thesrtuggleisveryreal

@arminarmout15

@mintellaine

@maddsunn

@sleepyamaya

@meshuao

@scaraza

@nobarasgfriend

@kurxxmi

@lemoonandlestars

@pix-stuff

@galaxieshearme

@sunshiines-stuff

@iytatsworld

@corpsebridenightamare

@p-rspective

@almostjollypizza

@celestiayxl

@christinaatyourservice92

@marisolpusheen

@hereliespumpkin

@lordelvr

@shadowlover321

@internal-soundtrack

@lotustv

@0sftom0

@whosace16

@namjoons-crabssss

@baefys-world

@namioom

@20forty9

@cicithemess2000

@hailssss222

@cityofvoldemort-blog

@snow30285

@serenssuga

@miguelluvrinnit

@sammywammy1

@dameronshandholder

@moonlight-fox

@miwagila

@alexthebootyeater420

@mariaatp

@10-jiku2

@uselsshuman

@cookiezxx

@randomhumans-blog

@mothsicn

@gingerdissapointment

@outspokenmatters

@cookieshakr

@alex-river1

@mellowstatesmanhandsempath

@luna-usagi-chan

@icantsleeplol809

@tiredweeb7

@4ishere

@i-heart-marvel

@mooomeadows

@king-julian6201

@local-mr-frog

@superbjealousy

@wonwuz

@lokisnumber1whore

@deloe18

@all4koo

@gothicgay14

2K notes · View notes

in-my-feels-probably · 11 months

Text

Home - Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Home

Request: Have you considered Benedict falling for a friend of Daphne's? Like if they're as close as Pen and Eloise but maybe with a little less drama? I think it would be funny for Benedict to ask for advice on how to talk to her and Daph being done. Just "you've known her for as long as I have."

Hi! Thank you again for the request, this is such a cute idea. I hope you don’t mind, but I made the reader a Featherington. I went a little off track too, it was easier for me to write that way. If this isn’t what you were looking for, I’m happy to take another request or alter this one. Sorry for the long wait on getting this out, but I hope you enjoy this :)

(Warnings: insecurity, middle child trauma, nothing else i think? idk, let me know if i missed anything)

—

Living in Grosvenor Square certainly had its ups and downs.

On one hand, you were mere steps away from your best friends. The Bridgertons lived right across the street, and you could visit them practically whenever you wanted. On the other hand—the not so nice hand—your family is the Featherington’s. Which isn’t an inherently bad thing. You loved your family, and could ignore most of the negatives. It just certainly has its pitfalls, being a Featherington daughter.

The Featherington’s—while rich and somewhat dignified—aren’t considered to be the most respectable of families. There wasn’t any one main reason why members of the ton didn’t much like your family, they just didn’t.

It wasn’t a personal grudge with you they had. In fact, you were quite liked by the ton.

More often than not, however, they didn’t pay much attention to you. It was easy to forget you were there when the rest of your family was the center of attention.

You were born soon after Phillipa but before Penelope, making you a middle child.

Your Mother seemed to connect with her eldest far more than her youngest, and that put a strain on your relationship. Not only that, you were much more akin to Penelope, having a lot more in common with her than your older sisters and your Mother combined. You were a bit of a wallflower, like Penelope, and it was a hard trait for your Mother to get past.

It wasn’t all negatives, though.

One of the biggest perks of being a Featherington was the fact that you lived directly across from the Bridgertons. You had spent most of your life over at their residence since the day you developed the ability to walk.

And, subsequently, the ability to walk across the street.

Violet Bridgerton’s first girl—Daphne—was born right around the same time as you were, and she decided Daphne was going to need a friend. Being the first girl born to a family of three brothers was a challenge, and Violet thought it best that Daphne should be able to socialize with a girl her age.

By the time you were both able to talk, you became inseparable. Just as your sister Penelope had come to develop a deep friendship with Eloise Bridgerton, you had come to develop your own with Daphne.

And by extension, you became good friends with her eldest brothers.

Anthony was the oldest, quite a bit older than you. He was already a handful of trouble by the time you showed up, and he already had plenty of practice teasing girls with his sisters as victims. In your first few years, he’d make it his mission each time you visited the house to fluster you, and annoy Daphne. It was harmless fun, and it never really bothered you, although he tried his hardest nonetheless. But as you got older, he became quite protective over you. It was like you were another sister to him, and you definitely bantered and squabbled like siblings do. As annoying as he could be, you loved him like a brother.

Colin was a similar story, although you saw something more to him. It was easy to, with the way Penelope talked about him endlessly. She could ramble for hours, making you listen to every painstaking detail. You definitely understood her affection for him, though. He’s charming and kind, much like his other brothers, but he’s also fun and witty. Daphne tended to favor him the most. They were closest in age, after all. Between her and Penelope, you spent quite a lot of time with him, and you certainly enjoyed his company.

But—besides Daphne—you enjoyed no other Bridgerton’s company like you did Benedict’s.

Benedict was different. He was more.

He was just as kind and charming as Anthony, and just as witty as Colin—certainly as annoyingly beautiful as Daphne—but he was more than that, too. He was sensitive and sweet, far more so than the rest of the Lords of the ton. He was passionate about art and love and valuing the little things. He didn’t care about marrying the prettiest girl for advantage, or inheriting her dowry. He cared about pursuing his dreams, and inspiring others to do the same.

Just the way he talked about his passions and values was enough to make any girl swoon, and yet he was still genuine with his words. It wasn’t for flattery or manipulation, he meant every word. Everything he did, he did for himself and the people he loves.

If it weren’t for Daphne currently holding the number one spot, you’d consider him your best friend.

He’d consider you the same.

You spend just as much time with him as you do with Daphne, and over the years, he’d come to cherish your company.

You saw him for him, not for his title. You listened to his endearing ramblings about his passions because you genuinely enjoyed hearing about them, not because you felt obligated to listen. You treated him like a person, not a prize to be won. It was all he could ask for in a best friend.

But that’s just it. That’s all you were to him. A best friend.

He was so sure that was all you’d ever be. Perhaps one day you’d be his sister in law, considering how close Penelope and Colin had gotten. You’d be family, and that was alright with him. It was what he expected. And then the unexpected happened.

He started falling.

—

The first time he noticed his feelings for you had shifted was the evening of a ball the Queen was throwing.

You’d come over early to get dressed with Daphne, wanting to help make sure she was perfect. She had finally revealed to you her ruse she was sharing with the Duke, you being the first person outside of their agreement to know. You were shocked at first, but as you listened to her speak, you gave her a knowing smile.

“You love him.”

Her eyes widened in shock, her cheeks blushing a rosy pink. “What? Why would you say that?”

“You love him,” you said again, smiling gently at her. “I’ve never seen you speak with such passion. With the way you talk about him, there’s no other possibility. One couldn’t possibly think that highly of another without feelings being involved—”

“You speak of my brother like that,” Daphne interrupted, chuckling when you swallowed your words.

You chose to ignore her statement, continuing to advise her on the best course of action for how to get through the remainder of her agreed upon days with the Duke. If the way he looked at her without her knowing was of any consequence, you were sure he felt the same way about her. All she had to do was make him see that.

When it was time to leave for the ball, all the Bridgerton’s piled into carriages. Daphne was hurried out the door, and she left with her Mother and Anthony, leaving you behind. When you tried to head back home to be escorted by your family, Benedict stopped you.

He had opened and closed his mouth a few times before he was able to choke out any words. Normally, he found it pretty easy to talk to you. But for some reason, the sight of you standing by his front door made his knees weak.

“I’m afraid they’ve already left,” he finally said, stopping you at the door. “They must have assumed you’d be accompanied by us.”

You groaned, feeling a pit form in your stomach. “I have no other way to get there. I promised Daphne I’d be there for her. Pen, too. She seemed quite nervous about attending tonight.”

“Not to worry,” he smiled, offering you his arm. “You can ride with me.”

