#(this is one much less angsty - much fluff much soft) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jungwnies · 3 months ago

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f1 grid | comforting them

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : comforting your driver boyfriend after they had a bad race </3

୨ৎ : genre : romance & fluff (angsty if you SQUINT) ୨ৎ : tws : some are suggestive ୨ৎ : word count : 3902

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : a monday post cus.. why tf NOT

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

acts like everything is fine, but you can tell by how quiet he is.

you guide him past media without a word, shielding him physically and emotionally.

cuts everyone off with a clipped “it’s fine,” but lets you stay close.

doesn’t speak much until you’re alone—just sits beside you, jaw clenched.

eventually murmurs, “it was shit today,” without looking at you.

you just nod and take his hand, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

you order food, dim the lights, and make him lay down while you run your fingers through his hair.

he melts slowly, letting the tension fall out of his body.

“you’re like my therapist,” he mutters.

“you’re like my emotional tax return,” you shoot back, and he actually laughs.

yuki tsunoda

starts off convincing himself it’s fine. “it’s okay, just racing. it happens.”

tries to brush it off with humor, but his eyes are a little too glossy.

sits stiffly, arms crossed, forcing himself not to cry in front of anyone.

when you ask if he’s alright, he shakes his head and says, “i don’t wanna talk about it,” voice tight.

but as soon as you wrap your arms around him, he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

“i tried so hard today,” he mumbles into your shoulder, and that’s when the tears come.

buries his face in your chest, completely silent except for the way his arms tighten around your waist.

you stroke his back and whisper, “i know. i saw. you did everything you could.”

he doesn’t let go for a long time, just holds you like he needs you to hold the world together.

later, sniffling into your hoodie, he mutters, “don’t tell anyone i cried. but don’t go anywhere either.”

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

“well, that was a masterclass in how not to have a race,” he says, throwing his gloves on the table like he’s commentating his own downfall.

acts unbothered, sipping his water like it’s champagne. “at least i didn’t crash into a wall. small victories.”

makes a passive-aggressive joke about his strategy call, then follows it with “but it’s fine. i love character development.”

when you ask how he really feels, he smirks. “emotionally bankrupt, but thanks for checking.”

keeps pretending he’s over it, but you catch him zoning out mid-shower, forehead against the tile, just breathing.

when you hand him a towel and a soft “you don’t have to keep it together right now,” he just shrugs. “if i let go, i might not get back up.”

you sit with him on the couch, and he rests his head on your lap, finally letting you card your fingers through his hair.

“you make this day slightly less shit,” he mutters, then adds with a cheeky grin, “wanna really take my mind off it?”

you raise a brow. “that subtle, huh?”

he just smirks, pulling you down for a kiss. “come on. don’t make me beg. i’ve had a really bad day.”

kimi antonelli

throws his helmet a little too hard, then immediately panics like "oh shit did i just break it," while storming into the motorhome.

tries to act cool but ends up rage-snacking on chips mid-rant. "why the f—why do i even try?! i’m literally doing everything and the car’s like, ‘no ❤️’"

paces back and forth while voice-cracking through sentences like, "no, it’s fine. it’s cool. it’s just… my whole career. no big deal."

you sit there trying not to laugh because he’s got one sock halfway off and crumbs on his shirt but is fully spiraling like it’s the end of the world.

“am i washed at 18?! is that even possible?”

you calmly hand him a juice box and say, “you’re not washed. you’re dramatic.”

he glares, sucks on the straw aggressively, then slumps down next to you with a loud sigh.

“i hate being a prodigy. too much pressure. should’ve been mediocre and mysterious.”

you rub his back and say, “you’re allowed to have a bad day, baby genius.”

he blinks up at you, lip jutted out. “if i win next weekend can we get matching crocs?”

you nod. he grins. “sick. emotional support footwear incoming.”

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

comes home way too quiet. keys in the bowl, shoes off, straight to the bathroom without a word.

you find him staring at the sink, toothbrush in hand, not even brushing—just zoning out.

“i don’t know what i’m doing wrong,” he says, voice low. “i keep trying and i still mess it up.”

you hug him from behind and rest your chin on his shoulder. he doesn’t flinch, just leans into it with a sigh.

“maybe i’m not good enough anymore,” he mumbles. “maybe they’re right.”

you turn him around gently. “you are good enough. more than enough. stop speaking to yourself like that.”

he blinks fast like he’s trying not to cry, then rests his forehead against yours.

“i just… hate letting you down. even if you say you’re not disappointed.”

you guide him to bed, tug off his hoodie, pull the sheets over both of you. he curls into you instantly like a kid.

“you’re the only part of the day that feels good,” he whispers against your skin.

then, quietly, a little mischievously, “maybe we can end it with something else that feels good?”

you laugh into his hair. “if you’re asking me to kiss it better, just say that.”

“i am. in a poetic way.”

lewis hamilton

he doesn’t storm in. he’s not loud. he just walks through the door a little slower, like the weight of the day is still sitting on his shoulders.

takes his time taking off his shoes, hangs up his coat carefully—like staying in control might keep the emotions at bay.

sits on the edge of the couch with his hands clasped between his knees, eyes distant. “you ever give everything and still feel like it’s not enough?”

you sit beside him without saying a word, letting him talk when he’s ready.

“i don’t mind the criticism. i’ve been through worse. but sometimes it’s like… no one lets you just be human anymore.”

he looks at you with tired eyes, soft but heavy. “i’m not asking to win all the time. i just want to feel like i did something right.”

you lace your fingers with his and lean your head against his shoulder. “you do so much right. more than most ever could.”

he hums low in his chest, squeezes your hand. “you always know what to say.”

eventually pulls you into his lap, buries his face in the crook of your neck like he’s finally letting himself rest.

“just stay close tonight,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “you’re the one thing that still feels steady.”

“you’re the one thing that feels like peace.”

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

kicks his shoes off a little too aggressively when he gets home. “don’t ask,” he mutters before you even say hi.

slumps on the couch, arms crossed, hoodie up, eyes on the ceiling. “today was great. crashed my hopes, ran over my self-esteem, 10/10.”

you offer to talk and he just grumbles, “nope. don’t wanna. gonna repress it. very healthy coping strategy.”

pretends he's fine, scrolls on his phone like he’s not one second away from crumbling. keeps sighing dramatically every five minutes for attention.

refuses to cuddle at first. “i’m mad at the world. leave me in my hoodie cave.” but then two seconds later: “okay but like… you can sit near me. just not touching. but like… close.”

eventually ends up curled into your side, face hidden in your neck. mumbles, “today sucked. i sucked. everything sucked.”

you stroke his hair and he softens immediately. “you don’t suck. you’re just tired. burnt out. you need rest, not punishment.”

“you’re being all soft and wise, it’s disgusting,” he grumbles—but his hand’s gripping your shirt like you might float away.

you kiss his temple. “still want me to leave you in your hoodie cave?”

he pulls the blanket over both of you and whispers, “shut up. you live here now.”

oscar piastri

walks into the room and doesn’t say much. just nods once, drops his bag, and disappears into the bathroom.

you hear the water running—ice cold. he always showers when he’s overwhelmed. said it helps him “reset.”

when he comes out, hair wet, hoodie half-zipped, eyes tired—he looks a little more like himself again. still quiet. still distant. but thawing.

sits next to you on the bed without saying anything, just slowly reaches for your hand and starts tracing circles on your palm.

“i didn’t know how to talk about it without getting angry,” he admits softly. “so i didn’t.”

you nod and lean your head on his shoulder. “you don’t need to explain everything right away. i’ll wait.”

he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “thanks for not pushing me. i just… hate not being enough.”

turns to you with red-tinted eyes. “it’s stupid. it’s just racing. but when it goes wrong, it feels like i’m failing you too.”

you hold his face and say, “you never have to earn being loved. not from me.”

he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, “can i just stay here with you for a while?”

then, a small smile. “also i might’ve left my sanity in the ice bath, but at least you’re here.”

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

he comes home calm, like always. keys on the counter, jacket folded neatly. but there’s a tightness in his smile when he kisses your cheek.

“today was… different,” he says. not dramatic, not upset. just honest. “did everything right. still fell short.”

you know when it hits him—it’s in the way he lingers at the window, watching the sky like it has answers.

“some days you feel time catching up with you,” he says quietly. “not just in racing. in everything.”

he doesn’t need you to fix it. he doesn’t even need a pep talk. just presence.

you sit beside him on the couch, thigh to thigh, and rest your hand on his. he doesn’t speak for a while.

then, softly, “i think it just hurts more when you still want it this badly.”

you turn to face him. “it’s not weakness to want. it means you’re still alive in it.”

he smiles a little, shakes his head. “you’re too poetic for me.” but he leans in, rests his head against yours anyway.

“you help me breathe on days like this,” he murmurs. “even if i don’t say it.”

then after a pause, he smirks. “also… i might require some very specific stress relief later. for mental health reasons.”

you laugh. “is that what we’re calling it now?”

“doctor’s orders.”

lance stroll

walks in without a word, drops his stuff, and immediately faceplants onto the bed—fully dressed, shoes still on.

groans into the mattress. “everything sucks. i suck. the car sucks. media sucks. people suck.”

doesn’t want to talk at first, just grunts when you ask if he’s hungry. “no. actually, yes. but i don’t wanna move.”

you bring him snacks and he eats them off your plate like a sleepy gremlin, mumbling, “you’re the only good thing today.”

flops his head into your lap and finally breathes properly for the first time all day. “i hate how drained i get. everyone wants something. i just wanna be here.”

you run your fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes, murmuring, “i think i used my entire personality quota at the track.”

“can we just stay in here forever? like… disappear? change our names? move to a mountain town?”

you smile and nod. “sure. i’ll pack the stuff.”

he grins sleepily, then pulls your hand to his chest. “you make everything feel less loud.”

then, quietly: “you’re my safe place.”

five minutes later, fully under the blanket, eyes half-closed: “also. i’d like to make out now. for comfort purposes.”

ʚ・williams

alex albon

walks in already scrolling tiktok, earbuds in, nodding like he’s totally unbothered.

plops onto the couch, legs across your lap, and shows you cat videos like he didn’t just get roasted by strategy and a five-place penalty.

laughs too loud at dumb memes. “this is healing. this is therapy.”

you let him vibe, let him chill, until you see that slight pause mid-scroll. his thumb hovers. brows knit. he doesn’t show you this one.

“people are brutal today,” he mutters, still staring at the screen. “like… i know i joke about it, but sometimes i wonder if they’re actually right.”

you take his phone gently, set it down, and crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “hey. you know they’re not.”

he exhales slowly, voice quieter now. “i wish it didn’t get to me, but some days it does. just a little more than i’d like to admit.”

you press your forehead to his. “you don’t have to be funny about everything. you’re allowed to feel it too.”

he nods, lips pressed together. then, soft as ever: “can you just… hold me for a bit? like properly?”

“always,” you whisper. and he lets himself be still. no jokes. just you.

carlos sainz

he comes in with that tired-but-trying smile, tossing his bag down gently like even that feels heavy.

“it wasn’t… great. but i learned something. that’s always the takeaway, no?” he says, already slipping off his jacket.

he talks himself through it out loud, mostly to you but partly to himself. “maybe i pushed too hard. maybe the strategy wasn’t perfect. but i didn’t give up. that matters.”

you nod and hum and let him vent until he runs out of words and just stares at the wall in thoughtful silence.

“can i have a hug now?” he asks suddenly, already walking over like he knows the answer.

wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face in your shoulder. “you’re the only place i feel like i can breathe after a day like this.”

you guide him to the couch and he pulls you into his lap, burying his face into your neck like it recharges him.

“even if i’m okay… i still need this. i think everyone does, sometimes.”

he starts to drift off mid-cuddle, fingers tracing your spine lazily, voice getting slower.

“i should just speak spanish. english is too much work when i’m tired,” he mumbles against your skin.

then whispers, “gracias por amarme incluso cuando me siento roto.” (thank you for loving me even when i feel broken.)

you press a kiss to his forehead. “always.”

“te juro que voy a mejorar. para ti. para mí.” (i swear i’m going to get better. for you. for me.)

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

bursts into the room like he just won the race. “alright! that was a trainwreck. who wants to start the post-race roast?”

keeps making jokes like, “honestly, i think i invented new ways to mess up today. f1 history books: written by me.”

you raise an eyebrow and say nothing, just letting him go off while he rants about strategy, traffic, “and my stupid left foot that forgot how to brake.”

finally crashes onto the couch, staring at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh. “do you think i peaked at 17?”

you crawl into his lap and cup his face gently. “no. i think you haven’t even scratched the surface of what you’re capable of.”

he blinks up at you, smile faltering for just a second. “yeah? even after… whatever that was today?”

“especially after that,” you say, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “you care. you fight for it. that’s what makes you special.”

he exhales, the tension leaving his body all at once as he buries his face in your chest. “okay, now i’m gonna cry like a little baby, hope you’re ready.”

you kiss the top of his head. “already holding you. already proud.”

he peeks up with a grin. “can you say that again but like, with sparkles and dramatic background music?”

you laugh. “ollie bearman, you are a legend in the making.”

“that’s the energy. now kiss me before i start doing self-deprecating tiktoks.”

esteban ocon

comes home calm, too calm, like he’s holding everything in with white knuckles and discipline.

doesn’t speak until he’s showered, changed, and had a full 20 minutes of silence. then sits beside you and says softly, “he was better today. i saw it.”

you know he means another driver—someone younger, someone faster today—and you can hear the frustration in his restraint.

“maybe i’m not doing enough,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “maybe i’m the weak point.”

you try to stop him, but he just shakes his head. “i’m not fishing. i just… feel it. and i hate it.”

he’s not angry. he’s just disappointed in himself. his brows stay pinched even when you’re stroking his hand.

“i’m scared that if i don’t prove it now, no one will believe in me later.”

you climb into his lap and hold his face gently, forcing him to look you in the eye. “you don’t need to prove anything to be worthy of love. or respect.”

he leans into your touch, eyes closed. “i want to believe that. i do.”

you kiss his cheek. “then start here. start with me. i’ve always believed in you.”

he lets out a shaky breath and whispers, “merci…” then rests his forehead against yours like he’s anchoring himself back to solid ground.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

walks in tossing his hat onto the kitchen counter and mutters, “well that was a steaming pile of absolute crap.”

jokes about it in that dry way. “should’ve just driven a shopping trolley. might’ve gotten better results.”

he’s pacing while he talks, voice calm but clipped. “not even mad at anyone specifically. just… the whole bloody universe.”

you lean on the doorframe, arms crossed. “want me to fight the universe?”

he smirks, shaking his head. “nah. that’s my job. but i appreciate the backup.”

doesn’t take it out on you at all—in fact, he’s more affectionate. keeps reaching for your hand while he vents.

“i know it’s just one race. i do. but it builds up, y’know? starts to feel like you’re yelling into a void and it’s all echo.”

you guide him to the couch and let him rest his head in your lap. “you’re allowed to yell. i’ll hear it. even if the world doesn’t.”

he sighs and looks up at you with that soft, slightly crooked smile. “you’re dangerously good at this, you know that?” “at what?”

“loving me out of a bad mood.”

then he tilts his head and adds, completely casual, “might need a little… extra cheering up later though.”

you roll your eyes. “that what you’re calling it now?”

he grins. “what can i say? i’m a man of simple needs.”

isack hadjar

bursts through the door like a tornado. “I AM RETIRING. I’M QUITTING. I’M GOING TO OPEN A BAKERY. OR JOIN A CULT. SOMETHING PEACEFUL.”

flings his bag across the room, misses the couch, and nearly knocks over a lamp. doesn’t even blink.

“do you know how humiliating it is to be passed like that? i was driving my heart out and the car was like, ‘no...NOPE..NOOOO.’”

keeps fake-dramatizing it like a one-man soap opera. “isack hadjar: the fall from grace – coming soon to a streaming platform near you.”

you play along for a bit until he finally plops onto the floor at your feet and just… sits. quietly.

“i was actually trying today,” he mumbles, not looking at you. “like properly trying. and it still went to shit.”

you sit down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and he leans into you slowly like he’s deflating.

“sometimes i feel like people are just waiting for me to fail so they can say they knew it.”

you turn to him gently. “they’re not. and even if they were… you’ve already proven them wrong just by showing up the way you do.”

he rests his head on your shoulder with a sigh. “you’re annoyingly good at this whole ‘being nice to me’ thing.”

you grin. “want me to stop?”

“no,” he mutters, snuggling closer. “never. might need it tattooed on me actually. in comic sans.”

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

slams the door just a little too hard. doesn't say anything at first—just kicks off his shoes, throws his phone on the table, and heads straight to the kitchen for water like it personally wronged him.

“they don’t listen. doesn’t matter what i say. it’s like talking to a fucking wall,” he mutters, pacing like he’s ready to punch a pillow.

you try to say something gentle and he snaps a little too fast—“i’m fine, okay?” but it’s not sharp. it’s exhausted.

he keeps moving around the room, hands on his hips, jaw clenched. “maybe i should stop caring. maybe that’s the trick.”

you don’t respond—you just walk over and wrap your arms around him from behind. he tenses for half a second. then sighs.

“you always do that,” he mumbles, not pulling away. “just… hug me until i stop being mad.”

you press your cheek to his back. “because i know you’re not really mad. you’re tired. and hurt.”

he turns around and buries his face in your neck like it’s the only safe place he knows. “i hate that they make me feel like this. like i’m not enough.”

you kiss his hair. “you are. always have been.”

he holds you tighter, breath shaky. “i don’t say it enough, but… i need you. especially on days like this.”

then, muffled: “also if you kiss me again i’ll probably forget what i was mad about. just sayin’.”

jack doohan

in front of the team? stone-faced. cool. collected. “yeah, not the best day. we’ll move on. it’s fine.”

comes home? immediately sighs the second the door closes. rests his forehead against the wall for a solid ten seconds before moving.

tries to act chill around you too. “it’s just one of those days. happens. i’m fine.”

he is not fine. but he’s doing that thing where he says he’s okay while avoiding eye contact and changing the subject every 3.2 seconds.

“you hungry?” he asks, even though he’s barely eaten since breakfast. “we could order something. or not. i don’t care.”

you eventually pull him onto the couch, and he lets himself flop next to you, arms crossed like a sulky cat.

he won’t say it outright, but his knee is bouncing, his fingers are twitching, and he keeps glancing at you like he wants permission to crack.

“i just hate looking like i don’t belong here,” he finally mumbles, voice low. “like i’ve got something to prove every second.”

you crawl into his lap and cup his jaw, making him look at you. “you belong. you’re not failing. you’re learning. that’s what makes you good.”

his lips part like he wants to argue, but then he just exhales and wraps his arms around you like you’re the only thing holding him up.

“it’s stupid,” he whispers. “i didn’t want to need comfort today. but here i am.”

you smile. “i don’t mind. i like being the person you let your guard down with.”

he looks at you with soft eyes and the tiniest grin. “well… if i’m already emotionally vulnerable and pathetic… might as well make out about it?”

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bruisedfig · 21 days ago

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depression — dean winchester ݃⁺݄+

summary: it’s breaking dean’s heart to see you wilting away in his bed, suffering from a depressive episode.

warnings: depression (symptoms, behaviours, thoughts, etc.), non-sexual nudity, angsty fluff, angsty/sad dean, pure comfort, loverboy!dean, depressed!reader, set in the bunker/later seasons (bf!dean x gf!reader)

wc: 4.28k

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dean winchester had never been a stranger to letting dark feelings consume him; he knew what it was like to feel like you’re drowning from the inside with thoughts that made your soul crumble piece by piece.

he knows.

he gets it.

but with you? it was different.

you weren’t like him—you allowed yourself to wallow in your sadness, letting it suffocate you like a weighted blanket until one day it magically lifts and you’re back to being yourself. it was routine at this point, something you just accepted as part of your life.

dean, however, spent his days existing alongside his depression, running through life like a bulldozer, never allowing himself to rot in the sadness—because deep down he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back out—but instead using it as a means to keep himself going through the challenges he faced.

his heart ached as he watched you spend day after day in his bed, withering away amongst the sheets, letting your unspoken thoughts and feelings eat at you, draining the usual light in your eyes into dull lifeless voids.

each morning was the same routine.

“you want some breakfast, baby?” dean asks, sitting on the side of the bed with his hand carefully threading through your greasy unkempt hair.

you shake your head. again.

and dean sighs. it’s like clockwork.

“you sure? i can bring you something.”

“just wanna sleep,” you mutter, your quiet croaky voice barely louder than a whisper.

dean’s heart breaks in his chest. you look so sad. so broken. so absent.

he looks away, not wanting you to see his frown. “alright. i’ll– uhh… i’ll leave you be then,” he sighs and wipes a hand down his face. “i’ll be in the library with sam if you need me, okay?”

and with a creak of the mattress and another soft sigh, he’s out of the room, and you’re back in the quiet solitude of his bunker bedroom, blanketed by the dull smell and thick air that seems all-consuming.

back in it.

back in the midst of your own tired brain, spewing out things you’d never dare say aloud.

things you’d never share with dean.

but dean’s not an idiot. he knows depression like the back of his hand, and he’s seen your episodes before—though it doesn’t make it any less painful whenever you enter one.

you spend your days in and out of consciousness, swimming in the dire thoughts that plague your mind and leave you feeling empty.

and you perhaps look even worse than you feel. you should be embarrassed, you think, letting dean see you like this—the unwashed hair, the unbrushed teeth, the crinkled pyjamas you’ve been wearing for days that are starting to smell.

but you don’t care.

it’s hard to care.

you’re so wrapped up in your own brain, trying to fight the onslaught of grim thoughts, that you don’t even see the impact you’re having on dean.

he’s tried everything.

he was gentle at first—the soft-spoken words and tender touches that just made you feel worse.

guilty… maybe.

and when his soft love didn’t help, he moved onto bringing you things, like a meal or your toothbrush, but every time he tried, he was met with a grunt or hum of disinterest.

and it broke his fucking heart.

even sam could see the stress that your dynamic was having on dean. he watched his brother wallow in despair, going days without a smile and the usual bite of confidence that he walked around with. he was losing himself in worry, but yet, the pair of them were clueless when it came to helping you; they didn’t know what to do.

they’d grown up just coexisting in their shared anguish, not letting their afflictions get in the way of life. they couldn’t afford to let it get in the way, no matter how much they were struggling.

but you were different.

and to them it was different.

so as the days of you rotting in his bed went by, dean’s own light began to fade. he walked around the bunker dejected and heavy-hearted, just existing with a sad level of apathy. he didn’t care for the cases sam would bring up; he couldn’t find it in himself to worry about the potential victims or the entities that were no doubt wreaking havoc.

not when he was worrying about you.

you were lying in his bed, half asleep, as you heard dean’s footsteps patter down the hallway. you pulled the blanket further up under your chin, almost shielding yourself from him and whatever he was going to say to you.

the door opened with a creak, the light from the hallway illuminating the dark room. dean popped his head in, letting his eyes land on you. “sweetheart?” he asked quietly, letting his gentle voice float through the stagnant air that reeked of you.

when you didn’t respond, he sighed, opening the door wider and stepping into the room. you felt his weight pull down the mattress as he sat, and his hand met your side over the blanket, gently rubbing, trying to coerce a response out of you.

