#Paper Lanterns Journal | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sarahghetti · 2 months

Text

moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfic #my writing #mk bingo 2024

744 notes · View notes

cowboydisaster · 4 months

Note

Hi again! Thought of another one….

Arthur finds out that reader has a gift for him for Christmas but he hasn’t gotten them anything. So he has to scramble to think of a gift. He ends up making a handful of drawings of reader including some with their beloved horse. And of course reader is over the moon about it

This one isn’t too clever so if you’re not feelin’ it, it’s ok.

🎄❤️

* ˚ ✦ Icebreak * ˚ ✦

pairing: arthur morgan x f!reader word count: 720 a/n: Just a cute lil' drabble. Merry Christmas' eve! Thank you for another really cute prompt!!

cowboydisaster's christmas countdown: ONE day 'till christmas!

christmas countdown┊main masterlist┊rdr2 masterlist

Arthur distinctly remembers the conversation in which you’d both agreed that you wouldn’t be exchanging gifts this year. Alarm bells are going off in his head. Was he supposed to get you a gift anyway? Should he have ignored that conversation entirely? Been a gentleman and got you something nice? Arthur swallows thickly.

Despite the conversation, Arthur had just found out that you have a gift for him. Sadie has a loud mouth, especially when she’s drunk, and for once, Arthur is grateful for it. At least he has a little time to think of something. He pulls his pocket watch out, glancing at the time. 6:27 PM. A little time.

In a rush, Arthur jogs into his tent, pulling his journal out of his satchel and placing it on the bed. Beside it, he tosses down a piece of charcoal and a pencil. The camp isn’t in a great financial situation; hence the agreement of no presents. So, he reckons if he can’t buy you something, he’ll just have to make you something.

Arthur begins drawing, and after a while, the sun fades away, forcing him to switch to lantern light. The side of his hand is caked in lead as he runs the pencil over the pages, capturing the curves of your body, the shine of your smile. He draws his favorite memories of you. The day he gifted you your mare, Sugar. The day you kissed him for the first time. The day he’d brought you to camp.

Arthur stays up far too late, sketching a handful of pictures of you, taking his time to capture you in the utmost detail. His hand flicks perfectly, catching the waves in your hair, the line of your jaw. Arthur draws you with your mare, with his gelding, with him.

The group of drawings encapsulate the things that you love the most, and the memories that you hold dear. After finishing half a dozen good drawings, Arthur inspects them, fixing little mistakes, and adding little notes about his love for you. When he’s finished, he takes some old baling twine, tying a little bow around the pages, fixing them until they’re all wrapped up perfectly.

He knows you deserve better, a bracelet of silver or gold. A necklace embedded with gemstones, or a new dress. Those are the things you would have been gifted back in the city. He sighs, looking down at his little homemade gift, knowing that it will just have to do.

— — —

“Alright,” Arthur whispers, pulling out the ribbon-wrapped sketches, “Go on n’ open ‘em.”

Your eyes open slowly, drifting to the white pages that Arthur is extending out to you.

Hesitantly, you take them, eyes searching up to Arthur’s for reassurance. He nods, and you smile, pulling the twine ribbon, letting it spiral to the floor. You flip the first paper, recognizing it as being ripped out from Arthur’s journal, and you gasp.

It’s a beautiful sketch, one of you sitting up in bed, hair draped down your back, a graceful smile on your lips. Even through paper and pencil, Arthur has managed to capture the sparkle in your eyes, the optimism in your countenance. Next to the drawing is a small note.

Early mornings with my lady.

Your heart warms, and you flip to the next one. You find a sketch of you, laying on the back of your beloved mare, arms wrapped around her neck. The drawings are stunning. Works of art that should be posted in a gallery in Saint Denis, and he’s giving them to you. You know how private Arthur is with his journal, and you’re honored.

“You like ‘em?” Arthur asks, nervous of your silence as you continue to look through. Tears pool in your eyes as you look up to him, holding up some of the precious gifts.

“You drew me. Arthur, I love them.” Sincerity is thick in your voice, and Arthur wipes a tear away from your cheek.

“Didn’t wanna make you cry.” He jokes. You huff.

“They’re so beautiful, so meaningful. No one’s ever done anything like this for me. Not in my whole life— not before you.” You whisper.

Arthur’s arms wrap around you then, pulling you into his chest, shushing away your sniffles.

“They’re perfect, Arthur.” You murmur against him. He smiles.

“Merry Christmas, darlin’.”

taglist: @margofiore @mrsarthurmorgan7 @woman-with-no-name @tillith @luvliewriting @pine4pple-b0i @photo1030 @dudsparrow @holyratrimony @twola @calcarius445

#divider by cafekitsune #cowboydisaster's christmas countdown #bea's christmas countdown #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x y/n #arthur morgan x f!reader #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption two #arthur morgan

186 notes · View notes

greenhousethree · 6 months

Text

Good Enough

100-Word Drabbles for Arthur and Ginny Weasley

Fifteen drabbles written for @thethreebroomsticksfic Weasley Week, Oct 16th: Arthur Weasley. Read below or on AO3.

“You’re joking.”

Molly chews back her smile, shakes her head coyly. The house isn’t quiet, per say, but in a rare stroke of luck the twins and Ronnie’s naps have aligned.

And he’s wedged around the bathroom sink with his wife, giggling like children over a potion that’s just changed color.

“A girl…”

The day she’s born, Fabian is there. Peers over the bassinet for so long, Arthur wonders if he too is counting ten perfect pink toes.

“Shit,” he says to Arthur over a cigar that night, after talking war, “this world will never be good enough for her.”

ii.

It’s his turn tonight, when they hear little feet across the kitchen floor. He’s not surprised it’s her, face still blotchy, hair sticking up everywhere from this afternoon’s tantrum that left her knackered.

She whips around in the pantry doorway, eyes like saucers. “I’m hungry.”

After leftover stew from her yellow paisley bowl, he lays in bed with her. Grants her request for a story on the condition she doesn’t suck her thumb.

“Once upon a time, there was a witch named Ginny who lived in a deep, dark wood…”

“No, Daddy,” she whispers, eyes nearly closed. “I’m a dragon.”

iii.

Molly tells him she cried the whole way home from King’s Cross. By early afternoon, he can still tell— the aftershocks seem to surprise her, those gasping little breaths.

“You know the best part of being the last one left,” he divulges over homemade strawberry ice cream that has yet to do the trick, “is that no one’s here to fight you for your pick of broomstick.”

The rest of her bowl melts on the porch swing. She’s out until it gets dark in the orchard, comes in for supper with leaves in her hair and the biggest jack-o-lantern grin.

iv.

The day they bring her back home, he carries her trunk upstairs and sits beside her on the bed. Apologizes for ever blaming her, even for a second.

She counters by saying something lifeless and self-loathing and broken. Eleven-year-old fingers pick at bruised nail beds— tiny, perfect hands. He still can’t fathom it.

That night, Molly brings her dinner and doesn’t come back down. When he heads up to bed, he sees they’ve clearly emptied all her shelves, stacked every novel and journal and textbook outside her door where they can’t hurt her.

He’s never been angrier in his life.

Since this morning, he’s meant to tell her he’s sorry— sorry they couldn’t offer her anything better on her birthday than this condemnable house-turned-war room. Sorry for the second-hand leather satchel wrapped in faded Christmas paper, even though she wanted a broom; sorry everyone’s thoughts are on tomorrow’s hearing.

After dinner he finally says it, out of Molly’s earshot. Sitting on the stairs leading from the kitchen, plates of fudgy cake in hand.

“Don’t apologize.” She’s still smiling huge, bumps his shoulder. The Flatulence Fez the twins crowned her with slips down over one eye. “I really love the bag.”

vi.

It should’ve been the day that made them proudest as parents, marrying off their firstborn. It wasn’t.

This morning, they boxed up centerpieces and charger plates in the shed, repaired all the furniture, met with the Order. His ears still ring. The house is eerie without those three.

He finds them in her room. His wife is clutching their daughter as she sobs harder than he’s ever seen, inconsolable, wracking herself hoarse. He feels it like a sword to the chest.

In bed later, Molly shakes her head with that look he earns sometimes when he’s being thick. “She’s heartbroken.”

vii.

Friday before Easter, he changes from work robes into something Muggle and tweed and itchy. Platform 9¾ is packed with people avoiding eye contact, and the Express is late. It was late in December, too— arrived without Luna. He waits, terror tightening his throat.