You sighed in relief, thanking him profusely. “Well, aren’t you a lifesaver? Thank you, Benedict.”

“Of course,” he nodded, helping you into the carriage.

As you settled into your seat, a thought occurred to you. “Benedict…why are you still here? Not that I’m not grateful, but I don’t understand. You’ve been talking about going to the palace for days to see the Queen’s gallery. I would have expected you to be the first one out the door. But here you are.”

He was quiet for a moment as he took in your words, his eyes softening on you.

There were many things he could have said to you to easily explain it away. I’ll see the gallery soon anyways, or, I promised my Mother and yours that I’d make sure you got there safely. Numerous excuses he could have come up with to satisfy your curiosity, and yet, all that was coming to mind was, I can see the gallery another time, but I may never get to see you alone and sitting in front of me looking this beautiful with your undivided attention again, and I won’t pass up on the opportunity for anything.

“I don’t know,” he finally said as he shrugged his shoulders, feigning innocence. “But here I am.”

—

He didn’t truly acknowledge his feelings for you until months later, after attempting to ignore it for so long.

The second time he noticed was when he found out that the only reason he got into art school was because Anthony made a sizable donation to the Academy.

You had found him alone during yet another ton gathering, sulking on the edge of the party. Daphne had already gone home to Simon, and wouldn’t return for some time. Besides Penelope—and occasionally Eloise—Benedict was one of the only people you actually liked enough to be around. And seeing as both Penelope and Eloise were nowhere to be found, Benedict was your only hope.

You just hadn’t expected to find him nearly in tears, anxiously tugging at the cufflinks at the bottom of his sleeve.

It didn’t take much to get him to spill, and you found yourself pulling him inside to keep him away from prying eyes while he was in such a state. He told you all about Anthony’s meddling, and you knew it had crushed his heart to find out that he hadn’t actually achieved anything on his own.

“I know he did it out of the good of his heart…but I wish he hadn’t done it at all.”

He brought his hands up to cover his face, groaning into them. You reached for his wrists and tried to pull them away, but he wouldn’t budge. He finally relented when you said his name softly, letting you take his hands in yours.

“Benedict, it doesn’t matter how you got in. You’re an incredible artist, that’s all that matters,” you said softly, squeezing his hand in yours.

He shook his head, sighing in frustration. “I’m not. My work is child’s play compared to the other artists at the Academy. They all knew why I had even been given a spot in the first place. I’m an imposter, Y/N. A fraud. It was humiliating.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, darling,” you lightly chuckled, your smile fading when his defeated look didn’t waver.

“Alright, that’s it. Fess up. This can’t be all that’s bothering you. I know you, and I know you’re not one to give up that easily. You’ve been flustered all week, so what is it? You can tell me. Not that I have anyone to tell, but I won’t tell. I promise.”

His eyes softened on you as you spoke, and you could feel his grip on your hand get tighter. “I just…I’m tired.”

“Of what?”

“Of being second.”

You frowned, swiping your thumb across the back of his hand. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s just something Anthony said,” he murmured, keeping his eyes on your joined hands. “How I may be the second son, but that it doesn’t mean I am any less required to do my duties to the family. It’s rich coming from him. I’ve been second to him literally my entire life, and he’s only recently started taking his role seriously. I’ve played Father’s role since his passing. Isn’t it just my luck that he’s getting the credit for it?”

“You may be second to him in birth, but that is the only way you’re second. You’re every bit as good as him, Benedict,” you said firmly, but you weren’t sure if your words were sinking in.

He was uncharacteristically quiet, though his grip on your hands hadn’t wavered. His eyes were still on the floor, and his shoulders were shaking as he took uneven breaths.

“I know what that feels like, you know,” you finally said, making him glance up at you. “I’m a Featherington. A middle child at that, and it’s no secret my Mother favors my older sisters.”

Benedict let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “She’s wrong to. I don’t mean to be rude, but you and Pen are worlds more interesting and gracious than your sisters. The eldest, at least.”

“You don’t even know them,” you said in shock, but you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing, too.

“I don’t need to. You’re the only one I’m interested in knowing. Middle child or not.”

You couldn’t help but smile, although his kind words weren’t enough. The more you thought about just how second to the world you were, the more your smile faded.

“It’s not just being the middle child,” you continued, speaking softly. “I love your sister more than almost anything in this whole world, but I have always been second to her, too. She was the diamond of the season the second she was let out of leading strings, and now she’s my Duchess. I’m so happy for her, but it does put a damper on your confidence. Watching your best friend grow into this person everyone loves, and it’s like she didn’t even try.”

“Y/N—”

“Sometimes I feel awful, thinking this way. I know she tried, I was there for her every time she’d get overwhelmed. But she made it look so easy. I don’t know how she did it,” you rambled, taking a shuddering breath as you stopped yourself from speaking.

Benedict’s eyes softened on you as you spoke, making you want to shrink away from his gaze. He was being kind, and you didn’t know if it was genuine or not. If he was faking it for your sake, that was much worse than his actual pity.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make this about me, let’s get back to you—”

“Y/N,” he said again, this time effectively silencing you. “You can’t possibly feel that way.”

It was your turn to look at the floor. “Why shouldn’t I? It’s true.”

“That is the furthest thing from the truth,” he said gently, taking your hand. “You’re every bit as good as my sister. I know she makes things look easy, but she spoke just as highly of you as you do of her.”

You raised a brow. “Really?”

“Really. She used to tell me how kind you were to her, even after Lady Whistledown printed her supposed scandals. You were never judgemental.”

“I have no right to judge anyone, especially not her. She’s never said a bad thing about anyone, it isn’t right that people just took a scandal sheet as truth. And, if anything, she was kind to me. She, Eloise, Colin, and you are pretty much the only members of the ton that treat me like a normal person and not an outcast because of who my family is.”

Benedict smiled, squeezing your hand. “I would never dream of treating you any other way.”

You fought the flush that crept up to your cheeks, feeling the heat settle in them. You cleared your throat, shaking your head.

“Anyway,” you smiled, meeting his eyes. “I don’t mean to keep you away. Should we go back to the party? Someone may be looking for you. You’re quite popular, you know.”

Benedict couldn’t help but smile. And as he watched you look up at him through gentle eyes and an open heart, he couldn’t bring himself to move. It was like his feet were stuck to the floor, and he didn’t want to do anything to pull them up. He shook his head, keeping his hand in yours.

“No,” he finally answered, taking a seat. “Let them look. I’d much rather spend my evening with you. If you’ll allow me to, that is.”

You shook your head, taking a seat next to him. “I’ve got nowhere I’d rather be.”

—

The third time he noticed was when you, Daphne, and he accompanied Penelope and Colin to promenade throughout the square. She and Simon had come to visit, and she wanted to spend time with you and her family.

This time, he couldn’t ignore his feelings.

You followed behind Colin and Penelope, giving them enough room to speak privately without feeling like their older siblings were on their backs. You smiled as you watched Penelope look up at him, Colin being as gentlemanly as ever.

“It took him long enough,” you said, making Benedict chuckle.

“I thought he’d never figure it out.”

“Me either,” you agreed, grinning as you watched Colin smile down at your sister. “I should bash him over the head. I’ve listened to Pen spend countless hours rambling on about how utterly oblivious Colin can be. He owes me a debt.”

“He isn’t the only oblivious person I know,” Daphne piped in, making your eyes widen.

You had told her countless times about your feelings for Benedict, and how he never seemed to reciprocate them.

What you didn’t know is that he had done the same, on more than one occasion going to his siblings for advice on how to address them. Pushing them down until he couldn’t feel them seemed to be working, at least until now. And as far as he knew, you didn’t reciprocate his feelings either.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said nervously, silently pleading with her to drop the subject.

“Neither do I,” Benedict added, making Daphne chuckle.

She just grinned, ever so slightly raising a brow. “I mean Anthony, of course. It took him quite a while to realize that what he felt for Kate was much more than rivalry. I practically had to beg it out of him.”

