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hismourningflower · 2 months

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— AMONG THE DATA | honkai star rail fanfiction. dan heng x gn!reader | fluff, mutual pining | requested work. ⋆ friends to lovers, mutual pining, probably an ooc dan heng, reader is shorter than dan heng, there's a lot of simping and people who aren't good with emotions

⋆ thank you for the request dear !! this was requested by @lovingluxury !!

Okay, but what about Dan Heng x librarian!reader (can be gn) who has opened a library in the express (with pompoms consent of course)? When he is not working on an entry for the archives, he’s with you in the library watching you work.

— DATA HAS BEEN UPLOADED! send an ask to join the taglist; specify genshin, honkai or both! @lovingluxury, @dumbificat, @starryshinyskies, @ryuryuryuyurboat, @ainescribe

pom pom had taken your request well when you'd boarded the astral express with caelus at your side, march 7th trailing behind with the biggest grin on her face. that's a well known sign that there's trouble on the horizon but how could pom pom not trust caelus after all he'd done? he was a reliable member of the nameless and now, after march and caelus presented their ideas to pom pom, so was you.

nonetheless you were a bookstore owner tired of the dreary life presented to you in a city with a lack of fellow book lovers. when they'd met you, caelus and march only had one person on their mind; dan heng. 'why not open a library on the express?' caelus had suggested, his hands clasping a dusty tome you'd acquired a few amber eras ago. march grinned, chiming up from where she was swatting a cloud of dust away from her face, 'yeah! you can travel with us and set up your store whether we stop!'

these were very good ideas, you admit and so you had shyly followed them onboard the astral express, grand and refined in all of its glory. it smells of rich coffee beans and well cared for plush velvet couches in the parlor car. with pom pom's consent, you officially had your own personal library onboard the astral express, travelling the cosmos with new friends at your side - and not to mention the small store you'd set up whenever the express docked somewhere, business was booming well.

the main reason behind caelus and march's plans was going too well to be true, almost. with your library and dan heng's data bank, the express was almost a walking embodiment of knowledge - if it had legs, that is but that's besides the point! the two of you were commonly found together, side by side with your heads deep in literature and data as if it was the last thing in the cosmos.

"do you prefer them categorised this way?" you voice chimes into the quiet of the library car, decorated by rows upon rows of books and tomes and the occasional plant that pom pom had insisted on. dan heng lifts his head from the data he'd projected on the small circular table he sat at, admiring how you were testing new ways to organise your books upon his own opinion.

he liked being included that way, able to interject his opinion and you'd always take it so sweetly. he valued that as much as you valued his opinion, the feeling of being seen and appreciated. perhaps, he wonders if that's why he found himself drowning himself in your presence between stops; between the gruelling tasks that came with being a trailblazer. you were comforting, a safe place among the data.

realising he'd never responded to your question, he blinks and a crack of a smile forms on his face. you almost smile instantly at the sight as he speaks up, "what's next? colour coordinated?"

you shrug, a melodic laugh erupting from you as you turn back to your organising. dan heng relaxes, a sigh of relief coming from him as heat creeps up his neck, flushing his cheeks. by the aeons, what did you do to him? little did he know, the moment you turned away, your teeth tugged at your lower lip, unable to force back that lovesick grin as your hands idly dawdled with leather-bound books.

"maybe i can create a rainbow out of all the colours we store here," you comment in response after a few moments of recollecting yourself - dan heng doesn't miss how you use the word 'we' when referring to the library, "y'think pom pom would like that?"

we. dan heng's heart flutters, unsure when he'd suddenly 'adopted' this little library with you but he wasn't complaining, deciding to occupy himself as his hand swipes at the data, the hologram flicking to the next page of information on a planet far away. a hum of agreement rumbles from his chest and then the library falls back into a comfortable silence with only the faint phonograph from the parlor car to accompany your breathing.

maybe this is the opportunity to spill your feelings, you consider as you sneakily glance over at dan heng's concentrated form. the dark haired man's eyebrows furrow, creating small wrinkles on his forehead in thought and you wonder what he's thinking about. a shaking sigh escapes your parted lips as you clear your throat, about to speak up.

"can we talk-"

"-there's something i want to talk to you-"

the pair of you blink, staring at each other for a few moments as it comes to your realisation that you'd both uttered the intentions of starting a 'talk' at the same time, your words blurring over each other in nervous tones and bated breaths. dan heng smiles weakly, waving his hand to you.

"sorry, you first." he laughs awkwardly, leaning back in the chair he'd been perched on for hours now. your hands tremble as you try to keep yourself occupied, a battle with your nerves as you slide a thick book back onto the shelf in front of you.

"this is... going to sound really odd- and it's okay if you don't feel the same way or anything! i just think it'd.. be for the best if i just get it off my chest instead of bottling it up further-" you're rambling, an anxious mess that can barely breathe in between their words until dan heng cuts you off, his eyes sparkling in the overhead lights of the library car.

"are you... confessing to me?" he asks, holding his breath as his mind whirls for a moment. you pause, nodding in embarrassment. you're about to speak again when dan heng quickly continues, "i feel the same - i mean, that's what i wanted to talk about... too..."

he what? your thoughts are a jumbled mess, heat rushing through your every limb as you both stare at each other, processing the situation. oh aeons, you'd both gone to confess at the same time? among pages that hold secrets and hear all but never speak, among your own very special version of data compared to that of dan heng's data bank?

smiles creep onto both of your faces, you can't deny the lovesick feeling driving you as you take hesitant steps towards where he sits and dan heng rises to his feet, lanky cold hands finding your warm cheeks and cupping them so delicately as you stand before him. your breaths mingle, closer than perhaps either of you had expected when you both stepped into the library car that morning.

in the mix of breathing and trembling hands, your eyes gloss over each other's faces. they drink over the insecurities you love about the other, the soft appearance of their lips and the way their eyes shine in the harsh light. moments later, lips press together in a gentle kiss that say more than words could ever convey.

pom pom had taken your request well, yes. because they were onboard with caelus and march's convenient plotting. in their own defence, they claimed to have been merely trying to draw dan heng out of his room, away from his beloved data that he sleeps among. in the response to the library's opening, he would shuffle to your library whenever the silence of the data bank got a tad too loud, when it echoed in his ears and the past came back to creep into his mind.

you silenced it, your smile warm and inviting the moment he would slide open the car's door and step inside. you assumed he just wanted your presence, his eyes lingering on data about who-knows-what but at the end of the day, dan heng loved watching you work - he loved you.

now you were his, among the data and the books you both surrounded yourself in.

⊹˚₊‧───────────────‧₊˚⊹

#( sealed letters )#・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#© thexianzhoujade #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #dan heng #dan heng x reader #hsr dan heng #dan heng fluff #hsr fluff

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proxima-writes · 11 months

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the last great american dynasty

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 6.8k (whoops)

summary:

Joel Miller has loved the historic Victorian home in his neighborhood since the first time he laid eyes on it. When the elderly owner passes, he thinks he might get his chance to finally buy it and fix it up.

He doesn’t expect to find you, the granddaughter of the previous owner and trustee of her estate, standing in the way of his dream

author's note:

inspo board this work is inspired by taylor swift's song "the last great american dynasty" and is part of the folklore album anthology! if you enjoy, please consider reblogging/commenting and make sure to check out the other works by the amazing collaborators on this project.

tags/warnings:

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), explicit language, no physical description of reader, no use of y/n, work contains journal entries as part of the plot, porn with plot, pre-outbreak!joel, grandma is a named OFC, sassy reader, dirty talk, teasing, praise, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), vaginal fingering, paint as a flirting mechanism, mild enemies to lovers, pet names. let me know if there are any missing!

August 20, 1948

I have arrived in Texas. I am uncertain where to go or what to do. For so long I’ve answered only to George, but now I am my own woman and the world before me has suddenly become much bigger, seemingly overnight.