“it’s 4 o’clock,” dean murmured, studying your face and the way you hid it in the pillow. “you don’t wanna get up? you’re not hungry?”

he knew his questions were redundant. he’d asked them every day since you’d first fallen into this depression.

you shook your head against the pillow. “m’tired,” you muttered.

“i know, sweetheart. i just–” dean sighed, “i’d just like you to eat something. it’s late… and i’m sure you’re hungry.”

he waited.

but you didn’t respond.

“i can make you a sandwich. some toast?” he offered, still rubbing your side over the sheets.

you shook your head again, silently pleading for him to give up like he usually does with these conversations.

“baby, please,” dean’s voice wavered, his usual gruff tone wobbling with emotion as he looked down at you. “please,” he begged again.

“not hungry,” you muttered, finally giving him a reply with words.

dean sighed. his hand moved up to your head, brushing some hair out of your face. his touch was gentle and reverent, like you were something that’d break if he wasn’t careful.

cause perhaps you were.

“i know you’re not, sweetheart, but i want you to eat something. you need to.”

the stale air around you felt thicker as the moments of silence grew, and you felt it suffocating you.

“please, dean,” you tried.

“no… i’m gonna make you something, and you’re gonna eat it for me, okay?”

your eyes finally fluttered open and hesitantly looked up to his. dean’s eyes immediately softened. there you were.

“baby…”

the look of hopelessness on his face made your chin tremble—it was beyond your control. the way his eyes looked sunken in was a reflection of your own misery.

he moved his hand to rest against your cheek. his touch was warm, and you found yourself swimming in the contact.

“c’mon, angel. please…” his voice was strained, tight with emotion that he was trying to keep from spilling out all over you; he didn’t need to make you feel any worse. “let me get you up. come sit in the kitchen. just you and me.”

he didn’t give you time to argue with his words. instead, he gently peeled the blanket away and slid his hands under your body.

a groan of protest left your throat, but your body melted into his as he pulled you up off the mattress.

“there we go,” dean muttered, letting you sit against him. your tired eyes blinked at him, conveying all the words you couldn’t find the energy to speak. “i know, sweetheart, i know. just for ten minutes, yeah?”

you blinked slowly, watching his face search yours. his expression was a mixture of concern and empathy, and you felt your heart lurch at the sight, knowing you were the cause.

his hand stroked your cheek as the silence grew once more. “you’re… you’re a bit ripe, baby,” dean finally spoke, his tone gentle and a little reluctant.

you swallowed. you knew those words should embarrass you, but… you couldn’t find the energy to care. “i know,” you whispered.

dean nodded. “c’mere…”

his big arms wrapped around you, caging you against his chest. his hand rubbed your back, attempting to soothe away the sadness he could feel emanating off you.

you melted into his embrace, his warmth alleviating some of the tension in your body.

“i love you, baby. let me look after you… please. it kills me to see you like this,” he whispered into your hair.

you let out a soft noise, one that left your throat without your permission.

“i know,” dean murmured. he pulled back and looked down at your face, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. his eyes softened as he met your tired gaze. “i’m gonna run you a bath, okay? i’m gonna help you.”

he nodded along with his words, almost reassuring you with his actions.

you wanted to argue. you wanted to tell him to go away, that you didn’t want a bath, that you just wanted to sleep.

but the pain in dean’s expression stopped you. the way the frown tugged down on his lips and the way his eyes silently pleaded with you had your chest tightening.

“okay.”

dean let out a shaky breath. “yeah, okay. good… that’s my girl.” he placed a tender kiss on your forehead, letting his lips stay against your skin for a few moments before pulling back. “you stay here. i’ll be right back.”

he pulled away from you, your body instantly feeling cold at the absence of his touch. he ducked out into the hallway and down to the bunker bathroom, ready to fill the tub for you and wash off your layer of grime.

you slumped back down into the mattress, your heart beating faster in resigned anticipation. you didn’t want to get up. you didn’t want a bath. you just wanted to fall back into sleep and avoid being awake, like you’d been doing all week.

but dean’s face appeared in your mind, and you knew how much this meant to him. your heart ached knowing you were the cause of his sadness, and so you sat back against the sheets, waiting with a heavy heart for him to return.

dean entered the room again only moments later. he stood beside the bed looking down at you, a cautious yet glum smile pulling at his lips. “bath’s running. you just– you just wait there.”

you watched him pull out the drawers of his dresser, grabbing an old shirt and a pair of his boxers, before dipping back out of the room in a rush.

a few minutes passed before dean returned again. he approached your sad state on the bed and loomed over you with a steady presence. “okay, sweetheart. bath’s full. c’mere.”

he bowed down and slipped his hands under your lifeless body, pulling you away from the warm sheets of the bed and into him. your head instinctively ducked into his neck, searching for closeness as he began carrying you out to the bathroom.

“it's gonna be okay, baby,” dean murmured into your hair. “i’m gonna look after you, okay?”

his gentle words made your heart flutter, the first sign of life in your chest in days. a warmth spread, and you sighed, nodding in response.

dean walked you into the bathroom, closing the door with his foot before setting you down in front of him. the tiles were cold against your feet, and the fresh air of the bathroom invaded your nose. it was a lot, after being surrounded by the stale air of his bedroom for so long, but dean’s presence somehow made it all feel okay.

you looked at him, waiting to see what he’d do, but his eyes were already on you—round and wide with that same glimmer of concern, but still full of so much love.

“let’s get you undressed,” he said softly, his hands already moving to the pyjama shirt you’d been marinating in for the past few days.

you nodded, wordlessly, and let him pull it over your head, your arms slipping out of the fabric and covering your bare chest. dean’s eyes flickered down to the covered skin, and a small smile grew on his lips. “s’nothing i haven’t seen before, baby. you’re alright.”

you felt a smile threaten to tug on your own lips at his small remark—another beat of life returning to you momentarily.

dean pulled down your pyjama shorts and underwear in another careful movement, gently lifting your feet to slip them out of the leg holes.

“there we go,” he huffed softly, throwing your soiled clothes into the laundry basket.

dean’s face softened as his gaze returned to you, and his eyes swept over your form reverently. “my beautiful girl,” he breathed out, the love seeping from his words. your sad heart soaked it up as he cupped your cheek with his palm, the contact almost electrifying for a moment, waking you up from your slightly hazy state.

“let’s get you in the tub, yeah?” he murmured once again, his green eyes flickering between yours in assurance.

you nodded.

and dean nodded in return before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead, “that’s my girl.”

he guided you to the bathtub. bubbles floated on top of the water, and steam plumed up into the air. the sweet scent of your body wash filled your nostrils as you stood in front of it.

dean watched your eyes take in the sight, a small smile gracing his face. “i did alright, didn’t i?” he let out a soft laugh.

you glanced up at him, your heart skipping a beat at his beautiful face. god, you loved him. “yeah,” you replied softly, your voice nothing more than a mere whisper.

but still, dean smiled.

he was pulling more words from you in fifteen minutes than he had been for the past week.

“hop in, baby. it’s nice and warm.”

you tentatively dipped a foot in, testing the temperature, before committing and taking a seat in the water.

the warm water surrounded you, gently lapping at your skin like gentle kisses on an ocean shore. it felt nice, and you were already feeling better than you had been all week.

“good?” dean asked as he lowered himself beside the tub, sitting on his knees.

you relaxed back against the porcelain. “good.”

dean smiled once more, taking in the sight of you. “i’m glad,” he murmured. he let his hand reach over the tub and dip under the water, meeting your knee. he gave it a gentle squeeze.

you let out a deep sigh, a long sound that seemed to escape your lungs without your consent. dean just nodded. “i know, baby,” he said, squeezing your knee again. “i'm gonna wash you and get you back to bed. i know you’re feeling rough, my baby. just let me do this for you.”

his tender words struck at your heart, your heartstrings tightening as a frown grew on your lips. as little as his words seemed at face value, they meant the world. he saw you. he saw the pain that existed within you, and yet, he was okay with it. he understood it, and you could see he was more than willing to help you shoulder it. that much was clear.

and so you nodded once more, words seeming too daunting for you to handle. dean hummed and picked up your shampoo bottle from beside the tub. “can you wet your hair for me?” he asked, his soft eyes falling over your face.

you swallowed and slipped down, dipping your head into the water.

you found yourself falling back into a hazy state as dean began washing your hair, his gentle hands massaging the suds into your scalp—the motion tender and careful, like he was touching you for the first time again, cautious that you’d pull away.

your eyes fluttered shut, your wet lashes draped over your warm cheeks as he rinsed and conditioned your hair. emotions bubbled in your chest at the feeling of being looked after, cared for like your soul had been aching for. dean took care of you with such love, and your fragile soul soaked it up, revelling in his presence for the first time in days instead of feeling repulsed by it.

the salty tears escaped your eyes while dean began scrubbing your body clean.

dean saw them.

“oh, sweetheart,” his voice wavered. his free hand came up and cupped your cheek, almost guiding your face to meet his gaze. “it’s okay. you’re okay.”

you looked at him through your blurry vision, the tears still spilling down your cheeks and your throat closing up from how much his touches were forcing up emotions that suffocated your airways.

you whimpered.

“i know, baby, i know. i’m so sorry you feel like this,” dean murmured. he leaned forward and placed a kiss on your forehead, letting his lips linger a few seconds longer than necessary, as if he was trying to kiss away some of the hurt from inside of you.

your lips trembled, and your chin quivered. it felt too much. it all felt too much.

you let out a sob—a quiet one, the sound broken and pained.

dean felt his heart rip. there was no other way to describe it. he felt your pain evaporate from your insides and expel itself into the air in the form of sobs.

maybe your tears were good, and maybe your sobs too.

he kept gently scrubbing your body clean, his heart twisting at every cruel sound that escaped you. “i know, angel, i know. i’m so sorry. i wish i could make it better.”

you cried.

for the first time in weeks.

you felt the floodgates open, and you had no way of closing them. the sounds were almost guttural, ravaging your insides and tearing out of your mouth.

but as painful as it all seemed, your sobs lightened it—lessened the load of what you were carrying inside, lightened the heavy feeling that had manifested itself into the dull ache in your chest.

you couldn’t see through your tears by the time dean had drained the bath and managed to wrap you in a towel and pull you into his arms.

“i wish i could take away your pain. i’d take all of it, every last drop, baby, just so you’d never have to feel like this again,” he whispered into your hairline. his voice was so soft, so raw, and so sincere. “i’m so sorry.”

he kept his strong arms around you, holding onto you like a vice, feeling like you’d shatter into a million pieces if he were to let go. you just collapsed into him, your body seeking his comfort after days of stubbornly rejecting it.

when really

it was all that you’d needed.

you couldn’t say how long you stood in the bathroom together, just letting him hold you. but it didn't matter. you felt your internal turmoil lessen with each second that passed, like dean alone was sucking out the oxygen that kept your pain’s flame alight.

your heart beat in your chest; a steady rhythm gently pounding under your skin. you could feel dean’s too, right under your ear as you rested your head against him, neither of you caring about soaking his shirt with your wet hair or the droplets of water that were landing on the floor.

it didn’t matter.

dean finally pulled his head back, a gentle sigh escaping his lips. his gaze flickered down to your face still buried in his chest, searching for solace in his touch, in his presence.

“i love you so much,” he muttered, his voice low and delicate, not wanting to break the moment. “i want you to get better… and i want you to talk to me, okay? i want to help with whatever’s going on in here.”

he gently poked at your temple.

you swallowed down the lump in your throat. it felt scratchy from how badly you’d sobbed your throat raw.

but you looked up at him, blinking. you nodded.

dean nodded back.

he was gentle as he pressed you against the counter, the back of your legs hitting the edge. and he was even gentler as he rubbed in your moisturiser and towel-dried your hair.

he was so beautiful. so patient. so understanding.

and though your insides were turning inside out, practically screaming at you to back away and hide in the comfort of his dark bedroom, you stayed put, allowing dean’s presence to mute the constant array of dark thoughts from bouncing around in your mind.

he soothed you. inside and out.

and part of you hated yourself for rejecting this for so long, denying yourself his comfort.

dean thought you looked vacant as he dressed you, pulling up his old boxers over your legs and covering you in one of his shirts. his chest hurt, but again, this was more from you than you’d given him in a week.

and that meant something.

he didn't let go of you the entire walk back to his bedroom. his hand was wrapped around yours, tight, almost like he was trying to remind you of the devotion he felt for you.

the smell of his bedroom air hit your nose as you walked back in. was it really this bad before? it was like your innermost thoughts were hung in the air, polluting the room with a foul stench that reeked of misery.

you frowned.

dean let his hand run up your arm, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you into him again. you let him, melting into his warm embrace.

“you hungry? don’t say no.”

you glanced up at his face, taking in his softened expression. you allowed yourself to nod.

“okay, yeah. good,” he murmured. he pulled away, reaching over to his desk. you saw the plate in his hand. two pieces of toast sat on top of the ceramic dish.

“i texted sam…” he explained, trailing off as he passed you the plate.

you nodded again. “thank you,” you returned, a quiet muttering.

“i– i’m gonna change the sheets, sweetheart. i can’t– i can’t sleep another night in them… and that’s saying something… you know, coming from me,” he said, his humour lightening up the heavy mood of the room. he smiled gently. “you sit. eat.”

dean pulled out his desk chair and gestured for you to take a seat. you slumped down into it, letting out a soft sigh.

he kept his eyes on you as he pulled the dirty sheets off his bed, stripping it bare as he watched you take small hesitant bites of the toast that sam had made. you looked tired, practically fusing back into the chair, but at least you were up. that's what dean told himself.

“gonna grab some new sheets, okay? finish your toast, baby. i'll be back in a sec.” he spoke to you like how someone speaks to a toddler—gentle and soft like the wrong word or tone would send you spiralling back into bed for another week, but he couldn’t afford that, not when he had managed to get this far with you.

you nodded, and he left the room with the dirty sheets in hand, returning only moments later with the fresh linen that immediately lifted the room’s scent.

you had finished your toast by the time dean was done pulling the sheets onto the bed. you put the empty plate back onto his desk and looked up at him with wide tired eyes.

dean came over, standing in front of your legs. “all done?”

you nodded. “yeah.”

his hand made contact with your head, brushing some of your damp hair back and petting you. his movements were gentle, like he had to be extra delicate with you in your fragile state, but his touch sent a surge of love and affection through you—something that jolted you awake for what felt like the first time in days.

you looked up at his face, like really looked up.

“i love you,” you muttered out, no louder than a whisper.

dean’s hand paused in your hair. his face softened. “i know, baby. i love you too… more than anything in the world.”

his hand slipped down to your cheek, cupping it tenderly. his palm was warm, almost searing against your skin with unspoken words of affection. his thumb rubbed along your cheekbone.

“can i hold you?” he asked, his twinkling green eyes searching yours, rounded like he was bracing himself for you to say no.

but you nodded, leaning into his touch. “please.”

dean let out a breath. “mmkay, up you get then, angel.”

you stood up from the chair. he pulled the sheets back, helping guide you back into the warmth and safety of his bed. dean slipped in after you, the mattress dipping under his weight. his arms immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him.

you felt your body relax for the first time in days, releasing all the tension from your muscles and melting against him almost innately. you sighed, closing your eyes.

dean pulled you closer. “i got you, sweetheart. you know i’ve always got you.”

fig yaps: first time doing proper angst !!!!!! i hope it’s not cringe omf i’m hiding away after i post this !!!! BUT comfort fic ??? hopefully !!! i started writing this when i took my lil break bc i was sad as hell and all i wanted was for dean to look after me LMAOOO i hope u enjoyed <3

reblogs and feedback are appreciated :P

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564 notes · View notes

dollyswishingwell · 25 days ago

Note

would it be possible to ask for a scene with each one of the lads boys where y/n suggest another woman would be perfect for him?

luv your works

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ It was a joke, honey

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔��𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃�� ˙⋆✮ fluff, i made it as less angsty as possible cause fuck that.

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You joke that another woman would look better with him

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The sun was pouring into the atelier, golden and lazy. You were lounging on a plush blanket spread out on the floor, eating lychee with sticky fingers while Rafayel sat nearby, sketching lazy strokes of you in the sunlight, your legs, your neckline, the exact curl of your hair he liked most.

He looked so serene, cross-legged with his messy purple hair tied back in a loose ribbon, a shell-pigment smudge on his cheekbone. You smiled at him, fond and playful.

“You know,” you said casually, licking juice from your thumb, “that art curator from the gala would be perfect for you. Gorgeous, elegant, knows her brushes. Bet she doesn’t wear cupcake pajamas all day and cry over cartoon animals.”

Rafayel stopped mid-sketch.

His head snapped up so fast you swore he might’ve pulled something.

“What did you just say?”

You blinked. “I’m kidding, Raffy.”

“No—no, don’t joke like that,” he said quickly, dropping the sketchpad and crawling over to you like a panicked cat. “What do you mean she’d be perfect for me? That lady talks in museum riddles and said my sculpture ‘lacked post-human theory.’ I wanted to bite her.”

You started laughing, but he was already dramatically flopping into your lap like a deflated sea lion.

“She didn’t even like the shell pigments,” he mumbled, face smooshed against your belly. “And she asked if I’d ever consider painting ‘real subjects.’ What does that even mean? I only paint you.”

“Raf—”

“I like your cupcake pajamas,” he said with a dramatic sniff, clinging tighter. “They have bows on them. You’re soft and sweet and cry over sea turtle videos and you always smell like strawberries and conditioner. Why would I want some brush lady when I can have my pretty princess wife who lets me taste her lipgloss?”

“…You lick my lip gloss?”

“That’s not the point,” he said, lifting his head, ears bright red and eyes wide with betrayed panic. “Do you want to leave me for someone with real pajamas?”

You burst out laughing, swatting at his chest. “You’re so dramatic! I was joking!”

He glared at you for exactly one second before slumping back onto your lap with a sigh. “…I’m going to spit bubbles at you soon.”

“You always say that.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

It was late afternoon, and Zayne was sitting at the edge of the velvet couch in your shared walk-in closet, fingers lazily undoing the buttons on his sleeves as you turned in the mirror, twirling in a pastel gown he’d bought you for the hospital’s annual gala.

“You’ve gotten too good at spoiling me,” you murmured, checking the fit of the bodice. “You realize you could’ve brought literally any woman to that event, right? That intern from cardiology is practically your type. Tall. Driven. Doesn’t sit around the house in fluffy slippers eating strawberries in bed.”

You said it lightly, teasing, the kind of little self-deprecating quip you always made to make fun of how much he babied you now. You expected a subtle eye-roll, maybe a quiet “You’re being ridiculous.”

Instead, Zayne’s hands paused on the cufflink.

He said nothing.

You turned in time to see the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow. He looked up at you from over the rims of his glasses, his hazel green eyes unreadable.

“…Is that what you think?” he asked finally, voice low and even.

You blinked. “Zaynie. I was joking.”

He stood, smoothing the sleeves back down and walking toward you with quiet, measured steps. You watched him approach in the mirror, his reflection looming behind you, composed as always, but you could see the way his brows remained faintly drawn together.

“I don’t know what made you say that,” he murmured, reaching to adjust the strap of your dress that had slipped slightly off your shoulder, “but I chose you.”

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, slow, deliberate, just over the thin strap.

“I chose the woman who sends me midday pictures of her lunch shaped like hearts,” he continued, lips brushing your skin as he spoke. “The one who buys enough hair clips to keep an entire hospital ward supplied. The one who waits for me to come home just so she can tell me about a dream she had where I turned into a pastry.”

You muffled a laugh. “You were a mille-feuille. I didn’t choose that.”

“I still think about it,” he deadpanned.

You turned to face him, cheeks warm, but he was already brushing your hair gently behind your ear with a scarred hand. He looked down at you, expression still serious.

“Don’t joke like that again,” he said softly. “I don’t find it funny.”

“…Sorry.”

“I’d have to fire the intern just for looking at me.”

You gaped. “You can’t fire someone just for—!”

He tilted his head, faintest quirk of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Watch me.”

And then, without another word, he bent down and kissed you full on the lips, one hand at your waist, the other ghosting along the back of your neck. It was warm and grounding and possessive.

And when he pulled away, you were a little breathless.

“…I’m yours,” he said simply.

That was it.

No flourish. No embellishment.

Just fact.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You were both curled up in bed on a rainy morning, tucked under a heavy quilt in the massive penthouse bedroom. Xavier was warm beside you, half-draped over your body like a sleepy cat, chin nestled on your stomach as you idly scrolled your holopad looking at outfits for the upcoming Deep Space Hunter gala.

“I’m never going to look as good as all those girls in the newsfeeds,” you mumbled, squinting at a model in a diamond mesh gown. “Honestly, you should’ve taken someone like that to the gala instead. Someone elegant. Mysterious. Not a spoiled princess who wears socks with cartoon suns on them.”

Xavier blinked, very slowly.

Then he reached out and poked the toe of said sock peeking from under the blanket.

“I like the suns,” he said flatly. “They are cheerful.”

You snorted. “Xavi. I was joking.”

He didn’t move. He just stared at you, blue eyes calm, but somehow deeply… offended.

“I do not want someone mysterious,” he said seriously. “I already do not understand most humans. Why would I want someone more confusing?”

“…It was a joke.”

“I want the one who sings to her moisturizer.”

“That was one time.”

“I want the one who makes my tea too sweet. Who buys sparkly jackets she never wears. Who calls me ‘Xavi’ like it’s a real name.”

You stared at him.

Then you cracked a smile. “Are you pouting?”

He didn’t answer. Just slowly burrowed further into your stomach like a sulking marshmallow.

After a beat of silence, his muffled voice mumbled, “You said you were a princess. You are my princess. That is a high rank.”

“I was joking, Xavier.”

“I’m still taking damage.”

You laughed and stroked your fingers through his soft silver hair, brushing it gently behind one ear. “You’re ridiculous.”

He lifted his head, eyes soft and serious. “Don’t say things like that again,” he said. “Not even in jest. I have already chosen you. You are not up for debate.”

And then, he leaned up and kissed your forehead once, firmly, as though sealing some sort of strange celestial pact. After that, he promptly slumped back down onto your chest and… fell asleep mid-hug.