He’s numb with relief when he sees her, one of the only kids lugging a trunk like he advised. She’s swimming in a jumper he’s sure is Ron’s, and that twinges a bit. There’s something different, he notices, walking to the entrance. Colder. Quiet. He doesn’t ask… can’t quite bear to.

Four days later, they flee.

viii.

She’s fighting him. Kicking, clawing.

He holds on with everything he has, arms clasped around her chest, and it’s like he can feel her breaking inside. But if he lets go, he’ll lose her, too. Like Fred.

Like the body they’re all staring at, lifeless at Hagrid’s feet.

Weeks later, when the Boy Who Lived finds him in the shed one night, hedging, guiltier than anyone he’s ever seen, he already knows. For a moment he considers letting the kid squirm, like the father ought to do.

But then he remembers her first year, and wordlessly hands over a screwdriver.

ix.

“One more,” she tells their waitress, pointing at a coaster she’s put in the middle. “For my sixth brother.”

The table falls quiet. But then George chuckles and they all take his cue, except Molly.

Snow collects on the windows as the bangers and pies and chips are served. She laments early-morning practices to them all, pretends she’s already bored of all the travel.

“Knock it off,” Charlie snickers, grinning. “Rookies can’t complain. We know you’re having a blast.”

At the end of the night she beats everyone to the bar, pays their tab. Arthur suspects it’s her whole paycheck.

“I definitely saw you cry,” she accuses. She’s graceful even in smugness, grinning something wicked over her lipstick-stained champagne flute.

He pretends to grumble, but he knows she knows. “Hard not to, with the bloody groom getting all choked up.”

The band calls them up soon after, and he pulls her close. “It’s okay,” she murmurs as her face starts to blur again, inches away. “Just admit you’ve gone soft, Dad. I won’t tell.” He tugs on her hand to spin her, chuckling.

They cut cake, and Harry whispers something that makes her laugh, and she lights up the room.

xi.

Predictably, the stadium loses it when she flies out with a new surname on her kit. Ron rolls his eyes as she lands on the pitch with a bit of swagger.

She flies well today, but he reckons she could miss every shot and the commentators would still talk of nothing else. In the stands, Harry laughs when Arthur leans over to ask how it feels to play second fiddle.

“I’ll never be good enough for her,” he snorts over the rim of his pint. “But I’m sure you knew that.”

She scores twelve goals, and the Harpies clinch playoffs.

xii.

“I’d kill for a drink about now,” she mutters, leaning against the railing. He knows better than to say she probably shouldn’t be out here, either— the venue’s porch, serving as refuge for men who normally never smoke.

He takes a long drag as they watch her boys toddle after their dad on the lawn. “Nearly there, sweetheart.” Treading lightly with his words, lest he incur any of what Muriel’s other well-intended mourners did with their attempts at small talk (“Like a fucking whale, thanks for asking”).

“Hey,” she smirks, “maybe you and Mum can buy a beach cottage now.”

xiii.

The mug Molly poured when they arrived is tepid now, sitting on the table. Shadows lengthen like ghosts beneath his daughter’s eyes; he suspects they’re five days old.

The kids are all asleep, Molly updates them.

Her jaw tightens. At her temple, he notices a couple of gray strands. “I can’t—” she whispers. Squeezes her eyes shut; nothing else comes out. “They need their dad. I’m not good enough on my own.”

“He’ll come home safe, darling. Always does.” And he makes her promise to never say that again.

He takes both of her hands in his, and they’re cold.

xiv.

They’re celebrating Ted and Vic beneath a canopy of fairy lights. Bill’s weepy toast prompts Fleur to frisk his brothers till she finds George’s flask.

She never realizes Ginny’s stowing the bottle.

His children outlast their kids and spouses. It’s one of those nights he can’t let himself miss, tired as he is.

His daughter points a wobbly finger. “Lils has a boyfriend, by the way. Doesn’t think we know. Harry’s going spare.”

He chuckles. “Now he gets it. Imagine trying to justify hating the Chosen One.”

She laughs, nearly tips her chair. “You should tell him that. Might help.”

xv.

It comes in waves. Feels like a lifetime has passed since yesterday; another before that. Molly— bless her— tried to prepare him for it. Tried to comfort him. Imagine.

It feels too big now, their little house on the beach. Perfect for two lives, cavernous with just one.

She finds him in the garden before sunset. Small, warm hands enclose his.

“Look, Dad.”

It’s a delicate, fluttering thing with blue wings, bobbing on the wind. Molly’s favorite.

“She’s found us again.”

He smiles and tucks a silver lock behind her ear, meeting her gaze— precisely the same shade of brown.

#arthur weasley #ginny weasley #girl dad #harry potter #molly weasley #weasleyweek #molly/arthur #hinny #ao3 #fatherhood

183 notes · View notes

cassiachales · 21 days

Text

Journal Entry Four [[And Grayson Hawthorne’s Lips] Yes, His Lips]

note: still can't belive the amount of love this silly little self-indulgent fanfic is getting. y'all are the reason i write <33 this chapter is also *slightly* longer than the others taglist: @f4iry-bell, @never-enough-novels, @reminiscentreader, @dahliawarner, @lanterns-and-daydreams

Saturday– It’s been four days since I last saw the reason I bought this journal. Xander’s been demanding to know what happened on Wednesday, and though I really want to tell him, I want to keep that moment to myself. A secret between me and a certain Hawthorne. I’m busy wondering what we are. Acquaintances? Friends? Something with bigger feelings? I don’t know and that keeps scaring me. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Sometimes, you wish you didn’t like guys who wear suits and have dry conversations.

But you can’t help it.

Xander’s on the floor, his hand on his forehead. “Why didn’t the pebble work?”

“Wait, so you were the one who put the pebble there?”

“I thought it would work.” He moans. “It should’ve worked.”

You don’t tell him about how Grayson’s fingers were on your waist and how they still left a phantom touch.

You don’t tell Xander about what Grayson said.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── “How do you do this to me?” ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

And you can’t get his voice out of your head. Low and seductive and you can still feel the featherlight touch of his lips at the curve of your ear.

Grayson’s been ignoring you. When you arrived at Hawthorne House that morning, you’d seen him.

You’d almost said hi when he brushed past you as though he didn’t know you, and Xander had seen it.

“Someone give that guy a dose of happiness.” Jameson had said, his hands around Avery’s shoulders.

And now, Xander was busy moping about how his attempts to set the two of you up had failed miserably.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── He asks me that question as though I know the answer. The only answer I want to ask is: HOW DOES HE MAKE ME WANT HIM?? Yes, he’s attractive. Yes, he’s absolutely amazing. And yes, I might be a little bit in love with him. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You get up from the floor, patting Xander’s head. “I’m gonna go get you a drink.”

He groans. “I hate drinking.”

“You definitely look like you need one.”

“I do, actually.” Then he perks up, as though there’s another idea in his head.

“Xander, don’t you dare–”

“Grayson’s office has the best scotch and wine.” He begins, ignoring you.

“I am not getting whiskey from his office.”

“Oh, you definitely are.”

“I am not.”

“Do you want a chance with him or not?”

Obviously, you do. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to go to Grayson Hawthorne’s office and get a drink from there.

“You are going to go get your own drink.” You say, crossing your arms. “I am not going to go into that prick’s office.”

“Gotta love how he developed from being a hot guy to a hot prick in your eyes.”

“Who said I still find him hot?”

You didn’t care if people called you petty. If Grayson would ignore you, you would ignore him.

Simple.

Xander gets up, nudging your side. “At least get the whiskey.”

“You’re a drunkard.”

He shrugs.

You sigh.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── I am definitely the dumbest person on the planet for actually going to the office and getting the whiskey. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You walk down the corridors and go up staircases before you find his office.

You knock.

“Come in.” He says, and his voice sounds as though he’s half asleep.

You can’t help but wonder when, exactly, he’d actually slept through the night.

Opening the door, you step in, and when his eyes meet yours, they’re in surprise.

He says your name.

And god, you love the way your name rolls off of his tongue.

“You’ve been ignoring me.” You whisper. You didn’t mean to talk to him about that, but the words escape you.

“Not on purpose.” He whispers back, getting up from his chair. The desk is littered with papers and he looked half-buried in them.

“It seemed like that when you just walked by me like I was nothing.”

“You could never be nothing, Not to me.” He says, and he walks towards you before his back straightens and he looks away.