I just hope it will be good for me.

-R

PRESENT DAY

If there’s one thing you never expected, it’s to inherit a mansion from a grandmother that you’ve never spoken to. As far as you were aware that kind of thing only happened in movies, so receiving a phone call from an estate lawyer that had been trying to locate you for a whole year since this mystery woman’s passing was a complete shock.

Now you find yourself with a car full of your belongings driving cross country to a sleepy suburb of Austin, Texas. The first stop is the lawyer’s office, where a secretary eyes you warily as you sit in the lobby of the lush office suite, fingers toying with a loose thread on the t-shirt you’d been wearing for the last eight-hour leg of your road trip.

A voice calls your name from a door just past the secretary’s desk, an older man with white hair and a deeply wrinkled face smiling kindly at you. You stand, shaking his hand as you pass by him into his office. He gestures to the wingback chairs that face his impressive dark wood desk. You take in the diplomas on the wall and the floor to ceiling bookshelves lined with thick, leather bound tomes.

“I appreciate you comin’ all the way out here so quickly. You were quite the tough one to find,” the man says with a chuckle. He pulls out a thick envelope, cream colored with swooping, swirling handwriting across the front reading your name. “Your grandmother was a dear friend of mine. She established a trust in your name not long after you were born.”

“I’m sorry, I guess I’m still a little confused. I didn’t even know I had a grandmother,” you admit quietly. He nods solemnly.

“She never told me all the details, but there had been a falling out between her and her daughter. They kept their distance after that.” When you don’t say anything, mind too busy racing with the questions that you suppose only your mom can answer now, he continues. “Would you like the review the details of the trust?”

“Um, sure. I guess that’s why I’m here, after all.”

He slips a piece of paper from the folder, sliding it across the desk. The same swirling handwriting fills the page.

My Dearest,

You may not know me, but I’ve watched you grow in photographs and letters since you were born. You mean the world to me, even if I could not fit in the world that your mother created for you. I respected that choice, hurt though it may have. She had her own path to forge, just as I did, and just as you will. I am eternally grateful for the parts of her life she did share after she left.

In the event of my passing, I leave my estate to you in its entirety. I built my true happiness in those walls, and I hope you can do the same.

-R

You read the letter twice, eyes stinging with tears. A tissue box slides across the desk, and you pluck two sheets out gratefully.

“In this envelope are the more official documents. The deed transfer that will need your signature, beneficiary statements for her banking and savings accounts, things like that. My office will handle all the paperwork filing,” the man says. A few more forms are laid out on the desk, and you lean forward to read them.

“Holy shit,” you snap, eyes wide as you swipe the beneficiary statement from the wood. “There must be too many zeroes in this, right? Or a rogue comma? That can’t be the right amount.”

“I assure you that’s the correct amount,” he says with a laugh. “And if you’ll sign down there, it’ll be transferred to your name and designated account.”

Your mouth goes dry as you read through the rest of the documents. In addition to the sizeable amount of money about to hit your bank account, there’s a five-bedroom house being transferred into your name, as well as a safety deposit box. You sign each form where directed, sliding them back over to the lawyer.

“I believe this is yours,” he says, holding a house key out to you. He drops it into your open palm. “Good luck.”

“I wish they would just put that place up for sale already,” Joel grumbles from the passenger seat of his brother’s truck as they drive by the out-of-place 1920s Victorian home on their way to a job site.

“You’ve been sayin’ that for the past year since that poor old woman passed,” Tommy says with a laugh. “Give it up, brother. Your dream house is just goin’ to rot away before your eyes.”

“Don’t you say that,” Joel replies. He doesn’t need Tommy speaking his fear into the universe.

The house has already been showing signs of falling apart in the last ten years Joel has lived in the neighborhood. The roof needs work, the shutters need replacing, the lawn is overgrown, and there’s a sizable hole in the wrap-around porch that seems to get bigger over time.

He’s wanted that house since the first time he saw it while he was house hunting ten years ago, a then three-year-old Sarah on his hip as he toured a nice little house that was available in the neighborhood at the time. While the home he’s built with his daughter through long days of hard work is nothing to scoff at, he’s always dreamed of something with more character and story.

He just hopes he’ll get his chance.

You stare up at the old house in front of you, shielding your eyes from the late afternoon sun. It’s a beautiful house, though there’s no denying its seen better days – two stories with large bay windows on both floors, white wood siding and chipped red shutters that are clinging to their rusty hardware, a large wrap around porch that has vines encroaching on the banisters, a lawn overgrown with weeds. You tentatively climb the steps of the porch, peeking nervously into the large hole in the wood to the left of the front door.

“That’s private property,” a gruff voice calls out, making you jump. You turn, finding a man standing on the sidewalk with his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You ain’t supposed to be snoopin’ around.”

“Actually—”

“Why don’t you just head home, sweetheart, and I won’t have to call the cops,” the stranger says, cutting you off. You raise your eyebrows at him.

“This is—”

The man huffs, arms dropping as he digs in the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a cell phone. “Seriously, I’ll give you until the count of three. We don’t need trouble around this neighborhood, alright?”

The nerve, you think, narrowing your eyes at the man. Since he clearly doesn’t want to hear what you have to say, you decide to take a different route. You reach into the pocket of your shorts, pulling out the key that the lawyer had given you earlier that day. You take a sideways step closer to the door, keeping your eyes on the man as you pointedly insert the key into the lock and opening the heavy wood door.

His mouth drops open in surprise and you smile at him.

“You were saying?”

Joel had seen the car parked in the driveway of the empty house when Tommy dropped him off after work. He’d quickly checked on Sarah, newly thirteen and fiercely independent, finding her working on her homework at the kitchen table, before making his way across the street.

He hadn’t expected to find a gorgeous woman snooping around the old house, curves hugged in denim shorts and a tank top that made his mouth water. He also hadn’t expected the woman to produce a key from the pocket of those sinfully tight shorts.

“You were saying?” You ask, lips curved in a smirk and eyebrows raised at him. When Joel doesn’t immediately reply, still too stunned that you have access to the house, you turn and walk through the door, shutting it behind you.

He finally shakes himself of his shock, bounding up the steps and knocking on the door. You pull it back open.

“I’ll buy it from you,” Joel says immediately.

“Excuse me?” You reply, your hands moving to your hips. “It’s not for sale.”

“Come on, what’s a girl like you need all this space for?” Your mouth drops open, pretty lips stretched wide in surprise and Joel struggles to keep his thoughts from drifting to sinful places.

“A girl like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re young, that’s all. You don’t need a house this big and this much of a project!”

“What makes you think I don’t have a big ol’ family I’m moving in here? Four kids and a loving husband?!”

Joel blinks. “You got four kids and a lovin’ husband?”

“No, but that’s besides the point.” You roll your eyes, jabbing a finger at his chest. “It’s not for sale. Now get off my porch before I call the cops on you.”

With that final word, the door shuts in Joel’s face again, the sound of your retreating footsteps signaling the end of the discussion.

November 12, 1948

There’s a gentleman who comes into the diner every Tuesday. He always sits in one of my booths, with his perfect hair and suit and handsome face distracting me until he leaves. Some of the other waitresses try talking to him but he doesn’t pay them any mind. They’ve whispered to me before that he comes from money - oil, or something, not that it matters.

His name is William, and I think he’s trying to steal my heart.

-R

“So, let me get this straight. First, you threatened to call the police on this woman. Then, rather than introducin’ yourself or welcomin’ her to the neighborhood or even apologizin’, you just go straight to tellin’ her she doesn’t need a house that big and that you wanna buy it from her. Did I hear that right?” Tommy says, watching Joel as he throws together dinner the following evening.

“Yeah, that sums it up,” Sarah says. Joel huffs.

“Well, when you put it like that.” He sips his beer as his daughter and brother share a look. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothin’,” they say in tandem. Joel narrows his eyes as Sarah breaks out in giggles. Tommy stands, heading to Joel’s pantry and rifling through the shelves until he finds an unopened bottle of whiskey buried in the back.