You stared at him, stunned.

“…You literally passed out after scolding me.”

“I didn’t scold,” he murmured sleepily. “I was clarifying.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You were curled up on Sylus’s desk chair in one of his private armory offices, lazily eating sugared fruit and scrolling newsfeeds while he reclined on the leather couch, arms spread out like he owned the world (he practically did).

The room smelled like spiced tea and faint smoke from the plasma testing range. Outside, night had fallen over the city, but in here everything felt untouched, lavish and quiet, until you muttered under your breath:

“Maybe you should’ve picked a hunter from the top ranks. One who’s still active. Not some ex-space menace who lounges around demanding velvet slippers and biting your fingers when you steal her strawberries.”

Sylus didn’t even blink.

He just let that silence hang, slow and syrupy.

Then, like molasses.

“…Is that your idea of a joke?”

You flicked your wrist lazily. “Sort of.”

He stood.

One smooth, terrifying movement.

And then, he was towering over you, red eyes glowing faintly, one hand braced on the back of the chair you were in, leaning down so close you could feel the heat off his breath.

“You think I tolerate you because you’re convenient?” he said, voice low and amused. “Darling, I made you like this.’”

You raised your brows, trying to mask the way your heart jumped. “You liked me better when I could fight 5 wanderers in one go and take out five protocol gangs before lunch.”

He huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “You’re still the same little menace who smacked me in the mouth because I put honey in your tea.”

“That was chamomile, Sylus.”

“Exactly. You’re still feisty enough to assault a the leader of the N109 zone over steeped flowers. And you think you’ve gone soft?”

He leaned closer, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear now, voice smug and fond and dangerously low.

“You traded your blaster for diamond hairpins. You made me redecorate an entire wing because the pillows were ‘visually tragic.’ You ride me harder than my bloodsteel stallion and still have the audacity to pout when I don’t butter your toast right. And infact you didn’t even want to be this, didn’t i have to lock you in the safehouse”

You swallowed.

He chuckled.

“You haven’t lost your edge. You’ve just sharpened it.”

And then, he kissed you.

Hard. Fierce. Like claiming territory. One hand in your hair, the other wrapped around your waist, dragging you up and onto his lap like he owned you. Which he did. Which you let him.

When he pulled back, his tone dipped into something rougher.

“If I wanted a docile little soldier,” he murmured, brushing his thumb against your lower lip, “I wouldn’t have chosen the only woman alive who keeps demanding I wear a fluffy pink robe to breakfast.”

You stared at him.

“…I like when you wear it.”

“I know. That’s why I keep it on longer.”

He smirked.

And you realized, he wasn’t reassuring you.

He was reaffirming ownership.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The Skyhaven penthouse was quiet.

Caleb had just come back from a mission, still in his Colonel uniform, gloves half-peeled off, peaked cap tossed on the marble counter, when you made the mistake of speaking.

“I saw the footage from today’s op. You looked good next to Commander Reyna,” you said lightly, scrolling your holo as you lounged in your silken loungewear. “She’s sharp. Still out in the field. You two would’ve made a great pair, honestly.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

You glanced up, expecting a scoff or a smirk.

Instead, Caleb was just standing there. Still.

Staring at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.

He walked toward you slowly, boots quiet on the marble floor, until he reached the couch and crouched, level with you. His purple eyes were unreadable.

“…You think I’d want her?” he asked softly. Too softly.

You blinked. “It was a joke, Caleb.”

His gloved hand came up, gently cupping your cheek. So gentle. Too gentle. “No, Pipsqueak. You were testing me.”

You opened your mouth to laugh it off, but he leaned closer. His forehead touched yours, breath warm. His expression didn’t change.

“Let me be very clear,” he said, in that calm Colonel voice that made hardened men freeze in place. “I didn’t become this to be with someone like Reyna. I didn’t tear my hands open in simulations, I didn’t bleed for Fleet promotions, I didn’t build this life up from the ashes of everything we used to be just to throw it away for someone else.”

You swallowed.

“I built this world for you,” he whispered, brushing his lips against your brow. “Piece by piece. Brick by brick. I wanted to make you feel so safe that you forgot how to fight. So pampered that the word mission made your eyes glaze over.”

His fingers traced your jaw now, lovingly, obsessively.

“You used to walk into gunfire without flinching. Now you scream if I burn your pancakes,” he smiled faintly. “I’ve done my job well, haven’t I?”

“Caleb…”

“You think I’d throw that away? For some woman with good trigger discipline and zero love for cherry-sugar lip balm?”

“…You’re being dramatic.”

He chuckled, and kissed your cheek. “You’re right. I am. That’s what you do to me, pips.”

Then, he tugged you onto his lap like you weighed nothing, wrapping his arms around you and holding you tight, tight, tight against his chest.

“You don’t get to talk about replacing yourself ever again,” he murmured. “Not even as a joke. Not after everything I gave up for you.”

You felt his hand press low on your spine, protective and possessive.

“You’re not the one who changed, sweetheart. I did. And I’m never going back.”

517 notes · View notes

honestsycrets · 2 years ago

Text

mío | baby-fever!miguel o'hara x wifey!reader

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x wifey!reader, starved prequel

❛ type | oneshot, explicit

❛ summary | after watching mayday, miguel develops a bad case of baby fever, longing for a family of his own.

❛ tags | explicit, miguel has baby fever, babysitting, talk of family planning and contraception, f!reader, breeding, pregnancy kink, much fluff, some angst, starved!reader, miguel being frustrated and cute, clean that kitchen, one stereotype of latina women, Spanish is not translated, best friend!peter, self edited.

❛ request fulfilled | could you possibly write an imagine in which Miguel and his wife take care of mayday? + multiple requests for more starved reader/miguel.

❛ sy's notes | written to fulfill some requests. i do have another daddy miguel blurb to fulfill, but my future works should be nice and angsty.

Peter has it out for him.

It’s the only logical reason why he’d do this shit to him.

Miguel stood in his dark room in a pair of scratchy jeans, dragging a belt loop to loop when he heard the door to his room draw open. A resonant schwap, schwap, schwap.

“Mi reina?” Miguel cocked his eyebrow up, extending his claws.

“¿Sí?” you called back from the bathroom, the distant scent of his favorite perfume wafting into the air. Miguel threw a look to the bathroom, reaching for the bedroom door. It burst open before he could open it.

“Hi, Miguel! Where’s your wife?”

Peter dragged his feet into the room, whirling around with a sloppily put-together backpack that leaked diapers onto the floor. An exasperated breath left his lips, dripping in the way he looked at Peter.

Unfortunately, his little wife liked Peter a bit too much for his taste.

“I should have known.” Miguel ran his hand through his hair, strands of mocha brown flyaways wisping along his tawny forehead. “Why are you here?”

His normally disheveled appearance was a little more disheveled. It wasn’t his appearance that bothered him but how it reached his eyes. Shocked, confused, tired. Peter pat his deltoid, awkward laughter choking in his throat. It bubbled on the edge of an overwhelmed sob.

“Well, you see, your wife said she’d watch Mayday because I have a date, and I haven’t had a date in a really, really long time. Like, a really long time—”

“Is Peter here?”

His head snapped to your bathroom where you came out, threading a golden hoop earring. You probably already knew the fight that was heading your way-- but for your part, you couldn’t be bothered to care any less.

“Got it, you need this date.” Miguel cut Peter off, standing behind you with his massive arms crossed. “¿Por qué no me dijiste?”

“¡Mi nena! Muévete Miguel,” you giggled, shoving your way past Miguel to Peter’s child carrier, sneaking your hands underneath her little armpits and whirling her around. She cackled, a glittering warmth to her mischievous eyes. You came to a stop, settling Mayday against your chest, nuzzling your foreheads together in some secret pact that the two of you shared.

Oh no, no, no, no. Not this. It hits him at once.

The sight of his wife— beautiful and cuddly with a very young baby in her arms. The only sight more beautiful was at the altar on his wedding day, your shy smile behind a sheer veil. It had been a long time, too long, since he had someone to call him father. He can still picture her glimmering eyes, the way she looked at him in nothing short of admiration, looking past the things that he’d done to see him and only him. Glimpsing at Mayday, remembering Gabriella’s soft, small face, it took him a moment to snap free.

He's so fucked.

“You would have said no, amado mío.”

You’re a natural at this, scooting by both men to set Mayday on the bed. Your tiny fingers spiraled out from her belly to change her diaper. Peter jittered uncomfortably, looking as though he wanted to jump in himself. You cleaned her, replacing the dirty diaper with a clean one. “We’re going to a market with Tío Miguel--”

“Don’t bring me into this.”

“Are you sure it's okay? I’ll be back at five, it's just a few hours, really--”

“¡Vete! A ratty house robe and a dirty spider suit aren’t sexy. Look at mi Miggy,” now you’re just buttering him up. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, inspecting the ground. “Wear something nice.”

They’re sexy to her, he might have murmured. Not on a date, you bopped him. Mayday’s bright eyes tracked the space between you and Peter before you broke away to wash your hands. Peter’s clammy hands cupped Mayday’s sweet face, littering at least a dozen sickly daddy kisses over her tiny face. But Miguel what if--

“Adiós, Peter!” You returned to force Peter out of your room. Miguel peered at Mayday whose head snapped to the side, cheek against her fiery hair as the door clicked shut. He braced himself for the shrill that would inevitably come with her realization that her daddy was gone. She whined, grabbing her toes and tipping nearly off the side of the bed. Miguel begrudgingly hovered at her feet, blocking her from rolling off the bed. He could do this, he told himself, he could resist those giant baby eyes staring up at him.

He didn't need a baby, he didn't.

He blames Peter for having such a good baby.

She doesn’t ask for much other than requiring chest-to-chest contact with Miguel. It’s not that he doesn’t want to hold her, he finds himself aggravated by how much he likes to be around her. In a market full of things to look at food trinkets such as necklaces, body scrubs, and empanadas, it’s all her. Miguel props her up with an arm just under her bum, her tiny finger peeking curiously into his fangs. He snapped his teeth playfully at her, a nip, nip, nip, missing playfully every time. It rips ping a toothy grin across her face.

“No biting Miguelito,” you called out, sliding your fingers in a teasing ring around his muscled back to chest. You leaned up on your tippy toes, placing a small little kiss on his lips. You ran off to go get her a pineapple whip after her tiny fist yanked your hair over and over again. You relented, staring at what she was cooing at. Sweets-- obviously, sweets. All the little ones loved sweets.

“She likes it.”

“Ya sé,” you said, “But we don’t need anyone noticing you’ve grown fangs.”

“Tch,” he clicks his teeth in protest. She does too, throwing you a mean look for interrupting her fun. You plucked up a bit of the whip on your spoon, cutting through her displeasure through the power of sugar.

"There's a lot of people here, Miggy, let's go to the park." You point toward the park, pointing away from the mounds of fresh produce and locally sourced goods toward a healthy patch of green grass. Miguel is glad-- he’s sick of being stared at for his huge frame. Despite the ring on his finger, people still seem to try their luck. He couldn't be more disinterested.

You lay a picnic blanket as Miguel holds Mayday's treat. Mayday sprawls across his chest, trying to take just one more bite-- then another-- Miguel looks down, chin level, eyebrow raised. She offers a bit on her tiny index finger to Miguel. A peace offering. “She’s not going to wait.”

“Give her to me.” You kicked off your sandals on the edge of the blanket, dropping your things on another corner. You pluck Mayday from Miguel’s arms and set her down on the blanket in a way that is too easy. As though you wouldn’t have much of a learning curve in becoming a mother. No, no— you never mentioned anything about kids. Did you even want kids? He couldn't bring his heart to ask, to hope again.

“I didn’t know you were so experienced with kids.”

“Mami had six,” you noted, plopping down with the whip by Mayday’s side. She sat with a small slant, reaching out toward the sweet treat again with those chunky, adorable hands. You brought her into your lap, at last relenting. “When you’re the oldest, you have to learn a little something to help out. Can you imagine-- being pregnant six times? Ay no.”

“How many times do you want to be pregnant?” he blurts out. Usually timed and precise, the question causes him to pinch his brow as he sits beside you. “Si quieres,”

Your other hand comes on top of his and shifts it away from his face.

“As many as will make you happy.”

Shock. He chews on that response, his eyes glued to Mayday lapping at the last spoon of sweets you are willing to give her. She falls into a fit of complaints, a conniving look at the sweets, just as you lift her onto your shoulder.

"I never thought about it."

"No more, your papa won't forgive me if I bring you home all sugared up," you tsked your tongue at her. You patted along her back in small, tight circles until her angry huffs faded away. He reaches for the baby bag, slipping free a soft yellow blanket with white spiders strewn across the front. Miguel slides the blanket on top of Mayday’s small body, her groggy eyes sliding closed.

The more he watches you with Mayday, holding her so close, swaying as you held her, the deeper this ache burrowed in his chest. You would look beautiful all swollen with his child. Never mind Mayday or Peter, he can nearly see it, feel it under his fingers, the feeling of your taut belly under his skin, or the kick of tiny feet against his palm.

“We’ll see, Miggy.”

We’ll see-- the answer seems too noncommittal, too distant to be a satisfactory answer. With Mayday sound asleep, you settle her between your plush thighs. She expelled bursts of energy that milked her energy dry.

A little old woman passed by, her cane pierced soft grass as she moved closer with a bag of tomatoes and green beans. Her face, aged by time, pulls into a wide smile. He doesn't like her smile.

“You two are doing a great job. How old is she?”

You blink, looking up into the woman’s cool blue eyes, her dark hair peppered with thick grey and white strands. You tuck Mayday in her soft blanket, sparing the woman a kind smile that Miguel doesn’t quite have the patience for.

“Oh, oh. Thank you-- um, a couple of months,” you recount, perhaps thinking of Peter’s anxious pacing or his delighted shouts about becoming a father.

“Adopting is a great option. Back in the day, my husband was a bodybuilder too. Had a low sperm count don’t you know. Steroids shrink things. Oh, but these days you can do all sorts of things like IV--”

A what-- Miguel’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull at the suggestion. Was this old bitch’s suggestion that he couldn’t do it-- couldn’t get you pregnant? He could easily do that. If he wanted you pregnant, you would be shocking pregnant. He’d be damned if some old woman put it in your mind that he couldn’t.

“We’re babysitting for a friend,” he blurts out. “I have--” had, “a daughter.”

“Oh, do you? I’m sorry. I thought-- well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, have a good day."

She’s saying that, but it comes out slanted. You don’t bother correcting Miguel, not on this. Rather, your hand inched toward his, picking up on the energy that was pluming from his body in waves. Irritation-- annoyance-- the little old lady hobbles off. You’re in your mind well enough to bid her goodbye. But you know better than to say anything more, slumping your cheek on Miguel’s firm chest. It makes the ache of Gabriella's memory a little more bearable.

Low sperm count his ass.

It bothers him long after Mayday is gone. Peter, for his part, looks refreshed. He supposes that’s what happens with a full day of opportunity to empty your balls after weeks of no relief. It bothers him long after you come back from the kitchen, his favorite dark red slip plastered to your perfect body. It would look beautiful, full of his children— he just knows it.

“I may have hijacked the kitchen a little bit,” you teased, the waft of warm chicken and brewed spices filled his nose. He had no appetite. “But I made you some pollo guisado.”

“Hm,” he grunts into a pillow. “Later.”

Beside the bed, he has a bowl of brightly colored condoms. With your sensitivity to birth control, it is the best option available. It wasn’t, however, something he was ever happy about. He should be able to feel your body. Not once had he felt your body pure and unadulterated, warm and perfect for him. He was your husband. He wanted that moment— to fill you up just once, watch his cum dribble out of your cunt. It would be perfect. You set the food away, bowl and spoon clinking together.

“Miguel.”

Forget your warm body. This room is too quiet. It is almost stifling in its silence. Mayday’s sweet huffs, the memory of Gabriella’s laughter. A proper home full of a child's giggles. He’s going crazy-- he has to be-- this isn’t normal. This isn’t Miguel.

“Mi vida, don’t pout,” you reach out, rolling your fingers through his long brown hair. Your fingers tease along his scalp, turning around his ear. Your fingers tickle his lobe, your voice cemented in a concern that he wanted nothing more but to fix if it were anything other than this. “Miggy. Miggy, what is wrong? You look sad.”

“I’m not sad,” he says with a whine on his pillow. How silly he must look with his broad arms wound around the body pillow, squeezing its fluff for life. If he said the words well enough, you might believe them.

“I know you are,” you nudge the pillow loose. He takes you instead, the air thickening with the closeness. You fed off the tension, sliding your leg over the sheet that covers his naked hip. “Tell me why.”

He turns his hands over your thighs, traveling past your hips to ghost along your belly.

“Sí, Miggy?”

“I need…” he trailed off, finding the words nearly impossible to admit. They grow into a ball and cement in his throat, present but stubborn. Rather than break the words free, he swallows a bolus of desire and frustration. “It’s nothing. Let it go.”

The issue was— you loved him enough to let it do so.

Miguel doesn’t want to press the issue. He knows you. All you want is Miguel’s happiness. Sometimes, he worries it is at the price of your own. The distance he places between you and him is intolerable. It bothers him every time he finds you babysitting Mayday.

Today, while Peter goes on a small date, you and Mayday make his favorite empanadas. She’s covered in a dusting of flour from head to toe. Peter would have fun with that.

“Miggy you’re back?” you called as Mayday’s chubby hands shot out, nearly plopping off the counter if not for Miguel’s quick reflexes, setting her back in place.

“Empanadas?” he settles the words in a small kiss to your lips. You glance at him over your shoulder.

“It's... it's Gabi's birthday, isn't it?"

You’re too good for him. Despite the day coming and going, no one else notices his grief today. Not even Peter who came in alongside him, reading the room, and snatching up Mayday off the countertop. He’s babbling something, a thank you, see you later— you kiss Mayday with only the sweetness a mother could know.

“Peter! Mayday made these for you,” you reach out to a box of uncooked empanadas. “Take them home!”

Her first empanadas— the delight is palpable. Peter may have snapped a photo, or ten, of his little flour girl on the way out, empanadas in hand. Then there’s silence. Miguel returns the nearly forgotten bundle of empanada dough and filling to the fridge in the space of unspoken tension. Miguel dips down to your neck, caramelized perfume warm on your neck. His lips trace the warm pulse of your neck.

“Mami,” his voice mesmeric, warm like the filling you used to make him happy when no one else could. Your doting attention, even in the face of real issues like work and babies, was always on him.

"Sí, mi vida?"

His hands coast around your waist, using his strength to gently turn you around. It isn’t important right now. What is important is how he lifts you up onto the floury surface, purring his need into your slight ear. “I want a baby.”

“¿Qué?”

“Una niña,” Miguel leans his fingers along your collarbone.

“Oh, Miggy.” You puff the words. They come out almost wounded. You know him so well, the vulnerability of the words causing him to look down. Your warm palms cradle his cheeks, forcing him to look into your eyes. “You miss being a father, don't you?”

You’re not stupid. Neither is he. He thought he could wait— watch Mayday grow up and not feel this sundering longing. As though he could stomach never feeling a child in his arms again. The ghosts of the past that came with Mayday’s longing haunt him day by day.

You devour his insecurity, winding your legs around his waist and forcing him forward. He stumbles into your embrace, as though he were not a man who could decimate villains and spiders alike. When he was here, in your arms, he barely felt like the weapon of a man that he is.

“Miguel. Speak to me.”

“You’re right,” he can’t lie— can’t hide the longing that comes with the thought of his own child on his chest. Not Mayday, no matter how many times she cuddled up to his chest. At the end of the day, she would never be his. You drew your lip into your mouth, nipping it fat and red, a bob in your head. His heart beats faster, strumming as though it would break free from his chest. Whatever it is you’re thinking he’s not sure. Only that it’s been so long.

“I just want to make you happy, will this make you happy?” you nearly whisper, knowing that there’s no one but him to hear the words. It’s what he wants for you, too. As he stands there, coursing his fingers along your thighs and hiking your dress up your hips, he can’t help but feel the foggy discomfort of forcing you into parenthood before you were ready.

“It will.”

As well as it could. It would never erase Gabriella-- and, in the vulnerability of begging his wife for another child, came the guilt. Not only the guilt of failing to be a proper father or to protect her but moving on without her in his life to a beautiful family she would have loved. The feelings surge in his chest, a well of uncomfortable emotions in his eyes, threatening to fall.

“Miguel,” you’re whispering, your fingers cutting across his sharp cheekbones. You cup his face, drawing your lips together in a commanding kiss. You never liked being ignored or forgotten. He’s not sure how he could now, with your tongue flicking between his lips, begging him to come back with a sugary sweet whine. “Stay with me, Miguel.”

“I am,” he says, gripping either side of the counter by your hips. He feels your eyes on him, soft and careful, pressuring him to meet your gaze. He searches for an inkling of an answer in your gaze. "¿Qué piensas?"

“We can try,” you bite your lip, sliding it free between your teeth. “If you don’t have a low sperm count,” you tease. “Maybe it’ll take.”

“¡Por dios!” He throws a curse to the side as if he believed in such a being, throwing a look back at you. “You don’t actually believe that vieja.”

“Ay Miggy, of course not.” His lips work into a budding smile. You leaned up against his stubbly jaw, setting soft kisses there. Your lipstick stains his neck, dragging down to his prominent adam’s apple. He looks down at you with heady eyes, tracing the way you suckled a mark on his throat. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like them a little more when others noticed them, little marks of possession. Miguel’s fingers come up to the straps of your dress, easing them over and down your slight shoulders. You pull back, words forming puff against his neck.

“Not right here,” you inhale a soft breath. “Someone could come in.”

Miguel eases his finger over the small bud of your breast, rolling his thumb along the silken skin, His hand comes up, encompassing your neck and shoving you back into the cabinets. It isn’t comfortable, not by far. He works the nub to its peak before turning his attention to the other. His mouth covers your breast, fangs grazing your nub as he suckled and tugged gently. Miggy, you pull him back up, stripped of your touch. Your hand slide across Miguel’s chest, tracing the taut muscles of his chest.

“Who would come in?”

“Peter,” you answer.

It’s always Peter. He supposes that you wouldn’t want your friend to see you here, cunt stuffed with Miguel on the very same counter you earlier made him empanadas on. Miguel snatched the dress that fell along your hips laxly, utilizing it to yank you off the counter. You fell forward into Miguel, a heavy wall of muscle, your lips failing to form anything of use. You looked at him, cheeks flush and eyes doting, he’s the only one you see.

“The balcony, then.”

“Dianche, Miguel! Do you want all of Nueva York to see me?”

“Maybe.”

No, but see Miguel breeding you? Undoubtedly yes.