Until then, until he looked away, you’d believed you could have actually been something to him.

Now?

You feel as though someone is going to take a hammer to your heart.

“How dare you say I could never be nothing and then look away? How dare you play with my heart?” You say. You’re fuming, you can’t believe that you were falling for a man like him.

Until you see him quiver. His eyes are mad and his whole body is shaking, like he wants to say something but the words just won’t come out.

He walks to you, your chests almost touching.

His hands are quivering when they’re on your arms, touching you with a featherlight touch, as though he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“Why can’t I think straight when you’re with me?” And then he says your name, and you’re falling.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── He looked at me like I was the only person alive. Like I was the reason his heart was beating. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Whenever I look at you, I cannot think. Whenever I see you smile or laugh, I feel the sudden urge to join you. Whenever I hear your voice, I feel like I am a damned man and you are my only chance at salvation. How? How do you have such an effect on me? Why is it that you are the only person who crowds my mind? Why can't I help but want to be with you? Why do I want you?

I don’t know. I don’t know why–or how–you consume my thoughts. I have never been able to give my heart but to you? When I am with you, I want to give you all of me. I’ve never been so unsure of my feelings, and then you came along.

I think I love you. I think I am hopelessly in love with you.” Your name rushes from his lips like it’s a prayer.

You can’t breathe.

His lips are nearing yours, and then they stop when they’re a finger’s breadth away.

“I’m afraid that if I kiss you now, I’ll never feel like stopping.” He says, his voice in a low whisper. “But I’m also afraid that if I do not kiss you now, I’ll never be able to think of anything else.”

For two seconds, the two of you stay still.

Then: “Can I?”

The barest of nods.

His lips are on yours and you feel like you’re on fire.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Oh, no, I’m not writing the rest of it down. I’m afraid someone will find this and read this journal and just because of that, I am not writing anymore. But I will say this: his lips are extremely soft and his kiss is like a secret that he never wishes to give away. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Journal Entry Three

#grayson hawthorne #grayson hawthorne x reader #au #avery kylie grambs #jameson hawthorne #xander hawthorne #the inheritance games #x reader #fanfic

54 notes · View notes

bl4cktourmaline · 2 months

Text

🍡 . 鳥居 — your secret admirer ft k.kazuha & xiao

✿ — ♬ ⌨️ᶻᶻᶻ : yue is typing... ✉!

✿ — ↻ SYNOPSIS : Love is like the breeze itself, you can't see it but the heart know it and its gentle whisper tell a different tale...

✿ — ♯ GENRE : fluff, gn reader

✿ — ↠ NOTE : pyon-yahoo, zee! I know we never really get to talk at all before this but I'm happy to be your secret admirer for this event so I really hope that I live up to your expectations for your favorite characters!

✿ — ♪ REMINDER : reblogs & likes are appreciated, in doing so will motivate us to continue delivering stories to you, thank you for all of your supports ~ !

✿ — ♭ ⁿᵒʷ ᶜᵃˡˡⁱⁿᵍ... : @mccnstruck

✿ — ► ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : the art of you featuring kaedehara kazuha and xiao...

🍡 . 鳥居 — kaedehara kazuha

∞ You were an artist originally from sumeru who travel to different nations, looking for some inspirations to complete your travel illustrations journal in hope of sharing your experience with those who can't afford travelling fees.

∞ You weren't really interested in becoming a scholar but instead your passion lies in the world of arts so the moment you were able to become independent, you immediately went off to Liyue which was just so happened to be next to where Sumeru is.

∞ Ever since you were a child, you heard stories of other nations and their cultures so you were really interested in learning more about them and recording it all in your journal.

∞ But when you decide to set foot in an unknown territory, you honestly didn't expect to find love for the first time ...

The bustling city of Liyue was filled with vibrant colours and historical buildings as the laughter and chattering of its residents crowded the streets.

You could see all the buildings and the small stalls are decorated with paper lanterns, and their designs vary from dragons, maple leaves and many more. Your eyes caught the sight of various beautiful flowers decorated some of the residents' hair.

I have never seen those flowers before...I wonder if they are this nation's flowers?

You hummed softly, taking notes of recording it later in your journal once you get to your room but for now, that sweet, sweet tempting aroma of the foods from the stalls is leading you astray...

"(name), no...you have a job to do, you are not here to sightsee-" You paused mid sentence when one of the stall owners brought out the foods, deliciously fresh and hot. It looks so appetizing.

Okay, maybe one bite won't hurt...

"Mmm~ it's so good!!"

Your cheeks flushed in delight, taking another bite of the grilled tiger fish under the big tree as you quietly watched children and adults walking around the streets, enjoying the festival as much as possible.

After having a chat with the store owner about the cultures and their history, he was nice enough to give you some of his grilled tiger fish for free, probably because of the warm and lively atmosphere.

Whatever the reason is...but free food!

As you were enjoying the moment, you suddenly felt the gentle breeze on your face. There was a very light, almost quiet rustling of leaves but soon, the breeze suddenly picked up and you could hear a strong whistling sound of the wind.

"Ah, not my hat?!" You cried, eyes widened in surprise as you immediately stood up and set off to catch it. The (colour) hat flew gently with the wind as its dance to the song of the wind.

But to you, it's just seems like it was mocking you-

"Please, please, please don't go over the bridge...!"

Just as you fear. It went over the bridge and your face almost dropped.

...if it wasn't for a young man swiftly catching it and for a moment, time seems to hold still as the young man floats in mid air slowly landing on the ground as if he was dancing with the wind itself.

It was breathtaking.

"I think I just witnessed something magical..." You pinched your cheeks and soon enough, it stings like heck!

IT'S NOT A DREAM?

The young man turned to you with a kind smile, handing out your hat "I believe this one is yours?"

Oh god. His voice.

"A-Ah, yes! Thank you for getting it for me" You couldn't help but cringe at yourself when your voice just cracked, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

"Excuse me for a moment please" The young man suddenly came closer to you and reached out to your head.

You flinched when the feels of his fingertips gently brushed against your hair before pulling something out and presenting it to you.

"There was a maple leaf stuck in your hair" He let out a chuckle when your eyes widened and stared at him in shock.

"I-uh wha...?"

Oh gosh, is that why some of the passers-by were giggling at?!

"You seem surprised so it wasn't for decoration?"

"Y-Yeah... actually it's my first time here so I'm not very familiar with its culture yet..."

You shyly avoid making eye contact with him, heart thumping loudly and body temperature slowly raising. You could have sworn that the kind stranger would hear it.

"Would you like to take a stroll with me?" He asked in a kind tone, his gaze softened as some of his locks brushed against his face due to the wind picking itself up again "I could tell you anything of what I know about Liyue Harbor if you would like?"

"Are you sure? I would love to!" You happily accepted his offer, totally not just because you want to get to know him more... it's for your work definitely!

"Ah, I forgot to introduce myself..." You cut yourself off before awkwardly scratching your cheek "I am (last name) (name)...it's nice to meet you"

"I am Kaedehara Kazuha, I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance"

...and that was the start of your journey with the young samurai.

🍡 . 鳥居 — xiao

㊊ Ever since you were a child, you heard many stories of other nations from your parents' experience as adventurers before settling down in Sumeru and it's because of them, you've become more curious of the world outside of your homeland.

㊊ Especially the tales of the Rex Lapis and the Adeptus who fought alongside him during the war, you were most curious about the remaining sole survivor of the yakshas.

㊊ You were raised in a loving household so you couldn't imagine how that person felt after losing their family so tragically like that... you want to learn more about their history and how their efforts become one of the many reasons why Liyue Harbor is still standing to this day.

㊊ So once you were older enough to join the adventure guild, you immediately set off to Liyue Harbor for a mission to collect specific herbs that you can only find in the mountains of Liyue where danger lurk in the dark...

The solitary mountains loomed in the distance, the land of geo dwarfing the endless sea of greenery and yellow trees that surrounded the mountaintops.

At dusk, the mountains were silhouettes, shrouded in the dark hues of the night sky but as the sun began to rest, the stars painted the dark sky with their brilliant lights and soon, the moon rose higher as if it was guiding its little ones to shine brightly upon the world.

It was truly a sight to behold.

"This scenery might be good for a painting..." You couldn't keep the big grin off your face as you quickly make your way towards your next destination, hoping to find a safe place to camp for the night.