“You’re a little matchmaker, aren’t you?” You asked, smiling at her. “Who’s next? Eloise, perhaps?”

“Perhaps…you?”

You immediately stilled, making them stop, too. “Me?”

“Don’t look so surprised, Y/N. You’ve been my best friend for ages, and I know what’s good for you. You’re lonely. And as awful as it is, the ton will start to talk. If the only people you talk to outside of your own family are Benedict and I, they’ll begin to notice.”

You frowned, nodding. She was right. Harsh, but right. The threat of becoming a spinster was looming over your head every season, and it had only gotten worse after Daphne married in her first season. Your second season came and went, and you were now in your third.

Without any prospects.

And it was looking like your baby sister was going to beat you to the punch as well. You were silent, a small frown on your face.

Thankfully, Benedict broke the silence. Just the thought of you marrying someone—especially someone who didn’t deserve you—made his skin crawl. He felt like he could keel over, and by the look on your face, he could tell you were feeling similarly. He couldn’t keep himself from turning you away from Daphne’s advice.

“Why settle?” He asked cautiously, giving you a sympathetic look. “Don’t let the ton pressure you. You’ll know when it’s the right time.”

You had fully made it around the square, now back in front of your house. Penelope was saying goodbye to Colin, at least for the moment. His Mother invited you and Penelope to dinner to welcome Simon and Daphne home, and so they’d see each other again in mere hours.

You gave Benedict a grateful smile, nodding. “You’re right. Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time to pull our siblings apart before they actually become attached at the hip. Mother wants us home before we join you later.”

Daphne chuckled, taking your hands in hers. “I think you’re right. I’ll see you soon, dearest.”

You squeezed her hands in yours, before going to gather your sister. You gave Colin a knowing smile, turning and heading inside with your sister in tow. The Bridgerton’s did the same, filing into their house one by one.

The second Benedict shut the door behind him, he collapsed against it, groaning. “What was all that for, Daph?”

“What? I was simply giving you both a little nudge. God knows you needed one. You’re even worse than Colin was, brother.”

“I don’t need a nudge. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Colin laughed, taking off his coat as he headed up the stairs. “I could hear your stuttering. It was laughable.”

“Oh, piss off,” Benedict pouted, waving away Colin as he chuckled the rest of the way up the stairs.

Daphne offered him a small smile, letting out a sigh. She took his arm, leading them to the sitting room. After promptly sitting down, she gave him an expectant look, and he reluctantly sat next to her.

“Out with it,” she urged. “Why did our conversation with Y/N bother you so?”

“I don’t know,” he huffed, shaking his head.

Daphne narrowed her eyes, speaking gently but firmly. “You do know, Benedict. Admit it. You feel something for her.”

“Does it matter? She doesn’t feel the same way.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Daphne exasperatedly asked, nearly bursting at the seams.

She knew of both your affections for each other, and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to tell either of you about the other. It didn’t feel right, going behind the other’s back. She had decided the moment she knew of each of your feelings to let the matter run its own course. What she hadn’t anticipated was it taking this long.

It was getting near impossible to keep the secret, and she decided a little meddling was excusable.

“She’s never said anything to me that would allude to her feeling anything for me. What would you have me do? Ask her directly?”

“There’s an idea,” Daphne shrugged.

Benedict sighed, trying to shove down the anxiety he felt at the thought of confronting you. “You saw me out there. I wouldn’t even know where to start. How do I talk to her?”

“You’ve known her as long as I have, brother. She’s your best friend! Just talk to her. She’ll understand, I promise. She won’t hurt your feelings if that’s what you’re worried about. You know she won’t.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m going to be sick at the mere thought of talking to her about it?”

Daphne smiled, her eyes softening. “Because you love her.”

Benedict’s shoulders fell, like Daphne just saying it out loud was the first time he was admitting it to himself. Like his feelings hadn’t fully sunk in, and now they were hitting him all at once like a freight train. It was a realization for him, and it both excited and terrified him at the same time. His emotion was clear on his face as his mouth fell open, making Daphne’s smile widen.

“Don’t worry, brother,” she reassured him. “It will all work out. I truly believe that. Take the afternoon to yourself, and keep your mind off of it till dinner. You’ll know the right thing to say when it’s time.”

—

That evening, you returned to the Bridgerton’s residence with Penelope.

The family gathered in the sitting room before dinner was ready, but Daphne pulled you away before you could follow. She took you all the way to the backyard, sitting down on the swing. She motioned for you to follow, and you took a seat on the swing next to her.

“I wanted to apologize about earlier,” she said softly. “I saw your face, I know I upset you. That wasn’t my intention, and I hope you can forgive me.”

You shook your head. “Don’t apologize. I needed to hear it. I might not like it, but I needed to hear it.”

“It hurt, Y/N. You don’t have to minimize that to spare my feelings. It’s alright to admit it. Do you…do you want to talk about it? I think there’s something more to it that’s bothering you, love.”

She was right.

Of course she was, she was always right. You sighed, turning to look back through the window into the house. You could see Penelope standing with the rest of the family, laughing at something Colin was telling her. He was smiling down at her like she had hung every star in the sky, just so he could have the chance to watch them sparkle. It was beautiful.

And it was painful.

“I just,” you started, keeping your eyes on Penelope. “I’m happy for her. I’m so happy for her. But I’m feeling a bit left behind.”

Daphne took your hand, leaning closer. “What do you mean?”

“I feel so selfish saying this, but…it’s what I want. She’s getting all that I want. All my life, I’ve wanted what you and your family have. You’re all so loved, and you love each other so deeply. Pen deserves that, I want her to have that. And I have no doubt that by the end of the season, she’ll have it. She’ll marry Colin, and officially be a Bridgerton. Part of the family. But she won’t be mine anymore. And I won’t be hers.”

Daphne frowned, squeezing your hand in hers. She turned you to meet her eyes, giving you a knowing look.

“I have a feeling this has more to do with a certain brother of mine. And I don’t mean Colin.”

You frowned, and she knew she was right.

“This is about Benedict. With Penelope being with Colin, it’s a reminder that you’re not with him. And you want to be with him.”

You couldn’t deny your feelings any longer. “I do. God, I really do. But it’s more than that. I want to be his family. I want to be your family.”

“And you’ve had to silently watch Penelope get what you’ve been waiting for,” Daphne said in realization, her heart breaking when you nodded.

Daphne stood up, pulling you with her. She wrapped you into a tight hug, refusing to relent until you hugged her back. You sighed in frustration, letting her gently rock you back and forth.

“Y/N,” she said softly, pulling away. “You’re already my sister. Regardless of who you end up with, whether it’s my brother or not. Wherever you end up, it doesn’t matter. You will always be my sister. You never have to worry about that. Not ever.”

You smiled softly, squeezing her hands. Just as you opened your mouth to speak, a throat cleared behind you. You quickly turned to see Benedict standing at the door.

“Mother told me to come collect you both. Dinner will be soon. Daph, Simon is asking after you.”

Daphne nodded, turning back to you. “Come along, then.”

“Actually,” Benedict interrupted, his eyes falling on you. “Could I have a moment alone with Y/N, please? If it’s alright with you.”

“Of course,” you said nervously, nodding towards Daphne.

Daphne smiled, nodding back. She patted Benedict on the shoulder as she headed back inside, closing the door behind her.

When she was gone, Benedict gave you a sheepish smile. He motioned for you to sit down, and you took a seat on the swing. He sat on the swing next to you, turning his body so that he was facing you. His knees brushed yours as he settled.

“What is it?” You asked, giving him all your attention.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

Your eyes softened on him, and you laid your hand on his arm. “I’m alright, Ben. Better now, since you’ve arrived.”

“Cheesy,” he smiled, but his heart was fluttering in his chest. “You know how to make a man smile, don’t you?”

“I didn’t think I was doing anything in particular,” you shrugged.