He couldn’t simply choose the bed, that would be too easy. Miguel set a kiss on your forehead, soft and scratchy with his stubble. You return it by dragging him down for another kiss, a wave of warmth coming over him as you force your hips back onto him, rolling your hips against his, teasing him. Miguel doesn’t appreciate the tease and gently pushes on your hips, motioning you to face the counter.

“Bend over.”

"Can't we go to my room?" you complain but comply all the same. Miguel’s palm ghosts your spine, dragging his fingers smoothly over the middle of your back and past the dress that gathered around your hips, He strips you of the little cover the dress gave, eager to have you bare and rid of the thin clothing that served as a veil from prying eyes. Miguel can cover you from the prying eyes of others if necessary. Not that he cared if others saw him fucking-- he’s all the more eager to have you all to himself, here and now.

“No panties,” he notes, his warm hands on your inner thighs. “It’s almost like you knew.”

“I might have,” you return, spreading your legs obediently for him. He palms your vulva, your hips shifting down over his hand. Sticky and wet, he wonders if his need to breed you has rubbed off on you too. His fingers shift, sliding over your soft hole. “Apúrate Miguel, you’re so slow.”

“Can’t you be be good for once.”

You were always bossy. He likes it, most the time, being led around by what his pretty little wife wants. Today he wants to take his time, curving his broad fingers into your glistening cunt. Your wetness drips over his knuckles, fingers teasing the velvety soft walls he has never felt without a condom. A pleasured cry wracks in your chest, turning your head over your shoulder to watch Miguel’s fingers stretching you out. No matter how much your walls gave under his fingers, you would still ache when he penetrated you. It was the favourite part, the rich pull of his dick into your hole, bottoming out as best he could in your stomach. He soothes your complaints by grazing his other hand against your perky clitoral hood, finding the soft nub there for relief. You settle your arms on the floured surface.

“I never-- ah-- am,” you threw back.

Miguel slipped his fingers free, cupping your cunt with his palm for a teasing slap. You want to be good-- it’s just so hard, your cunt pulsing in the abswnce of his touch. He drags his sodden fingers to your lips, glazing them in taste of your lubricant. You suckle your tongue around his thick digits, savoring your own taste, his soft grunt of approval spurring you on. You feel like such a good girl with his fingers crooked in your mouth.

“Are you ready?” Miguel stands fully upright, dragging your hips to his. He’s hard as the counter you were pathetically clinging onto. His hipbones ground into your plush ass, dick pulsing in his immediate ache to feel your cunt. He backs up, fiddling with something at the waist. You don’t need to ask to know that it was his big cock grinding between your cheeks, smearing fluid over your slit.

“No condom?”

“No condom,” he affirms. You bow your head, nodding gently over the countertop. The head of his cock drove into your wetness, pushing past bundles of nerves. It’s impossibly different without the bag over his dick. It’s been so long. His world blinks out, savoring the feeling like he was an inexperienced teenager again.

“Carajo, you’re so good,” he finds himself cursing, leaning over your back.

“Now he says I’m good."

“Shh,” Miguel clips with a mean nip at your nape, lining it with soft kisses, encouraging you on to take him. Warm and wet, Miguel can only describe the slide into your cunt as untethered delight. Released from the bondage of his usual condom, he’s a mess against your soaked cunt, gripping you for a semblance of stability.

I just want to make you happy. For all your needy complaints and little quips, he knows you do. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here, with your hands cupped on top of his, squeezing for more closeness. Miguel laces your fingers together in a needy weave, drawing back to stroke his cock right back into your wet body. You lead one of his hands between your legs, urging him on to stroke your clit. Your walls clamp down on him, teasing out bursts of pleasure with how deeply he was buried. Miguel’s lips part into a whine of his name, skin slapping against skin. He sets a kiss in the crook of your neck, breath nearly unbearable.

“Mami,” he gasps, the word coming out between his unstable thrusts. Your eyes shut hard, sparks of pleasure winding and building in your core. “Give me a baby.”

“Sí papi,” you heave, “I”m trying to.”

Miguel knows what you like-- and you like him desperate. His voice so low and rich that you gush around his swollen length, falling apart below him. He catches your body from dropping in an instant, his thighs shaking as he works you through the fibers of gentle pleasure. Hot pressure builds low in his stomach.

“Qué bella eres. I’m going to finish, fill you and knock you up,” he whispers, drawing himself free and admiring the hazy space of pleasure and reality. Miguel turns you back to face him. You think you may complain-- you didn’t cum, or something of the sort. He shifts you to sit on the counter, spreading your vulva for inspection. Miguel spat on your cunt, rolling his fingers over the swollen folds to spread you apart. He slipped into the space between your shaking legs. You felt him thrust into your body hard and sharp. Your hands reached out, dragging Miguel’s shoulders forward, clinging onto his body.

It comes all at once, Miguel’s stuttering thrust forward, a deep groan filling the kitchen, his hand clasped onto your thigh so hard you know he’ll bruise it. You catch his moan in a kiss he doesn’t reciprocate, buried so deep in your body that all he can think to do is to force you to take all of it. He shakes himself free of the web of pleasure that he’s enveloped in, looking at you past the thin rivulets of sweat you wiped away with your loving thumbs.

“I think there are better positions for baby making,” you lean in, kissing him gently. He returns the kiss this time, eyes light of the strain and stress of the last few days. “Like… not this.”

Miguel pulls back, his soft cock slipping free from your warm entrance. Miguel watches as his seed dribbles from your hole, grunting in acknowledgement. He swipes your mixed fluids and rolls it between his fingers.

“I’m open to suggestions.”

He loves his wife. More than anything. What he doesn’t love is how Peter seems to know that you’re trying for a baby.

The thing about having a woman from his same cultura was this: you loved to talk with your best friend. Who, just so happened to be Peter. He doesn’t even have to say anything, just staring at him with a quirk on his lip and a terrible glitter in his eye after he’s resolved another meeting.

“Hey, Miguel.”

“Don’t start.”

He’s crowded with work at his desk-- he has no time for Mayday’s curious little eyes to glitter at him, Peter to be doing that shit he did when he wanted to be helpful. He offered his hands up, shrugging.

“I’m just saying! I’m a man, you’re a man,” he mumbles, inching a little closer and closer. “If you want a baby--”

“Let me guess. She told you.”

“Mayday could use a spider buddy,” he held Mayday up, out of her carrier. Miguel glanced down at her wild hair, exhaling air out of his nose with a little huff. “Sooner than later?”

“I’ve done it before,” Miguel throws back. “I know how to knock up my own wife, Peter. I don’t need help.”

Peter is offering help as if Miguel hadn’t tasted the changes in your body when he ate you out. Never mind that he saw you nauseated this morning, too sick to handle a call that Miguel promptly answered. He knew his seed had stuck-- you wouldn’t feel so miserable otherwise. It doesn’t matter, he’d answer them all if it meant another little one in his arms at the end of it all. Just so long as you and the baby were safe.

“Are you sure? I know--”

“I’m damn sure.” Miguel turned around, his head in his hand. “I’ve had enough of you. Why don’t you do something useful? Bring her something for her morning sickness.”

“Oh,” realization fell over Peter like a hammer, looking down to Mayday who looked right back up to her father. For all that Peter knew about his love life, he was shocked that you hadn’t told him how awful the smell of breakfast meat made you feel. His hand fell away, a film of pride slipping from his practiced features when Peter spoke. “But... She’s already pregnant?”

He leers. Peter scuttles away.

Privacy is important to Miguel. You knew the damn rule. No telling Peter about the inner workings of your bedroom. For that, you were going to fucking get it. You likely knew you were going to get it-- even if you were likely already pregnant.

He can’t wait.

15K notes · View notes

jobean12-blog · 1 month ago

Text

All In

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Word Count: 2.6K

Summary: You're sure of your feelings for Joel but less sure of where he stands and even then you can't stay away.

Author's Note: The pictures from The Materialists promo were just so good and when I saw this photo I thought of a cocky Joel just kind of using all that bravado as a shield to cover his real feelings. This went in a different direction that I oringinally thought it would but here we are! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thanks Daisy!🥰

Warnings: it's angsty at times, flirty and tense, he's good at distracting-in the sexiest way- from what's really going on, he's a bit possessive, light smut, a flashback in italics, soft fluff too-little bit of everything.

Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

“So, what’s with wanting to get all gussied up?” Maria asks, her brow raised with suspicion.

“No reason,” you shrug as you look yourself over in the mirror.

She walks over to you and straightens the strap of the dress before running her hands down the back to smooth it out.

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with why Joel’s been so…?”

“Grumpy?” you finish with a smirk, but it quickly fades into a frown.

“We need a new word for what he’s been these past few days. Everything ok with you two?”

Another shrug but this time your shoulders slump in defeat and you blow out a long exhale. Your silent for a few moments, staring into the mirror before your eyes meet Maria’s.

“I don’t know.”

It’s a quiet answer, the words sounding distant even to your own ears but when Maria gives you a sympathetic smile and squeezes your shoulder you lift your chin and say, “this dress is perfect. Thank you.”

The celebration is already in full swing by the time you arrive, the lodge bathed in the soft glow of the hanging lights elaborately strung above and the sound of music filling the air.

Ellie walks over to greet you with Dina in tow.

“Wow,” she says, looking you over. “That’s payback.”

Dina nods with raised brows and a smirk.

“Payback?” you question and shake your head.

“I know he must have done something pretty stupid,” Ellie says quietly. “He’s been worse than usual.”

“Ellie…,” you start.

“No. It’s ok. I know how much you mean to him, and I just hope he hasn’t fucked this up too much,” she says.

You give her your best encouraging smile. “You two enjoy yourselves tonight. I’m going to get a drink!”

Tommy’s at the bar, his smile wide when he sees your approach. “I was wondering if you were goin’ to show.”

“Here I am,” you say.

“Guessin’ my brother isn’t comin’.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you tell him, taking your drink with a thanks and then tipping it back for a long swallow.

Tommy studies you for a long moment then opens his mouth to speak but you hold your hand up.

“See, that’s the problem with this town…everyone always knows what’s going on with this one and that one and…” You throw your hands up.

Tommy deflates with a sigh. “I know my brother can be difficult, but…give him a chance to fix whatever it is…”

“How do you know something is wrong?” you ask, raising a brow. “Maybe I’ve just been busy and he…”

This time Tommy stops you and interrupts. “Even Ben has noticed.”

“Shit,” you mutter.

Tommy leans over and gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Try and have a good time.”

Before he walks away you see his eyes lift, trained on the doorway just beyond your shoulder. You watch several eyes swing the same way and sense the shift in energy.

Your grip tightens on your drink, but you don’t turn around, giving Tommy a quiet “goodbye.”

Awareness races across your skin coupled with a heat only he can set ablaze. Your pulse quickens and you fight the urge to turn and run into his arms.

You can feel the warmth of him before he slides up behind you, one hand splayed along the bar, tracing the worn wood until his chest presses close to your back.

His lips brush the shell of your ear and your traitorous body trembles. “Were you just flirtin’ with my brother sugar?”

Your teeth clench and you spin on him, his body so close your chest brushes his with every sharp breath you take.

“Don’t you dare…” you begin, stopping short when he grabs the finger you’ve pressed to his chest.

Without removing his gaze from yours, he takes your hand in his and brings it to his lips, turning it over and kissing the inside of your wrist, then your palm and finally each fingertip.

This time, your next breath wooshes out of you and you can feel the eyes of everyone else, but Joel shows no reaction, appearing oblivious to anything but you.

He wears a soft brown button down, neatly tucked into blue jeans that fit perfectly, and his strong jaw is shadowed with dark hair.

He looks hungry and determined.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he whispers against your wrist.

“And I won’t,” you tell him with a gentle tug.

Your wrist remains trapped between his thick fingers, and he pulls you closer. “Then mind tellin’ me why you’re standin’ here lookin’ like this.”

Now you tug hard enough to pull your wrist free. “What the hell does that mean?”

You know exactly what he means, and you know your voice is raised, know people are watching the interaction closely and hanging on every word.

His eyes do a slow perusal down your body, lingering where your dress clings to your curves or leaves your skin exposed.

“What are you wearin’?,” he asks tauntingly.

You sway toward his body, and he presses his fingers under your chin to keep your eyes on his.

“A dress.”

“Where the hell’s the rest of it sweetheart?”

You lips part as your mouth falls open and his dark eyes narrow slightly in challenge.

“I don’t owe you any explanations,” you say through clenched teeth.

He finally releases your chin and ghosts his fingertips down your arm to take your hand in his. “Dance with me.”

It’s not a question but before you can protest he pulls you away from the bar and closer, tugs you against his chest, wrapping his free hand around your waist and settles his dark eyes on yours as you start to sway.

You don’t even hear the music, the moment stretching in slow motion as your feet move in time and all you can focus on is the feel of him so close. His eyes never leave your face, not even when you glance around the room, noting Ellie and Dina dancing not far from you, seeing Tommy and Maria laughing with Ben. Every time you lift your eyes to his again, there they are, steady and persistent.

“What?” you finally say, earning a chuckle from him.

“Just lookin’ at you sugar,” he pauses. “Can’t I just enjoy how stunnin’ you are…and how you’re all mine.”

You swallow hard, the words forming on your tongue…”I’m not yours…not anymore,” but they never make it out because his hand at your back sweeps lower, until the length of his forearm covers the small of your back and your chests brush.

Then his hand moves higher along the curve of your spine, slow, purposeful, his fingertips trailing over your bare skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. His warm fingers press against your shoulders, your collarbone, curling around your neck as your eyelids flutter closed.

Your chin tilts up and you swallow hard, your heart pounding so hard you know he can feel it, know he can feel you tremble with every touch. You feel the heat of his breath on your lips, gasping and parting your own, feeling a mixture of warning and desperation swirling inside you.

His hands smooth higher, cupping your cheeks, tilting you even more toward him. It’s his nose that touches you first, sliding down the bridge of your own before his forehead presses to yours.

Your eyes remain shut, every other sense on high alert, his lips so close that when you lick your own you can taste the familiarity of his and you whimper at the need for it.

“You’re mine sugar,” he whispers, his lips touching yours as he does. “Whether you like it or not.”

The defiance to his claim still doesn’t come, your brain muddled and filled with only your need for him; to be impossibly closer, connected in every way.

He smiles against your lips, their touch featherlight, just beginning to press when Ben runs over and wraps his arms around Joel’s legs. It startles you both, but Joel recovers quickly, releasing you with reluctance in his eyes before he scoops Ben up.

Ben laughs and instructs Joel to twirl him around. You watch with bright eyes, smiling before it falls and you feel the rush of emotion well up in your throat. Your eyes slide to Maria who’s watching you carefully and you give her an apologetic glance before using the distraction to meander through the crowd and slip out the door.

The moon is just a sliver, most of lights in the town off, and everything is quiet.

Quiet other than the heavy footfalls approaching the Miller house.

“Knew I’d find you here,” his deep voice echoes.

You don’t jump, don’t so much as flinch. You knew he’d come.

Why your feet carried you here in the first place was a mystery to even yourself. Were you a glutton for punishment…? Maybe. But the reality of it was you couldn’t stay away. Even when you knew you should.

A heavy sigh leaves your chest, and you look up, finding him in the darkness. He moves slowly, coming up the steps and leaning against the post of the porch, cautiously watching you.

“We never got to finish our dance,” he murmurs.

Something of a laugh leaves your throat, and then your eyes well with tears, hot and heavy, ready to fall.

“This we business Joel…” you whisper, your shoulders slumping.

He pushes off the post at once, his arms reaching for you, but you back away like he’s going to burn you. He stops, holding up his hands as you cross your arms over your stomach.

“Don’t,” you warn.

��Come ‘ere sugar.”

“Please…don’t touch me.”

“How can I not?” he asks, stepping toward you with purpose. “I can’t see you like this. It’s killin’ me, and I don’t know how to fix it other than to take you in my arms and…”

“It’s you!”

The words are loud and raw, and more tears flood your ears. You sniff and wipe your hand across your face, sucking in a breath.

“Can’t you see it Joel?” you ask, quieter this time. “The other night…I told you…I said those three words and you…”

He looks like you just punched him in the face and all you can do is replay the moment over and over. The moment that’s been haunting you all week.

His thumbs smooth the skin between your ear and cheek, his grip tightening at the back of your neck. Your bodies are connected in every way possible and when his hips roll again you let out a sigh of pure bliss, his own slow and shaky. The moment stretches between you, his nose brushing yours, gaze floating back and forth between your eyes and your lips.

He swallows, tracing your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, sucking in a breath when you move beneath him. Everything is in slow motion, feeling every inch of him, the words filling your heart threatening to spill into his mouth with every kiss.

He lets out a long, slow breath, pressing his forehead to yours and your hands wrap around his wrists where he holds you. He says your name like a whispered plea and the way he looks at you is your undoing, those three words tumbling past your lips without hesitation, without regret.

But instead of saying them back he stares down at you, stares so long you wonder if he even heard them. And then he kisses you, moving faster, chasing his release until the only thing you hear is the blood rushing in your ears and the his labored breathing as it starts to even out.

“Do you even care about me?” you ask on a choked sob. “Or am I just something to help you forget.”

In the next breath, his arms are around you. You shove at his chest, trying to put distance between you, but he holds you tighter. You cry and shake your head and push, but it makes no difference. He doesn’t let go.

And then you finally give in, collapsing into him, submitting to the fact that you’ll still love him no matter what.

“Please,” you beg, fishing your hands into his shirt. “I can’t…”

His knuckles find your chin, and he tilts it until you’re staring up at him through wet lashes. Just the sight of the pain in his eyes makes another surge of emotion swell in your chest, and you wince.

“Do you know why I didn’t say it back,” he whispers, his eyes shining.

You search his face, waiting but not daring to speak.

“Because…” he stumbles, drawing you closer with watery eyes, “I love you. I love you more than I ever thought I could.” He pauses, dipping his head so his lips brush yours. “And it scares me to death,” he whispers.

Your next breath, your reply, is stolen when his lips crash to yours, his grip around you tightening. You hold on to him like he’s all you need, all that matters as his hands are everywhere, his lips locked to yours while you stumble toward the door of the house.

A shock of surprise makes you gasp when he slams you against the wood and a cool rush of air when you tumble inside. He grabs your hand and tugs you further in, stopping to capture your mouth again and again until you bump into the kitchen island.

He steps back, his eyes devouring you before he takes one step, and you take the next, colliding in the middle with searching hands and lips. He wraps his arms around you and lifts you onto the island and you spread your legs for him.

“Fuck sugar, you feel so good. You always feel so good,” he groans, his hands raking up your thighs and spreading them more as he settles between them.

You gasp, arching against him as his teeth graze the skin of your neck.

“You’re all I want,” he murmurs, sliding your dress higher, exposing your hips and a sliver of your stomach.

Words and breath are impossible to reach, and you can’t do a single thing but lean into his torturous touch. He’s claiming you all over again even though you’d never had a prayer of being anyone else’s but his.

Your hands pull at his shirt, the buttons in the way as your desperate fingers fumble before he releases your mouth long enough to help, unbuttoning only the first two and tugging it over his head. As soon as it’s gone his mouth is back on your skin, his hands working your dress higher until he peels if from your body.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his entire body tense as he takes you in, legs spread, the fabric of your panties wet between your legs.

His kiss is slow and sure as his fingers slip into the fabric at your hips, his restraint hanging on the edge of a knife as he deliberately drags it down, exposing you to the cool night air. Warm fingertips press to your clit, rubbing in a gentle circle, your entire body convulsing at the touch.

You whimper for more, grabbing onto his broad shoulders and digging your nails in, but he only slows his movements, moving closer, his eyes never leaving yours as his touch grows reverent.

“I want to take my time,” he whispers into your neck. “I want to worship you.”

Emotion fills his eyes and with every sweep of his fingertips, every lingering kiss, every trace of his tongue, he does just that, all the while whispering, “I love you,” over every inch of your skin.

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x female reader #joel miller imagine #joel miller tlou #the last of us #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fic #joel miller angst #pedro pascal x reader

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shortnspidey · 2 months ago

Text

CHAPTER FIVE: SANCTUARY

Bucky Barnes X Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 6.2K

SUMMARY: Bucky Barnes, caught in a political storm and haunted by his past as the Winter Soldier, battles internal guilt and fragmented memories while finding solace in someone who sees beyond his trauma, intensifying his struggle between seeking connection and fearing the harm he might cause.

WARNINGS: Hurt-Comfort, Fluff, HYDRA trauma, sad Bucky, one-sided miscommunication, idiots in love, angsty with a happy ending!

A/N: I am WAY too single to be writing this! The chapter you've all been waiting for is finally here!! I hope you guys enjoy, I made sure to make it a long one for making you guys wait!! <3

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A FEW YEARS LATER …

“Would you stop it!”

“Doll, I told you I can do it myself.”

"And I told you, I'd help. You should know it’s pointless arguing with me.”

Who would have thought that the infamous Winter Soldier, the ghost in the shadows, the weapon of whispered nightmares, the man who’d carried the weight of too many battles, too much loss, and an ocean of guilt would cower so easily under a simple act of kindness. The kind that made his hand twitch ever so slightly, as if they weren’t sure what to do when they weren’t clenched into fists.

The kind that made his breath hitch each time your fingers grazed his skin, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to enjoy it. It was the kind of vulnerability that came not from weakness, but from too many years spent braced for pain, never comfort. He flinched, not away from you, but inward unsure of what to make of the gentleness you offered so freely. You smiled then, a quiet, knowing smile, recognizing the delicate war waging behind his eyes.

Not the kind fought with bullets and blades, but instead the kind fought in silence, in stillness. The kind fought when no one was looking. As you continued to brush through the strands of his hair, now only slightly less tangled, you could feel the smallest shift in him. It was in the way his shoulders, always so stiff, began to lose their edge. It was in the way his head tilted just slightly into your hand, clearly unintentional but telling.

There was something achingly human about it. Something that made your heart ache for the boy underneath all that steel and sorrow. "That's what I thought." You muttered softly, teasing, your voice like a thread weaving into the silence between you. He responded with a barely-there pout, the ghost of irritation crossing his face, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he stilled, letting you work the brush gently through the stubborn knots.

Then, for a moment, he went silent in that way he did when he was thinking too loud. You could feel it in the subtle tension that returned to his shoulders, in the way his jaw tightened just a bit. He was caught again in the habit of bracing, bracing for rejection, for consequence, for history to repeat itself. The part of him that had survived everything told him to pull away, to not rely on anyone but himself. That had always been safer. But slowly, ever so slowly, there was a softening, a hint of surrender.