But something caught your eyes as you were walking up the path between the mountains, it was a small purple flower with strong vitality, its downward-blooming buds really remind you of something...

Wait.

You quickly went to grab your notebook, patting around the inside of your pocket before pulling it out and flipped it open to a list of plants for the mission.

"Hmm... it fits the description" You hummed, taking notes of the flower characteristics before quickly making a sketch of it to go along with and once you were done, you put it away for further studies later on.

You adjusted your grip on your bag before walking up to where the flower is and begins to climb the cliff. You didn't look down, carefully makes your way up the mountain and soon enough, you were close enough to grab the plant "Alright that one down-"

"Ya!"

You snapped your head towards the source of the noise only to see a bunch of Hilichurls and two of them were aiming their arrows right at where you were...

WHERE THE HECK DID THEY COME FROM?

You cursed under your breath at the disadvantageous situation you found yourself in, puzzled but you didn't get to think any further when a sharp and intense outburst, an agony of excruciating pain hits your left shoulder.

You gasped, gritting your teeths as your left hand loosen its grip out of shock and a highly unpleasant, intense physical sensation in the area where the arrow successfully pierced through the skin.

Its burns.

You were barely holding onto the cliff, your line of sight blurred as tears gathered at the corner of your eyes.

"Ika ya! Ika ya! Upano yaya ika!"

"Upa sada!!"

They were screaming at you in their own language, whatever it is...from you could tell from their noises that they were mad about something but why towards you...?

I didn't see any hilichurl camp nearby when I was making my way up here...

I could only remember encountering a few hilichurls because a few adventurers were cornered.

...Ah.

"Ika ya-!"

A violent gust of wind cut the creatures off and the sound of a spear piercing through as the screams of the hilichurls echoed throughout the earthly walls and the next moment.... it's dead silence.

You snapped your eyes open for the world, only to see a beautiful pair of strong golden eyes staring right back at you.

It was a young man with hair as dark as the night sky and teal undertones, he was clearly out of breath and was stiff as a wooden broad but he never took his eyes off you.

...there was something about him that made you feel uneasy, that look in his bewitching golden eyes...

As if he was looking at something... precious.

Why does he look so familiar though...?

"H-Have we met before?" You blurted out, completely mesmerized by this otherworldly beauty in front of you.

"..." He didn't respond, cautiously putting you down onto the ground and his lips trembling slightly, suppressing his emotions in check as he examined your face up close.

His hand cupped your face, his thumb wiping the blood off your cheek gently "...You should be more cautious of your surroundings next time"

His tone was harsh but it's like your heart knew that it wasn't intended to come out like that.

The young man had his back towards you and just as he was about to disappear along with the wind, you cried out "Wait...!"

He paused, slightly glancing over his shoulder to you but you could hardly see his face from where you were "...What is it?"

"I want to know... just who..." You looked up with pleasing eyes, struggling to breathe. You didn't understand why you were acting the way you are now but you knew that if you don't it now, you might regret it later on...

"Xiao"

You stared at him, surprised when he turned to look at you with a facial expression that raised even more questions; the looks of his eyes were soft...as if he was at peace from all of the burdens that shackled him to this world.

"As long as you're in Liyue, Call by my name and I'll be right there when you need me"

...and then he vanished to thin air, leaving you staring at the empty space…

63 notes · View notes

oftlunarialmoon · 5 months

Text

Ciao lovelies! I have written before on the topic of Age Regression many times, from explaining what Age Regression is, to Age Regression Self-Care, to Age Regression Journaling. I never explicitly said before now, but I, myself, am an age regressor to cope with stress (and some other mental health reasons). The reason why I have officially decided to come forward and say so is because I feel that I want to keep writing posts on the topic of age regression, some with personal experience perhaps, so I want to be open with you all and let you know why I continue to write on this topic. I’ve also noticed some of this blog’s audience is made up of age regressors like myself, and I want to provide you all with some content from a safe, welcoming, and open-minded source. All that being said, today I’ve decided to write down 101 activity ideas for Age Regressors/ Things to Do When Bored, Age Regression edition. Please be sure to let me know in the comments (yes, you can even comment anonymously!) if you like these ideas, please be sure to tell me your favorite!

101 ACTIVITIES FOR AGE REGRESSORS

Outside Activities for Summer

1. Play on a swing-set!

2. Play hopscotch!

3. Color with chalk!

4. Build Fairy houses with materials you find outside!

5. Take pictures of your toys in nature! This works especially well for dinosaur toys, animal toys, et, because they look like they’re meant to be in nature!

6. �� Jump rope!

7. Go swimming!

8. Go fishing with a net and play catch and release!

9. Go to a beach and find cool seashells!

10. Read a book outside in the sun!

11. Go for an ice cream!

Outside Activities for Fall

12. Find leaves and flowers and press them into a journal. You can also do Leaf rubbings, where you put a piece of paper over a leaf and use a crayon to rub over it to get the imprint of the leaf on the paper!

13. Carve a pumpkin!

14. Go to a pumpkin patch and take lots of pics among the pumpkins! You can even pick out one to take home and make into a Jack-O-Lantern (like #12)!

15. Collect cool leaves and make a leaf arrangement/wreath!

Outside Activities for Winter

16. Build a snowman!

17. Build a snow-fort!

18. Have a snowball fight!

19. Try to catch snowflakes on your tongue!

20. Make snow angels!

21. Play hide and seek in the snow!

Outside Activities for Spring

22. Collect flowers and make bouquets!

23. Make flower crowns!

24. Play tag with some friends!

25. Weave grass into cool shapes!

26. Collect cool rocks/gemstones…You can even pretend to be a dragon who’s collecting rocks for their hoard!

Indoor Activities for Any Season

27. Redecorate your room!

28. Clean your room! (I know, bleh, but if you clean then you’ll have a clean slate for #27!)

29. Change your phone’s wallpaper/lockscreen (check out our Instagram Highlight for some of ours!)

30. Play with makeup!

31. Try out new hairstyles!

32. Play dress up!

33. Play with some dolls!

34. Play pretend! You could pretend to be a teacher for your dolls/toys, or even have your stuffies go on super cool adventures with you!

35. Craft! You can make accessories, décor, toys, clothes, anything! Check out our DIY tag for lots of fun crafts!

36. Read some kid books!

37. Stim! I like crinkles when I’m small, and I also like slime and flappy hands!

38. Play with squishies!

39. Walk around a store and look at all the toys and kid stuff!

40. Go on a Dollar Store shopping spree! You can get a lot of stuff at a dollar store for under like $20!

41. Color in some cool pictures!

42. Design a new OC (Original Character)

43. Draw some comics! They can be of yourself or of your OC’s!

44. Cosplay your OC’s/any character you like!

45. Do a photoshoot!

46. Make a sensory bottle!

47. Set up a dollhouse!

48. Make beaded bracelets!

49. Make yourself a snack!

50. Or a meal!

51. Bake some cookies (just be careful with the hot oven, okay?)

52. Have a dance party with your stuffies!

53. Make a playlist to regress to!

54. Find new regression YouTubers!

55. Play some video games! I love Slime Rancher , Animal Crossing, and more!

56. Play with some phone apps! I love Animal Crossing Pocket Camp, Pastel Girl, and Pokémon Go!

57. Try to mix your own perfume!

58. Design a picture using glitter!

59. Draw some fashion designs!

60. Start an age regression journal!

61. Practice some age regression self-care!

62. Make a self-care box!

63. Make figures from modeling clay!

64. Paint your nails!

65. Give your stuffies/dolls a makeover!

66. Find cute regression music!

67. Make posters for your room!

68. Make gifts for your friends!

69. Find a new penpal!

70. Write letters to your pen-pal!

71. Start a sticker scrapbook!

72. Open some blind-bags!

73. Watch some toy youtubers. Our YouTube Channel has some toy videos, my other favorites are Cookie Swirl C and My Froggy Stuff!