“What are you doin’ with that?” Joel asks.

“Welcomin’ your new neighbor like the gentleman I am. Sarah, watch the pasta while I show your dad how it’s done,” Tommy replies, heading for the front door, Joel trailing behind him.

Tommy crosses the street with quick steps, eyeing the porch dubiously as he knocks on the door. Joel stands beside him, hands shoved in his pockets as he curses under his breath about his brother’s stupid antics.

You open the door, dressed this time in a pretty sundress that makes Joel’s mouth go dry. Tommy flashes you a grin and Joel can’t help the annoyance he feels when his brother’s eyes trail over your body.

“Hey there! I’m Tommy Miller, you may have met my dumbass brother over here the other day. I’m certain he didn’t make the best impression, so I just wanted to come over and welcome you to the neighborhood,” he says, holding the whiskey out to you.

You introduce yourself, ignoring Joel. “Thank you so much, Tommy. Would you like to come in?”

“Sure thing,” his traitorous brother replies, stepping over the threshold. When Joel makes a move to follow, you give him a pointed look before shutting the door in his face.

“You want a beer, Tommy?” You ask the handsome man in your kitchen. You can’t help but be impressed by the genetics of the Miller family, both men tall and tan and handsome as hell. Sure, one of them could use a lesson on manners, but you’ll admit that since your confrontation your mind has drifted to thoughts of brown eyes and soft dark hair that belong to the brother you left on the porch out of spite.

“Yes, please,” Tommy says politely. You open the dated refrigerator and grab two beer bottles, popping the caps against the countertop and handing one to him. “This sure is a nice place.”

“Thanks. I just inherited it from my grandma,” you explain. “It’s a little…dated.”

He chuckles. “We call it ‘character’ in contractin’.”

“That what you guys do, then? Contracting?”

“Sure is. Miller Brothers Contracting and Construction.” Tommy scratches at the label on the bottle before saying, “Look, I know my brother can come off the wrong way. He didn’t get the social genes. But he’s a good guy, and he’s loved this house since the first time he saw it. Always wanted to buy it, fix it up, raise his little girl here. Maybe add to his family one day.”

You look around the rundown kitchen. You’ve only been here a day and you know you’ve got your work cut out for you. The electrical and plumbing are all outdated, the appliances need replacing, the floors need to be refurbished, and that’s just the first floor. You could use some help with it all, and maybe the grumpy contractor next door who cares about the house could help you with it all.

“I appreciate that he loves the house but…I never met my grandma. Never even knew who she was or that she was even alive, and it’s the only connection I have to her. I don’t know if this is going to be my forever but…I want to at least give it a shot.”

Tommy smiles. “We could help with that.”

It feels like ages before Tommy’s stepping back out onto the porch, a beer in his hand that makes Joel frown.

“Y’all were havin’ drinks while I sat out here like an ass?” He asks incredulously. Tommy throws an arm around his brother’s shoulders.

“Yes, and if you don’t quit your whinin’ I’m not goin’ to tell you about our lovely conversation,” the younger man says as he walks with Joel back to his house.

In the kitchen, Sarah is pouring the pasta sauce and ground beef over the noodles. Joel takes over and waves her away, mumbling his thanks as he mixes the ingredients together. He sets up two plates, setting one in front of his daughter and sitting down with the other. Tommy makes an affronted sound before fixing his own plate.

“So?” Joel asks. Tommy slurps at his food.

“Was the lady nice?” Sarah asks.

“No,” Joel replies at the same time Tommy says, “Yes.”

Joel glares at Tommy. “You gonna tell me what she said or what?”

“She ain’t sellin’,” Tommy finally says. “But, she wants to fix the place up. Offered our services so you could get your grubby fuckin’ hands in there.”

“Language,” Joel says, eyes flicking to Sarah. The girl rolls her eyes. “Really?”

“Yep. Better start callin’ the guys. From what I saw we’re dealin’ with electrical from the 50s, plumbing from who knows when, not to mention the HVAC and roof will need to be upgraded, too.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin before grinning at Joel. “You up for the challenge?”

“Hell yeah.”

August 23, 1949

William and I have just been married.

I know, I know. I can’t believe it either. But he is truly the light of my life.

The wedding was charming, if a little gauche. I’m still not abreast of all these new societal expectations that surround a man like William, but I’m willing to try. Today he will be taking me around to view houses in the more opulent neighborhoods, the type of homes I used to gawk at but one of them will be mine.

I must be dreaming.

-R

Joel and Tommy start working on the house right away. Every day there’s a line of pick-up trucks parked on the curb and the sounds of construction start early in the morning and continue into the late evening. The electrician and plumber come through first, updating the wiring and pipes through the whole house. The roofers and HVAC come through next, replacing the crumbling shingles and dated central unit with a split system for each level of the house.

It’s not until the big projects are done that you get to have fun with the place, which is how you found yourself methodically painting the front door a muted lime green early one morning.

“What do you think you’re doin’?”

You sigh. Despite Tommy’s assurances that Joel is a great guy beneath the grumpy control freak exterior, you’ve continued to only get the side of the man that grates your nerves.

“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m painting the door.”

“You can’t paint the door that color,” Joel says, heavy footsteps stomping up your newly repaired porch.

“Says who?” You retort. You smear another stroke of paint over the sanded wood.

“Me, for one. The historical society, for two.” He pulls the brush from your hand and holds it above his head and out of your reach. The movement drags his shirt up, exposing a strip of tan belly with a trail of dark hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. “Why are you bein’ a pain in the ass?”

“I was put on this earth simply to make your life more difficult, Joel Miller. Isn’t that obvious?” You reply sarcastically. He mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like you got that right. “What are you even doing over here? It’s Saturday.”

“We’re goin’ to the store. You gotta start pickin’ stuff out for the bathrooms and kitchen,” he says, tossing the paint brush into the tray. “And then we’re gettin’ a new color to cover this up.”

Joel leaves the porch and you follow behind him to the black pick-up truck idling by the sidewalk. He opens the passenger door for you and you raise your eyebrow at the gesture but climb inside.

January 3, 1950

Our New Year’s party is the talk of the town. There were so many people in the house I began to lose count. William had so much champagne ordered I swear we could fill an entire swimming pool with it all.

The ladies at the club have already begun to ask when we would host our next event. I can’t wait to plan another.

-R

“Can you please focus?” Joel begs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He’s laid out three tile combinations, one for each bathroom in the home, and he needs you to look at them but you keep getting distracted.

“You’re no fun,” you huff. You examine the tiles, pointing to a turquoise blue one he’s picked for the shower in the master. “I love that.”

He looks at you in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned. She can be reasoned with.”

You giggle and Joel can’t help the smile it prompts from him, the sound of your laugh so sweet compared to your sharp tongue.

“I like the white and blue combinations for upstairs, but in that powder room I want a pink theme,” you tell him. Your eyes search the displays, landing on a blush pink glass subway tile option. “Like this!”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Joel replies without thinking, taking the sample from you and comparing it next to the floor tile he’d chosen for that bathroom. When he glances at you, you’re giving him a confused look. “What?”

“Nothing,” you reply, shaking your head. “What about the kitchen?”

“What were you thinking for in there?”

“Green cabinets. White and black backsplash, the kind with the little hexagons that look like flowers. I gotta pick out appliances now that the electrical can sustain newer ones, too.” You pause. “And how do you feel about wallpaper?”

“It’s the devil,” Joel replies.

Your grin is downright mischievous. “Excellent.”

February 2, 1956

William had a heart attack. It scared me so badly that I haven’t let him out of my sight since. The doctor said he’s been working too hard, drinking too much, and not sleeping enough. Maybe the parties have started to be too much for him.

I’ve been feeling unlike myself. Tired, nauseated. Hopefully my heart isn’t troubled, too.