Benedict’s smile widened, and he couldn’t help but ponder his feelings for you. From the moment he found you alone on his doorstep, to when you took care of him at his lowest. From the way you treated his family, to the selflessness you never failed to put before your own wishes. From the way you made him feel, to the way he so desperately hoped you felt. He couldn’t stop himself from confessing, hoping his words wouldn’t come back to haunt him.

“I have to tell you something,” he murmured, taking a shuddering breath after he realized what he said, and what he was about to do.

You nodded. “What is it?”

“I think—and in case this is a huge mistake on my part, please forgive me—but, I think…I think I’m in love with you.”

You stiffened, standing up from the swing. “What?”

“I,” he stuttered, standing up as well. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was—”

You cut him off, taking his hands in yours. “Say it again.”

Benedict’s eyes widened, and you had caught him at a loss for words. He felt like you had punched him in the gut, sending him to his knees. But he nodded, squeezing your hands in his.

“I love you,” he said again, softer this time as he looked at you through gentle eyes. “I’ve loved you from the moment you got into that carriage with me, and I’ve loved you every moment since. I love you.”

Your shoulders fell, and you could feel the tears welling in your eyes. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, clinging tightly to his hands. You felt like your knees could give out, and the only thing holding you up was him.

“You’re not lying? You’re serious?”

Benedict almost laughed, nodding. “Yes, Y/N. I’m serious. Do you really think I would jest about this?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as well, bringing a hand up to cover your mouth. “All that time. All that time, and you couldn’t tell me? You certainly waited long enough.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, darling,” he said, cocking his head in confusion.

You were starting to worry him now, concern written all over his face. It made your heart clench in your chest.

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck. You were so happy, you couldn’t help but hold him close, smiling wider when you felt his arms wrap around your waist, despite his confusion. You held him tight, standing up on your toes so he could hear you loud and clear.

“I love you too, Benedict.”

He instantly pulled away, holding you back at arms length. “You what?”

“I love you,” you said again, taking his hands. “And I’ve been waiting ages for the day you’d finally tell me you felt the same. I never thought I’d hear you say the words, but I am so happy that you did.”

It was his turn to ask. “You’re serious? This isn’t a joke?”

You shook your head, and he squeezed your hands. You brought one of your joined hands up to press a kiss to the back of his, smiling up at him.

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my entire life.”

—

A/N - Hi! I’m so sorry this took so long, it took me a long time to figure out what I wanted to write. Not sure why this one was so difficult, but I finished it! I hope you enjoyed it :)

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton

2K notes · View notes

i-cant-sing · 11 months

Note

I don’t see any Castlevania asks and that makes me sad as HELL

How would (Y/N) react to Lisa’s burning? How would Dracula’s war court react to her? And Hector and Isaac?

I'm gonna go down the platonic route and make reader Lisa and Dracula's daughter, biological or kidnapped/adopted.

Obviously, any normal human would not react well to anyone being burned at the stake- ALIVE. And maybe when the villagers caught Lisa, they caught you as well and thought you were a witch too. They burned your mother first and just when they had started to burn you, Dracula came and swooped you up and away, along with his now dead wife's remains and while you passed out due to inhaling all the smoke, sustaining some minor burn injuries and well- EXHAUSTION AND TRAUMA, your father returned to slay the entire village and later wreak havoc on all of humanity. Really, a justified reaction from a family man.

Anyways, he returns home with you in his arms and then nurses you back to health all while killing everyone outside. Now, he may still be soft to you but you are absolutely forbidden from leaving the castle. Like you cant even go outside even if Dracula accompanies you. No, he's lost his wife and if youre their bio kid who is more human than vampire unlike your older brother Alucard, then Dracula is way more protective of you. After all, he did see you almost die and really, you remind him far too much of his wife, of her humanity and her kind heart to help others that eventually got her killed.

Initially, right after Lisa's death, Dracula didn't even allow you to even leave your room, too paranoid about some unknown force killing you and him not being able to save you in time. Eventually though, with other vampires and monsters(under his control obv) in the castle, he let you out of your room, but still not out of the castle, and thats when you found out that he had thrown out Alucard and (sort of disowned him??) because your brother was not in favour of Dracula either killing the world or locking you up.

Now, like I said before, Dracula is still soft for you but with Lisa's death he's become a little... emotionally crippled. He has too much pain and hatred inside him, and he's doing his very best that you dont end up on the receiving end of these very negative and very dangerous emotions. However, he sometimes... loses control. When you keep on persisting about how all of this is wrong, about how he shouldnt kill ALL humans, how he shouldnt lock you up or break what remains of this family, he lets his anger out on you. Only a little. He'd yell at you, tell you that you're far too stupid an naive and stubborn to understand what he's doing or why, ask if you're going to side with those murderers that you so desperately want to save over your own family? Are you that blind? He'd drag you back to your room, lock you in there because he wont have you questioning him like he's the bad guy here.

But soon after that, he'd be found sitting in front of one of Lisa's portraits, probably one where she's cradling baby you and he'd start talking to her, trying to explain himself, how he did not mean to blow up at you but you just wouldn't listen to him. The one sided conversation would always end with Dracula feeling guilty and he returns to your room with a heavy heart that just sinks more when he sees you asleep, tear streaks now drying on your cheeks. Sitting on your bed, he'd pet your hair, mumble something about how he loves you and cant afford to risk losing you, smiling softly when you shuffle closer to him.

Since Dracula knows Hector is loyal and sincere to him, he will allow you to have him as your friend. After all, you would need some company in the castle and vampire dad on murder spree is not exactly someone who is ideal for friendship at the moment. So, he permits and even encourages Hector to socialise with you and comfort you. And Hector has a bleeding heart too, so you're in luck because he will happily listen to you express your emotions and provide you with free therapy (he makes dead, one missing limb/eye puppies alive for you🥺) He just wanna protect u too, and while he doesnt agree with you being locked up in the castle, its better than the alternative. Also, has and will fight Isaac 1000% if he talks shit about you because youre human.

As for the court, they know that you are now the only thing dear to Dracula, and while one wouldnt say that you have the vampire king wrapped around your finger, he comes pretty close to it. But its no use really because they cant exactly use you to make Dracula listen to them... or can they?

Considering that you're pretty against the whole "Vampire uprising-kill all humans" plan, they cant persuade you to enslave or kill humans. What they can do is gain Dracula's favour by being... kind to you? Okay take Carmilla for example (because she's the only one I can remember from the court. Her and the brash, red haired vamp?) Now she's smart, she's manipulative and she knows exactly how to use this opportunity. She starts to befriend you by first agreeing that she understands why you're against your father's actions but also tells you that you must understand his decisions from his side. "Your mother was a kind woman, a brilliant doctor and from what I've heard, your father loved her very much. And if you've ever been in love, then you would understand why he's doing all of this." And of course Dracula overhears this because come on, nothing happens in his castle without his knowledge. So yes, he shows slight favouritism towards Carmilla among the court and he may allow her to hang around you a bit (only after Carmilla convinced him that you needed a female friend in your life, and its always better to be in her company than any of those perverted men of his court) but even then, Dracula doesn't completely trust her around you and so he wont allow you two be in contact often.

Dracula would also be way more conscious of your feelings with time, because he will realise eventually that he was far too caught up in his own pain and plan for vengeance that he forgot to see how you were coping with the loss of your mother. If any of the vampires are heard saying something even remotely mean to you, if he even hears Isaac even breathing in disgust at the sight of you because you were part human, they will be swiftly dealt with (girl, he murders them all).

You're his baby, his sweet human kid, his little princess and he wont have anyone or anything taking you away from him. (LET HIM PULL YOU IN HIS LAP AND WRAP HIS CLOAK AROUND YOU AND DRIFT OFF IN HIS ARMS BECAUSE YOU'RE THE ONLY WARMTH LEFT FOR HIS COLD DEAD HEART OMGGGG)

Ah i miss Castlevania asks too, platonic yandere castlevania asks especially. everyone send in ur asks.

(omg what about yandere brother Trevor Belmont?)