74. Make your own YouTube Channel!

75. Create a mystery to solve with your stuffies!

76. Solve a Crossword Puzzle!

77. Solve a Wordsearch!

78. Finish a puzzle!

79. Design your own puzzle!

80. Make an escape room for your toys!

81. Paint something!

82. Watch cute anime like Himouto Umaru Chan!

83. Watch cute shows on Netflix like Twelve Forever or Hilda!

84. Watch fun shows on Hulu like Gravity Falls!

85. Go to the library!

86. Play chess or checkers!

87. Watch a movie! I like Welcome to Monster High!

88. Go see a movie in theatres!

89. Make temporary tattoos using food coloring!

90. Make your own T-shirt using a blank T-shirt and fabric paints!

91. Take a little nap!

92. Put on a play with or for your stuffies!

93. Make clothes and accessories for your stuffies!

94. Make clothes and accessories for your dolls!

95. Make furniture for your dolls!

96. Make your own blindbags for a friend!

97. Upcycle your old clothes and jewelry by designing them into something new!

98. Visit a thrift store!

99. Go to a museum!

100. Go to the mall!

101. Visit an Arcade!

WHEW! I hope that is enough ideas for you bored little ones out there. Have a great day!

#agere #age regression #sfw littlespace #sfw agere #age regressor #sfw age regression #agereg #age dreaming #sfw little blog

84 notes · View notes

netherfeildren · 11 months

Text

I am a lantern

A Fear of God story : Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: Birdie realizes she’s pregnant. This takes place some time within the events of chapter 2 and 3 of Fear of God.

Content Warnings: Established relationship; Fluff; Unprotected sex; Domestic kink; Oral sex; Discussions of menstruation; Mention of rough sex; Pregnancy; Internal angst

A/N: Surprise, surprise!! In honor of FoG reaching 15k hits on AO3 here’s the first of my planned extras for the FoG universe :) Thank you so much for all of your love and support 💗

Art is Psyche Weeping by Kink Y. Craft (2009)

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 7.3K

Read on AO3

“Here ya go, sweetheart.” He hands you the bowl of dinner he’d whipped up for the two of you.

You’d taken to avoiding the mess hall recently, too attached to the cocoon you’d wrapped yourselves in together – always wanting to be alone, basking in each other’s presence, preparing meals for one another, and then going to bed together to feel each other’s skin and fuck until either of you was too exhausted to move.

“Thank you,” you murmur, turning your face up to him for a kiss with your eyes still on the notes you’re reading. There was too much to do lately. The clinic was so busy and Connie had veritably checked out, only popping in once in a while, leaving the heavy lifting to you with Nancy’s assistance. You’re exhausted, a little overwhelmed, entirely terrified with a perpetual black cloud of self doubt and anxiety hovering over your head at all hours of the day. You aren’t prepared for this… you aren’t even a real doctor, for fuck’s sake. Not really — not in any terms that would’ve counted before. Just whatever semblance of one the apocalypse had chewed up and spit out – an entire community was way too much responsibility for you alone. You feel the backs of your eyes pinch. Your back aches and your head throbs and your stomach has been simmering on a low grade of nausea all day long, but you still have so much to go over.

When he walks out again, his own bowl in hand, you’re buried face down in your notes, aggressively loud sobs wracking your body. He stares at you for a second, brow pulled down low, and all you can do is look up at him and practically wail.

Jesus, Birdie. He sighs, long and drawn out, he’s been waiting for this – had felt the storm brewing all evening. Something’s been bugging you or setting you off the past few days, and try as he might, he can’t figure out what the real problem is. He doesn’t want to ask outright just yet – he knows you’re stressed. Connie’s been pushing harder and harder to get you to agree to let him call it quits, and Joel knows you’re scared and stressed and feeling unnecessarily unsure of yourself. If you’d asked him, he thinks you’re ready for the responsibility – more than ready. No one would be able to take care of the community better than your kind and gentle hands and magnificent mind would.

He sets his bowl down, you’ve not even touched yours, and if it weren’t for the tears, the two of you’d be having words right now about your irresponsible eating habits. He hates when you get so distracted you forget meals, fills him with an inordinate amount of stress. He just needs to know that you’re well fed and taken care of at all times, it’s as simple as that. “Alright, sweetheart. That’s enough.” He pulls your mess of papers and journals and books and your ugly, orange throw from your lap and sets it all gently on the table beside you – ignores your protests as he wraps one arm behind your back and another one under your knees. “You’re done for the night.” He pulls the book you’re trying to reach for out of your hands and scoops you up into his arms with a grunt. Damn knees. “You’re goin’ to bed. No more working tonight.” You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder to continue your sobbing.

“I– I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you hitch and hiccup. “I’m not finished,” you protest, “I have more to go over,” but your arms tighten around him, and he feels you mouth at the skin of his neck. Emotional and needy, recently. Hungry for his cock and his hands and his tongue at all hours of the day. Not that he was complaining, at all. But he did wonder what’d gotten into you.

“You are for tonight,” he says softly, “You’re exhausted. Don’t tell me you’re not.”

“I’m not,” you grouch, stubborn and too adorable for your own good. His heart pinches a little. Your weight is so slight in his arms, carrying you up the stairs, just a little bird. He wonders, more often than not, how something so small can be so powerful, can terrify him so much, hold so much sway over his life, his very existence. It scares him enough to keep him away from you, as much as he can force himself, at least, even if he sees it for the lie within himself that it truly is. The two of you are practically living together at this point. As much as he feels like he needs to force himself to lie or pretend that this is still just sex, still just something to ease your individual loneliness, if he gives himself a moment to be really, really honest with himself, he knows what this truly is.

But for now, for a little while longer at least, as long as he can stretch it out, he’ll swallow the truth of the two of you, swallow it down and pretend it’s less than what it is. That it isn’t absolutely everything.

He sets you down gently on his bed, the sheets still rumpled from when he’d fucked you this morning before he’d sent you off to work, shaky legs, leaking cunt and all. His favorite way to start the day. He helps you settle in, pulls off your leggings and his own thick socks he’d pulled over your cold feet earlier and tucks the covers in around you. He eyes the stack of books on the bedside table, a mix of his own historical fiction and westerns and the cracked and well loved spines of some of your medical texts and scientific journals – wherever he turned his eye in his house, there were signs of you, signs of the way you’d settled into his life, become an intrinsic part of his existence. He wonders for a moment if he should go as far as taking them downstairs with him, but when he looks down at your sleepy, tear swollen eyes gazing up at him, he decides you’re probably too tired to disobey.

“Sleep,” he says down at you with false severity. He’s sure he’s entirely transparent, and as you turn your face into his pillow he catches the quick quirk of your smile… yeah, definitely transparent. He hears your muffled yes, sir, as he turns to go back downstairs and tidy up the kitchen before he comes back to join you in bed.

When he makes it back upstairs, his abandoned dinner, scarfed down quickly, and the kitchen cleaned, of course, of course, the bedside lamp is on and your face is buried in one of your textbooks. You’re holding it so close to your face, the tip of your nose almost brushes it, and he scoffs, typical, at the sight of you, but when he looks down he takes in the entire lithe length of you stretched out across his bed. The t-shirt of his you’re wearing has ridden up over your ass so that your little, pink, polka dot panties are peeking up at him. The soft cotton has ridden up into the cleft of your ass so that the elastic digs into the lush swell of your bottom, and he feels his cock stir at the sight.

Yeah… too adorable, too damn beautiful for your own good. Definitely… He’s going to lick and kiss and bite all of that gorgeous skin in a second.

“What’d I tell you, Birdie?”

“Just one second–” you mumble into the page, not even turning to look at him. He goes into the restroom to brush his teeth, listens to the sound of you turning the pages, one second his ass. If he didn’t forcibly take the book out of your hand and fuck you to sleep you’d never put the damn thing down. Joel supposes he can make the sacrifice.

He comes back out into the bedroom, pulling his shirt over the back of his head and shucking his jeans and boxers down his legs before kneeling behind you on the bed. He reaches for your panties, fuck– he really likes the polka dots, and you’ve still not put the damn book away as he pulls them down the smooth slopes of your legs, and buries his face in your cunt from behind. And finally, finally, he hears the thump of the book against the wooden boards of the floor and then your moan as he licks into your pussy, pulling you apart by the softness of your ass. You groan for him, throaty and drawn out as you arch your back to give him better access.

“Yeah… that’s what I fuckin’ thought,” he says into your skin, licking a long, wet stripe from your clit all the way to the tight furl of your asshole. He’d taken you hard this morning, fucking your pussy almost brutally until he’d pulled out and pushed his way into your back hole to come in your ass. The two of you had been filthy lately. You’d been particularly insatiable, but you incited something in him that turned him into a fucking animal sometimes. You had the uncanny ability to crawl under his skin and make his blood boil and rage until the only thing that seemed to settle him was your come and your spit and your sweat in his mouth, covering every inch of his skin.