-R

Joel places a hefty order for all the items you’ve picked out today from nearly every aisle of the store - tile for the bathrooms and kitchen, vanities and plumbing fixtures, countertops, lighting, and appliances. While he’s preoccupied with calculations and measurements and pricing things out, you pick out paint and wallpaper for the projects you’ll be able to do on your own.

He finds you a while later, a cart full of paint buckets and supplies. To your surprise, he grins.

“More paint, huh? You pick a new one for the door?” He asks. You smile back at him, butterflies erupting in your tummy.

“Yep. Does navy blue suffice, your highness? I thought we could paint the trim the same color.”

Joel nods. “Good choice. Look, I’ve kept you here so long for all the orderin’. You wanna get lunch?”

“Careful, Joel. I’m like a stray cat - once you start feeding me, I might never leave,” you reply with a laugh. You push your heavy cart of paint towards the exit.

You miss the soft smile he gives to your retreating figure.

September 23, 1956

Our daughter is here. She’s the sweetest little thing, though she can screech like a banshee when she sees fit. William is so besotted, he keeps looking between the two of us with stars in his eyes like he can’t believe how lucky he is.

I love them both with my whole heart and soul.

-R

Joel takes you to a retro family diner with black-and-white checkerboard flooring and red vinyl accents with a vintage jukebox in the corner. You’re delighted by the themed menu, eyes immediately zeroing in on the classic malt shakes and french fries.

Over lunch, Joel actually opens up to you. He tells you about going into construction right out of high school and dragging Tommy into it when he’d gotten back from serving his tour with the Army. He talks about his daughter, Sarah, and you can’t help the smile that stretches your lips as you watch his eyes light up while he talks about his little girl. She’s at a sleepover this weekend, which gave him the extra time to visit the home improvement store this morning.

In turn, you tell him about getting the call from the lawyer one afternoon that changed your life forever. How you’d packed up everything you owned and driven across the country to find out that you had a grandmother that your mother never told you about that left you her entire estate.

“Wow. That’s…wow,” Joel says when you’ve paused to take a sip of your chocolate shake.

“Excuse me?” A voice asks. You both look up at the elderly woman dressed in a t-shirt with the restaurant’s logo and pressed slacks. She smiles. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and ever since you sat down I’ve been wrackin’ my brain tryin’ to place your face and it’s just hit me.”

She holds out a framed black and white photo of six waitresses standing beneath the same sign that’s still out front, all of them grinning at the camera. There’s one face, however, that looks familiar despite you never having seen her.

“Her name was Rebecca. We used to work together. That’s me, right there,” she says, pointing to the girl standing to the woman’s left. “Rolled up to town at eighteen, fresh off a divorce and hardly a penny to her name. My daddy, god rest his soul, he owned the restaurant and gave her a job when she’d come through lookin’ for work.”

“Wow,” you murmur. “This is insane. Do you have any other pictures?”

She gives you a sympathetic smile. “‘Fraid not, darlin’. Just the one. But I know she kept a lot of journals. Was always scribblin’ in one and spent what little extra cash she had makin’ sure she had a new notebook ready. Maybe they’re still around?”

July 16, 1958

William…

William is gone. My light, my love, my world. The doctor said his heart just…stopped. In his sleep, right beside me.

I have to continue to live with a hole in my own heart, the piece that William stole years ago gone with him.

But I have to be strong for our daughter. Our brave girl, my little bird.

-R

When Joel brings you back to the house, you stare up at the facade, wondering if the journals the woman had spoken about could still be inside. Lost in thought, your eyes land on the little window that sits above the bay windows on the second floor, where the master bedroom is. You’ve been sleeping in that room for months now and you know there’s no window there that you can see from the inside.

“Hey, Joel?” You call out, eyes still fixed on the little window like it might disappear if you look away. “This place is only two stories. How come there’s a window there?”

He looks up at the roof. “Huh. Might be decorative?”

“Or it might be a secret room,” you tell him.

“Okay, Sherlock. Let’s go see.”

You lead him upstairs to the master bedroom, most of your grandma’s furniture still present save for the bed that you replaced upon arriving. You stare up at the ceiling, but it’s smooth - no trap doors to be found.

“If I were a secret door, where would I hide?” You ask.

Joel, who’d been poking his head into the walk-in closet, replies, “Probably the closet.”

There’s a creak of old hinges as Joel reaches up high and tugs the brass pull handle fixed in the ceiling. A descending ladder falls to the ground and you both stare at each other in surprise.

“I’ll go grab a flashlight,” Joel offers, sprinting from the room. You stare up at the hole in the ceiling, anticipation thrumming in your veins.

He returns quickly. “I’ll go up first.”

“Ever the gentleman,” you tease, watching as he ascends the ladder, your eyes shamelessly fixed to his ass as he climbs. You hear the click of the flashlight and see the sweep of the beam through the opening in the ceiling. “Anything?”

“Lots of suitcases. Hang on, let me grab one of the small ones,” he calls down. There’s the sound of something being dragged across the floor before he’s slowly lowering a leather suitcase into your hands.

It’s surprisingly heavy and you drag it by the handle to the bedroom, kneeling on the ground to pop the latches and open the dusty lid. Inside are stacks of leather bound notebooks, edges of the pages yellow with age.

“I’ll be damned,” Joel says, wiping his palms against his jeans. “We found the journals.”

Joel drags the suitcase downstairs, setting it in the living room for you while you order pizza and open a bottle of wine for the occasion. You sit beside each other on the couch and he hands you a journal that you carefully open.

May 17, 1974

We had another argument last night. She claims that I’ve been too overbearing, too protective, too stifling, but what else is a mother meant to do?

-R

May 18, 1974

Her bed was cold and empty this morning. Her piggy bank smashed to bits on the floor and her drawers cleared. Despite my tight grip, my little bird has flown away.

It appears that history does repeat itself. Imagine that.

-R

“Holy shit,” you say, sitting back on the couch with your glass of wine in one hand and one of your grandma’s journals in the other. “She ran away.”

“Who did?” Joel asks, biting into a slice of pizza.

“My mom. She just…packed up and disappeared.” You glance at him. “Guess that’s why I never knew about her.”

“Maybe you should stop uncoverin’ dark family secrets for the night,” Joel suggests. “You know, the dining room could stand to be painted.”

You glance over to the room in question. Joel must have set down the drop cloth on the floor while you’d been engrossed in your discovery.

“Sure. Why not,” you acquiesce.

October 29, 1976

I’ve received an envelope of photographs in the mail, pictures of my daughter holding a little baby. She’s written notes on the back of each one. I’m a grandmother.

My daughter looks happy. Healthy. That’s all I can ask. She didn’t provide a return address.

As for the baby…I love her so much. She takes my breath away. I keep one of the photos on me at all times.

-R

Joel turns on the radio while he works, humming along to the classic rock station selections. He’s been working on painting the wall near the wood molding while he left you with a paint roller to cover the middle of the wall. He looks up at you occasionally, admiring the way your muscles work as you wash the wall with color.

You must sense that he’s watching, turning your head over your shoulder and looking at him curiously. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he says. You smile at him, setting the roller in the tray. He can’t help but look at your ass in your tight leggings as you bend over.

You straighten up, walking over to him. There’s a glint in your eye that has Joel on high alert.

“You got a little something on your face,” you tell him.

“No, I don’t,” he counters. He’s a master at painting. He knows damn well he doesn’t have a drop on him.

“Yeah, you do,” you argue. You reach out, and your fingers smooth across his forehead. “Right there!”

Joel’s mouth drops open in surprise and he lets out a bark of laughter, bringing his fingers up to his forehead. When he pulls his hand away, they’re stained blue and you’re grinning at him like a mad woman.

“Yeah? Well, you got some right—“ He smears his paintbrush across your chest and you try to step back, but it’s too late. “—there,” he finishes.

