#sorry it’s been awhile | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zer0pm · 11 months

Text

Imagine working your first night in the village tavern and serving a drink to a man you catch sitting by his lonesome. He accepts your kind gesture and engages you in conversation. You didn’t realize you were talking to Lord Heisenberg until it was too late.

“Got a tall one with your name on it.”

The silver-haired man simply glances up at you from his seat, bright eyes switching between your smiling face and the full mug you’ve placed in front of him. The bored expression he wore previously relaxes into that of mild intrigue.

“I didn’t order that,” he says, amusement in his deep voice.

You shrug casually, “It’s on the house.”

When he didn’t say anything right away, you proceeded to explain yourself. “Barkeep mentioned you haven’t ordered anything since you got here. I figured I could spot you a round. Hope you don’t find it rude.”

To your surprise, the man chuckles, returning your patient smile with a toothy grin. “Can’t tell if you’re brave or just straight-up fucking strange. But you are definitely interesting, I’ll give you that.”

You tilt your head curiously, unsure of what to make of his comment. Perhaps, this stranger is one of those lone wolf types that rarely engage in social interaction. However, that didn’t seem correct. He seemed more like the type that enjoyed talking, if not just to hear the sound of his own voice. He has such a distinctive voice too, you found, the rich baritone hitting strings inside you that sent shivering notes tingling down your spine. You shudder not out of fear or anxiety, but out of genuine fascination.

The stranger takes the mug you’ve put down for him in one of his hands, lifting it by the handle and bringing it to his lips before tipping his head back. It gave you an opportunity to look him over. As you suspected, he is large in build. Burly and robust but not overly ripped in muscular definition. He looked strong and undeniably imposing, shaped by hard, laborious work. You imagine that if he wasn’t holding the mug at its handle, he could wrap his thick, calloused digits around the cup with ease. The loose shirt he wore had the sleeves rolled up, exposing several wiry scars that adorn the back of his hands and forearms. They varied in length and size, barely faded by time, and matched the old wounds that ran across his rugged face.

Questions danced upon your tongue on how he got his scars, but you thought better of it and bit them down. He looked different from the other men you’ve seen in the village and had a unique air about him too, one that you would be able to immediately spot in a busy crowd. He was quite handsome, in a rough sort of way.

The man must have noticed you staring for when you brought your eyes back up to his, he was already looking right at you. His bright gaze remained locked onto you even as he sets the drink back down with a quenched sigh, a devilish tongue swipes the excess liquid from damp lips before withdrawing behind wolfish teeth. The ends of his mouth tugs upwards, putting his canines into full display. The damn man is smirking again and his eyes had a knowing, teasing gleam to them. Feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, you bowed your head to hide the embarrassment burning on your cheeks.

Suddenly feeling incredibly shy, you take a step back. “I-I’m going to see to my other patrons, then. If you need anything else, just-”

“What’s your name, buttercup?” He cuts you off. There is an edge to his tone, as if daring you to move from your spot before him.

Buttercup? He’s giving you a petname? Is it derogatory or is it a genuine term of endearment? Either way, it made your face burn hotter.

Overwhelmed with the need to answer him immediately, you gave the stranger your name without a second thought. He repeats it in a low, slow drawl as if testing and savoring the sound on his tongue. Your heart picks up speed and you spoke up again in a futile attempt to calm the rapid beating.

“What’s yours?”

Like flipping a switch, the air between you two suddenly shifts. The wide smirk he wore falters and his brows furrow. These few words seemed to have disarmed him as the grey-haired man beholds you with a piercing glare, searching your face for any signs that you are joking or something. You could do nothing but stare back, balancing on the balls of your feet nervously. When he found that you were sincere in your question, he grasps his bearded chin thoughtfully.

“Intriguing,” he comments, his expression deeply pensive. His reply didn’t relieve any of the tension you were feeling and you wondered if you somehow offended him for not knowing who he is. “Are you local?”

Unable to fathom where his line of questioning was heading, you decided that it was best to answer him honestly as you have been doing thus far. “Uhh, yes, of course. Born and raised. Although, I’m not from the immediate area, if that’s what you mean.”

A thick silver brow arches. “So, I take it you’re not the religious sort, then.”

You shake your head. There was no helping the guilt taking root inside you. Clearly this man thinks that his identity should be apparent to you. Thinking about it, he does look sort of familiar but you couldn’t quite place him. You wished then that you paid more attention to the people around you in the weekly sermons.

“Not really,” you rub the back of your neck sheepishly. “I rarely went to church. Not that I don’t follow the black faith, mind you. I just have other priorities. Life can be hard in the village, you know how it is.”

When he didn’t comment on this, you followed up with your own inquiry with the intention of making polite conversation. He mentioned religion, so…

“Are you a pastor?” That seemed like a logical thing to ask. But surely if he was leading the mass, you’d have remembered him right away. Maybe you simply missed each other in passing. You can’t shake the feeling that you do know him somewhere.