If he really thought about it, he knew he was obsessed with you. Obsession verging on something much more serious – verging on… No, not yet… He wouldn’t think of that yet.

He pulls back to survey the blushing, flutter of your little hole. Fucking needy thing, he rumbles, but as he goes to push a single finger into your opening, he feels you wince and pull back slightly. Shit, he knew he’d been too rough this morning. He licks another wet swipe along the cleft of your ass. “You sore, baby?” All he gets is your muffled moan and a slight nod of your head, your face buried in the pillows as you hitch your hips higher, trying to tempt him, swaying your ass gently from side to side… like he’d said, needy. He anchors himself up on one arm, the other keeping you spread open while he lets a long string of spit trickle slowly from his pursed mouth, the thick glob covering your tight hole so that he can smear it into your skin. Joel, Joel – he hears you begging into the sheets. “Yeah… I got you, little bird. Don’t worry–” He bends his head again to bite at the crease where your asscheek meets the back of your thigh and then grips your hips to slowly roll you over.

Your eyes are hazy, glazed and wet when he takes in your flushed face. He crawls up the length of your body to lay beside you, slotting one arm under your head and the other wrapping around your thigh to bring it up over his hip. “N– no, Joel– I– I still want you to fuck me… I still wanna come,” you mewl, scratching at his shoulders and arms. Tiny little fingers digging into his skin to try and pull him into obedience.

“Uh huh, I gotcha, baby… don’t worry. But I’m not gonna fuck you if you’re sore.” He slots his cock between your thighs, pressed up against your wet cleft and starts to slide through your sensitive folds. You shake and jitter in his arms, little hiccuping moans and whimpers every time the wide head bumps and catches against the swollen nub of your clit.

Please, please, I can take it.

“My poor Birdie,” he coos, “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.” The hand on your thigh sneaks back and around your bottom to slot between your thighs, pressing up on his sliding cock to apply greater pressure to your cunt. “How’s this, huh? Feel good?”

“Ungh, ah, ah ah…” So good, so good, you whisper, hot breath fanning over the underside of his chin. He feels the wet swipe of your tongue, your little teeth sinking into the edge of his jaw. “I don’t– I don’t know what’s wrong with me–” His tip catches at your tender opening and you jerk slightly in his arms, he fists the hand not between your legs in your hair to anchor you in place and presses his mouth to yours, a long, wet swipe behind the edge of your teeth. He can hear how wet you are as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, your moans and whimpers getting louder, more desperate. The sound of you is obscene, his own personal wet fucking dream.

His dream girl… come to life.

“That’s right, baby. Just like that – gonna come on my cock just like this. Didn’t I say I’d take care of you? Don’t I always take care of you just how you need?” You start to tremble even harder, your leg wrapped around him tightening at his waist so that your heel is pressed sharply into the base of his spine and he feels you jerk as he grinds the thick base of himself into your clit and you start to come. Mewling and keening his name, his good, beautiful girl. He slides his hand up your bottom and back, long, slow passes of his palm along your sweat damp spine to settle you. “That better?” he whispers into your hair. You shiver, and he feels the nod of your head as you mouth as his throat and chest.

“Yes… thank you.” He pulls back to wrap his hand around your jaw, your bones feel so fragile beneath his strength – something delicate he’s been afforded the privilege of being able to touch with these violence soaked hands of his. He can’t think about how frightened you make him, not now, not when he has you beneath him like this, soft and sated and pliant – the sweetest fucking thing he’s ever laid eyes on in his life. He smushes your cheeks together and plants a soft kiss to your puckered mouth. “Beautiful girl.” All you do is burrow further into the covers, a soft sigh as you nuzzle your cheek into his palm. And so fine, he can admit it, right here and now. He fucking loves you, and it’ll probably be the thing to kill him in the end, this recalcitrance he’s forcing himself into.

You stir awake in the middle of the night. He’s draped over you in his sleep, his face tucked into the warm crook of your neck, big hand palming the weight of your breast. He’s so big and muscular and heavy and you love the feel of his weight pressing you into the mattress. You wrap your arms around him, drag your fingers through his thick curls, and listen to the sound of his soft snores.

Your entire body feels like one unending, tender bruise. Every sensation heightened, too sensitive, like a raw, exposed nerve. You don’t know what’s wrong with you lately, what’s gotten into you. You’re on the verge of overwhelmed tears, just from the feel of him, the sound of his soft breathing, overwhelmed by how much you love him, how much you want him. You’ve been on the verge of tears for days, the slightest thing setting you off.

You lay there for a while holding him, sleep gone out the window in the night, abandoning you to wakefulness, but you realize that the reason you’d stirred awake is that you’re cramping low in your belly, a dull and chronic sort of pulse, deep in your womb. Shit, you need to get up and check if you’re bleeding.

You shift out from under him slowly, slipping from beneath his heavy paw to slip into the restroom. He turns over in his sleep, arm thrown out over the space you’ve just vacated, as if he’s searching for you, even unconscious. As you move towards the restroom there’s another throbbing pulse low in your belly, like you’re carrying around a bruise in the shape of him inside of you. Everything feels extra tender – coiled tight. He’s been insatiable lately — more than his usual. He’d had you four times yesterday alone. Twice today, plus your fooling around before you’d gone to sleep. Your cunt is sore and puffy and soaking wet, even after he’d cleaned you up with a warm wash cloth before falling asleep. Sometimes it seems like you’re fucking a teenager instead of an old man with the stamina he’s got in him. You laugh quietly.

But when you pull your underwear down to sit on the cold toilet basin, there’s nothing. Huh… you’d for sure thought the cramping meant you’d started your period. A slow simmering churning starts up in your gut, slowly, slowly starting a low boil. Maybe you’re starting soon, that’s why you’re cramping – it’s fine. You wipe and stand to wash your hands. Maybe dinner isn’t sitting right – but no… you’d barely eaten. So something you’d had before then. That’s probably why you’re so sensitive and on edge lately – you’re probably getting sick. You’d been nauseous the past few days, and there was that bout of vomiting the other day. You pull open one of his lavatory drawers, looking for the antacid tablets you know he hoards, when you’re met with the sight of your menstrual cup, sitting in the little plastic bin you keep it in.

Shit.

Why is this over here? Since when has it been over here? Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. No, no, no.

You can’t remember the last time you’d used it. You try and count back the weeks – fuck, the months. Real panic starts to flutter and fizz in your belly. When was the last time you’d had a period? Surely more than four weeks ago but … but if it’s been that long, if you’re remembering correctly… then… then, it’s been closer to two months by now. So that would mean… that means… you turn towards the door where Joel sleeps, unaware, on the other side as if you can see him through the thick wood.

You feel your heart drop into your stomach, the rhythm of its beat ricocheting up to a concerning speed. Oh, God. Oh, God. How could you have been so careless – so distracted? How is this the first time you’re even thinking about this – even realizing it? But no… if you’re being honest, objective – you know you’ve only been waiting for something like this to happen – for months now. How could you not? When the two of you had never even pretended at being careful or responsible for preventing something like this. Oh, God – how are you going to tell him? What is he going to say? He’s going to be so angry.

But a voice at the back of your mind whispers that you’re only telling yourself that – that you know it isn’t true – that you know he’d be not only happy, but overjoyed at the thought of a baby. But how could you really know for sure? When he’s always been firm in keeping that last sliver of distance between the two of you? Still after all these months – unable to admit the truth of what lived here, between the two of you. That this isn’t just sex – that the two of you are in love with each other.

You lean against the sink for support, your shaky legs on the verge of collapse, and stare at yourself in the mirror. This puts your behavior of the last few days into better perspective. All the tears, the shaky stomach, feeling so sensitive – like a raw nerve all he needed to do was look at, breathe on, to provoke. If you really think about it, you’d been the instigator at the start of each of your encounters in the last few days. Seeking him out ravenously – hungry and desperate for his cock and his skin and his smell at every hour of the day. Weepy, swollen cunt – even when he wasn’t around to tempt you, and he’d left you satisfied, and yet, still wanting more, every single time.

You step back out into the dark space of his bedroom. He’s on his back, one bulging arm thrown over his head. His mess of curls strewn across the surface of his pillow. You watch the rise and fall of his belly, his thick, strong waist, with the cadence of his breaths. Your womb twists with lust.

Fuck, you’re probably pregnant with this man’s baby. How are you going to tell him?