You rush back to the paint tray and dip your hands in the liquid, brandishing your palms like weapons. He starts to advance on you, smirking as you back up.

“Stay back,” you command. Joel laughs, dodging your swinging arms as he charges, dropping low to press a shoulder into your belly, dragging you down to the ground in a heap of limbs.

He presses his body to yours as he reaches an arm out to the paint tray, covering his own hand in paint. Your eyes go wide and you squirm beneath him, your paint covered palms reaching up under his shirt to press the cold liquid to his ribs. He flinches away, giving you enough room to scramble out from under him.

Joel grabs your arm, paint smearing on your skin as he tugs you back down. You wrestle together, paint getting everywhere as he lets you straddle his waist. His hands grip your hips, fingers pressing tightly as he stares up into your face.

“You win,” he murmurs, voice low. Your lashes flutter, hips canting over the obvious bulge in his jeans. He groans, hands urging you to do it again.

“What’s my prize?”

Joel slips his fingers beneath the hem of your tank top, dragging the paint stained material up and over your head and tossing it aside. His gaze burns across your newly exposed skin.

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” He says, a hand sliding up your belly to palm one of your breasts. Your head drops back as you moan.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you reply. He chuckles, a deep rumble in his chest as his eyes grow darker, his gaze more heated. “Come on, Miller. What’s my prize?”

With a growl Joel sits up, wrapping an arm around your low back and twisting your bodies until you’re on your back, staring up at him as his lips stretch in a devious smirk. His fingers curl into the waistband of your leggings, sliding the fabric down your legs. His touch paints your skin blue as he does.

His hands press your thighs apart, opening you up. Your cheeks heat as he stares down at you like he’s trying to commit every curve of you to his memory. Finally, he leans in and you can feel his breath ghosting over your heated flesh.

Joel’s tongue traces through your slick folds, a broad stroke that has you gasping and arching your back. He hums against your sensitive flesh as he repeats the languid motion, his stubble catching on the soft skin of your inner thighs.

You reach your hands down to tangle in his hair, paint catching on the strands as you tug and pull. He groans against you, tongue moving faster as he circles your clit before pulling it between his lips. A hand leaves your thigh, the one not coated in paint, and two thick fingers press to your entrance, sliding inside of you as you gasp out Joel’s name.

“Christ,” he groans as he presses in deep before withdrawing slowly, curling his digits against your front wall, “you’re so fuckin’ wet, pretty girl. That for me?”

“Uh huh,” you reply, breathless as you work your hips to the rhythm of his fingers. Joel watches you, his lips and chin shiny from his efforts. “Joel, please!”

“Please what?” His hand moves faster, fingers pressing harder as his lips spread in a lascivious grin that makes your toes curl. “Come on, baby, ask me real nice and I’ll give you anythin’. Ain’t that right? You know damn well you’ve had me wrapped around your sassy little finger since the moment we met, don’t you?”

You whine, nodding your head quickly. “Knew you were a glutton for punishment.”

“Could say that again,” he says, chuckling as he lands a smash to the outside of your thigh with his free hand. “Now, come on, baby. Follow directions. Tell me what you want.”

“Wanna cum, Joel. Please!”

“Good girl,” he growls, lowering his lips to your pussy to lick at your clit. He hums as he lavishes the sensitive bud with attention and it’s the final push you need over the razor's edge you’d been teetering on since he started. You press your thighs against his head as your nerves light up and your muscles go tight with pleasure, his movements slowing as he works you through your release.

Your muscles go limp, head dropping back to the floor with a thunk. Joel sits up, crawling up your body and trailing kisses across your tummy and chest in the patches of skin not covered by paint. He grips your chin, holding you steady as his lips press to yours in a kiss so deep you worry you’re at risk of drowning.

Your hands fumble with his belt, pulling the leather free of the loops in a frenzy. He stands quickly, freeing himself of his jeans and boxers in one motion before reaching behind his head to tug his shirt off while you admire his labor-toned body.

Joel drops to his knees, pressing his hips to yours and dragging the thick head of his cock through your sensitive pussy, bumping your clit and making you both groan in tandem. His forearms rest on the floor beside your head as he teases you like this, slow drags of his length through your wetness, the tantalizing catch of him at your aching hole. You tilt your hips slightly, hoping he gets the hint, and he chuckles.

“You know the drill, baby,” he says, breathless with his own desire. “Just say the word.”

“Fuck me, Joel, please.”

His cock slips inside of you with little resistance, the stretch of him making you gasp. His eyes remain fixed to yours as he bottoms out and you smile up at him, reaching up to wrap your arms around his shoulders.

Joel gives a small, experimental thrust that makes your eyes roll back with pleasure. He does it again, a sharper snap of his hips making you cry out and dig your nails into his shoulder. He builds his own rhythm, one that has your hips chasing his on every pull from your body, one that has you chanting his name and staring up at him like he’s a god and you’re simply a sacrifice on his altar.

He sits back on his heels, the angle changing as your hips get lifted onto his lap. His hands wrap around your waist, fingertips pressing tightly to your ribs as he uses your body for his pleasure, pounding into you roughly.

“Cum for me again,” he demands, bringing a thumb to your clit in quick circles. “Come on, sweetheart, want you to cum on my cock. Was so pretty on my fingers.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes at the near overstimulation but you nod, wanting to give this man whatever he wants if it means he’ll keep touching you, holding you, looking at you.

You cum again with a shout of his name and he groans, deep and visceral as he presses in deep, holding your hips to his as his cock pulses inside of you with his release.

Joel slowly lowers your hips to the ground, withdrawing from your body as he does. He flops gracelessly to the floor beside you, sweat damp chest heaving with exertion. His head turns to yours, grin wide and eyes bright.

“You’re covered in paint,” he comments, reaching out to run his hand across a streak on your collarbone.

“So are you,” you reply, mimicking the gesture against his ribs.

“What do you say to a shower?”

You smirk at him before jumping up and racing to the doorway.

“I’d say last one there doesn’t get the hot water!”

You can hear his curse as you rush up the stairs, making it halfway before a strong arm wraps around you and stops you in your tracks, your laughter echoing through the house.

June 27, 1993

The neighborhood has changed so vastly. Much of the older homes have been torn down and replaced with less handsome architecture. The residents grow younger while I continue to age. Just last week a handsome young man and his darling daughter moved in down the street. He looks exhausted. I remember those days.

Not all the neighbors are lovely. Harold next door has an annoying dog that barks at all hours. He prances her around like a show pony, when she’s just a yappy little creature.

-R

ONE YEAR LATER

The house is finally finished. All the tile has been laid, everything has been painted, appliances delivered, holes repaired, fixtures installed, and wallpaper glued. You go downstairs for coffee in the morning, you take it to the parlor room you’ve made into a study. Floor to ceiling bookshelves display every journal you’d unearthed from the hiding place in the attic, each one read through cover to cover.

When you finally told your mom about what you’d been up to, her surprise and hurt could be felt even through the phone. You mailed one of her mother’s journals to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said the next time you spoke. “So much time had passed and I didn’t know how to fix what I’d broken.”

You don’t begrudge her decisions. Your grandma left you her story, and through that you’ve been able to know her.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs precede Joel’s appearance in the study, his hair messy from sleep and his eyes half shut. He drops beside you on the couch, grabbing your coffee from your hands and taking a sip of it.

“Is it everything you’ve always wanted?” You ask him, tilting your head to his shoulder. You still remember the way he’d been desperate to buy the house from you and you laugh at how the world works, given that he now wakes up in bed beside you and is tasked with the lawn maintenance every weekend. He presses a kiss to your head.

“It’s even better.”

June 29, 1993

I don’t think the dog will be bothering the neighborhood again anytime soon.

Turns out he doesn’t hold as much pride for the dog when she’s been dyed lime green.

Imagine that.