#yandere castlevania #yandere dracula #yandere alucard #yandere hector #castlevania x reader #yandere lisa tepes #dracula tepes #dracula x reader #dracula x reader x lisa

1K notes · View notes

sirenologyyy · 5 months

Text

RIGHT SIDE OF MY NECK!

neteyam x fem!metkayina reader

✧ summary : a certain sully boy can't admit he's smitten by one of the daughters of the olo'eyktan, but why would he? he's calculated and discerning and she's everything he wished he was.

✧ warnings : swearing (that's pretty much it LMAO)

✧ author's note : neteyam's 15, reader is older than tsireya by a year or so, some much needed lo'ak and neteyam brotherly bonding (after the trauma inducing hellscape that was atwow), lo'ak talking like a regular teenage boy, and in honor of it being December again, may i present to you, a neteyam fic that has been rotting in my drafts since April 🤩

A gravelly groan escapes your lips as your hands managed to shield your face, almost to hide yourself from the undisputable truth that you, along with your Tsireya, and your older brother Ao'nung had been roped into the evident mess that was to teach the children of Toruk Makto the ways of the Metkayina.

You weren't as prejudiced as Ao'nung, sneering at the Sully children whenever he'd run into them, so meticulously influenced by your mother's dislike towards Skypeople, let alone the Omaticaya.

You weren't as welcoming as your younger sister, who had greeted them with big grins that only further accentuated her dimples and her devout willingness to help Toruk Makto's family in any way she could. While you had resorted to mirthless smiles and polite nods whenever you'd come across one of them, it was unnatural, yes, Ao'nung was quite unfair with his treatment towards them, yes, but Tsireya's overall cheer and joviality was something you could not for the life of you reciprocate.

You were fine with them being here, although you couldn't say the same for most of your people.

The only real thorn in your side was the oldest.

Neteyam.

Oh how your blood boiled whenever you'd spot him in the crowd. Always so eager to help, so eager to please, so perfect, so good, it made you want to punch the living daylights out of him... Well, only slightly, that may be an exaggeration. Your hate for him might be particularly irrational but valid in all the worst ways.

"Can't you tell them I've been bitten by something?"

"No" Tsireya snorts.

"I've slipped collecting coconuts and dislocated my ankle"

"Stop moving so much sister, or I will mess up your hair"

It was like he was so anxious about keeping up the golden boy facade, what a show off, you thought. Going out of his way to help any way he could, helping carry baskets of dried fish across the village, pushing heavy boats off to sea, weaving baskets, seeing to the ilus, even the tsuraks at one point. It infuriated you. What did he had to gain?

If there was one thing you despised, it was try-hards.

And Neteyam Sully was the bane of your existence.

"Oh!" You had exclaimed, snapping your fingers. "You can tell them I have fallen off my ilu and got ripped apart by an akula"

Tsireya laughed. "Yes, like they would believe me"

With another scoff, you stare st your sister through the mirror, so engrossed in the braiding technique you'd requested for her to do on your hair. "I don't see why you're bringing me into your affairs sister, it is clear as day you only want to help out the Forest People because you like the way that boy kept looking at you yesterday"

Tsireya tugs at your half-finished braid, making you swear and rub at your head, bringing Tsireya some amusement out of this. "Now, be quiet, be still, let me do my job"

With a sour mood, you allow Tsireya to thread the shells you requested she put in, sitting up straighter. "Your job in being an absolute bitch?"

Tsireya sighs again, feeling her slump in frustration behind you. "Do you think it is so easy a job for me to constantly deal with your attitude?"

A smirk comes to your face as Tsireya knots your braid off. "Don't worry, all your efforts will be seen by Eywa, she might even make the boy tell you your hair looks nice today"

"Enough, Y/N" Tsireya says, standing up from her seat.

You stood as well, hooking your arm around Tsireya's as you left your pod. "Oh let me have my fun"

A dozen morbid thoughts suddenly flood Tsireya's mind. "If we do that I am afraid there will be nothing left of Awa'atlu when you are finished"

When you arrive, you immediately spot both the brothers sitting on the edge of the woven platform, their long legs dangling just above the water. They looked to be so immersed in a conversation that neither of them noticed you or Tsireya approach them, only when they were about 4 feet apart was when you clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

"Oh great mother, is it just the two of you?" Says you, making both the boys stand up like springs.

"No, our sisters are coming, they aren't exactly good at being early to things" says the younger one, his eyes flicking to Tsireya every now and then, making you dizzy trying to hold eye contact with the boy.

"Hey Tsireya" He finally says, nodding at her sister who laughs again. It took everything in you not to start dry-heaving in front of them.

"Why do you sound so disappointed?" Neteyam wonders, another smirk playing at his thin lips as he looks at you.

Your forehead creases. "I am nothing of the sort, what about you? What has gotten you so chipper?"

"Nothing all that special, really" He replied, not even convincing himself.

You heftily exhaled through your nose, moving away from the group and walking up on the platform, taking one of the seaweed bands on your arm to bunch your hair up just to get it out of your face. Once you'd pull your hair through the band the final time, you turned around just to see Neteyam's head turn away, almost like it was a chain reaction.

You placed your hands over the dip of your hips, facing the odd group. "Now, where has our dear brother wandered off to? It's almost noon and he is nowhere in sight"

This makes the rest of them look around for Ao'nung, even the two brothers who you'd assumed wanted nothing to do with him after your brother had showed his blatant contempt towards them after he'd ridiculed them during their arrival.

"He must still be with Rotxo and the others, we must be patient" says Tsireya.

Your mind remained closed, throwing your hands up in the air only for them to land on her hips with a thwack. "We both know Ao'nung does not move like the tide, he is too stubborn, too hard in the head " you found yourself saying, prodding a finger at your forehead.

"Patience, sister" Tsireya admonishes calmly, making her way towards you as you placed your hands on the identation of your woven skirt. "We must not rush things, we allow things to come to us at their own pace"

"Alright, alright" you tell her half-heartedly.

"Hey! Sorry, are we late?"

You turn her head to spot the two Sully sisters jogging up to the beach, the youngest out of all of them went straight for Neteyam, watching as he scooped her up with no hesitation. "Where in Eywa's name were you two?" Neteyam wonders, eyeing his sisters curiously.

The older girl rolled her eyes, pointing her chin at the youngest. "Couldn't decide on which skirt she wanted to wear"

The little girl pouts. "I didn't know which one I wanted!" She protested, her ears drooping down.

"She had two to choose from" the older sister groaned. Eyes finding yours as her grin widens, you chuckle to yourselves, having sisters was never a dull moment.

You two had bonded over that when you first helped her with her chores, although she seemed reluctant at first she accepted. Neither of you got anything done as you both found that snacking on dried seaweed and exchanging stories about your lives proved to be more fun.

"Maybe he isn't coming" says Neteyam's younger brother, subtly inching towards Tsireya while keeping everyone under the impression that he was trying to find Ao'nung just like she was, but in truth, all he wanted was to stand beside her. Tsireya didn't pick up on it at all, being the oblivious person she was, but Neteyam did, quietly chuckling to himself as he puts Tuk down, watching as she sprints towards the sand at full speed.

You shook your head at the sound of Tsireya's giggles and walks off the diving platform as well, making your way towards the beach to stretch your legs, walking along the coastline trying to kill time. That is until something tugs at your skirt, you turned around to see who it was but then looks down to see Neteyam's youngest sister, proudly holding a small conch shell in her hands, beaming up at you.

"They look just like the ones in your hair!" She exclaimed, a gigantic grin spreading across her face as you crouched to her level, taking the shell from her hands to study it. "It's a light purple, you don't have any purple shells yet"

"You're right, I don't have any purple shells in my hair yet do I?" You say in genuine amazement, holding it up against the sun, feeling the little girl scoot closer to you, but the shell had suddenly started to sprout 6 legs and you dropped it, startled by the animal and by the little girl's scream, you watch as it scurries back into the water, gone forever.