You can make out the thick heft of his cock through the thin material of the sheets covering his waist, he’d not bothered to put anything else on again after he’d made you come, and it makes your mouth water and the place between your legs so achy. Your recent behavior is completely transparent now, you’d been so needy, insatiable, the only thing to settle you the heavy weight of his cock stretching you open and pounding deep into you. Fucking typical. He’d done this to you, and now he got to reap the rewards of you climbing onto his dick at all hours of the day.

You roll your eyes at him in the dark as you slide back into bed beside him, running your palm over the flat of his belly. He clasps your hand with his in his sleep as he rolls over, pulling you along with him, wrapping your arm around himself and tucking it up by his neck so that you’re spooning him. He drapes his arm back over your hip and clutches your leg, tucking his fingers right at the place where your ass cheek meets your inner thigh and pulling your front further into his back – trying to get you as close as possible to him. You listen to his deep, sleepy rumble, and you bury your face between his warm back and the bed, the sheets smell like the both of you, sweet and musky – like your sex, your love making. You’ve made a baby together. Joel’s baby. The thought makes tears pool in your eyes and start a slow, silent stream down your face. Your insides clenching wantonly at the same time that your stomach flutters and heaves with nerves and panic. There are too many sensations spilling through your body all at the same time, and you think your frame starts to tremble, an uncontainable gasp slipping out because suddenly you feel his muscles snap awake, his rough voice saying your name sharp and worried. You wrap your arm tighter around him, digging your nails into the skin of his neck to stop him from turning over. You don’t want him to see you like this, you don’t want him to know, you don’t want him to be angry or worried or regretful.

He’d never be any of those things, your heart whispers at your anxious mind.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Why’re you crying?” he says into the dark room. You feel his muscles tense as he tries to escape your tight hold without being too rough.

“I don’t know–” you splutter into his back, your voice coming out muffled against his warm skin. “I’m– I’m emotional. I think I’m getting my period soon,” you lie. Lie, lie, fucking liar. You don’t think you’ll be getting that for a good, long while.

He sighs, gripping your wrist firmly to pull your arm away for him so he can turn over to cradle you gently in his arms. The best place in the entire world. You cry harder.

“C’mere, sweet girl,” he whispers against your hairline, pressing his soft mouth to your forehead, your temple. “It’s alright… no tears.” He pets at the nape of your neck. His voice is so deep, you feel the vibrations of it pass through his chest and rumble into your own, and it makes the tips of your breasts tighten into aching little knots. You wrap your arms around his neck to meld your chest tighter to his. You wish you could live inside of him the way he now lives inside of you. He’s left a piece of himself with you, eventually it’ll grow and the whole world will know how definitively you belong to him. You’ll be round and swollen and only his, only his. The thought makes your pussy clench.

“Joel–” you tug as his curls, his beard, trying to pull his mouth down to yours. He rumbles deep in his chest, gives you his tongue. He’s being too slow, too gentle, you need him to fuck you hard, desperate – as desperate as you feel for him in this moment, to ground you and tame this panic surging up inside of you with his strong hands.

“Kiss me – hug me,” you beg.

“M’right here, Birdie.” He cards his hand through your hair, pulls your head back slightly, “Look at me – I’m right here with you.”

“More, more, please.” You lick at his mouth, drag your teeth down his chin.

He rolls you over to settle his hips between your spread legs. You can feel the searing hot brand of his hard cock against the inside of your thigh. He’s always hard for you. He’s always hard for you, and you’re always soft and wet and ready for him, and the two of you are perfect for each other. You were made for each other, and now you’ve made a baby together. “You need my cock again, little bird?”

You spread your legs wider, “Yes, yes – I always need you,” you whine. He wraps his hand around your throat and pauses to stare down at you for a second, his brow pulled down low. He bends his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours as he presses his mouth to your own. You keep your eyes wide open also, looking between his dark eyes. His lashes are so long, the thick fringe of them fanning out so wide they cast a shadow across his cheekbones. The two of you are so close you can make out each individual lash, the little lines around his eyes – stress, before … but you hope, now, only from laughing too much, from being too happy. You always want him to be so, so happy he doesn’t know what to do with it all. You want him to be overwhelmed and submerged in so much ridiculous happiness. The two of you hold there for a moment, breathing into each other’s mouths. You love him so much it is a physical ache within you.

He sits back slightly then, and lifts your thigh to press a soft kiss to the inside of your leg, then another to your belly, right over your womb, your heart swoops at that and you whimper, then another right to the top of your mound. The tip of his tongue peeking out to lap at your clit, just a little.

Then he stretches over you again, giving you all his weight and reaches his hand down to pet the back of his knuckles along your slit, “Shit, fuckin’ wet and swollen, Birdie.”

“I want you so much,” you breath, eyes fluttering closed as he parts your puffy lips and pets at your clit. He starts up a gentle rhythm around your sensitive bundle of nerves that has you kicking your legs out impatiently around him for more. Why is he being so gentle and mean and soft? You need it hard, you need more.

“Please, Joel, please, please, fuck me, please.” You can feel hot tears burning down the slopes of your cheeks. He’s going to think you’ve lost the fucking plot, crying and begging for his cock like this. He continues to be mean and horrible and pet softly at your clit, like a whisper over your raging, burning skin.

“Settle down. Gonna give it to you how I see fit.”

“You’re so mean,” you kick out one leg, pathetically, at his side. The broad expanse of him has you spread so wide there’s no purchase to be found, all you can do is lie here and take it. He’s so horrible — look at him, he’s gone and knocked you up and now he won’t even fuck you how you need him to. You pout up at him, cry and mewl pathetically. “Please, harder, Joel.”

“Nuh-uh, said you were sore. Gotta be gentle with my soft, little cunt.”

“But you’re going to fuck me right?” you cry.

“Yeah, baby. Don’t worry,” he says softly, starts to circle his thumb at your tender entrance, pressing gentle pressure on it. You do your best to stifle your wince, shit, it’s not necessarily sore, just so, so sensitive. This is all his fault. You want to sink your teeth into his neck and bite him as hard as you can. Make him hurt and writhe the way he’s making you. He starts to slowly press a single finger inside. You’re so wet, dripping, the passage is smooth and slick.

“Harder,” you beg.

“Quit.” You let out a frustrated moan. He starts to fuck you slowly just like that, a single finger, his thumb circling your clit in slow, measured circles. His finger is thick, but not enough, and you clench your inner muscles, trying to bear down on it. “Stop that,” he snaps. “Take it how I give it to you. Need you to relax, Birdie. What’s got you all twisted up in knots?”

“I don’t know,” liar, liar, liar, you whine, trying as hard as you can not to roll your hips, to stay still and settled like he wants you to, but there’s a goddamn forest fire raging inside of you, and having him so close, such a small part of him inside you, is only making it worse. He pulls his single finger out, circles his thumb around your entrance, back up to your clit, swipes up and down like a feather, then pressure to your entrance again, and he’s pushing two of his thick fingers inside of you now. Oh, thank God. Thank you, thank you, thank you. He starts to slide them in and out, a small crook of his fingers to pet at the soft, spongy spot inside of you. All the while he continues to circle your clit, and he bends his head to kiss at your mouth, your jaw, a soft bite to your clavicle that has you keening wantonly, then a swipe of his tongue to your jugular – you wish he’d bite you there, sink his teeth into your skin and drink. God, your thoughts are unhinged. You cannot, cannot deal with nine months of this, what the fuck. His mouth slides down to your breast, hot and wet, and he sucks hard on the aching tip, flicking his tongue back and forth slowly. His fingers haven’t paused their slow onslaught and at one particularly hard pull at your breast you suddenly feel everything in your pelvis go blindingly, white hot and tight and then loose and wet and you start to come on his fingers. Your hips rolling gently upwards to take more of him. He never goes harder, never faster, he just continues his gentle ministrations of you – playing you like his own personal little doll. You moan long and ragged, yeah, that’s it, just like that, he whispers into your hair. His words sliding through the strands like water. He guides you through the cresting waves of your orgasm, his touch becoming slower and softer as you throb on and on. Once the contractions of your muscles have slowed he pulls his fingers from your cunt, the wet suck, as loud and obscene as the thoughts in your head are, and then the burning hot head of his cock is there, slowly pushing into your still quivering flesh, so thick.

“Gonna take my cock now, little bird.”