-R

Want more Joel Miller? Check out my masterlist!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #no use of y/n #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel the last of us #tlou fic #taylor swift folklore #folklore anthology #joel miller folklore

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

Note

Hello everything is fine? you could write Aemond engaged to Y/n wanting to take her virginity before marriage

EVERYTHING IS GROOVY, DUDE, THANKS FOR ASKING.

I've taken kind of a diary entry approach to this. There is basically no plot. Y'all know the drill.

Warnings: Smut, duh. Word count: ~1000

Before the betrothal

Aemond nods solemnly when his mother breaks the news that he is to be betrothed. He had known this day would come and accepted it as his duty to House Targaryen. He was to be wed to a noble girl from a noble house in order to strengthen Aegon’s claim to the throne. He has no thoughts of his future bride beyond doing what he must for the good of his family.

First meeting

Her hair that falls in soft, loose waves almost to her waist. She is small and slight. Her gown hugs her figure like a second skin. Aemond’s mouth runs dry as he takes in her bright eyes and rose petal lips. He clears his throat, remembering to introduce himself when his mother nudges him in the ribs. He had not expected her to be so beautiful. “Is she really going to be mine?!”

Nine months before the wedding

While Aemond knew she was beautiful, he had not anticipated being captivated by more than her looks. He is delighted to find that she is quick witted, intelligent and fierce - most importantly she is unafraid of him. His breath catches when she touches his arm when he makes her laugh. She does not leave his mind from that point onwards.

Six months before the wedding

They are finding more and more excuses to spend time alone together. Aemond cannot keep her out of his thoughts. Shameful as it is, he finds himself with his fist around his hardened cock each evening while he thinks about the softness of her skin, the way her lips part and the glint she gets in her eye when she looks at him. He cannot help but wonder how it would feel to be buried inside of her. Six turns of the moon feels like an agonisingly long time to wait to find out.

He is taken aback one day when she presses a soft kiss to his cheek. He surprises her in return by turning his face and capturing her lips. It quickly turns heated and his eye goes wide when he feels her tongue slide against his, no one has ever kissed him like that before. Hands from both sides grope where they ought not to, and Aemond has to quickly excuse himself as his erection presses painfully against the lacings of his breeches.

Three months before the wedding

Aemond has discreetly read every book that the Red Keep’s library has to offer on the act of physical love. Underneath his stoic demeanour he is giddy with anticipation at all of the things he and his betrothed will get to try when they are wed. Yet, it is still months away, and he is losing patience. His interest is piqued when he discovers a tome on the art of pleasures of the flesh that do not involve fornication.

A few days later, Aemond and his lady find themselves cinched in another passionate embrace. What Aemond has read springs to mind and desperation and curiosity get the better of him.

She gasps a quiet “what are you doing?!” as he crouches down and pushes at her skirts.

“Trust me” he whispers back, before pressing his face between her legs and licking a hot, wet line along her cunny.

He groans at the squeak she elicits, hand finding its way to his cock and fisting it as he feasts upon her soaking centre. Hot ropes of pearly spend coat his fingers as he climaxes with a grunt when she finally comes undone around his tongue. He has never tasted anything more divine.

The night before the wedding

Having spent every available opportunity exploring each other’s bodies and pleasuring each other without breaching her virtue, Aemond can hardly wait for them to finally become one, his body aches with the need to be inside of her. He knows they mustn't see each other the night before the wedding and yet he cannot stay away.

He steals away into her bedchamber and, before he knows it, they are naked and tangled together in her sheets. He is stunned when she straddles him. He hisses as he feels the wet heat of her cunt press against his hardened length.

“We are supposed to wait.” He says, voice thick with lust, offering no real objection.

She giggles. “We are. I am not going to take you inside. My handmaiden told me how to do this and I’ve been dying to try it.”

“Well, who am I to deny my lady?” He asks with a sly smirk.

His jaw goes slack, his eye fluttering closed as she slides herself up and down his erection, rolling her hips against his without him ever breaching her entrance. The tip catches her there a few times, but she is quick to pull away, placing him back at her pearl and applying pressure where she needs it most.

His mind is foggy with pleasure. If this is what it feels like just to have her rub against him, what must it feel like to be inside? His stomach muscles tense and his stones tighten as he feels the first licks of his climax tease at his lower back. He can tell from how her pace has begun to falter and how her moans have turned to breathy pants that she is close too.

Her arousal soaks his lap as she falls apart above him and he finally allows himself release, gripping her hips and splattering his stomach as he bucks up at her.

After taking a moment to come back to reality, they stare at each other, both huffing a small laugh as they try to catch their breath.

Aemond swipes two fingers across his abdomen, collecting his milky spend and pressing it to her lips. She wraps her lips around the digits, sucking them clean with a contented hum and he grins at her.

“Just think.” He purrs at her. “Tomorrow I will finally spill my seed inside of you.”

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #aemond stannies #pro aemond targaryen #prince aemond targaryen #aemond #hotd #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #hotd smut #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fan fiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanficton

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heich0e · 8 months

Text

THE WITCH'S SONG - part two knight!osamu/witch!reader tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood/gore, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact. crossposted to ao3 MASTERLIST

For as long as you can remember, you have always risen with the sun.

It’s a habit so deeply constitutional that you've never bothered to question that part of your own nature—the breaking light cresting over the horizon each day, perfectly in time with the first flutter of your eyelids.

Your bedsheets are gentle against your skin as you rouse from your slumber. They're buttery soft, perfectly worn-in from the many nights of rest you’ve found under their cover, and the scent of fresh air still clings to them from an afternoon spent hanging on your clothesline a few days prior. You nestle your cheek into the downy embrace of your pillow, breathing in deeply to savour those lingering notes of summer breeze. You let the breath fill every corner of your chest as you inhale, feeling the way your ribs rise to make room for it, and then you let it out again in a warm rush. You repeat the cycle a few times more, and slowly take in the first moments of your day as your eyes adjust to the early morning light.

With your your arm crooked at your elbow, your hand sweeps lazily around beneath your pillow. You search blindly for a moment, unhurried but sure, and then your fingers brush against something solid and cool hidden away under the feathery mass. You wrap your fingers around the object and draw it out, holding it up above your face to appraise it.

It’s a pair of silver scissors, with a sprig of dried lavender fastened to them beneath a thrice-knotted length of thin white twine.

Outside your window, the milky indigo sky provides very little light. The distant sun is still only a sliver of light peeking out over the eastward sea, but what little glow the new dawn provides catches in the scissors's polished silver surface. You see the distorted image of your own eye, just a glimpse reflected along the narrow blade, staring back.

Sleep does not come to you peacefully, and it hasn’t for a long time. It seems to fight you, tooth and nail, each night, but the battle is ever-changing. Sometimes sleep evades you completely, leaving you to toss and turn restlessly until the moon disappears and the day starts anew. Other nights, slumber overtakes you quickly, but its true violence strikes when you’re left at your most vulnerable—nightmares whose claws sink themselves so deep into you, you can still feel their phantom pain long after you tear yourself awake in a cold, trembling sweat.

Your fingers tighten around the scissors in your grip—still cool to the touch, as though your body heat cannot warm them.

The scissors are a simple charm to keep away terrors that might creep in while you sleep. Just like them, the collection of carefully crafted and curated trinkets that surround your room—dried flowers, jagged crystals, hand drawn sigils inked upon slips of silk and parchment—are all kept in an effort to rest peacefully. To ward away anything that may prevent it.

You didn’t always have so many.

You didn’t always need them.

These items are tacked to your walls, line your windowsills, and hang from the tall posters of your bed—each and every one a remedy originating from a carefully documented entry in your mother’s grimoire. The massive tome rests presently at the foot of your bed, tangled in your quilt. You often fall asleep—as you had the night prior—poring over the parchment pages, bound in strong leather tanned a deep midnight blue, filled with a familiar sloping script that makes your heart ache. Her life’s work and story, her own magic and every piece of knowledge ever shared with her, is contained within those precious pages.