Ever since being brought out of cryo, he’d been like this, cautious, quiet, constantly re-learning the world like a man waking from a lifetime-long sleep. You’d watched him rebuild himself piece by piece, and never once had you rushed him. "You're incredibly stubborn, you know that right?" He grunted, but you caught the way his lips quirked, just barely at the corners. A reluctant, almost boyish smile. As you set the hairbrush down and pulled the hair tie off your wrist, you saw him watching you, not with suspicion anymore, but with something closer to curiosity.

“Sure, I’m stubborn,” You scoffed, the corners of your mouth curling up as you gathered his long, unruly hair and began to pull it back. His hair, still damp from his shower, slipped easily through your fingers, soft, surprisingly so. “There we go,” You muttered more to yourself than to him, securing it with practiced ease, then stepping back to take in the sight before you. “Handsome as ever.” The words escaped before you could stop them, but they were nothing but honest.

That’s when you saw it. The flush rising on his cheeks, a soft red blooming just beneath the surface. He dropped his gaze for a moment, almost shyly. "Thank you." He whispered, so quiet you might have missed it if you weren’t standing so close, if you hadn’t learned how to listen for the things he didn’t say out loud. You shook your head gently, smiling. "You don't have to thank me, Bucky. I don't mind helping you with your hair." But he looked up again, his blue eyes locking onto yours with a startling intensity.

“No doll,” He muttered, voice a silent breath. “I mean… thank you for everything.” You didn’t need him to explain. You knew what he meant. “You don’t have to thank me. I didn’t do it because I had to, Bucky. I did it because I wanted to.” His breath hitched, just barely, like he wasn’t used to hearing those words. His eyes, stormy and sharp, softened as he looked at you, something breaking and mending all at once in the silence between you. He blinked, slow and deliberate, as if afraid that if he looked away, the moment might vanish.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe it.

"Afternoon," Shuri's voice broke the silence. You both flinched, subtly, but enough. Damn Shuri and her timing. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed and a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Her voice was light, casual, but her eyes missed nothing. She was always three steps ahead, and right now you despised her for it. “Sergeant Barnes,” She acknowledged with a slight nod. Bucky straightened instinctively, a faint flush clinging to the tops of his ears.

“Bucky.” He corrected, the word slightly stiff, but not unkind. His voice had the same gravelly edge it always did, but there was a flicker of something else, faint embarrassment, maybe, or the echo of the intimacy that had just been interrupted. Shuri turned her gaze to you next, raising a single brow in that way she did when she already knew everything. “Y/N,” She greeted simply, but the way she said your name carried a teasing lilt, like she was holding back a smirk. You offered a half-smile in return, trying to suppress the heat rising in your cheeks.

She looked between the two of you again, drawing out the silence. Both you and Bucky were suddenly very interested in anything but each other’s eyes, as if refusing to acknowledge the moment would somehow erase the tension hanging in the air. “Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.” She coaxed innocently, though her voice was dripping with amusement. Her arms crossed loosely over her chest, and the corners of her mouth twitched as she struggled to hold back the smirk threatening to break free.

Bucky responded first, but far too quickly. “No,” He declared, a bit too sharply, and then cleared his throat, like the word had leapt out of him before he could smooth it over. His gaze slowly snapped up to meet Shuri’s, doing his best to appear unbothered, even though the tips of his ears had gone slightly more pink. “Just getting my hair done.” You could have laughed, but you bit the inside of your cheek instead, trying not to give Shuri any more ammunition.

“Mhm,” Shuri mused, arms folded, her lips twitching in a way that said she was enjoying this far too much. “How very domestic.” You rolled your eyes, exhaling a short breath through your nose, amused despite yourself. Still, you squared your shoulders, stepping slightly forward, not confrontational, but certainly protective. “Was there something you needed, Princess?” You asked, arching a brow at her, the sarcasm gently woven into your voice. Shuri, unbothered as ever, turned her attention back to Bucky with a sudden shift in energy.

“Actually, yes,” Her eyes sharpened with focus, and just like that, the mood in the room shifted again. Whatever she’d come to say, it wasn’t casual. “Ayo is waiting for you.” At those words, Bucky tensed. It was subtle, but you saw it. The way his shoulders tightened beneath the fabric of his shirt, the way his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. His breath caught in his chest for a moment too long, and his eyes flickered, distant, as if the name alone had triggered a door in his mind that he wasn’t ready to walk through again. You knew what that meant.

Another session.

Ever since he had been taken out of cryo, those sessions with Ayo had been a brutal, intimate unraveling of everything Hydra had built inside him. They weren’t just about erasing the code, they were about confronting the man he’d been forced to become, syllable by syllable. You’d seen the aftermath more than once. The way he came back shaken, silent. Like something had been exorcised from him and he didn’t know what to fill the space with yet. So the moment Shuri spoke those words, you instinctively stepped forward.

You were already halfway to him, your hand twitching at your side, ready to go with him. To sit a safe distance away. To be whatever he needed you to be when it was over. But Bucky caught the shift in you before you even spoke. His eyes, those soft, cerulean-blue eyes met yours, steady and firm. “Doll,” He coxed, voice low and gentle, “Stay. Here.” It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t rejection. You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him he didn’t have to go through it alone, but then you saw the look on his face. That subtle furrow in his brow, the way his lips parted like he was about to say more but didn’t.

He didn’t need to explain. You saw it in his expression. This was something he needed to do alone. Not because he didn’t trust you, but because he needed to trust himself. Your throat tightened, but you swallowed down the instinct to argue. “Okay,” You surrendered softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Bucky gave you a small nod, as if in gratitude, and turned to follow Shuri. You watched him go, the sound of his boots growing fainter with each step, your heart aching in the space he left behind.

Almost as if it were muscle memory, Bucky walked deep into the secluded clearing in Wakanda, his steps silent on the well-worn path. He hesitated for half a second, the breath catching in his throat before forcing himself forward. It was beautiful there, peaceful even, but peace was something that still felt foreign to him. “James.” Ayo’s voice broke through the stillness, low and respectful, but firm as ever. A grounding presence. He nodded in return, a tight, curt motion, swallowing against the dryness building in his throat.

“I’m ready.” He muttered quietly, though the words sat like stones on his tongue. A lie told often enough it started to sound like truth. Part of him was always ready. The rest of him never would be. Ayo didn’t respond, she never tried to convince him. She simply turned and gestured toward the familiar mat beneath the shade of the tree. A place that had seen him at his most vulnerable. His most afraid. His most human. Bucky lowered himself slowly, every joint stiff like his body was bracing for impact.

He crossed his legs, spine rigid despite the soft give of the earth beneath him. His hands rested on his knees, knuckles already pale from the pressure he unconsciously applied. “You sure about this?” He asked his voice a rough whisper. The anxiety was creeping up the back of his neck.“I won’t let you hurt anyone.” Ayo reassured softly, with the same certainty she had every time. But no matter how often she said it, a part of him never quite believed it.

Then, she began. Her voice shifted, deliberate, controlled. The cadence of a ritual neither of them liked but both knew was necessary.

“Longing.”

The word struck like a stone skipping across the surface of his mind. A flicker of something he couldn’t place. A heartbeat too loud in his ears.

“Rusted.”

His left shoulder twitched. He swallowed hard, the pressure in his chest building.

“Seventeen.”

Memories flickered behind his eyes, gunmetal halls, blood on his hands, screams muffled by orders he never asked for. “It’s not gonna work,” Bucky insisted, his voice cracking as he closed his fists tighter, fingernails digging into the flesh of his right palm.

“Daybreak.”

A flash, sunlight reflecting off a rifle barrel. The weight of it in his hands.

“Furnace.”

Heat. Burning. Not from fire, but from the look in someone’s eyes just before they died. Eyes that always came back to him in his sleep.

“Nine.”

His breathing picked up. The air around him felt thinner now, like it was being sucked from the space between his ribs.

“Benign.”

His jaw clenched so hard it ached.

“Homecoming.”

He was trembling now, just slightly. He could see his victims faces blurred but unmistakably real, flashing through his mind like a slide projector of his sins.

“One.”

A tight gasp escaped him. The weight of the past was suffocating. Still, he stayed. Still, he fought.

“Freight Car.”

He saw it. He heard it. The grinding of metal, the roar of the train, the voice of Zola echoing down sterile corridors. He wanted to scream. To run. But instead he sat there, fists clenched, shoulders locked, trying to remember who he was now. Then suddenly it all stopped. Ayo’s voice was softer now, almost a whisper. “You are free.” The words lingered in the silence that followed. Bucky didn’t move. Not at first.

His body felt like it had been hollowed out, like every word had scraped something out of him and left it bleeding beneath the surface. He stared down at his hand still clenched, still trembling, and slowly, he forced them open. There were crescent-shaped indentations in his palms where his nails had bitten into skin. His right hand throbbed with a dull, grounding ache. He didn’t feel free. Not really. But he hadn’t answered the words. He hadn’t become the Winter Soldier.

And for today, that was enough.

A hollow chuckle escaped before he could stop it, rough and unexpected. His eyes remained shut, the breath he exhaled trembling as it left him. The relief of not breaking. He sat unmoving on the mat, head bowed, letting the silence press in around him like a weighted blanket. Not heavy, just grounding. At some point, the sky had darkened, stars blinked into life overhead, soft and indifferent, casting faint silver light across the earth. And then, crunch. The sound was quiet, but sharp.

His eyes opened, slow and instinctual, every muscle tensing for just a beat before recognizing the rhythm of the footsteps. He knew it like he knew his own heartbeat. You. He didn’t turn immediately. He didn’t need to. Your presence filled the space before you even reached him. It was in the way the wind shifted, the way the tension in his shoulders softened, just slightly. You always found him, somehow, in the aftermath. “You weren’t supposed to follow me.” He murmured, voice hoarse and quiet.

“I didn’t,” You replied softly. “Technically I waited. Like you asked.” Another step. And then another. He finally looked over his shoulder. You stood a few feet away, arms loosely crossed, your expression unreadable in the dim starlight. After a beat of silence, you called out his name softly, your heart aching upon seeing his red-rimmed eyes. "Sweetheart?" The pet name escaped your lips before you could stop it. "Are you okay?" You asked, the words barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure if you wanted an answer. You just needed him to know someone was here.

"They did it." He breathed out, voice cracking under the weight of the words. “Ayo… she said the words. All of them. And they didn’t work.” The disbelief in his voice was tangible almost as if he was still trying to convince himself it was real. That he was finally free. Before he could say anything else, you closed the last of the distance. Your arms wrapped around him, slow and steady, pulling him into a gentle yet full-bodied embrace. You felt the rigid tension in his muscles at first, the hesitation conditioned into him by years of touch meaning pain, or command, or loss.

But then, almost imperceptibly, he let go. His body melted into yours like snow against warm skin. You felt it in the way his flesh arm eventually came around you, the way his forehead pressed gently to your shoulder, the way his breathing grew slower, less like a man preparing to fight and more like someone remembering how to rest. It was the first time you’d held him like this. You were always careful. Always waiting for him to guide the pace. And yet now, as his frame curled slightly inward, pressing against yours with something close to desperation, you realized he needed this more than he’d ever said.

More than he knew. Your hand absentmindedly found the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair with soft, grounding strokes. “I’m proud of you, Bucky,” You whispered into the space between you. “So proud.” He didn’t speak, not at first. But you felt the way he held on tighter. How his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. “I was so scared, doll, scared it would still be there, that I’d never really get out of my head.”

He finally murmured against your shoulder. “You’re here. You’re free.” Something in him crumbled then, and he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing grounding him. Your foreheads met, breath mingling. In that fragile space between heartache and comfort, between memory and healing, Bucky let himself be held. Let himself be seen. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he finally felt safe. That's when it hit him.

You were there in Germany, when the world had turned against him, branding him a monster instead of an innocent man who was framed. While others hunted him, you’d risked everything to keep him safe, even your already crumbling relationship with your father. You had been there from the beginning, long before most dared to trust him. Long before you knew his side of the story. Then, in Wakanda. You were there the moment he’d opened his eyes in cryo, shivering and disoriented.

You’d held his gaze then, steady and calm, anchoring him when everything else seemed to be spinning. You didn’t just see him, you saw through him. Past the programming. Past the years of silence and pain. Past the blood on his hands. You saw the man who was trying, really trying to put the shattered pieces back together. And somehow, impossibly, that had been enough for you. That’s when the realization took root in his chest, slow and undeniable. James Buchanan Barnes had fallen in love with Y/N Stark.

All those emotions, although true were completely overwhelming. He blinked hard, trying to hold the sting behind his eyes, his jaw tightening with the effort of holding everything in. His heart thundered in his chest, uneven and raw, like it didn’t know whether to burst or break. And somewhere in the middle of it all, you were still there beside him, grounding him, completely unaware of the way his world had just subconsciously tilted irrevocably toward you.

Before he could overthink, before the spiral of doubt and self-loathing could creep back in something shifted inside him. For the first time in years, maybe longer, he felt like himself. Not a weapon. Not a mission. Just Bucky, a man who was finally feeling something he wanted to reach for instead of run from. So he did. Tentatively, he leaned forward. There was a beat of stillness between you as his nose brushed yours, the softest collision of skin and breath.

His eyes fluttered shut, eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. He didn’t rush it. And then he tentatively closed the space. His lips met yours in a slow, aching kiss, almost as if he was afraid he might break the moment by wanting it too much. It wasn’t demanding, it was careful. Gentle. The way a starving man might savor his first taste of something warm and real. But almost instantly, he knew something was wrong. You hadn’t moved. Your lips hadn’t pressed back. You were still. Completely still.

It took only a second, maybe less for the realization to hit him. But that second stretched into eternity in his mind, echoing louder than any trigger word ever had. It was like a bucket of ice water had been poured over his entire body. Cold. Jarring. Shattering. He recoiled, quick, sharp, breath hitching like he’d been physically struck. His eyes flew open, panic lancing through his chest, and he pulled away so fast it was almost as if you had burned him. “I—” He stammered, voice ragged, shame already flooding every inch of him.

His hand hovered in the space between you, unsure of where to go, what to do, trembling with restraint. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—God, I shouldn’t have done that.” His chest was heaving now, breath caught in the wreckage of the moment, and all at once he felt stupid. Reckless. Wrong. Of course you hadn’t kissed him back. Why would you? His mind spiraled, too fast, too loud. All the moments he thought meant something. All the times you’d held him, comforted him, looked at him like he was worth saving, he’d misunderstood it.

He’d twisted it into something else. Something selfish. He stepped back, shaking his head, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. “Forget it. That was—just forget it.” He shook his head, eyes screwed shut, in that moment he couldn’t bear to face you. His heart couldn’t take the look of disgust that probably decorated your face. "Bucky-" You called out, trying to reach him but he was already too far gone. "I have to go." With those last words, he was gone before you could even begin to process what had just happened.

TWO DAYS LATER ...

It was safe to say Bucky was avoiding you. The realization settled in like a weight you couldn’t shake, heavy and inescapable. Ever since that night, when he had kissed you, just hours after being freed from Hydra’s grip he had all but vanished. Not physically, of course. He was still in Wakanda, but the Bucky you knew, the one who used to sit beside you in quiet companionship, sharing soft glances and unspoken comfort, was suddenly nowhere to be found.

Gone were the moments of calm intimacy: the gentle brush of his arm against yours during late dinners, the shared warmth of a sun-drenched afternoon, the way he used to drift into your presence like it was the most natural thing in the world. Now, there was only absence. A deliberate, aching distance. You absolutely hated it. Every time you searched for him, he seemed to already know, simply vanishing into thin air.

The shift between you hadn’t gone unnoticed. Shuri had stopped cracking her usual teasing jokes about the two of you. Ayo had given you a knowing glance but said nothing. Even Okoye, normally composed and unreadable, had furrowed her brow when she saw you sitting alone at breakfast, eyes fixed on your untouched food. The absence of the super soldier at your side spoke louder than any words.

You wanted to confront him, you ached to, but something in your gut told you that forcing the moment would only push him deeper into that place he retreated to when things got too real. You could feel his panic like a ripple in the air, his instincts warring between fight and flight, except the scale had tipped hard toward the latter. And so, you waited. Not because you were patient, but because you were scared, too scared that if you pushed, he’d run so far, and you’d never find him again. Because it wasn’t rejection you’d felt that night. It was shock.

Overwhelming, bone-deep shock. You hadn’t expected him to kiss you, not when he was so careful with his space, his emotions, you. And your stillness hadn’t been hesitation, it had been disbelief that he wanted you the way you’d wanted him all along. You didn’t know when, but your feelings had suddenly grown past platonic and protective, you had probably just been stuck in your own head to notice he felt the exact same way. But that night, you hadn’t had a chance to explain. And now he was gone.

And it hurt. More than you cared to admit. Which is how you found yourself on the edge of the same clearing where it had all happened. The mat beneath the tree was gone, rolled up and stored away. But the ghosts of that night still lingered in the air like smoke. You didn’t know if he’d come back here. But something in you hoped he would. Needed him to. So you did the one thing you absolutely dreaded. You waited. Only for him, you’d happily wait an eternity.

After the hour mark, you had been moments away from calling it a day, ready to respect his space, as painful as that was. But something about the Wakandan night sky made you linger. Above you stretched an endless tapestry of stars, glimmering and undisturbed by the weight of the world. Constellations you had only seen in books revealed themselves here with ease, unobscured by the dull gray haze that choked the New York skyline. It was peaceful, achingly beautiful, and so unlike the chaos you both came from.

You were still lost in the sky when you felt it—him. That subtle shift in the air. The quiet way he always moved, like he didn’t want to take up space. You didn’t need to look behind you to know it was Bucky. After a silence that stretched too long, you found your voice. “You know you can’t keep avoiding me,” You whispered quietly, arms crossing over your chest in a futile attempt to steady yourself. “Like you said… I’m stubborn.”Your voice was soft, but it cut through the dark like a beacon, a small light in the storm you both were caught in.

“It was getting late,” He muttered, finally breaking the silence. “You hadn’t come back.” The admission struck something in you. He’d noticed, of course he had. You swallowed, your fingers instinctively reaching for the arc reactor pendant that hung around your neck. Another nervous habit. You turned slowly, cautiously. And there he was. He looked… wrecked. The kind of tired that sleep didn’t fix. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, like he hadn’t rested in days. You wanted nothing more than to run to him, to fall into his arms and wrap yourself around him.

But you didn’t. Not yet. Instead, you said the only thing that had been echoing in your mind since that night. “You left.” Two words. A truth so sharp it made him flinch, like they’d cut through skin and bone. His jaw clenched. You could see the shame behind his eyes even before he looked down. You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to hold yourself together. “You left before I could kiss you back.” Your voice cracked at the end, raw and honest. The silence that followed was deafening. You watched the way his face twisted, surprise, disbelief, fear.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words caught somewhere between his ribs. “You—” He began, then faltered. “Yes, Bucky,” You insisted softly, but firmly. “I feel the exact same way you do. These past couple of years with you… they’ve been the happiest I’ve felt in a long time. I didn’t think I was capable of feeling something this strong after everything, I’ve been through. But you changed that.” Your voice trembled, but you pressed on. “You make me better. You see parts of me no one else does and you never flinch. You challenge me. You stand toe-to-toe with my stubbornness, and I love that about you.”

Bucky stood frozen. Like if he moved, the moment would vanish. “That night you walked away,” You continued, your eyes stinging, “It broke my heart. Because I saw it in your face, the belief that you don’t deserve anything good. That you’ll always be the broken man Hydra made you into. But I see you, Bucky. Not the Winter Soldier. Not the asset. Not the man you were from the 40s. You.” A tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized you were crying.

“I’m not leaving you when it gets hard,” You whispered. “I’m not going anywhere. And… I think, no, I know I’m falling in love with you.” The words settled between you like something sacred. Like something fragile, yet desperately needed. He stared at you, lips parted, shoulders stiff with disbelief. Then he spoke, and his voice nearly shattered you. “Why would you want me?” He asked, brokenly. “After everything I’ve done. I hurt people, Y/N. Your own family. How can you even so much as look at me after that?”

You took a step closer, but he backed away like he didn’t trust himself not to fall apart if you touched him. “I’m a monster,” He whimpered. “There’s blood on my hands. You’ve seen it. You’ve seen me. You should hate me, not want me.” His voice cracked under the weight of guilt, his spiraling thoughts speeding toward a cliff. You could see it happening, his breath quickening, his body trembling like he was ready to flee again. He was unraveling right in front of you.

So you did the only thing you could think of. You closed the distance and touched him. Your hand slid gently up to cup his cheek. You felt him stiffen beneath your fingers, then go utterly still.“No,” You shook your head, voice shaking. “You are not a monster. You’re a man who’s been used, hurt, and manipulated, but you’re not beyond love or broken. You never were. I see every scar, every crack, and guess what, I’d still choose you.”

His eyes burned with something you couldn’t name, grief, love, longing and they filled with tears he didn’t try to hide. And when he finally leaned into your hand, exhaling like he hadn’t breathed in years, you knew. He was still afraid. But for the first time, he wasn’t running. This time it was you who surged forward before you could psych yourself out capturing his lips in a kiss. And this time, there was no hesitation. The kiss started soft, so soft, as though neither of you wanted to break the fragile thing blooming between you. But it didn’t stay that way for long.

Because the moment your lips truly met, something inside both of you snapped. Bucky let out a quiet, shattered sound against your mouth. Relief, disbelief, want, all of it tangled into that one breath. His hand, which was trembling slightly, framed your face with such gentleness. He held you like you were something precious, something breakable. Something his. You moved into him with equal urgency, fingers curling into the hair on the back of his neck, pulling him closer like proximity alone could make up for lost time.

The kiss deepened, slow but aching, like you were both pouring every unsaid word, every missed opportunity, every silent prayer into it. He tasted faintly of mint and something distinctly him, and it made your knees weak. There was something raw in the way he kissed you, like he was still afraid he might wake up and find it was all just another dream. But when you made a soft noise, a whimper caught between vulnerability and longing, he responded instinctively pressing in, molding his body to yours, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And God, the way he kissed. Not polished or practiced, it was raw and honest. Every single movement told a story. Of cold Wakandan mornings. Of lonely nights. Of watching you from across rooms and never daring to hope. Until now. When you finally broke apart, it wasn’t because you wanted to. It was because you had to breathe because unlike him, there was no serum running through your veins.

Foreheads resting together, your breaths mingled, fast, shallow, heavy with emotion. Bucky’s eyes were still closed, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at you yet. Or maybe he didn’t want the moment to end. “Fuck doll, I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He whispered, voice wrecked. You let out a breathless laugh, forehead bumping lightly against his. “You’re not the only one.” He opened his eyes then, blue and unguarded, the way he looked at you made your heart ache in the most beautiful way.