Yes, yes, please. Thank you. All you can do is sigh, hitch your knees higher up his sides, you hook one hand under the bend of one leg, opening yourself up for him as much as you physically can with all of his weight pressing down into you.

He slides to the very end of you, letting you feel every throbbing inch and ridge as he goes as slow as everything else he’s done to you tonight.

“Hard, Joel. Harder, please,” you beg again. His only response is a rumble of disapproval as he starts to thrust into you slow, but so fucking deep. You feel split wide open, he’s split you open and peered inside of you and decided to leave a piece of himself within, and he doesn’t even know it. And you decide in that instant that you’re not going to tell him – with the feel of him as deep inside of you as he can physically get, the knowledge that he’s even deeper than even he knows, you decide you’re not going to tell him until you’re absolutely forced to. It’s wrong, perhaps, or definitely, after all, he has a right to know also, it’s his baby too. But you just can’t. You can’t face the reality of this, his potential reaction, whether it be good or bad, right now, not for a while. You need time, time to gather your courage, your thoughts, your very skin around yourself, stitch yourself together and muster your strength and prepare for whatever outcome telling him might incite.

“Not gonna give it to you harder, Birdie. Quit beggin’.”

“I don’t care– I don’t care, Joel, please.” You claw and scratch at him, but nothing you do prompts him to go harder. There’s a desperation, a wave of anxious fear surging up inside of you – the fear of him leaving you one day, of not wanting you anymore – when you know you’ll love him for the rest of your life. You are terrified of ending up alone, out in that dark forest again.

“Quit.” He gathers both of your wrists in one of his strong hands, brings them above your head to lie limply above the pillows. Divested of all your strength and fight, you’re left only to lie beneath him and take all he chooses to give you. “Told you,” he grits as he rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts into yours, the bone of his pelvis grinding into your clit. “You’re gonna take it how I decide to give it to you. Only me – you’re mine, you’re mine, I decide.”

And fuck – if that doesn’t do something to you, if hearing those words don’t settle that coiling snake within you. You go soft and pliant and submissive at his words, spreading your legs as wide as you can and tilting your pelvis up so that he can drill into you as deep as possible, right to the place where your little secret is growing now.

And he’s so gentle with you, so careful – even when he’s fucking you hard and savage the way you both like sometimes, he’s still careful to never hurt you more than you need him to. It makes you wonder at the violence it took him to become this gentle – to become so well acquainted with his own strength, his ability to maim, that he can now be so in control of it, handle you with such care.

The weight of his thrusts changes suddenly. He slides a palm under your bottom to lift you up into his impaling cock, presses his knees further up under you to anchor you more firmly in his lap and pounds into you, the wide tip of his cock concentrated against the head of your cervix in blinding thrusts, and you’re so sensitive on the inside from what he’s done to you, from the change he’s wrought upon your body, that you start to come again. Toe curling waves of pleasure start at your womb and spiral out of your limbs in searing bolts of heat, your back arched tight as a bow string. Your inner muscles throb and clench around his still battering cock and you hear the guttural moan of your name spit from his mouth, and then the kick of his cock inside of you as he starts to come too. “Fucking Christ, take it all, Birdie – every last drop of my come. Need this pussy stuffed full of me – s’only way you behave, little girl.”

All you can do is nod dumbly and take it, just like he said.

He kisses and licks every inch of your body afterwards, eating up your slick and sweat and his own come with broad swipes of his tongue. You’d never imagined this sort of intimacy – it’s something that you hadn’t even thought possible. A sort of physical connectedness that belied the truth of your current situation – the things still hidden between the two of you.

He lies beside you once he’s done eating his come out of your pussy, one last orgasm pulled gently from you with his mouth. His slick cock, soft now, pressed against your still flat belly as the two of you lay facing each other, hands tucked beneath your cheeks, legs tangled together, just taking each other in.

You think you’re probably about two months along, give or take. It’ll still be a while before you start showing. You have time yet.

You’re going to let yourself think about this now, only tonight, and then you’re going to push it from your mind until you can’t ignore the situation any longer. The reality of it is too terrifying to consider at length with everything else going on in your lives at the moment.

What will he say? What will you do if you tell him your truth and he goes away from you? How will you survive something like that? But even as you ask yourself this, you know it’s unnecessary, for despite his capacity for violence, or his own fear or recalcitrance or hesitancy, despite the lies he tells himself and you about what this is, he is also good and honorable and loyal. Joel Miller is a good man. And he’d never abandon you or a child of his, but still, you’re afraid.

So, no, you can’t focus on this now – you’ll push it from your mind until it becomes more pressing, unavoidable. There are other more important things to deal with now, other things to consider before you can think of yourself.

You run a single finger over the thick line of his brow, against the fluttering of his lashes, down the strong slope of his nose. A baby. Joel’s baby. You hope they have his dark curls.

You love him and you’re going to have his baby.

And you don’t have it in you to tell him either of these truths.

“Go to sleep, little bird.”

You sneak out the next morning. In the cold light of the new dawn, the truth you’re withholding is all the more terrifying. Fucking life changing. You slip out of his warm bed, the protective embrace of his strong arms, and shuffle around his room as quiet as you can for your clothes. Your shit is everywhere, strewn around his room and restroom. You need to go home, you need distance – space to think. You dig in a pile of clothes on the chair in the corner for your bra and tiptoe as quietly as you can to his bedside table to slip your books you need for today from between his own stack of novels. Once you’ve retrieved the texts you pause to look down at him, still sleeping. The fact that he can now rest so deeply like this, that he isn’t jerking awake at a hair triggers notice with the slightest sound or movement around him speaks so deeply to that part of you that wants nothing more than for him to be as happy as he can possibly be, safe and serene and never worried for anything ever again.

Your greatest fear is that this news you now carry will disturb that peace, that serenity or happiness you so desperately want for him. So you sneak out of his home without waking him, head towards your own lonely house to change and wash up, you smell like his come, get the rest of your things for the day and then head to the clinic. You’ll shut this truth in a drawer for as long as you can, and once you can no longer hide it, once it becomes unavoidable, you’ll do your best to make sure he knows you never, never want him to feel obligated to you. Yes… you think, you’ll give him an out, it can be his decision. And even though the thought of that sends a searing, twisting pain to the space in your heart where you carry him, you think it’s the right thing anyways. He deserves to have a choice – when so much of his life has been forced upon him you always want to be the one place he can find choice in.

He comes into the clinic a few hours later. You’ve just gotten done delivering a baby – real great day for that – when he walks through the front door. You’re finishing up your procedure note and you turn to see him stepping through your office door, a baggie from the mess hall clutched in his hand.

“Hey… what’re you doing here?”

“Just thought I’d check in… brought you a scone.” He lifts up the offering of baked goods, gives you a crooked smile. God, your gut and your heart twist and flip at the same time. You turn back to face your mess of papers and notebooks, trying to take deep breaths to keep your tears at bay. This crying shit is really going to start being a problem soon.

You feel him come up behind you, he sets down the baggie in front of you and braces one hand on the edge of your desk, the other passing over the crown of your head and down your ponytail to tug your head back gently. You look up at him from your angled position, and he frowns down at you. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. “Don’t like it when you sneak off in the mornings without telling me,” he grumbles down at you.

“Sorry–” you breathe. He huffs at you, leans down to press his mouth to yours.

“Still feeling funny?”

You shake your head, still in his hold, but say “Yes,” at the same time. You’re all over the place. He sighs, letting go of your hair and coming down to a crouch beside you. You turn to face him in your seat, knees tucked between his spread thighs.

He drags a gentle thumb over the soft skin beneath your eye, then up the slope of your cheekbone – that perpetual frown still present. He knows something’s wrong. He knows you. Keeping this from him is going to be so, so difficult. He’s going to tell something is wrong, different, off. Your only recourse is to pretend like you don’t know either. To entirely push this thing that you have no discernible idea how to deal with from your mind. As of this moment, it’s a non-reality.

“What can I do?” he asks, so gentle, so concerned.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head. You can’t look at that look in his eyes right now, it’ll make you fall to pieces. You fold forward to press your face into his shoulder, turning your head to sniffle into his neck. “Nothing,” you mumble. “Just kiss me.” He slides his hand into your hair against your scalp and angles your head to press his mouth to yours, giving you exactly what you need.

You may be unsure about so much, but the one thing you do know, without a doubt, is that this man will make a wonderful father.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

#FoG fic #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller fluff #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction

180 notes · View notes