A bellowing laugh erupts from his throat. The man bends over on his seat, banging the wooden tabletop with a clenched fist as zealous humor consumed him. You didn’t notice that the rest of the tavern went completely quiet at his spontaneous outburst. When he finally sits back upright, he was in tears.

“Damn, you’re adorable!” He sighs deeply, his grin wide as he wipes the water from his eyes. “Do I look like the kind to give fucking sermons, buttercup?”

Again with the petname. You weren’t bothered by it this time. If anything, you took the lighthearted turn in the conversation as a good sign, pleased to see that the man looked like he was enjoying his time with you. Even at the expense of your embarrassment.

Deciding it best to play along, you returned his good humor with a playful smile of your own. “Looks can be deceiving.”

He scoffs, “Can say that again. Guess not everyone in Miranda’s herd is a sheep.”

You didn’t quite register that. “Excuse me?”

His hand waves off your question dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. You…”, the grey-haired man leans back against his chair, his lopsided smile bordered on teasing. “You get to call me Karl.”

A surprised hum escapes you, you didn’t expect a man so interesting to have such an ordinary name. Thankfully, he didn’t seem offended by the involuntary sound. Remembering you had a job to do, you throw him a courteous nod.

“Nice to meet you, Karl. I really should check on my other customers. Is there anything else I can get you?”

He casts you a playful look, “Are you on the menu?”

Although you were standing still, you nearly tripped over on the spot and tried to save face by quipping back. “Ha ha. Think you’re so smooth.”

Karl shrugs, reaching for the mug once more and inspecting the contents lazily. “I prefer to be rough. But no, I think this will do. For now.”

Your brain shut down after “rough” and you were quick to retreat back to the bar, ears turning red upon hearing his knowing chuckle as you created distance. So distracted by the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside you that you failed to realize that the usual hustle and bustle of the busy tavern was completely void of sound. A loud bang of what sounded like someone slamming their hand against the wood harshly is all that it took to bring life back into the room and the patrons returning to their own devices. This somehow went under your notice too. You did not regain your wits until the barkeep you were working with for the night snapped his fingers in front of your face.

“Oy! New blood! Didn’t I tell you not to bother that one?” he reproached you. Was that panic in his eyes?

You blink back at your distressed coworker. “If it’s about the free tankard, I’ll foot the lei. Everyone else looked like they were having a fine time besides him. That didn’t seem right to me.”

The frantic man shook his head fiercely, “Whether or not he is enjoying himself isn’t any of our business. He could very well be plotting his wrath upon this establishment for what you did!”

The excitement that was bubbling within you before is now replaced by confusion. “Why would Karl do that? Who is he?”

The barkeep’s face falls into that of pure shock. “Are you completely daft!? He’s-”

He chokes. Suddenly, his expression pales to an alarming shade of white. From the corner of your eye, you spot a large shadow looming and felt an imposing presence from your side.

You turn your head to see the man from before standing next to you. But this wasn’t the Karl that you spoke with earlier. He had the same face but wore more clothing- more distinct articles of clothing that made you freeze on the spot upon recognition. Afterall, who could ever miss the signature dirty trenchcoat, or the dark, round glasses, or the well-worn hat of Lord Heisenberg himself? Who dares not recognize one of the four nobles that rule over the village with an iron fist? Evidently you.

He didn’t meet your eyes right away, instead he had a deathly glare directed right at the barkeep who was now quivering in his boots. “Because I’m in a good mood,” the lord began, voice descended into a low growl, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear what you just called my new friend.” Lord Heisenberg then looks down at you behind black lenses, his demeanor shifting from threatening and terrifying to playful and pleasant.

His smile returns, seemingly wider than before, likely because he knows that you know who he is now. “Thanks for the drink, buttercup. I’ll see you real soon.” He pushes his shades down the bridge of his nose, winking at you before tipping his hat in an exaggerated head bow. With heavy footsteps, he takes his leave, not giving a second glance.

Your eyes followed him and lingered on the door he went through long after he left. There was a deafening silence. It filled the tavern for what seemed like an eternity before it was broken by the clanging of the metal tray you once held in your hands.

The lord of steel was here in the flesh. And you were talking to him so carelessly. And he was flirting with you so shamelessly. This was not how you expected your first day on the job to go. And he declared he intended to see you again.

You’re in deep trouble…

#heisenberg #heisenberg x reader #heisenberg imagine #karl heisenberg #resident evil 8 #re8 heisenberg #resident evil village #resident evil imagines #resident evil x reader #sorry it’s been awhile #took a little break #I will get back to our dashing Spaniard #but wanted to post for the trash can #please enjoy #writing for trash magneto was a challenge #heisendaddy #my writing #Zer0PM imagine

962 notes · View notes

softlyspector · 3 months

Text

I know I posted a fic literally yesterday but once again the muse seized me randomly while I was bored at work. This was written on my phone, that's how you know something really possessed me.

wc: 1.1k

warnings: body worship, joel worshiping you🫵, not exactly smut but smuttish, poetic smut, descriptions of body hair, #bush in fic 2024, joel on his knees, one brief mention of being hungry, mentions of violence, etc etc etc, you know how it goes.