Almost as if he was seeing light for the first time after years in the dark. “I thought I lost you that night,” He confessed. “I thought I had ruined everything. I was so afraid I’d lost the one person who truly understood me.” You shook your head, not trusting your voice for a moment, then reached for him, pulling him into your arms like he was something sacred you were terrified to let go of. You clutched at the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in his presence, in the way he trembled just slightly beneath your touch.

“You didn’t,” You breathed against his shoulder. “You couldn’t. You mean too much to me.” You tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes again, brushing your thumb along the edge of his jaw, where stubble met skin. He closed his eyes at the contact, leaning into your hand like a man starved for affection, for something real. And maybe he was. Maybe this was the first warmth he’d allowed himself to feel in months, maybe even years. A soft smile tugged at his lips, tender, vulnerable.

The kind of smile that told you he was starting to believe it. Starting to believe you. “Just promise me one thing,” You whispered, your grip tightening slightly as if he might slip away again if you didn’t hold on just a little harder. He didn’t hesitate. “Anything, doll.” You could feel the sincerity in his voice, the way his body instinctively pressed closer to yours like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“No more running,” You murmured, forehead resting against his. “These last two days were absolute torture without you.” He let out a low breath, something between a sigh and a laugh, and leaned down to press a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. His mouth lingered, not out of passion, but like he was still in awe that you were here. That you wanted him. “You love me that much, huh?” He teased gently, pulling back just enough to smirk at you with that crooked, boyish grin that still managed to undo you.

You rolled your eyes, but the laugh that slipped from you was warm and breathless, bubbling straight from your chest before you could stop it. The sound mingled with the soft night air, light and unguarded, as if it had been waiting for this moment to be released. Even as you laughed, your heart thundered wildly against your ribcage, each beat a desperate reminder of just how much you felt for the man in front of you. “Don’t make me take it back, James,” You scoffed, playfully smacking his chest.

Your palm met solid muscle, familiar and grounding, but there was no resistance. No armor. Just warmth. He smiled at the sound of his full name on your lips, soft and reverent, like it meant more to him than you could possibly know. His arm curled tighter around your waist, fingers pressing gently into your back, like he was anchoring himself there, holding on not just to your body, but to the belief that this was real. That he could have something good. “Not a chance, sweetheart,” He murmured, voice roughened by emotion as he dipped his head and buried his face in the crook of your neck.

His breath was warm against your skin, and his words, “Now that I know what it’s like to hold onto you like this, I’m never letting go.” Were muffled but pierced straight through you. You felt him exhale, like he’d been holding in something heavy for days. Maybe years. “I love you too much to be away from you that long again.” He added, almost like a vow whispered only for you to hear. And this time, you believed him. The old Bucky, the one who disappeared when the world pressed too close, who had only known how to run or fight, was gone.

The man holding you now wasn’t a weapon or a ghost. He wasn’t some broken shard of who he used to be. He was present. Real. And finally, finally choosing you. You leaned back just enough to look at him. His eyes were wide open and locked on yours, crinkled at the corners from the smile spreading across his face. You didn’t even realize you were matching it until your cheeks started to hurt. You both leaned in again at the same time, instinctively, magnetized by something more than gravity.

Your foreheads brushed first, then your noses, the air between you soft and charged. The kiss that followed wasn’t rushed or desperate, it was slow, certain, like a promise sealed between two people who had spent far too long denying themselves this happiness. And for the first time, you weren’t kissing a man lost in his past. Because the man in your arms wasn’t the Winter Soldier. He was James Bucky Barnes. And for the first time, he wasn’t running. He was home. And he was choosing to stay.

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bgwlsmahf25 · 29 days ago

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Third Time's a Charm

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Warnings: angst; tears; brief mention of previous toxic relationship

Genre: angst/ fluff

a/n: hey guys i'm writing again! not doing too good, my grandad passed away recently so I haven't been writing as much since I found out, but I needed something a bit angsty but with a happy ending so I wrote this :) let me know what you think.

remember, you can always message me or drop ideas in my inbox and I'll get around to them, I can't promise it'll be quick but I'm happy to give them a go (i don't write smut)

“Hey, you. I’ve been looking everywhere for—wait, are you heading out?” Natasha came to a sudden stop in front of you, slightly breathless, her brow glistening from exertion. She was dressed in sleek running gear, her wired earphones bouncing lightly against her chest, one hand gripping her phone as she scanned you with curious eyes.

You shifted your weight, smoothing down the front of your dress with self-conscious fingers. “I, um… I have a date,” you admitted, your voice soft, almost unsure. “Do I—do I look okay?”

Natasha’s expression softened instantly. A smile spread across her face, full of warmth and sincerity. “Honey, you look amazing,” she said, her tone gentle but firm, as if daring you to believe anything less. “They’re lucky to have your time.”

A flutter of gratitude rose in your chest as you gave her a shy half-wave, a small nod of thanks. Natasha flashed you a wink before running off again, her red ponytail swaying behind her in the slight breeze.

A few hours later

You looked up from your book as there was a knock on your bedroom door. “Come in,” you called out, sitting up and using your finger as a marker in the book. Natasha poked her head around your door then came further into your room, shutting the door behind her. She was no longer in running gear, instead dressed casually in a faded henley shirt, jeans and combat boots.

“Hey, Nat,” you smiled, dog-earing the page and putting your book aside. She frowned and you glanced curiously at her, patting the edge of your bed for her to sit down. “What is it?”

“Tell me you didn’t just dog-ear that book.” She put a hand to her chest in mock horror, making you chuckle slightly. “Don’t you have any book markers?” Pulling an old receipt out of her jean pocket, she quickly folded it in two and handed it to you. “Use this until I can get you a better one.”

“Thanks, Nat.” You smoothed the page of your book and stuck Nat’s receipt in the book, before turning to her. “Anyway, what’s up?”

She smiled. “I came to see how the date went.” Noticing the drop in your expression and the way you fiddled with your fingers, her smile faded. “What’s wrong, y/n?”

“Oh, um, they - they didn’t show. Something came up at their work and it got really busy and they couldn’t leave and make it over in time for our date.” You smiled softly. “It’s okay though, we rescheduled for next week.”

“Hmm.” Natasha reached out and gently took your hand in hers. “I’m glad they apologised. I hope it goes well next week. Look, the boys and I are going to watch a movie. Do you want to come and join us?”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” Natasha smiled and the two of you left your room, her arm loosely around your shoulders as you headed down to the state-of-the-art movie theatre that Tony had installed recently.

The following week

Once again, you were reading in your room, except this time it was a different book with a brand-new book marker that Natasha had given to you. You were so lost in the story that you didn’t hear the knock at your door. “Y/n? Are you there?” Looking up, you smiled, recognising Natasha’s voice. “Hey Nat, come in,” you called, setting your book aside. “What’s - woah, what happened to you?” you said, scrambling to your feet and examining a large bruise on her jaw.

She smiled ruefully. “It’s nothing, just left over from a recent mission. I’m fine,” she said firmly, grabbing your hands in hers and giving them a squeeze. “Now, how did your date go?”

Your face fell and Natasha frowned. “No,” she whispered, “they cancelled again?”

“It wasn’t their fault!” you blurted out. “They lost track of time and when they went to get the bus, they could make it out here to the compound but weren’t going to make it back to the city centre in time and they have work tomorrow.” You shrugged sadly. “It’s okay, Nat, we’ve rescheduled to next week.”

“No.” Natasha guided you to the edge of your bed and gently sat you down. “Y/n, this is not okay and not how someone should behave. You deserve so much better than this,” she whispered, immediately pulling you into a hug when tears appeared in your eyes. “I’ve got you,” she murmured against the top of your head.

“Nat,” you sniffled, “I’m fine. They’re definitely going to make it next week, they said so. Please. I’ve got a good feeling about them. It’s different this time.” You felt Natasha shift as she remembered the previous relationship you’d been in and the heartbreak and hurt you’d had to go through when it fell apart.

“I don’t think you should go through with this,” Natasha said honestly, pulling back and holding you tight by your shoulders.

“Nat, I want to do this,” you whispered. “Please, just let me have one date with them.”

The following week

Biting your lip, you wondered if this was a good idea, but you knew that Natasha would comfort you. Gently, you knocked on her door and stepped back, pushing your wet hair out of your face. The rain had soaked through your clothes, leaving you shivering. Natasha opened her door, took one look at you and pulled you inside, wordlessly reaching for a towel and wrapping it around you.

She didn’t say anything as she let you get changed into an old track suit of hers, and she continued to stay silent as you towelled off your hair and hung your wet clothes on her heated clothing airer. Once you were drier and dressed in warm clothes, she gestured to her bed. Slowly, you sat down and fiddled with the rough skin around your index finger, unable to meet her gaze. She waited, sensing that you wanted to speak first.

“You were right," you whispered. "I shouldn’t have gone through with it." You tried to steady yourself, but the words trembled as they left your lips and then your voice broke, the tears coming before you could stop them—hot, helpless, and full of everything you’d been holding in.

Her eyes softened instantly. “Hey…” she said, already closing the space between you. “Come here.”

She pulled you into her arms, not like a friend offering comfort, but like someone who had been waiting for this moment—to be needed by you, to hold you like this. You sank into her, your body fitting against hers like it belonged there, your face buried in the hollow of her neck.

Her hands moved gently across your back, one sliding up into your hair, the other gripping your waist just tightly enough to let you feel how badly she wanted to keep you close. Her breath was warm against your ear, and when she spoke again, it was soft and low, meant only for you.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Not ever.”

Your heart ached at her closeness, at how safe it felt to fall apart in her arms. And still—there was something more in the way she held you, something unspoken lingering in the space between her lips and your skin.

Then, without thinking, her lips brushed your temple—slow, deliberate, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. It wasn’t just comfort anymore. It was something deeper, something neither of you had dared name until now.

And in that moment, held tightly against her heart, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—this was what love felt like before it said its name out loud. You stayed there for a while, wrapped in her arms, letting the rhythm of her breathing steady your own. Her fingertips moved slowly through your hair, soothing the storm inside you with each careful pass. The world had gone quiet around you—just the two of you, suspended in the soft hush of something unspoken finally beginning to take shape.

When you finally pulled back, it was only far enough to see her face. Her hands stayed on your waist, grounding you, her thumbs brushing slow, reassuring circles against your sides. You looked into her eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

“I just…” you began. “I wanted it to be something good. A date I’d remember for the right reasons, not because it left me feeling worse. And instead, it just—”

She brought a hand up to your cheek, her touch featherlight. “Hey,” she said gently. “It’s not your fault it went that way. But remember, I know you deserve better than that. So much better.”

You gave her a watery smile, your heart aching a little less now. “I just… wish I knew what that looked like.”

She hesitated for only a breath, and then her thumb swept across your cheek, catching the last of your tears. Her eyes searched yours, and something shifted in them—something warm, certain, and just a little vulnerable.

“How about I show you?” she said softly. Your breath caught and she smiled, just a little, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let me take you out. A proper date. No pressure, just so it feels like it’s supposed to.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “You mean it?”

She leaned in, her forehead resting gently against yours. “Every word.”

You let out a small, breathless laugh, eyes fluttering closed as you leaned into her touch. “Okay,” you whispered. “I’d really like that.” And there, with her arms still around you and the quiet promise of something new blooming between you, the weight you’d been carrying began to lift—just enough to let a little light in.

#fanfiction #fanfic #natasha romanoff #marvel #marvel fic #natasha romanoff x reader #nat x reader #natasha x reader

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animasola86 · 5 months ago

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LOST & FOUND 🫂 CH2

You find yourself at the lowest point of your life, with no way out, stuck in your own darkness, but then a woman approaches you with an offer that may change your life…

soft!Daddy!dom x Mommy!domme x little girl!reader

WARNINGS: F!Reader insert. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Depression, anxiety, mental health issues. Mommy/Daddy issues. Pet names. Mommy/Daddy kink. Dd/Md/lg dynamics. Age gap. Dom/sub undertones. Fluff. (More notes under the cut!)

WORDS: 6.8k 🔷️ READ ON AO3 🔷️ 1–2–3–4–5–6 7–8–9–10–11–12

A/N: This is the angsty-backstory/how-they-met episode. No smut here, just a bit of plot and a lot of angst. The real smut will commence in chapter 3. (This also marks the first part of the past-timeline which will continue in chapter 4 and onward.) If you don't care to read 6.8k words of backstory, there's a TL;DR at the end of the post! (For more information on Reader, check out the A/N in chapter 1.)

Chapter 1 🔷️ Chapter 2 🔷️ Chapter 3

Several months earlier

Sometimes it takes one single stone to bring the entire avalanche down on somebody. Or however that saying goes. You couldn't care less when it eventually happened to you. It started when you stopped going to college. You just couldn't anymore, physically and mentally. It was a chore to leave your room, an entire obstacle course to even think about going to your classes, meeting other people, doing anything anymore. And you still have no idea how it all came to be. It just happened.

You stopped going, but life went on, and in the end you had to drop out, missed too many classes, couldn't get back on track in time, lost contact to anyone you'd considered a friend before. And when it was official, you lost your room in the dorm. Because it was student living, and you were no longer a student. So you gathered the few things you owned (which wasn't much) and left the place. It was all a daze back then, a blind stumble through your darkness, an aimless wandering, your mind either too empty or too full to realize that you were now homeless.

And not even that. Prior to being kicked off campus, you were let go from your job in the coffee shop because you had excused yourself too many times. You tried to return to it, because the people were nice, but even they couldn't take you back because now you didn't have a home address anymore, and somehow that was important? How were you supposed to afford rent when you couldn't even get a job because you didn't have a place to stay yet? Life wasn't fair, and it accumulated quickly.

That first day, you stumbled through the streets, headless, still not quite understanding what was happening. You were numb, unable to process what your life had turned into.

You slept on a bench in the park that night, luckily it was late spring, already quite warm, the only good thing about your whole situation, but even now you realize that you were really lucky that night because who knows what could have happened. A young woman, alone in the dark, helpless. It's scary just how lucky you had been.

You made it back to the coffee shop, hoping they had changed their mind. They hadn't, but they allowed you to spend the day sitting inside, trying to get your bearings, thinking what you should do. The problem was, you didn't have any options. You had a little bit of money saved up, but it was not enough to pay the first-time payment for a new apartment, and you'd burn through most of it by just staying even at the cheapest hotel.

Your worst enemy, however, was your pride. Asking former friends to crash on their couch for a bit? Never in a million years. You had ghosted them, ignored them for so long they'd probably hate you now, and you couldn't face them, ashamed and insecure as you were.

On top of that, even before you fell into your black hole, you had made an effort to burn all the bridges of your old life when you moved to the other side of the country, leaving it all behind to start fresh.

The 'safety' of your family and your hometown was too far away now. Plane tickets were horribly expensive (as was train travel or a simple bus ride), you also didn't own a car, and asking them to send you money would never ever be an option either. Not just because of your pride (though admitting defeat and returning with your tail between your legs was also high on your no-chance-in-hell-list), but because you knew they wouldn't come to your rescue anyway. Somehow you knew they didn't care about you anymore.

Especially your mother had not been happy when you were accepted into a college all the way on the other side of the country, but for you, it was like a dream come true. A new beginning. All on your own. Finally. The first years truly were like paradise. But then, as if someone had flipped a switch, completely out of the blue, it all came down, and buried you alive. And as days turned into weeks turned into months, where you couldn't even leave your dorm room anymore, you kept seeing your mother's face in front of you, condescending as ever, hissing 'I knew it...' into your ear.

You felt like the biggest failure, letting everyone down, especially yourself. And you told yourself you didn't deserve help, maybe you deserved to rot at the bottom of this deep dark pit. Dropping out of college, losing your room, spending your time on the streets, was only the tip of the iceberg of a months long depression you saw no way out of.

You were stuck, too scared and stubborn and self-loathing to ask for help, unable to move back or forward. And when the coffee shop closed for the night that second day, you found yourself huddled in a nearby doorway, unable to even go back to the park or find somewhere else to stay. They told you about a homeless shelter, but you couldn't face any people right now. It felt impossible.

But it didn't stop other people from approaching you. Again, you were more than lucky, you could have met who knew who, you were aware that there were bad people out there, but instead it was a woman. A beautiful woman in a business suit who looked as if she'd stepped right out of one of those fancy fashion magazines. You stared at her in awe and confusion when she crouched down in front of you.

“You shouldn't be here,” she said, her voice so smooth and velvety and gentle, a subtle accent shining through her words.

What she said made you frown though, and you started to move, knowing you shouldn't loiter here like this, but her hand shot out and found your shoulder, holding you in place. You froze, blinking at her.

“Not the safest place for a young woman like yourself. Do you need help?”

There it was, the dreaded question. You wanted to say yes, scream it at the top of your aching lungs, please, yes, help me, but you couldn't. You didn't want to be a burden, you wanted to rot away in your little hole and that was it. It was a strain to ask for anything, had always been, you liked being independent, but that ship had sailed a long time ago.

So all you replied with was a pathetic sniffle that you hid by wiping at your face. It was numb by this time, too many tears, countless panic attacks, it had been all too much. And again the woman grabbed your wrist, pulled your hand away, watched you with genuine concern on her pretty face. You only sobbed more under her attention.

“Shh, it's alright. It's going to be okay,” she tried to soothe you, the back of her finger wiping at your wet cheek. You startled away, gasping, hitting your head on the wall behind you, which caused you to cry even harder. “Oh, sweet girl, it's alright,” she repeated, and then she pulled you into a hug, right against her impressive bust, and it was warm and soft and the touch so confusing and overwhelming that you just went limp in her embrace, sniffling pathetically.

You still don't know why she treated you like that, you were a stranger, a girl living on the streets for all she knew, and yet she looked right through you and saw how lost you were. You can't really remember what happened next, but she seemed to have convinced you to come with her, and she brought you to a diner that was still open, where she ordered food and drinks for you, and you sat there, stunned and still overwhelmed, and let it happen, mesmerized by this strange woman.

And you ate and talked, pushed by her attentive eyes and concerned questions, told this stranger everything, cried some more, had another panic attack, and as you thought she would leave then, too troubled or unimpressed by your story, she asked you something else. Something that would change your life forever.

“Do you know what a submissive is, sweetheart?” The question came so natural. She was sipping on her coffee, watching you over the rim of the cup, a little sparkle in her beautiful eyes.

You frowned and shook your head. You knew the word as an adjective, of course, but you weren't sure what she was insinuating by phrasing it like that.

She smiled softly and explained it to you, patiently and as if she was talking about the weather, and you felt your cheeks burning up, your attention focused on her and the picture she was painting. Your head was swirling with words like dominance and caregiver, deference and submission, guidance and devotion, and phrases like giving up control and letting someone else take over. She never actually said it, but there was a deeply sexual undertone to it all, which confused you as much as it overwhelmed you.

She finished with: “So my partner and I are looking for a girl like this, someone willing to let go for us, someone we can take care of, hold and pamper, you know? We've been looking for a while, but never found the right one.”

You stared at her as she leaned her elbow on the table and her chin into her palm, her eyes wandering over your flushed face. “You would live with us, you'd have a home. You'd be given tasks and chores, because, yes, nothing is for free in this world, but you'd be taken care of, you wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore.”

She inhaled deeply, leaning back in her seat. You watched her, your mind reeling, her words echoing in your head. You were more than intrigued, but it all sounded too good to be true. How was it possible that at your lowest point, when everything seemed hopeless, you'd meet a woman who'd tell you about a way out? And all you had to do was follow their orders, do what they told you to do, let them take control? Honestly, in your current state, at this point, you'd do anything to get out of your own head.

But the longer you stared at her and the longer the silence dragged on between you, the more you deflated, already knowing she'd be disappointed in you too, sooner or later. You chewed on your bottom lip, lowering your eyes, distancing yourself from this possibility even before it could come to fruition. Can't be disappointed if you don't have any expectations, right?

She moved, extending a hand to touch your arm, her long slim fingers hooking under it, slowly dragging downwards until she could get a hold of your hand. You looked up in confusion, tears burning in your eyes. She squeezed your hand gently.

“Will you be our submissive, sweetheart?” she asked quietly, her eyes boring into yours. “Will you give it a chance? There are no strings attached, you come with me tonight, I'll show you the house, you meet my partner, and then you can decide what to do, okay? I know I'm just a stranger now, and telling you to trust me certainly sounds weird, right? But I mean it, you can trust me. I really want to help you.”

You parted your lips, wanting to reply, but only a sob came out. You didn't deserve this. And this stranger was too nice, too generous, offering you all this? Where was the catch? Were you being pranked? Was she a serial killer looking for her next victim? Maybe she just saw another charity case in you, someone to help for publicity or something? All those thoughts flooded your mind as you watched her, but the longer she patiently held your hand, smiling softly at you, the calmer you became.

She didn't look foul or like she had an ulterior motive. She seemed sincere. You swallowed hard, licking your dry lips. In the end you came to the conclusion: it's either this or the park again, and even if she wanted to kill you or do whatever else with you, it beat being alone and miserable. And if you were meant to die that night, then it would happen anyway. Besides: you didn't have anything left to lose.

So from the lowest point of your life, without seeing a way out on your own, you looked at the woman and nodded, biting your lower lip, blinking away your last tears. “Yes,” you quaked out, squeezing her hand back.

Her smile grew wider, and it reached all the way to her eyes, little creases breaking through her perfect make-up. She seems real enough, you thought. Genuine. She really wanted to help you.

And so she took you with her, and as you sat next to her in the back of her car (which was driven by a man in a black uniform and a hat), you realized you might have struck gold with this woman. Your tears dried on your cheeks as you watched in awe how you drove through the better part of town until you reached a large house, almost a mansion, fenced-in and with a fancy gate, something you'd never seen up close before.

She guided you inside, you in your dirty clothes with your bulging backpack that held all your belongings, while her expensive shoes clicked along the hardwood floors, and at first you felt completely out of place. You didn't belong here and these people would notice this soon enough. Whatever they expected of you, you'd never be able to meet those expectations. They were rich, privileged, and you... were nothing.

She seemed to feel your growing worries and grabbed your hand, silently taking you upstairs to a room somewhere in the middle of a long hallway. You were too overwhelmed to even notice the interior of the place, but when she opened the door and gently motioned you through it, your haze lifted slightly. You were in a bedroom, a simple bedroom with a big bed and two nightstands, a large closet, a desk and a bookshelf, and a door presumably leading into a bathroom. It was somewhat posh, but it was also simple, and it was...

“Yours,” the woman said, her hands on your shoulders. “If you say yes.”

Still biting your lip, you turned your head to look at her. She tilted hers, one of her hands gently cupping your face before her thumb pressed on your bottom lip.