You turned back to the little girl who was visibly upset, another frown slowly forming on her face before you placed your hands on the little girl's shoulders. "Hey, we'll find another one around here somewhere, don't be upset"

She huffed, her shoulders rising and falling. "I didn't know there was something inside it, I really didn't"

You shook your head. "Neither did I, we both didn't know" you assured the younger girl, cupping her round face as her frown slowly started to shift into a smile. "Look, if we need to do this properly and find shells for my hair, I'm gunna need to know your name"

"Tuk!" She says. "My name's Tuk!"

"It's very nice to meet you Tuk"

"Really?" She giggled as you nodded. "What about you? What's your name?"

You beckoned her closer with a simple gesture of your fingers as you whispered your name into her ear.

"You've got a very pretty name" Tuk whispers as well, hiding her face behind her hands as she giggled.

"So do you" You had whispered all the same.

Tuk then looks back at the diving platform, and then back at you. "Y'know I think my brother is staring at you"

"Oh yeah? Why do you think that is so?"

The little girl scratches her head. "I don't know, he only stares at things he thinks looks nice or looks weird"

You grinned. "Does your brother think I look nice or weird?"

Tuk blinks. "I don't think you look weird"

"Would he think that?" Ka'leia emphasized.

"Probably" Tuk replies honestly, looking back at the diving platform again. "Why else does he keep staring at you?"

It made you think, it made your mind spiral into the bottomless void of memories in which you had caught a pair of warm amber eyes catch yours, and every time you did it made your heart stutter, however unfortunate it may be. "I'm not so sure either"

"Neteyam's weird" Tuk deduced.

You snort. "Yeah, he's weird"

Silence settles between you, but not for long as Tuk takes your hand and pulls you up. "Can we go and find shells now? Then we can put them in your hair! Then you'll look pretty!"

"Am I not pretty now?"

"No, not really" says Tuk, swinging your interlocked arms back and forth as her wide eyes scanned the sand.

"No?" You wonder almost scandalised, "alright " you nod.

You and Tuk spent a good couple of minutes digging holes on the beach to fish out the shells that had been buried underneath the sand, conch shells, shards of shells, fossils, rocks, bits and pieces of coral, if it was pretty enough for Tuk's standards she's adding it to her pile.

5 minutes later you're following her around with an armful of tiny shells, half the beach full of holes from Tuk and her makeshift shovel that had originally been a branch, with her screaming in delight when she's spotted another one, hurriedly running to you to add it in with the rest.

Lo'ak abruptly places his hands on Neteyam's shoulders, purposefully trying to scare him but Neteyam does not flinch at all. "Yo bro, you got a staring problem or something?" He wonders in English, stepping beside Neteyam to look out into the beach too.

"You done flirting with Tsireya?" Neteyam shot back.

Lo'ak huffed. "Pfft, me? Tsireya?"

"I know your tell, your tail's a dead giveaway"

Lo'ak laughs, punching Neteyam's shoulder, finally making the older boy turn to face him. "Yo! Shut your ass up!"

Neteyam chuckles. "No one else here understands English bro, we're fine!"

Lo'ak shook his head. "I'm not worried about the Metkayina, I'm worried about that devil right there" He says, pointing at the beach.

Neteyam looks at the direction where Lo'ak was pointing. "Who? Tuk?

"She's got spot on hearing, incredible memory," Lo'ak listed. "If I'd have known how much of a tattletail she'd be I'd have abandoned her in the forest when she was a baby"

Neteyam frowns, laughing. "Yes, and when I'd get home I'd find your extra finger in my stew"

Lo'ak grimaces, almost gagging as Neteyam wiggles one of his fingers at him. "Disgusting!"

Neteyam cackles loudly, watching as Lo'ak covered his mouth. "You're overreacting!" He tells him.

"Nah bro, you don't get to fill my mind with those kinda thoughts" Lo'ak says.

Neteyam places a hand on his back. "Face it baby bro, i'm in your head"

Lo'ak pushes it away, chuckling. "Lay off!"

"Will you two ever go a day without fighting eachother?" Kiri asks, giving them a look.

"Not sure" says Lo'ak. "But I wouldn't hold my breath"

Kiri rolled her eyes and Lo'ak turns to Neteyam again. "If Ao'nung isn't coming then we might as well fetch him, if you catch my drift"

Neteyam shakes his head, his braids swishing from side to side. "No, we will do no such thing"

Lo'ak half shrugs, already moving away. "Fine, if you won't then I will"

Neteyam grabs his arm, stopping his brother in his tracks. "Hey, what did dad say?"

He pretends to think. "Not sure, something about you being the next poster boy of the clan?"

Neteyam flicks a finger on Lo'ak's forehead, making the younger boy hiss. "No, you skxawng, he wants us to be on our best behavior, and I don't want to be stopping you from pulling another shitty stunt that'll get you in trouble"

"Fine" Lo'ak says. "I'll go check up on Tuk," He tells Neteyam unconvincingly, scratching the side of his head. "What's up with you and wanting to stay on the beach?"

Neteyam's jaw tightens. "There's nothing that's keeping me here except my promise to dad"

"Uh-huh" Lo'ak nods, eyes flicking to you and Tuk. "Nothing or no one?"

"I don't know what you're talking about"

Lo'ak frowns, pretending he understood. "She's pretty hot"

Neteyam pays him no mind, only scoffing.

"She still avoiding you?" Lo'ak asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yes, and I can't seem to find the reason why" Neteyam huffed.

Lo'ak snickers. "Maybe it's cuz you're coming off a little too strong"

"I don't know how else I can get her to talk to me without her insulting every fibre of my being or making up some excuse to leave, I've tried everything" He replies desperately, causing Lo'ak's eyes to go wide, a whistle leaving his mouth. "Damn that bad??? What the hell did you do to her to make you hate her this much?"

Neteyam rakes his face with dread. "I don't know baby bro, but you have no idea what I would do to find out the reason why"

His brother was too down-bad to be saved, Lo'ak knew that much, looking across the beach as he studies you with his little sister. Neteyam looks at his brother, his eyes seemingly trained on you as it flicks up and down, he slaps his brother's arm. "It's rude to stare"

"Yeah, go tell that to them" Says Lo'ak, pointing at a handful of Metkayin boys passing by, giving you stolen glances as they talked amongst themselves, chuckling and hooting.

Neteyam's eyes narrow into slits. "They're irrelevant, we must not let ourselves become like them"

Lo'ak glances at him, clearly unconvinced. "Yeah, okay, so stop looking"

"Fine, I won't" Neteyam replies quickly, watching Lo'ak turn around and walk to the edge of the platform. But he dosen't stop looking, he hated himself for it for it and the way that it was practically eating himself alive.

Wasn't it such a simple task? To turn his head around and look somewhere else? Well it should be, but Neteyam couldn't bring himself to pry his eyes away from you, you, oh Eywa. Your eyes were the colour of the sea, your hair shiny and black, your smile making his stomach twist itself into knots, your laugh making shivers run up his back, the way you dressed alone would make people turn heads, but your attitude was what drew Neteyam in.

You didn't feel the need to keep up this respectful facade, treat him like a guest because it was expected of you as the daughter of the Olo'eyktan, no, you treated him the way you thought of him.

You were rude, you were impolite, and you were blunt, because you didn't like him. You didn't feel inclined to tolerate him just like what was expected of you. He wished he was that brave.

"'Teyam! 'Teyam look what I got!" Tuk squealed as the pair of you walked up the diving platform carrying mountains of shells on your palms. "Y/N told me she and 'Reya could put these in my hair after diving lessons! Isn't that cool?!?"

"Oh Tuk, you didn't force her into braiding your hair did you?"

Tuk looks back at you for moral support. "But she said she would-"

"-Neteyam let her be, if she wants me to braid her hair then I'd be happy to" you had jumped in, siding with Tuk whose ears flicked upwards at her statement. "I hope it isn't too infuriating that I favour your sisters over you"

Neteyam wanted to scoff, but instead stifles it with a tight smile. "Nonsense, my sisters have that effect on everyone" He tells her, looking at Tuk. "Don't you?"