It’s one of the last parts of her that remains.

Thankfully your mother's charms served you well throughout the night, as you feel relatively well rested as you rise from your bed—pulling a housecoat on atop your poplin nightdress and stretching your arms up over your head to welcome the day. You tug your quilt up to meet your pillows, tucking it in neatly at the corners, and then you close the heavy cover of the grimoire that rests at the mattress’s edge. You let your fingers trace lightly over the embossing on the cover as you appreciate it, and then you slip it safely into the trunk at the end of your bed where it belongs.

You’re a little surprised that your visitor from the night before hadn’t caused more of a disturbance to your sleep, already so capricious, particularly given the terrible sense of foreboding that had been hanging over your cottage in the days leading up to his arrival—like a heavy, briny fog rolls in from the sea. You choose not to question good fortune, at least not so early in the day—shaking your head as if willing the unwelcome thought away—and you set about your usual morning routine as though nothing in the width of the world is different than it has been any day prior.

You wash, prepare a light meal, and dress yourself in simple attire suitable for a day’s labour, all before the sun has fully risen from the cradle of the horizon. You plan to work in the garden again today, tending to your plants with the meticulous care they require. You aim to start early in hopes of completing the task before the hottest part of the day makes the work less pleasant—the air at dusk the night before had smelled so sweet, a faithful harbinger of a sunny day ahead.

The grass still glimmers with dew as you step outside your cottage, breathing in the clean, crisp air. Across your property, the sun is just about to creep up over the sea, though there’s a lilac brume that cloaks it—a gentle shroud that lets you see her shape without straining your eyes. You keep your feet bare as you tread towards the garden, listening to distant birdsong, and the blades of dew-damp grass kiss against your soles with every step.

You pause at the break in the wall that surrounds your cottage, the threshold between your garden and your home, and take a deep breath in. The wind kisses your cheek as a breeze rushes past, and the plants rustle around you as if bidding you good morning. On your exhale, you breathe the greeting back.

The light continues to rise in the sky as you labour, soon burning off the gossamer mist that tends to linger early in the morning until the day is bright and warm and fully underway. You shuck the knitted sweater you’d worn out at dawn as the temperature climbs with the sun, and eventually cuff your trousers at the ankles too, but you pay little attention to the heat of the day as you go about making sure your plants are watered, pruned, and any that require special attention are given what they need.

You sing softly while you work.

Witches have long sung songs while they toiled, or gathered together, or just as a means to pass the time. It's a cherished tradition among your kind, and you were taught when you were very young that a witch’s song is a sacred, honoured thing—her voice a gift and a powerful tool.

You don’t sing as much as you ought to, nor as loudly. Perhaps, not least of all, because there’s no one there for you to sing to save for your budding rows of plants. Some of y our earliest memories, the ones hazy at the edges as they’ve been eaten away by time, are of your mother singing in her own garden at the house that you were born in.

Why do you sing to them, mother?

On the edge of a northern breeze, you can hear your own voice—higher, lighter, happier than what it grew to be. You squint up into the midday sun as you reflect.

So they can remember us, Button.

Button.

She called you that because you were always losing yours when you were young; returning to the little cabin you called home at the end of the day with dirty knees, pockets full of shiny rocks, a handful of berries to share with her before dinner, and with one less button on your dress than you’d set off into the woods with that morning.

You remember her impossibly soft hands patting over your head, your arms, your legs, as she appraised you for any bumps or bruises. You remember her breathy laugh as you told her your scrapes and nettle stings didn’t even hurt. You remember her gentle eyes, always sparkling like she was telling you a secret.

Don’t you like when I sing to you? Doesn’t it make you happy?

Your little ribbon-haired head couldn’t have been quicker to nod if you’d tried—your answer to her question came immediate and fervent. Your mother's voice was your most favourite thing.

Well, it makes the plants happy, too—and that happiness will help them grow. Their roots will dig down deep into the earth, and they’ll take all our stories that I sing to them there, too.

You recall the childhood fantasy of each word of your mother’s song spelled out in sprawling, knobbly roots, hidden underground, being kept safe by the earth.

Your eyes flutter shut, blocking out the sun and trapping in the fleeting memory.

The songs she sang to you, the stories that she told, the grimoire in the truck at the end of your bed. Those are all that you have left of her now. You keep them safe just like the soil covered up the roots.

Since time immemorial, song has been used to pass tradition from one generation of witches to the next—the legends of your people, the same ones you recite now as you snip the reedy leaves away from your precious plants, were all taught to you in verse and chorus.

Men flock to the melody of the witch’s song like moth to flame. To hear it is to be bewitched by it. Your mother warned you of such a thing, in the same way all young witches are, and of what might happen should your song be overheard.

The history of man calls the witches temptresses, because of their own weakness to their song. Sirens. Man-eaters. That’s how they choose to remember it in their own egocentric folklore; the witch's song is a weapon used to ensnare them, and nothing more. They hide their own antecedent failings by laying blame, and burning any testament that remembers it otherwise.

You've known one truth as long as you've known anything: men are gluttonous, self-serving beasts. They see the world solely as it relates to themselves. They'll take anything in which they see beauty. And they'll immortalize their story, inked in your kind's blood, only as seen through their own eyes.

But the witch’s song was never meant for man.

You pause, your eyes still tightly closed, with your face turned up towards the sun.

Miya Osamu is standing at the forest’s edge.

You know he’s there even without opening your eyes, but when you eventually do, your sight immediately catches on the glint of the polished sword hilt at his waist.

He’s come armed today.

It’s noon on the day following his unceremonious arrival—the one where you had warned him, at risk of his own life, not ever to return. You know it’s noon, or very near to it, because the sun sits at its highest point in the clear midday sky as he emerges from the thicket of the wild, towering woods at the edge of your property.

For a moment upon seeing him, you wonder if you ought to flee—if you should seek shelter on the other side of the little rock wall you know he cannot cross. Instead, you hold your ground, still resting in the dirt of your garden—the knees of your twill pants stained with grass and soil, with grime caked beneath your fingernails.

You will not run from him.

He approaches you slowly, with careful steps as not to tread upon any one of your still-budding plants. You don’t bother watching him draw nearer.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to come back.” You sink your spade into the earth at the base of a plant that’s showing signs of rot. Its your final task in the garden for the day: you plan to cut it out at the root, take it back into the greenhouse, and try and salvage at least a few slips for propagation.

Your only hope now is that any affliction hasn’t spread beneath the soil.

“I’m not here to prove my nerve,” he says to you, pausing a few paces away between a patch of rosemary and another of oregano. His voice is clear and sure like the blue sky overhead. “I’m here to help Atsumu.”

You place the uprooted plant into a small tin pail beside you, prodding into the soft edges of the hole you’ve dug to excavate it for any signs of further blight. You see none, thankfully.

But rot’s a tricky thing. Sometimes it's in plain sight, and others it hides where the light can't reach it.

“I don’t care why you’re here,” you tell him, setting aside your spade and meeting his eyes as you drag the back of your wrist against your perspiring brow. “And I don’t care about your brother.”

The knight looks worse than he had the day before when he showed up in your workshed, but you’re not surprised by that fact. He spent the night in the woods, that much you’re certain of—not least of all because the nearest village is too far for him to have travelled their and back by midday. His hair is unkempt, his clothing rumpled like it’s been slept in, and the shadows under his eyes are darker, more severe than they had been the night prior—though perhaps their stark contrast is just more evident in the light of day.

At his waist, Osamu’s hand rests lightly upon on the hilt of his sword, but it seems more instinctive than threatening given the way his fingers are slack. There’s a frustrated furrow in his brow that deepens in the wake of your words, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Yer the only one who can help him.”

“No, I’m the only witch your king hasn’t culled,” you parry. “There’s a difference.”

Osamu’s lips pull into a thin line. “So you admit it.”

You blink.