He loves your body.

The shape of you beneath clothes, material pulled here and there, rucked up and messy. Curve of hip, slope of waist, tuck of your knee to the side when you’re angry, arms crossed over chest, taut shoulders thrown back.

The shape of you in nothing. Pretty hills and valleys. The roll of scar and naked skin, the snaking spill of you, the jiggle of you when you move—over him, under him, everywhere. The bounce of your breasts when he thrusts into you.

He loves the warmth of you, soft, fitted like a glove. Rough with him sometimes but always soft somewhere.

The weight of your body draped over his, the curl of strong fingers through his hair, yanking sometimes, pressure on his throat with the other.

He loves the heat of you, the press of you against him in the cold, icy, frozen, icicle fingers digging under his shirt, crawling up along his ribs, demanding, always, more and more.

Joel doesn’t mind, doesn’t mind, never minds.

The closeness of you well worth the trouble of the temperature you keep. Hands poking and prodding and always wanting more.

It’s good to be wanted. Nice to feel needed.

He needs to be needed. Needs it, needs it, needs it, like an ache that might never get satiated, might never get swallowed up by something bigger and brighter.

But there’s you again, all plush curves and sweet lines and sharp edges. You tell him he’s good, and he loves you for it.

He loves bloodying his fists for you, he loves the angles of your love.

You curl over him, making noises that no human, earth bound person should be able to make.

There’s the touch of your forehead to his, the pant of hot breath against his mouth. He loves the shape of your mouth, the curve of your lips when they drift over his cheek.

He loves the weight of your breasts in his hands, the stiff peaks of your nipples beneath his thumbs, the strong press of your thighs around his hips, the curve of your calves against his back, the thick thatch of hair between your legs.

He loves the pressure of your thighs around his head and the way it feels when your cunt squeezes his tongue, the taste of your body on his mouth and stuck in his beard.

He loves the way you stand when you’re pissed off, and likes the way the harsh lines disappear when you’re not, when you look at him, when you look down at him and the way he peels your jeans from your body and buries his face between your legs.

The naked soft, pillowy, willowy silhouette of you in the window, in the pale moonlight, sometimes with blood still staining your skin and sometimes without.

There’s the way you drag your tongue up the underside of his cock, the teasing, warm ring of your mouth suckling around the tip before you swallow him down, buried to the hilt.

Hands against the sides your face, the back of your neck, behind the shell of your ear. He likes the way the skin feels there, smooth and unblemished.

He loves the way you look after a fight, bloody and sweaty, brow creased. Loves more the way you smell, like sweat and earth, musky.

It should not be possible to love your body more, the thing that housed you, beautiful, scarred, treasure that you are. Still he finds new things to love, new places to touch and taste, the knob of bone in your ankle, the pouched swell of your belly when you’ve actually gotten a good meal for once, that space behind your knee and how sensitive it is.

The hair between your legs and under your arms and downy soft on your calves and arms. You find a razor once and shave. Not everywhere, just under your arms and your calves, and for a while, those parts of you are smooth, and he doesn’t actually like it that much, it doesn’t feel like you, not that his opinion about it really matters.

Lord help him, but he’d dig into your any way you let, in any condition. Sink under skin and hair and sweat and all the sweet animal parts of you. God, you’re beautiful. And it feels like a sin.

But the blade is dull anyway and when you accidentally cut yourself for the third time in so many days, you just toss it with a shrug.

Joel is secretly relieved. He wraps your cut ankle and kisses your smooth legs and hopes the hair grows back quick. You hate it when it's still growing and prickly. He’s glad you never shaved your pussy, he would have missed too badly burying himself in those curls, mouth or cock.

Skin like pomegranate seeds, like the sweet burst of something sour under his tongue. Admission to the obsession, the love, the tracery of veins in moonlight like milk, would be wrong. This worship is secret, press of lips to feet, bowing low to the power you hang like a knife over his head. Blade ready to drop and offered anyway, lamb to slaughter. That’s his place there with you.

There’s the sick need to protect when you don’t need it, follow where you ask him not to go.

Partners, always.

Everything else, sometimes.

Last thing about you, voice.

Terrible, husky voice. He longs to hear you sing, pretends to believe you when you say you can’t. But he’s heard it when you think he isn't’ around, or isn’t listening. He knows the calluses on your fingertips because they match the ones on his.

That’s too close, too knowing, seeing too much history blended onto your skin.

You trace the scar on the bridge of his nose every time he lies with you, presses his mouth to yours and listens to the noises and songs you will give him, questions that go unasked and unanswered.

Tracery of scars nearly everywhere, skin like seasalt, the ache of knees pressed to floorboards which groan louder with each passing year, forehead against your belly, the thread of your fingers in his hair yanking his head back, petting so softly.

One night, blasphemous, you’re looking at him and he’s looking back. Your hand is on his collarbone, stroking, and the night is so quiet. “You’re so beautiful,” you say to him. “Did you know that?”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #sorry for all the postys lately i will be crawling into a hole to be quiet for awhile i know ive been annoying lmao

531 notes · View notes