“No need to be nervous, sweetheart,” she told you. “How about you take a nice long shower, get freshened up. Maybe you'll find something to wear in the closet, have a look. And when you're done, and when you're willing, come down and we'll have another talk, yes? Don't feel pressured. If you change your mind, you can still stay the night, no problem. But I'd really like you to consider my offer. You may not see it right now,” she adds, stepping around you to fully cup your face, leaning down a little to look into your eyes, “but we have been looking for someone like you for so long. You are the right one, sweet girl. Give it a chance, okay?”

You swallowed, nodding into her hands. Then she leaned in and actually pressed her lips to your forehead, and the gesture seemed to already settle your raging thoughts. She was so gentle, so nice, it almost broke your heart. Leaning back, she watched you, a smirk on her full lips, and without hesitation she leaned in again, and this time she touched her mouth to yours.

Your eyes went wide, the touch short but intense, a moment frozen in time. And while your mind was silenced, your body became alive with a strange throbbing, an urging need, a feeling you hadn't felt in ages. You'd been numb for so long, this felt like a wake-up-kiss. When she retreated and straightened up, you gave her a shy smile that caused her to issue a short little laugh.

“Take your time, honey, I'll be waiting downstairs,” she told you, caressing your cheek before she walked past you and out of the room.

And you were floating, barely able to think as you walked into the bathroom, stripped out of your clothes and enjoyed a hot shower you had needed for so long, or so it felt. It all fell off you as the water cascaded down your body. A new chance. A new life. In a house like this? Everything had looked so bleak before, tainted by doubts, but now the colors were coming back, one hue at a time.

When you were done, you dried off with the softest towels you'd ever experienced, and with one of them wrapped around your torso, you walked back into the room and towards the closet. It was wide and sleek with sliding doors, and opening it showed you a variety of clothes, but your eyes quickly wandered to the dresses hanging on velvety hangers. All colors one could think of, all shapes and sizes, and in the end you chose one that matched your eyes. Somehow it fit you perfectly also. It was elegant and cute at the same time.

You felt like a new person. Watching yourself in the mirror that stood in the corner, you felt mixed emotions though. It had been a while since you'd taken a long look at yourself. The dress went barely over your knees, and looking down, you realized you hadn't shaved your legs in a long time it seemed. Shame flushed your body, drowning out the excitement for a moment. Self-care hadn't been on the agenda while you were wasting your life away...

Sighing loudly, you shook that thought out of your head. No matter now. You had to look ahead! So you grabbed some complementary tights from the closet (and a nice looking pair of panties alongside it, colors you'd never buy for yourself), and easily covered the flaws of your neglected body. You also found a little matching cardigan to hide your arms. And slowly, you felt better. Like a person again, not entirely like yourself, but it was a start.

In a strange way, this was giving you serious princess-makeover-vibes. A few hours ago you were sitting in the dirt, in the dark, lonely and forgotten by the world, spat out to deal with the broken pieces of your life, and now... you were standing in this nice looking bedroom, surrounded by wealth and warmth. You did pinch yourself a lot that night, but you always came to the conclusion that you were not dreaming.

But when you walked up to the door, about to leave the safe space of this room, your heart sank. Doubts came rushing back, and you wondered how this could be real. A woman you'd never met before came up to you and asked you to be her and her partner's submissive, basically their little pet, if you understood her correctly, you'd get a home, and they would... well, do whatever they wanted with you? (Whatever that meant. You were not so sure.) All you had to do was listen to them, do as they said, give up control?

It all sounded rather strange. But what were your options? Go back to live on the streets? Wallow in your failure at life? (Take the walk of shame back to the life you had tried so hard to forget about?) You inhaled deeply, squared your shoulders, flattened the skirt of your dress, attempted to bring order into the mess that was your towel-dried hair, and then, you went to meet them. You could only go forward anyway.

You heard voices from downstairs when you approached the large staircase. Your heart beat faster the closer you got to the room they were in. Your tights-clad feet tapped over the expensive looking hardwood floors, and it would have been a good idea to distract yourself by looking around and taking in the splendor surrounding you, but you couldn't look, couldn't focus, your mind fixated on meeting these people who wanted to give you a new life, without really knowing you.

Why did they trust you so much? What did the woman see in you that made it clear to her that you were the right one (whatever that meant)? You couldn't see it. But it wasn't up to you, apparently.

Taking a deep breath, you extended a shaking hand to grab the door handle, then paused, breathing harder, before you decided to knock. It was a frail attempt, barely audible over the voices still coming from behind the door. So you knocked again, your heart nearly exploding in your chest. And suddenly: silence.

“Come in!” sounded a female voice, before you heard footsteps coming closer.

You pulled the door open and stepped into what looked like a giant living room. Your eyes moved quickly over the interior. Couches, plural, facing each other, a large fireplace (with a TV above it) on one wall, bookshelves on the other. Big potted plants in the corners, a lot of black and white and wood colors. And in the middle of it, next to a little cart laden with alcohol bottles and glasses, stood a man.

For a moment all you saw was him. Tall, dark, handsome, came to mind. His eyes were on you, so intense you couldn't move another step. There was an air of authority around him, enhanced by the black suit he was wearing, by the way he stood, tall and intimidating, wide shoulders, long limbs, muscular but not too bulky, his angular jaw covered in a trimmed beard, short dark hair thick but kept in order. He watched you with a hard expression, and you had never felt smaller in your life.

The woman approached you then, and by touching your arm, broke the spell the man had on you. You blinked and looked at her, and she was just as stunning. Perfect skin, heavy eyes and full lips, a mane of dark hair cascading down her back. She had changed and was now wearing a tight black dress and high heels, and her legs were long, so long and toned and slender. Together they looked as if they'd just come from some kind of gala.

And here you were, in your borrowed dress, towel-dry-hair in messy waves all around your flushed face, hiding your shame under layers of too colorful clothes. You swallowed thickly, blinking again as you lowered your gaze.

“Here you are,” the woman addressed you, gently taking your hand and pulling you into motion. “I'm so glad you came down. Had a nice shower?” Her voice was soft and friendly, and you shot her a nervous smile and a nod. She pulled you to one of the couches and firmly nudged you to sit down. You did, still fighting the overwhelming emotions.

“Would you like a drink?” the man asked, and you looked up like a deer in headlights, staring at him, his voice a low grinding sound in the atmosphere, a timbre that made your core shake.

“I... I don't drink,” you stammered, your eyes flickering over his handsome face. “Thank you, though.”

A shadow crossed his features, but he nodded. “A water, then?”

You licked your suddenly dry lips, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “Yes, please,” you whispered and looked down at your hands. They were shaking badly, so you grabbed the hem of your dress and kneaded it roughly.

You heard the clinking of ice cubes, before heavy footsteps approached you. Looking up slowly, you saw the man holding a tall glass of water towards you. For a moment you just stared at his hands. Beautiful hands, big with long fingers, short nails, veins and tendons snaking under tight skin. You felt your cheeks burning up. To cover the strange excitement crashing through you, you quickly grabbed the glass, giving him a short nod and smile, unable to fully meet his eyes, and when your fingers brushed against his, a garbled gasp escaped you.

“There's no reason to be nervous, darling,” he told you, his hands closing around yours to stabilize the shaking glass. You stiffened nonetheless, your eyes widening.

You took a deep breath and somehow found the courage to look up again. “Y-yes, sir, s-sorry, and, uh, th-thank you,” you fell into an awkward stutter, meeting his dark eyes. A subtle twitch went through his face at your words, a soft smile growing on his lips. He let go of your hands and walked away with a nod, settling in an armchair close-by, still watching you like a hawk.

The woman then sat down beside you, throwing one arm around your shoulders as you tried to take a sip of the cold water. You almost spluttered when you felt her fingers tracing down your arm. “So,” she said with a sigh. “How about we get to know each other a little, hm?”

You saw her exchanging a glance with the man, who leaned back in his chair, large hands splayed out on the armrests as he crossed his legs. “What's your name, girl?” he asked.

You told him. The woman then introduced herself and her partner. They were not married, she told you, but worked together. He was in his late thirties, she was in her early thirties, they'd met through work and continued to cross paths until they moved in together, pursuing the same goals. A strange relationship, you thought (but you'd learn more about that very soon). She did most of the talking, giving you snippets of their lives, while the man watched you and nodded occasionally or added some details. But whatever they told you, mainly what they did for a living, didn't really register in your reeling mind (you couldn't even remember their names at this point).

You were too focused on just sitting there, holding your glass of water, trying to make a good impression by listening intently (or pretending to do so), being polite, hoping they wouldn't change their minds about you. When they were done telling you about themselves, the man uncrossed his legs and leaned his elbows on his thighs, clasping his hands as he looked at you. And then he asked the dreaded question:

“Tell me about yourself, darling.”

Your throat tightened immediately. Over the last months, you'd lost yourself, buried in doubts and dark thoughts, and thinking about the person you once were hurt in a strange, crippling way. You still tried to answer him, told him where you came from, how happy you were to have been accepted to this town's college, to finally leave your hometown, how fun it had been... at the beginning.

But when it came to retelling the events (or the lack thereof) that had led to your downfall, you choked up, quickly hiding the croak in your voice by taking a big sip of water. You felt the woman's hand on your arm, giving it a gentle caress, but it only made it worse.

Tears spilled from your lashes when you tried to tell him what a failure you were. A loud exhale (akin to a sigh but less condescending) escaped him, and when the woman took the glass from you, you looked around in confusion, blinking against the tears burning in your eyes.

“Come here, girl,” sounded his voice through the large room, the dominant tone causing you to stiffen.

But you stood immediately, shuffling towards him, your hands clenched into fists, your head bowed. His long fingers brushed down your arms until he gently grabbed your waist and pulled you between his legs. You ended up sitting on his thigh, a pathetic sniffle escaping you as he held you, tilting his head to look at you.

The hand that wasn't curled around your hip moved up to your face, fingertips brushing over your wet cheeks. “Don't cry, it's okay,” he said soothingly. You inhaled deeply, trying to settle against him, but you were too nervous to relax, sitting stiff on his leg, like a fucking child on Santa's lap or something. It was weird and you felt horrible, small and insignificant, ugly and pathetic in the presence of such a handsome and successful man.

His hand cupped your face, his thumb pushing against your chin to turn your head slightly. You met his eyes, even though your vision was blurry. You blinked, unable to hold his gaze for long, overcome by a sudden wave of embarrassment.

“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice soft but the air of authority never left him. You jerked your chin up and swallowed, looking at him, your cheeks burning up even more. A smile grazed his hard face. “Good girl.”

His praise left a warm feeling in your stomach, and the longer you spent in the captivity of his dark eyes, the calmer you felt. His smile widened as he rubbed his thumb over the corner of your mouth. The motion gave you the courage to smile back, stiff and awkward, but it was still a smile.

“Tell me about your parents,” he then asked quietly, his hand leaving your face to settle on your thigh, holding you in a loose embrace on his leg. “Why can't they help you?”

You took a shuddering breath and told him that you didn't exactly part on good terms, that they hadn't wanted you to leave your hometown. You hadn't been in contact with them for months, probably years, there was usually just the occasional holiday or birthday call, sometimes not even that. You didn't have the money to make the trek across the country to meet them, and neither did they. You didn't grow up poor, but it hadn't been easy either. You were one of many children, your mother remarrying seemingly every five years, and you never had a connection to your father or any of the men she pulled into your home.

The words just tumbled out of your mouth at this point, and you had no idea how that was even possible. This man was a stranger, and yet he managed to loosen your tongue by simply holding you on his lap, listening intently, watching you closely, giving you attention you'd never had before in your life. It felt cleansing, and when you were done, your chest moved easier, the tension in your body melting slowly. His hand rubbed over your back, the other tightening around your waist as he pulled you a little bit closer.

“I see,” he said quietly. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

A croaked laugh escaped you. You licked your lips and looked away. “Thank you for listening,” you replied in a breathy whisper, timidly looking back at him. A subtle cough sounded from behind you. You flinched and turned slightly to face the woman sitting on the couch with her arms and legs crossed. “Thank you too, for... for inviting me into your home, for... helping me,” you added, watching her with an apologetic smile. You'd honestly forgotten about her for a moment.

“We haven't done anything yet, honey,” she said, pursing her lips. “But I think we've said enough. I knew you were the right one. What do you think, papito?” she added, looking past you at the man.

His hand was back on your face, turning it towards him once more. His eyes bored into yours as he replied: “Yes, I think you found the one.” Your cheeks flushed with heat. “Are you aware what we're asking of you, sweet girl?”

“To... to be your... submissive,” you answered quietly, still not quite understanding what that meant, but maybe it was enough to just roll with it. Of course it wasn't.

“And what does that mean to you? Why would you want that?”

You bit your lip, frowning slightly. “I... I need... someone to... tell me what to do,” you whispered, lowering your eyes to stare at his lips instead. “I think... it would help me... to have someone who... guides me... because... because I can't –”

Suddenly he grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him. You gasped, your eyes wide. “Stop. You can,” he said, his voice harsh but there was a soft twinkle in his eyes. “You can do anything you put your mind to. You may need a little push into the right direction, but I will not tolerate you talking yourself down like this, okay? You hit a bump in the road, yes, but you will not wallow in it any longer, do you understand me?”

You stared at him, surprised and stunned by his words, by his dominant tone. “Yes, sir,” you breathed out, blinking slowly, your mind pausing the assault of doubts for a moment. “I'm sorry.”

He shook his head, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “No apologies. It's alright. Accept your failure and move on.” You felt tears burning in your eyes, his scrutinizing stare making you feel small all over again. “And no more tears. You have no reason to cry right now. We're offering you something that will change your life. It may not be easy at first, but I know you'll adjust. You're a fighter, I know it. You wouldn't be here if you weren't.”

Despite his demanding tone, you couldn't help it when a single tear slipped past your lashes after all. You quickly raised a hand and wiped at it, taking a shaking breath, ready to apologize again, but he just looked at you, stern but also somewhat gentle, patient. And you looked back, caught in his deep eyes, slowly feeling yourself relaxing again.

“We will give you a home, we will give you anything you want and need to find your footing again,” he continued quietly, his hand moving from your chin to curl around your head. “And you will do whatever we say. This is as much for you as it is for us. As you know, we've been looking for someone like you for a long time. It's not easy finding the right girl... but you're it, darling,” he said with a pointed look, pressing his fingertips into your hair, massaging your scalp in a very calming, almost hypnotizing fashion that made it hard not to purr under. His words only added to the sensation. “You are perfect. We can make this work, I am sure. If you're willing.”

“I am,” you croaked out quickly, leaning into his touch. “I want to. Please.”

“You will do anything we ask of you?”

His voice was low, his gaze still as intense. Behind you, you heard the woman getting up, the quiet click of her heels echoing in your ears as she approached you, putting her hands on your shoulders.

“Yes,” you breathed out, looking at him, before turning your head to look at her. You saw them exchanging a glance.

“Say it again,” she whispered, teasing her pointy nails into your clavicles. “Tell us what you want.”

“I... I want to be your submissive,” you said, shivering slightly, looking from her back to him. “I want you to tell me what to do. I will do anything you say.”

A soft smile cracked through the hard shell of his face, his gaze getting warmer, little creases visible in the corners of his eyes. While you watched him, you felt the woman's hands moving up the back of your neck until she gently tugged at your hair, turning you towards her, her face suddenly very close to yours, her lips brushing against your cheek.

“You'll be our little girl?” she asked in a low whisper, rubbing her nose against your jaw.

“Yes, ma'am,” you replied, breathing a bit harder, your mind reeling.

The man's fingers dug into the fabric of your dress when he leaned closer too, pressing his rough cheek to yours, the scratch of his beard sending deep shudders down your spine.

“Are you absolutely certain?” he asked, his voice a thrumming vibration through your head.

“Yes, sir,” you gasped out, closing your eyes for a moment, your heart thundering in your chest.

They both cradled you closer, her lips on your right cheek, his on your left. “Will you call me Mommy?” the woman breathed against your skin.

“And me Daddy?” the man echoed, rubbing his bearded chin against your jaw.

You could barely breathe, the warmth radiating through your body was overwhelming. But there were no doubts, no matter how strange their request. You felt safe in their embraces, special. A sigh full of relief slipped from your trembling lips.

“Yes,” you replied, leaning into them.

They kissed your cheeks again, their arms tight around you. As strange as it should feel, it didn't. It felt good. Exactly what you had needed. A warm embrace, someone to squeeze all the worries right out of you. You settled against them, feeling lighter than you'd ever felt before.

“Thank you,” you added quietly, your eyes fluttering open. You met his gaze first. “Daddy,” you addressed him, watching how his smile widened, crow's feet deepening, before you turned your head and looked at the woman behind you. “Mommy.” She issued a happy little squeal and hugged you closer, her lips peppering soft kisses to your cheek.

You smiled back, numb in a way that was almost content, your eyes closing again as you simply melted into them. You felt tired, happy but tired, as if you'd finally reached your destination, a place you hadn't expected at all. Where you could let go.

“My good girl,” the woman, Mommy, whispered against the shell of your ear before she dragged the tip of her tongue along it. “Let's get you into bed. It's been a long day for you, hm?”

You shivered deeply, but you didn't protest when she let go of you and you felt two strong arms lifting you up. “Let's give her some space tonight, okay?” the man, Daddy, said, surely addressing his partner. “Get her accustomed.”

She sighed. “Fine. But tomorrow, I'll take you shopping and we'll do your hair and your nails and, oh, we'll do whatever else we find on our way. I'll pamper you stupid, sweet girl,” she laughed, her hand on your face as you were being carried through the large house that was to be your new home.

“Don't overdo it,” his voice sounded in your ear. “She's not your doll. I'd prefer her looking as natural as possible, okay?”

They continued their conversation, a hushed back and forth you couldn't pay too much attention to anymore, as you felt yourself floating through space, snuggling into a warm chest, firm and hard, but soft enough to lose yourself in. Your head was heavy when it hit the soft pillow, the mattress of the bed denting around you as the two adults sat down on its edges.

“Sleep tight, darling,” Daddy whispered and leaned over you to press his lips to the corner of your mouth. You sighed, your hand twitching, wanting to grab him, hold onto him, but he was gone before you could reach him.

“Good night, Daddy,” you mumbled, feeling yourself slipping into the sweet void of sleep.

On your other side, a set of hands found your face, and you felt Mommy's lips on yours again, a soft press, a short lick, a deep sigh. “Good night, sweetheart,” she said against your mouth, her hot breath fanning over your face.

“Night, Mommy,” you muttered, barely able to get the words out.

“We'll see you tomorrow.” The low voice echoed in your empty head, and you fell asleep with a smile on your face, as you sank into the soft bed, cuddling into the covers someone pulled over you.

You felt like a little girl again (ignoring the fact that you were 23* and supposedly your own person), tugged in by your 'parents', and even though you barely knew these people, you felt safe with them, accepted and taken care of. Somehow through the fog in your head you knew that your life would take a turn now, into different times, better times, because now you had two guiding lights with you, following you into the darkness that had consumed your life, eager to pull you back out.

And you were here for it, willing to do anything they asked in return. Willing to endure anything if only it would distract you from the nagging voices in your head. And endure you did...

Chapter 1 🔷️ Chapter 2 🔷️ Chapter 3

End notes: *By the way, I just chose a random number. If you want Reader to be younger or older, please imagine her like that.

Also note that this is NOT a realistic representation of a BDSM relationship, I'm not a How-to-guide, I'm a writer juggling ideas around! This is fiction, remember?

Find below the TL;DR version of this chapter:

TL;DR: Reader drops out of college, is homeless and jobless, depressed and anxious, alone on the other side of the country with no friends and family, when a woman approaches her and takes her to a diner, asking her if she would like to be “her submissive”. Reader agrees, not really knowing what to expect, and the woman takes her to her home where she meets her partner. They ask again and she agrees, becoming their little girl, calling them Mommy and Daddy.

While you're here, I have a little side note to the tags I'm using: as a writer of original fiction, it is very hard to find any readers if I wouldn't poke my head into various fandoms, so I apologize if it irks you to see this kind of fiction under your favorite tags. But then maybe it's enough to pique your interest and you are already giving this a chance? Thank you if you do, maybe you can project your favorite blorbo(s) onto the characters present in this story.

Thank you for reading! New chapter every Saturday!

Up next: We go back to where Chapter 1 has ended and see how Mommy reacts to Daddy's plan.

MASTERLIST 🔷️ AO3 🔷️ ORIGINAL WORKS

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chuchurio · 3 months ago

Text

"To the sea, you'll find me."

* Childe x fem!reader Synopsis: Childe must go to war. You promise to wait for him, waiting weeks, months, and eventually years with no sight of him. still, you remain loyal to him, things don't always go as planned though. Genre: Angsty (?), a little ooc, Yearning, implied deaths, fluff near the end! WC:5.6k

a/n: Yes. This is basically Odyssey/Epic brainrot, but make it the handsome ginger.

You frown, handing Childe the last satchel full of bread that’ll feed the army, risking their life in this rebellion. When he knew it was his turn to stand up for his people, he was preparing fleets by dawn. You, on the other hand, remained silent.

That night, the palace was more active than usual. Maids were rushing around, and servants were grabbing items and bags, anything that was in reach, preparing for the departure of the King. His eyes keep flickering back to you, waiting for you to respond to the news of his departure. You didn’t.

He’d raise a hand, gesturing forward, the servants bowing respectively before scattering away.

His footsteps are heavy, the sound growing closer until it stops right beside you.

The distant shouts of men and hurried movements would fill their silence, frozen in their own time.

“I’ll come back to you.” He whispered, his fingers pushing back a free strand of hair. Your heart throbs, fighting back the tears that wanted to spill, because no matter how much you plea for his stay, he still will leave for war.

“I know you will.” You cupped his face, taking in every feature of his one last time. Even if you didn’t say it out loud, a part of you was afraid, so deeply afraid this would be the last time you see him. The innocent coo broke your silence, its little plush hand reaching up curiously to grab at her father’s hand.

He chuckles, his gaze visibly softening at the sight. He presses his finger against the little hand, allowing her to curl her fingers around it. You couldn’t help but look back up at him, the faint smile he wore, the way he stared at your child.

“Ajax.” He looks up, staring directly at you.

“Promise me.” Your voice trembles, and he knows that you’re truly keeping quiet, so he doesn’t hesitate. “It’s me. When do I fail ya?” He smiles, and that only strengthens your worry. You couldn’t fathom to never see it again.

“This isn’t a joke, Ajax. Give me your word.” His eyes can’t seem to harden when looking at you, your struggle to remain calm for his sake will only confirm his choice to marry you. Because if not you, then who?

He presses his forehead against yours, sighing for a moment, your heart slows down, his voice only a soft murmur, “I won’t give you a reason to cry.” You kissed him gently, one last time before you began to miss the taste.