Tuk simply gives him a giggle, a swift nod, and then runs to Kiri, shouting her name over and over again before the older girl groans in acknowledgement. "Here," you say, handing him a conch shell with yellow and brown patterns ruminating on its surface.

"What's this for?" He wonders.

"Your sister practically dug up the entire beach, you deserve at least one" you chuckled.

Oh. He stares at the shell in your hands, then looks back at your face. "If I take this does this mean we'll be friends?" He asks, a sly smile breaking on his face.

"Oh you wish" You reply, smirking as you narrow your eyss at the boy. "Taking this won't change anything"

"Yes it does," He replies as a matter of factly. "this is the longest conversation we've ever had without you leaving or insulting me"

"No it dosen't" You shook your head, insistent. "I'll still hate you after this"

He hums. "I think I can live with that," He smiled. "I did get a gift from the daughter of the Olo'eyktan after all" He laughs when he hears you scoff.

You leave right after he takes it and right before he could say thank you. Walking off to find a basket to store more of Tuk's shells in.

Neteyam looks at the shell in his hands, about 2 and a half inches long, smooth, shiny, perfect, it was perfect. He loves it. He closes his fist, a smile breaking on his face before he could even relent it, a light purple tinting his cheeks as he places the shell in one of his pockets.

#avatar the way of water #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam sully x y/n #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x you #atwow neteyam #neteyam x metkayina!reader

543 notes · View notes

fieldofdaisiies · 6 months

Text

Just a Little Bit Of Your Heart pt. III

ship: Azriel x Reader type: angst word count: 3,1k warnings: talk about childhood trauma, birth summary: the day has come..... fic masterlist

She is so small. So fragile. But so full of life and joy. And she is so strong.

Around him time stands still. There is just Azriel and the tiny little babe. She is so much smaller than he ever imagined a baby to be, so much smaller than a normal child at birth is. So much smaller than Nyx was.

She is wrapped in a soft, pink blanket that seems far too large for her fragile figure. Her skin is nearly translucent and her eyes are tightly shut. And Gods, there is her tiny little nose, and the little pouted mouth. She got that from you, Azriel is sure about that.

He can't look away, eyes trailing over the little life in his arms. And Cauldron! His arms, his hands, his whole body seems too big to be holding such a tiny, little, fragile being. He is scared he might crush her if he makes one wrong move.

And then there are her wings, peeking out from behind the blanket, folded in brhind her small frame.

She is beautiful, just like her mother. The biggest tiny wonder he has ever seen in his entire life.

The shadowsinger feels an overwhelming sense of responsibility and vulnerability. He is a father now. This tiny being is truly his child — your child. She depends on you, on him, will need him, and he will protect her with his whole life. Until his last day.

With absolute care, she is lying on Azriel's bare chest, skin to skin, the warmth of his body providing her with comfort and love. He can feel her heart beating against his.

A tiny little fighter, Azriel thinks, who wanted to see the world and would let nothing stop her.

A fine dusting of raven hair covers her small head and and Azriel lets his finger, which seems huge compared to her tiny hands, dance over her head. It is so soft, and a tear slips out of his eye.

Her breaths are shallow, like delicate whispers and Azriel finds himself marvelling at the miracle in his arms. This is his daughter! His flesh and blood. He created this wonder. With you.

Tears fill his eyes as he looks down at the baby cradled against him. His emotions just like the tears pour out of him, and he starts to cry.

No tears of sadness, but of sheer happiness over the life in his hands.

He doesn't know about your state yet, does not know how you are doing. Madja had only told him that the birth went well, but you lost a lot of blood. He hasn’t been allowed inside yet, and so Azriel and the little baby are alone, waiting for you.

But still he allows himself to be happy in this moment. He holds onto the kernel of hope taking root in his chest. The kernel of hope that tells him you are fine. That you will meet your little baby.

He can't wait to introduce her to you, see the look on your face when he tells you that your baby is a girl. And that she is fit and alive.

His burning tears fall onto the baby's head. He has never felt like this before. Not once in his life. He feels an enormous amount of responsibility and so do his shadows, swirling around him, gently brushing over the little baby's head, and her tiny hands.

"Keep her safe," Azriel whispers to them. "Protect her, like you protected me." They listen to his command, gently resting atop her, stroking her skin.

Azriel never wants to look away from her again. She's so small, so incredibly small. He can't help but compare her to the size of his scarred hand which looks ginormous next to her (not to mention what it looks like next to her tiny hand).

He knows there will come a day where he has to explain the scars to her, and he will do so. He will tell her everything, and most importantly protect her from everything. Nothing will ever happen to her. She will have the best childhood any child could ever hope for. He will be the kind of father he has never had, the kind of father every child deserves.

His heart aches with the desire to protect her from all harm, to shield her from the brutality and harshness of life. And he knows that until his last breath he will do so, keeping her safe forever.

And not only her. Also you. He will be the best…male for you. The kind of male you deserve. There is a future, a bright one, for the two of you, he knows this. It is no lie that he loves you, and that not only because you now have a child together.

He loves you and has loved you since the first night you've been intimate. He's just never thought about the possibility of meeting you again. But he had always had hope. For no other reason had he followed the beckons to meet him. The letter had arrived and his heart had started to flutter, his chest warmed and something had tugged at his ribcage.

You created life that night, but you also lay the foundation for a future. A future together.

Azriel's gaze returns to the tiny bundle in his arms. He becomes acutely aware of every breath, every heartbeat, every tiny movement of her body. He feels the rise and fall of her chest against his.

Azriel can't wait to sing her to sleep — every night if needed, you cuddled to his chest as well.

Sometimes the little bundle mewls a little, but Azriel is quick to sway her the slightest bit and everything is fine again. It is almost like she hums when he traces the tip of his finger over her chubby cheek, and her forehead. She still looks a little crumbled, but that will fade.

Time slips away, and he's not sure how long they stay like this. Minutes, hours, days, it doesn't matter in this very moment he shares with his daughter. His first time holding her.

He had always been so afraid to hold a child. Never seen himself worthy of it. Always thought he was too big, a brute, to hold a little baby. But now that she is here in his arms, it feels so right. He is still netvous and a little scared, but somehow with every breath she takes, she eases his tension.

The shadowsinger is acutely aware of the baby's every movement, her every breath, and little noise. But then…it seems like her tiny mouth searches for food, parting and quivering and then she starts to cry. He doesn't know what to do, has not been provided with a bottle or anything. He tries to sway her but it does not work and—

"Azriel." His head snaps up towards Madja and every ounce of happiness whooshes out of him. She is pale, her eyes a little empty, her clothing stained with deep red blood.

Panic sends an icy shiver throughout his whole body, the worst possible ideas filling his brain. It is only the baby's crying that fetches him back to reality.

He wants to ask Madja for a bottle, but also about you. There is so much to ask, so many thoughts. It becomes overwhelming and Azriel is suddenly very happy he is sitting down, his head starting to feel dizzy.

"She is awake."

The tears start to come anew, filling his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. He almost breaks down when he gets up, the only thing grounding him his little baby. "She is hungry," Azriel expresses, the only thing he can say in this moment of utter happiness.

"Then she needs her mother to feed her," Madja smiles, exhaustion etched upon her features. "Come on, let her meet her baby." Madja takes Azriel by the elbow, knowing he needs this support right now, and guides him into the room where you are waiting for them.

He is gently holding the tiny bundle in his arms when his eyes land on you. The little girl has calmed down, almost like she can sense something tremendous is about to happen — she is going to meet her mother now for the first time, and this might have calmed her. She is silent again, bubbling a little, but no longer crying.

The faelights next to the bed cast a warm and comforting glow upon you. You look exhausted, worn, but there is smile on your face. It is a tired smile, but one full of love and happiness.

Azriel's heart races as he approaches the bed.