You suppose this is the first time you’ve confirmed his accusation. The first time you’ve admitted to your truth. It wasn't so much a slip of the tongue as it was an inevitability.

“It does me little good to say anything otherwise,” you respond, unshaken by his observation. “You need me to be a witch. As you’ve made clear: your brother’s fate relies on it. The help you hope for me to provide to you is all that’s keeping that sword in its sheath.”

The knight’s fingers curl loosely around the hilt of his weapon at your mention of it, as though becoming conscious for the first time of its weight against his hip.

But it’s not strictly true, what you’ve said, and you both know it.

There’s one other option Osamu has available to him—one other cure to heal what ails his beloved brother—and it very much requires the use of his sword.

Witches have been driven to near extinction now—every coven you’ve ever known to inhabit this kingdom wiped out in their entirety—with little more to prove they ever existed but your own fleeting memory of them.

The only pieces of them worth saving were their hearts.

There’s a reason why witches have forever been hunted for them—a reason why the king’s knights would cleave them out before their bodies were burned. The hearts of your kind have long been coveted by men for the residual magic that they hold. Even when a witch dies, her heart will keep beating, though only for a short while, and to possess a witch’s heart while it still beats—however faintly—will bring luck to the one who possesses it. It can cure any ailment, or end any drought, or even turn the tides of a battle.

Those hearts and the promises that they assured were worth more to glory hungry men than the lives of the witches they rightfully belonged to.

You feel a white hot flash of anger roll through the pit of your stomach like a violent tide at the thought of it, digging your fingers deep into the soil below you to find comfort. You stare up at the man above you, no different from any of the rest of them, and your eyes narrow resentfully. You clutch dirt by the fistful.

“All the hearts the crown has ripped from witches over the past two hundred odd years, and to what end?” you ask him, disdain dripping thick and venomous from every word. “The fortune of a trophied heart is fleeting, their power fades with every passing beat until eventually the pulse stops altogether. Your king knew that, and he chose to pillage them regardless. That old bastard was born with the world in his hand, yet he hoarded those spoils for himself—wasted them—only to die, like all mortal men do, and leave the rest of you behind to suffer for it.”

“Hold yer tongue,” Osamu warns you sharply, his lip curling in time with his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled grip. “How dare ya speak ill of the late king.”

“Why defend a man who left his country in ruins?” you goad him further, twisting the knife you’ve managed to wedge between the plates of his composure’s already straining armour. “A man who stripped his kingdom of its greatest resource—of the lives dedicated to the keeping of this land—and left his infant son to take a throne he drove into the ground with his greed. A son I’m sure has grown into just as pitiful a ruler as his father.”

The knight’s sword glints in the sunlight as it’s quickly drawn. The sound of the finely honed blade scraping against the sheath is almost pleasant; surprisingly delicate in its own way, even in its violence.

You kneel beneath Osamu in the glare of the all-seeing sun, the point of his blade held level at your throat.

“Don’t say another word against King Shinsuke,” the man hisses, and much like the first time you mentioned his brother by name, it seems you’ve struck a tender nerve.

You don’t flinch, but your eyes do flicker down towards the garden beds.

A tense moment passes with his steady sword resting just beneath your chin.

“You’re stepping on my spearmint.”

Osamu’s gaze follows yours down to his feet in surprise, to where his left boot treads upon a small mint plant. He inches his foot back slightly, almost without thinking, after you point it out. Some of the outer leaves are bruised, but you’re fairly certain the plant will still survive.

A breeze rolls in from the east, rushing through the blades of grass and rows of plants until it lifts the sleeve of your shirt as it passes like a kiss from the sea. You find it comforting. Reassuring.

Osamu speaks again.

“I could just take it, y’know.”

You don’t need him to clarify what it he speaks of.

What’s strange to you isn't the threat he utters, but rather that the words were spoken so quietly they were very nearly lost in the passing breeze. Part of you can’t help but wonder if he knows he uttered them aloud at all, or if they were merely one final fervent encouragement to steel his own resolve. You look up at him, and see his eyes are burning with insistence—wild in their hopelessness.

His expression is grave, remorseful almost. “I’ve got no other choice.”

Ah.

The final fraying morality of a desperate man.

“Good luck,” you say to him. You still meet his gaze without flinching. His sword is still pointed at your throat. “You’ll have to find it first.”

Confusion flashes behind those frantic grey eyes, and then creeps in the horrified realization.

At the tree line in the distance, a raven takes off from the highest bough of an old oak tree with a piercing caw.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, but his voice is tight and unconvincing—almost like you can hear the bile creeping up his throat. You wonder if he’s saying it in hopes of persuading you or himself.

You lift your shoulders in a dispassionate shrug, reaching up towards the neckline of your blouse. “Would you like to check?”

It’s quiet for a moment as you wait for a reply you know will never come.

Behind the knight’s own rigid shoulders, the soaring raven swoops down into the treetops out of sight.

“You cut it out yourself,” he finally breathes, your finger pausing where it’s looped underneath your collar. His expression clearly conveys the disgust he feels at the very premise.

You drop your hand, swiping your dirty fingers on the thighs of your trousers in a lazy attempt to clean them.

“I thought I ought to beat a man like you to it.”

The knight before you looks like he might be physically ill, a sallow hue overtaking his skin that wasn’t there a moment prior. You’re not sure you entirely blame him for the revulsion, considering what he must be thinking—considering the vile things he must be picturing in his mind. The image of you harvesting your heart from the cavern of your chest; the idea of you holding it—beating and bloody and hot to the touch—in your own hand.

Your gaze hardens with renewed contempt.

“I watched my people be massacred for their hearts," you tell him. "I watched knights just like you drag them in front of crowds, tie them onto stakes, and burn them for a spectacle. An immolation that the king—the one whose precious memory you stand here and defend with that sword—presided over like a jubilee,” your voice threatens to waver, but you keep it even as you stand. Osamu’s blade follows you as you lift yourself up to your feet—but his wrist is limper now than it was when he first drew it. Weakened. You swallow back the bitter taste creeping up your throat. “If not for my mother, I would undoubtedly have been among those lost, and I swore to myself that if it was the last thing I did—the only thing I ever did—I would never let my own heart suffer the same fate.”

Osamu lowers his arm to his side, his blade withdrawn.

You meet each other, eye to eye, but there’s no doubt now who stands as victor.

“Kill me if you want to,—” you tell him, your tone indifferent to the very challenge you make on your own life.

From deep in the forest, you hear the raven’s caw once more—the shrill cry of a predator catching its prey. The knight’s head turns slightly towards the sound, just the subtlest tilt of his face in the direction, but yours doesn't.

Your eyes don’t leave his.

“—What’s one more dead witch atop the grave of hundreds?”

He considers you for a moment in silence, and then slowly he sheaths his lowered weapon.

He turns his back to you, and your eyes trace the broad lines of his shoulders as he retreats in the direction of the forest from whence he’d appeared.

“I will not help you, no matter how many times you seek me here. If your brother's days are numbered as you say, save your efforts and return to him.”

Osamu pauses, a few furrows away from you in the lush green of your garden.

He's unnervingly still for a moment, still facing towards the forest, but then he turns to you once more.

His eyes are supplicating—no trace of the anger or the malice they’d held moments before. His voice is soft when he speaks again.

“I’ll give ya anythin’ you ask in exchange for yer help. Anythin’.”

You laugh, but the sound is acerbic like the taste clinging to your tongue. The chill in your voice stands in stark juxtaposition to the gentle warmth of the early summer day surrounding you.

“There’s nothing on earth that you could give me that could ever make up for the things your kingdom took away.”

Osamu’s face falls, but he nods almost imperceptibly. It catches you by surprise, that seeming resignation—acceptance—to the only answer you offer him.

Wordlessly, the knight turns and continues towards the trees.

He doesn’t tread on any of your sprouting crops as he departs.

#osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #hq fic #hq writing #writing #tws

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