"Hey you," he says softly, his voice a mix of tenderness and excitement. "We became parents to a beautiful and fit baby girl."

The smile on your lips widens, your eyes glowing brightly. "Everly," you whisper. "I want to call her Everly." You try to sit up a little, wanting to catch a glimpse of your baby girl.

How is she? What does she look like? What does she smell like? How tiny is she?

There are so many questions and soon you will have all the answers.

Azriel, his eyes aglow like golden strings are woven into the deep brown of chocolate, nods and smiles, nothing but relief and joy flooding his entire being. "It is a beautiful name."

The spymaster carefully climbs onto the bed with you, and kisses the top of your head. "You did it, Y/N. You are so strong, the same fighter as our little girl." Tears cloud his vision.

He leans closer and meets your teary gaze. You draw in a deep inhale and extend a trembling hand towards the baby, your fingers brushing against the tiny fingers of your daughter, over her nose and her cheeks. "She's perfect," your whisper, your voice hoarse and your tears tasting salty on your lips. "And her tiny wings. They look like yours."

Your fingers brush over the tips of them, and you find yourself marvelling at the tiny wonder in Azriel's arms. She is truly perfect! A gift. A miracle.

"Do you want to hold her?"

"Yes," you answer, wanting nothing more than to hold the little bundle in your arms, feel her little heart beat and smell her. Warmth fills your chest, just like an enormous amount of bliss.

You meet his gaze and reach your hands out.

Azriel carefully places the baby your arms, as gently as possible, ensuring the little one is always secure. Your eyes once again fill with tears as you gaze down at…Everly.

It is the name you have chosen a long time ago. If it was a girl, you wanted to name her Everly. It is perfect.

Your fingers tremble as you brush over the dusting dark hair on her small head. "She is so tiny," you whisper and meet Azriel's gaze.

He nods. "Only 800 gramme."

Oh Gods! "She is practically nothing." Your dry lips part and for a moment you turn to look at Azriel, his eyes trained on your baby girl.

"So fragile, I am scared I will break her."

"You won't," you assure him. He lifts his scarred hand and lets it rest beside her head, softly caressing her chubby cheek with his index finger.

You stay like this for a moment- minutes, hours, days, it doesn’t matter. The three of you are together and nothing else matters.

Until, Everly once again starts mewling, her lips bubbling and then a grimace spreads all over her face.

You ask Azriel to get Madja, she has not yet explained so much about how breast feeding works. She comes to help you, helps you put Everly to your breast, and the little baby quickly suckles happily, the sweetest baby noises leaving her.

Azriel watches the two of you in awe, leans in and rests his cheek against your shoulder, his hand moving over Everly, resting on her body. Everly, having wiggled one arm free, wastes no second before curling her tiny little fingers around Azriel's index finger, her fingers barely reaching around.

A tear slips out of the corner of Azriel's eye and he swallows thickly, fighting against the dryness in his throat. He turns his head and presses a soft kiss to your warm and clammy skin.

"Are you scared, Y/N?" The question catches you off guard and startles you.

Your forehead furrows and you shake your head. "About what exactly?"

"How we will—No—" He cuts himself off and finally lifts his gaze to you. "How I will do as a father."

"You will be a great father," you say and mean it. Your expression is sincere — you want him to see the honesty in your statement. Want him to see that he will be a great father.

Silence falls over you for a moment. But then Azriel draws in a deep, ragged breath. "I'm scared," he confesses, his expression clouded with the shadows of the past — of his own upbringing.

You focus on his eyes, concern etched on your features.

He sighs, his gaze dropping to the tiny fingers curled around his. "I'm so scared that I'll become a bad father. Like mine was. What if I turn into him?"

Your heart clenches, and you slide your hand over his, holding it tightly. "You won't be like him. You will be a great father."

He eventually meets your gaze, the weight of his past flashing in his eyes. "I will try my best to not be like him…my childhood…it was awful."

He meets your eyes, the weight of his past haunting the depths of his gaze. "I hope so. But my childhood… it was awful."

You stay quiet, encouraging him to open up about the feelings he has kept locked away behind iron bars in his mind for centuries.

"My stepbrothers," he begins, his voice shaky, "they treated me miserably. I was the outsider, the one who didn't belong. They made me feel like I was a burden, a mistake, the worst person in their life."

Your heart aches for the young boy he once was, trying to survive in a world that wasn't very kind to him. "That is awful," you whisper to him.

"You probably wondered how I got…these wounds." He swallows thickly. "They burned them. My father did nothing, only punished me again and again."

Your heart clenches, the pain so strong and poignant it makes you feel nauseas. You squeeze his hand tighter, feeling a tear slip down your cheek.

"But I don't want to talk about it now. We can talk about it another time." Azriel looks at your daughter, his eyes shimmering with tears. "I want to be better for her. I want her to have a father who loves her unconditionally, who protects her from the world. I want to be the kind of father I've never had."

Tears well up in your eyes as you lean in to kiss his forehead. "And you will be. You will be the best father she could ever hope for. The best father I could have ever dreamed of for my little baby."

He manages a small smile, but his heart continues to feel heavy. "I want her to have all the love she deserves. I want her to feel nothing but happiness."

You nod. "She will get all the love she deserves. We'll surround her with love. She will be so happy, and we will be a great family for her."

He takes a deep breath, his fingers tracing patterns on the baby's blanket. "I want to believe that. I want to be the father she deserves."

"You already are," you insist, your voice unwavering. "Look at her. She's so lucky to have you as her father."

He glances at the sleeping babe, a mixture of awe and trepidation in his eyes. "I never knew I could love someone so much."

A tender smile graces your lips. "I'm very grateful to have you, Azriel. I'm very grateful how everything turned out. How the thing between us…turned out." You swallow and lean your head against his. "I'm…I am so happy we are a family now. That you didn't leave me alone to deal with everything."

"I'm grateful that you allowed me to be part of this journey and that it won't end here. That we will have a future together." He kisses the top of your head and Everly finally stops suckling. You lift her up and let her burp and just a second later she drifts into a peaceful slumber, head resting against your chest. Azriel helps you button up your shirt again and then lies down in bed with you.

You hold your daughter more gently, adjusting your embrace and silence falls over the room. But only for a moment.

Azriel leans in, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. "Remember when you asked me for just a little bit of my heart?"

You nod, index finger tracing an idle circle about the tiny baby's head.

"You have all of it." Azriel smiles, and a single tear rolls down his cheek. "You and Everly have my whole heart. I love you," he murmurs. He wiggles one arm free and curls it around your shoulders, holding you tightly. You relish in the warmth of his body, how solid his chest is and how protected you feel in his arms, in his hold.

Your own cheeks are wet with tears and your chest trembles a little. "I love you. And you have my whole heart as well."

A small sob leaves Azriel, his heart swelling with love and pride. "She has your strength," he says. "I can see it. She is just as strong as you are and will turn into the same amazing female as her mother."

The shadowsinger sniffs. Joy glistens in your eyes. "I can't believe she's finally here. I love her so much, our sweet, little girl. Can you believe she is actually here? In our arms?"

"It is somehow unbelievable…" Azriel sniffs again. "That we created such a beautiful life. That this little wonder is truly our daughter."

Together, you admire your baby, hearts bursting with love and gratitude. You will never be able to thank the Mother enough for the small miracle (actually the large miracle) in your arms.

And somehow…it has all been fate. You and Azriel have probably also been meant to become parents to this little girl. It was destiny. It had to happen exactly like this.

In that quiet room, the world outside fades into insignificance.

As you drift off to sleep, Azriel never stops stroking your arm, his scarred fingers moving up and down, up and down, his other hand placed on the little baby. His shadows accompany him, following the motions of his hand, stroking the baby's head gently and massaging your shoulders, easing the tension from the birth.

"You are my happiness. You are my home," Azriel whispers into the silence of the room. "And my heart is all yours."

tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii@nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22 @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @callmeblaire

#azriel x reader #azriel #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #acotar #acosf

717 notes · View notes