In less time than you can count, he’s filled the ships. The men who carry the weight of their families leave it at the harbor, tearful goodbyes and hopeful hugs around you.

He fixes the wool coat, his touch lingering longer in certain areas. His fingers tugged at the furred ears of your hat, trying to keep it down. He didn’t say it, but his blue eyes held none of the excitement they usually had.

“Snezhnaya needs their King.” He broke out of his trance, his blank stare now on you. The tip of your nose was a darker rogue, and the cold allowed a different shade to form.

“It’s a good thing they got their Queen,” he teased a smile that just barely reached his eyes. You touched his hand, slowly interlacing them into one. “She’ll be waiting…” you paused, a sigh leaving your lips, “I’ll be waiting..”

Dawn was kind enough to let the moon show off for a little longer, letting you have Childe for just a second more than you should.

He watches you in the stillness, slowly bringing your wrapped hands to his mouth. He holds it there longer than intended, but you knew this was his way of sealing his promise.

He will come back to you.

“Snezhnaya will never know its luck.” He muttered into your skin, his breath tickling a bit.

You’ll smile at him; a more public goodbye. He hugs you so tight, but it doesn’t feel like enough. He pressed a rough kiss to the top of your head, and in the middle of your embrace was his little bundle of joy, the gears to his decision.

You remain on land, and thousands of families split, including yours. You hear encouragement, along with cheers of hopeful victories, but all they had was hope.

You watch his silhouette become a blob and then nothing. Your daughter curled to your chest, unaware of what she’ll be missing.

You weren’t always the most patient, but for him, you were willing to sit and wait.

Time-tested your word.

You’d grow accustomed to the silence in your halls. The long corridors keep you company more often than not. The words that were once reassurance turn into a haunting pause.

After years of waiting, Snezhnaya never lost its cold, the freezing breeze similar to a sharp warmth. As the queen of this land, you keep your head high, your hair twirled into an updo that would give you a composed appearance.

Because truth be told, you’re crumbling.

Rumors of your husband being long gone spread like wildfire within months of him leaving. You’d await every ship, every foreigner with open arms and all ears, in the hope they’d bring news of your dearest Ajax. Not even the birds would chirp a response.

You’d be questioned about your position; he earned the title, but with his absence starting to show through the cracks, men were interested in a taste of the power. Take Snezhnaya and his token prizes right under his feet.

Your fingers ran down each string, braiding it into the other, crossing, and repeating. There was something peaceful about repeating the same actions, it was the only time your head got rest from the constant questions, suggestions.. confessions.

You’ve heard not a thing after the war. The travelers passed by and spread the news of your people who left. Word got back that you were victorious, and that brought little relief in your heart.

Celebrations would be heard on every street, things were looking up. You were happy to spend money on quality decorations, you had to commission merchants, artists, and the crest decorating the paper mache.

They were never hung.

With no sign of the king or his army, the people began to whisper, it was slow but crawling up the street and toward your castle. You didn’t blame them, You understood it wasn’t doubt but tradition to have a king by your side. You were more than capable, always had been.

“Mom?..”

The voice brought your fingers to a stop, breaking you out of your thoughts. “You keep forgetting to knock, sweetheart.”

“I did.. 3 times for good measure.” the soft thud of the heavy door closing behind you made a sigh leave your lips. You don’t even remember holding back your breath.

“Sorry, I must have my head in the clouds..” a chortle left out of you, trying to ease the young girl’s nerves. You feel a warm hand on your shoulder, slowly moving down and looping around your neck.

“Can I have mine there too?” She asked softly, her embrace warm. You lean back into her hug with a smile. Sometimes when you hear her voice, no matter how feminine.. you think of Childe, his promise not to leave her fatherless.

“Of course you can..”

The comfortable silence was kind upon your ears, the window giving you a view of cushions of white that formed. Your eyes closed for a second, basking in the whispers of the snow, and the quiet that lingers in the room.

“I heard he has armor that makes him appear feet taller.” The younger girl quipped, her head resting on your shoulder. You hummed a response, making her continue, “That he was an enigma. I heard that one from the baker down the market!”

You chuckled but kept your eyes closed, keeping your gestures to a minimum.

“I also heard.. he won the war .. and he’s coming home..” she lowered her voice, trailing off. It stung the poor girl the same way it made you look over your shoulder to comfort your child.

But she was barely a child anymore; her stubby little hands were longer and gentle, and her cute babbles had turned to eloquent sentences. Your baby was flourishing right in front of you.

You gesture for her to sit down on the chair beside your own. There were two chairs, one for you to sew, one for her to watch you.

“He will come home.” You reassured, your hand squeezing her own to console her. Archons know you need to heal yourself too.

She didn’t respond, playing with your fingers as if a question weighed heavy on her mind. She has a look similar to yours, a bit lost, a bit hopeless, and impatient. It makes you chuckle, her frustration making her eyes narrow just the way Childe’s did.

“What is it?” She was surprised to even hear something out of you.

“Your father was afraid you’d lose any part of him while he was gone.” Your fingers brushed through her hair, reminiscent. “But you’re everything he was and even more.”

And she was, the charming smile was riddled of her father, the competitive nature that she had, a hunger to succeed—This palace could never make her feel as much yearning as when she looks at the product of their love.

She was like a ghost, the closest thing you had to Childe.

She crinkled her nose before softly resting her head on your shoulder. Her hand rested atop of yours with gentle circles soothing you, “We’ve got time.. I’ll make sure to make time..” she whispered, silently watching the tapestry you had sewn.

And like she said, there was time. You’re used to the routine, working elegantly on a tapestry honoring the king by day and delicately undoing it by night. That’s what you told yourself, that you were delicate with it.

There were nights you’d go to the tapestry and snag at the ends of the thread. Your head was hot, and the portraits only made this heavy burden you carry grow. Your nails would dig into the craft and tear somewhere as a starting point for tomorrow. Your fingers would burn as you broke into the tapestry, and you’d cry the first few years, but with time, your face would only twist into a scowl. You were angry with the archons; there were times you were angry with Childe, and then there were times when you were angry at yourself for not being strong enough.

You feel the faint breeze of the night, calling for your attention. Slowly, you move to the edge of the open window, letting the scenery call out to you. The sky is a soft blue, the ocean reflecting the bulbous shape of the moon. It brings a sweeping thought each time, so hopeful, and part of you believes it’s naive, yet you know.. Your gut tells you he’s there.

You rest your chin on your palm, the other clutching your chest as your heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm. You speak to no one, but surely the sea will deliver it for you,

“I’ll buy you all the time you need.”

When your maids ask you why your fingers are tender and your hands have blemishes, you’ll smile and respond, “I keep assisting in the kitchen; there is no need to worry, ladies.”

A moon cycle would pass before your daughter bursts into your room, heaving and face red.

“Sweetheart, what happened–”

“They know.” she gasped out.

Your eyes widen, flickering to the unfinished tapestry. You look back at her, and although there is fear gnawing at you, your daughter seems petrified that the truth is out. As a mother, you swallow the emotion to ease her own.

As a queen, you have to prepare for the worst.

“Know as in speculation?” Your daughter shook her head, struggling to catch her breath. “No. they’re chanting for justice, that–that you owe them, mom–” she’s tripping over her words, making you reach for her hands. You run your thumbs across her hand and soften your tone. “It’s okay. I’ll make a statement.”

You walk toward the large dining hall, your daughter by your side and fixing her tiara. The roars of anger grew louder as you stood behind the double doors.

“If I were a man, they would listen to what I say,” your daughter muttered, upset that her own claims get ignored even with her status.

“Don’t let that stop you from speaking up.” You tuck a stray hair behind her ear, fixing her up just a bit.

She gives you a worried smile, letting out a sigh. “Is it going to be okay? We can call for the diplomats and guards to feel more secure–” You chuckle, shaking your head.

“No, I got it from here.”

She frowns. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t let them touch a hair on you.” You smiled and gave her a reassuring nod before turning back to the doors.

When you pushed them open, there was no silence, but the anger was more than deafening. You could feel the stares gravitate with each step you took, like the center of a bright light. All of the gazes trail back to the princess who walks behind you.

‘We’ve waited long enough!’ ‘When will there be a king?’ ‘Y/n, make your choice!’

‘Justice! Justice! Justice!’

‘King is long gone!’ ‘No more delay!’ ‘Y/n who shall be crowned?’

A mix of complaints, urgences, and disappointment rang through the hall, and there was no deterring this. You have avoided it long enough.

You raise your hands only to slowly bring them down, motioning them to quiet down for your response.

Even when they demand of you, they follow your orders, the yells and chatter growing silent.

“Gentlemen, I must make an apology to you all. I’ve been grieving my loss with no progress; your impatience is understandable.”

They're watching you in silence, expectant, their eyes demanding and visually threatening the next words that’ll come out of your mouth.

You take a deep breath, coming to your only and last option.

“The man who can string my husband’s prized bow, shoot through 12 axes to the center of this target,” as you speak, your servants are quick on their feet, setting up the axes, foretold if the day were to come of this challenge, to arrange your final act of freedom.

It took some time before it was set, the men smirking, even chattering between themselves knowingly as if they weren’t each other’s enemy starting from here on out.

“Will sit at the throne, ruling by my side as king.” Ecstatic cheers echoed through your halls, cocky assumptions without even touching the bow. You watch in silence, reaching around your neck, and unclipping the ruby that rests on your chest.

You raise your voice, cutting through the conversations. “It must shatter this ruby, a possession of the king, a gift for me!” Of course, you wouldn’t let any man just replace your husband.

Some smiles remained, while others scowled at the new requirement. Who were they to complain.. you gave them what they wanted.

You glance down at the necklace, your heartache just as raw as when you watched his ship depart.

It was hard to let go of it. But with its destruction, so will your strength and vitality. You’ll succumb to the fate of this very gift.

You allow the maidens to hang it behind the target, and expectantly, the men gather round hungry for a start, smiling and seething with pride, muscly and boastful. It was a pile of nothing that could compare.

You’d ask to replace the glimmering ruby waiting to shatter behind the target but you knew your daughter would deal with the consequences.

Some of these men weren’t men— boys. When it comes to power no one gives a damn. You weren’t even allowed to grieve the king. No, not you.

You stare blankly at the crowd, tossing the bow with a necessary force, the only glimpse of odious resentment.

“Do your best, and may the Tsaritsa grant you her strength.”

It’ll never be enough.

You watched the first few with little anticipation, the closer one got to the center, the more blood would rush to your head. You didn’t want to guess if it were the nerves that you were right, or that one would eventually manage to shatter your necklace.

“Mother.. if you must, you may leave..” your daughter spoke softly, respectfully around the suitors and maids, her hand on your arm.

You smile and give her a nod, “That I shall..” your eyes move back to the men, towering, blind mice leading the other.

You stood up, offering one last look to the suitors before slipping away into your halls. You perch on the window, hearing the birds caw and soar through the skies. For such a gloomy situation, it was a beautiful day. The sun is smiling, the sea is singing, and something about it makes today just so special.

“Find your daughter.”

It was a distinct voice, you’d never heard it before. You whip your head back, looking for the source. There was nobody, not a single soul around you. You take a step away from the window, trying to process what or who you heard.

Is that important? Your gut sinks, and that is enough to drag you back into the dining hall. She’s gone.

Your eyes dart toward the suitors almost accusingly, although they’re still preoccupied with the task at hand.

Where is she?..

A simmering panic settles in, rushing down the halls. You’re used to her disappearing, but never when these men were nearby. It was the one thing you asked of her.

You’d enter vacant rooms, swift through the kitchen, and the gardens – not a single sight of her has been confirmed.

Until the sound of shuffling made you stop in place.

“You piece of shit- let me go!”

‘Woah there, didn’t know the princess had a dirty mouth,’ a dark chuckle barreled into your bones, your blood running cold. A suitor has already broken off.

You press your body against the wall, your heart screaming for you to move, your mind and body disagreeing on your next course of action.

‘Come onnn, I’ll show you just how good being a woman is–’ A loud shriek left the man, and a hard thud echoed, your daughter audibly wincing.

‘This bitch bit me!’ He barked out, making you turn the corner with swift ease.

He glares down at your child, the same look reflected up at him. ‘The queen doesn’t need you anyway, I’ll do her a favor’

“So kind of you to offer yourself.” It was merely a whisper from you before kicking at the back of his knees, knocking him down in surprise. There was no leeway for him to get up, you straddle his back and grab a handful of hair.

A harsh yank back before slamming him down against the tiles.

You heard a groan, your arm like a heavyweight slamming his head right back down with a firm grip. Then you did it with more intent, shoving him to meet the beautiful tiles Childe let you pick.

He had you picking colors, designs, types of wood, all these small and significant differences to make the castle to your liking.

“Ohhhh, I think red would look much nicer.” He exasperated, nudging your shoulder.

“I think it would ruin the atmosphere, neutrals will look best, something warm but not dark, and a design at the center, see my vision?” he didn't respond, his gaze lingered on you.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just like hearing ya.” He gave you a coy smile, making you roll your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.

“Corny.” You muttered, making him chuckle, “oh? Is that so? Let me show you what’s really corny—“ he grabbed you by your waist, lifting you higher in his arms, earning a yelp and fits of laughter.

You always thought he had a way of getting what he wanted, but he never attempted to with you.

Getting you had been enough.

“Mom! That’s enough!”

Your face felt hot, your knuckles white as they continued to rock the man’s head into the tiles, the cruel crunch and thick liquid audible.

The warm droplets falling on your hand, you were heaving. You’ve been crying with a rage that had been begging to come out. It got the best of you.

His nose was flattened, disfigured. He was surely dead, with the features melting into the other, you finally let go.

This random guy had just proven your point why red floors would’ve been a terrible idea, it makes the place more solemn.

“We— We have to go —“ screams could be heard from the dining hall. The sound of scattering, fear, and anger fell upon the halls of your home.

You stumbled back up, picking up the ends of your dress, the fur at the bottom uneven as you lifted it. “Upstairs, go— go!-“ Your daughter's reflexes kicked in, finally standing up from where she had been previously thrown.

The noises from the dining hall erupted out into the corridors, screams from men spilling through the castle. You watch as your daughter rushes toward the main stairs, picking up the ends of her dress and sprinting upward. You follow behind, staggering to glance back at the chaos.

You caught glimpses of the suitors, the higher you climbed, the more you could see their bodies decorating your floors. Your tiles were drowned in a scarlet red that resembled your carpets. Whatever had come through, its aim is deadly, ruthless even.

“Where do I–” You grab her by the hand, tugging her toward your room. It was the safest option up there, an emergency exit carved due to Childe’s persistence. If Childe were to come back.. His castle would have been overrun, his home in shambles from the inside.

There was no time to think about it.

“It’s a threat, isn’t it? Someone has gone rogue.”Your daughter lets out a sigh, running her fingers through her hair, trying to comb the situation.

“It was bound to happen, right? – No one is willing to let it go- Mom, you knew it would get this bad? Right? –”

You were busy bolting from corner to corner, a woven bag in your hand as you placed valuables inside. The truth is, you never thought of stalling this long. You didn’t think you had to. Somewhere along the way, you had to realize that you needed a way out.

“Mom!” Her voice was trembling, making you stop for just a moment. You tie a knot on the bag, your words hard to push out.

“I didn’t want to do it.” You pause, placing the bag on your bed. “I didn’t plan to wait so long, or that I’d be relying on my gut, I didn’t plan to be this helpless.” You did everything to your wits' end. Extended grieving, openly abstaining, distractions around Snezhnaya that’ll keep the buzz long enough, the tapestry, the challenge, everything.

You look toward her, clutching the bag close, “You don’t need to worry, I’ll take care of the rest here..” She looked at you suspiciously, “What do you mean–”

The rustling down the halls, doors being slammed open with the echo travelling down the halls.

“I mean, there is no time. You will leave. Uncle Teucer will receive you, and– and you let him know that the throne has been defied.” Her face dropped, shaking her head, “No I can’t leave–”

The closer the slamming got, the less time there, and the groans of anguish from the bottom grew faint.

You urged her into the large closet, her retaliations falling silent, her eyes trembling with fear not for herself but for you.

“If you don’t hear me anymore– listen, you don’t hear my voice, you break at the stone, there should be an open space leading to the dock. Don’t wait too long for me.”

She’s struggling to speak, only able to tug you close for a hug. Finally, she breaks down in tears, hugging you so close as if you were to vanish.

“I’ll meet you there, sweetheart. It’ll be okay,” you coo, running your bruised hand through her hair, combing her sobs to silence. You don’t know how long you remained that way, this woman shrinking in your embrace, like when she would hide in your arms from the harsh storms at a young age.

You didn’t want to alarm her.

You give her one tight squeeze before letting go, closing the doors for her safety. The thudding was growing louder.

You press your body against the large door, collecting yourself the best way you can. You rush to the bed, time is trailing at your feet, and every decision you’ve made has led to this. You kneel to reach for the familiar bronze-headed spear. It was yours in your days of traveling, one you used before settling down to become queen.

You never thought you’d have to use it this soon.

The door barricaded you, the harsh thuds as someone—or something tried to gain access. You prepared yourself, kissing your wedding ring while aiming the spear right ahead.

You’ll die serving your people. You'll die protecting your baby. You’ll die if you have to.

The door didn’t hold out for much longer, crashing open with a slam to the ground. Your eyes are trained on the dust, aiming back with your arm. Your heart thrums in your ears, pumping loudly through your head..

You’re scared, but not enough to surrender.

“I don’t care who you are. Retreat.” You couldn’t hide the tremble in your voice, pointing directly at the gouged-out area where your door once was.

The anonymous figure walked forward, making you do the same. Your arm lifted higher, ready to strike down.

“Back off.”

The dust settled down, wanting to show you a gift, to reveal a face you have yearned to meet again. Bloodied, with fresh wounds, and with clothes torn at certain points. But alive.

“Ajax?”

The spark in his eyes was gone, and the coy smile you were always greeted with looked impossible with how he barged into your bedroom.

“(Y/n)..” It was barely audible, making your back straighten, your eyes scanning every feature. He looked different, so.. so tired.

His gaze was dull, signs of aging riddled across his face, scars where there were none before, a frown where there never used to be one, his gear tattered, and the helmet was missing altogether. He looked like Childe,

But signs of what he was once were out of sight.

You watch him silently again, slowly reaching your hand out to him, trying to touch his face.

“Is it really you??”

He didn’t smile, but a long sigh left his lips, his shoulders loosening at the sight of you. “I couldn’t break it.” He hoarsely spoke, evading your touch by placing the very ruby necklace you left back in your hand. Intact.

Your eyes softened, unable to stop yourself from clutching it close. “Thank you.. I’ve missed you–” your free hand extends up, trying to cup his face.

He flinches back, stiffening at your attempt. You furrow your brows, your hand in the air, waiting to be accepted.

“Ajax. . .” your fingers moved just a bit, his eyes flickering over to them with unsurity.

He looked hesitant to breathe; his eyes were dim but hopeful to be in front of you again. “I’m a bad person. You know that.. right?” He muttered, his eyes trained on your hand before going back up to your face.

You look at him in confusion, whispering back, “What do you mean?”

“I killed so many people... I’ve had blood on my hands from the moment I left you.” He breathes in as if he were to shatter, like he didn’t pull himself from the depths of solitude to stand in front of you again.

“I’m nothing that you should accept. You deserve someone better, someone who didn’t crush others, someone who can be warm.” He grabs your hand, pressing it to his chest, silently requesting that you feel his heartbeat.

It was irregular, beating in a rhythm you still recognized.

“Did you go into war thinking you wouldn’t?” You asked softly, not sure how to approach his emotions, there’s turmoil he carries, and in sight it awakens the dormant ones he left here, with his child and wife.

“I’ll taint you.” He tried to reaffirm as if it would stop you from clutching his skin, a fist forming against his chest.

“Aren’t we all?” He tore away from you, shaking his head, “I betrayed many, I watched my men die, I couldn’t save a single one, y/n I am not worthy of a thing.. Especially not you.” He paused, narrowing his eyes at the ground, then back toward you, “I’m not who you think I am.”

You stare at him silently. He’s not going to budge, you’ve never seen him so tormented by his past. He’s suffered greatly from the moment you knew him, and he was bloodthirsty for experience and adventure. But not like this;

“Fine. You’re not.”

His frown deepened, frozen in place. “In that case, grant me one last wish,” you muttered, looking down at the necklace in your palm.

You dangled it, stretching your arm out towards him. “Take this and bury it. Far, far away, it is a rock that deserves rest.” Any ounce of exhaustion on his face was replaced with shock.

Then anger. Hurt.

“You .. You serious?” His voice was barely a whisper, looking at you with disbelief.

“It took me days to make this happen— I gave that to you as a promise, you know that? From the same stone you held out to me!” His earring still remained on his ear, the only thing of his that wasn’t completely damaged. The beautiful ruby was split in two, jewelry that remains with both of you.

“I gave that to you before our wedding day. I traveled everywhere and this was for you!” He was yelling; his hand pressed to his chest,

“You know that as a queen, you can’t get rid of something like this!” His voice was raw, he looked like he might genuinely burst into a rage of tears.

Tears brimmed at the corners of your eyes, the loss of youth, the loss of time. His loss. “I’m your wife first!”

You endured countless comments, Loneliness, parenthood, and grief from the moment the sun arose to the dawn where you still lie awake in a pitiful nightmare.

“The sea won’t take you, the soldiers won’t take you, not even the archons can take you—“ you roughly grab his hands and press them to your heart the same way he did to you. He doesn’t dare look at you, struggling to process your words.

“You’re not at war, I’m not war! Don’t fight for me when you’ve had me all along— Ajax, I’m commanding you to look at me!” The faucet started on its own. Somewhere along the way, you managed to break his. You watch the life in his eyes color in, unable to hide how nice it felt to see it again.

“I’ll be your right hand until my bones cave to this dirt. Do you hear me? I would wait and wait, wait to see you in flesh or when I dissolve because I’m yours.”

He’s always been a bit broken, but so are many; the difference is this man has been stripped of the very pride you adored. And if it took you till old age to rebuild him, then that’ll be your fate.

“I will always be yours.”

His eyes softened, a cry of sorts leaving his lips as he pulled you into a hug. You hold on to him, your fingers holding him so close just to make sure he won’t disappear. Sobs leave your body, and he reassures you with soft words, apologizing for your wait, while you continue to reply with apologies for his journey.

He cupped your face, tear-streaked and reddened. You didn’t wait for a cue; you leaned forward, meeting his lips with a tender kiss. He pulled you closer, feverishly tasting you. It’s been too long.

His hands ran over your body, tracing every curve he had memorized from the moment he left. You run your fingers through his hair, reminding yourself that he was right in front of you. You’d break away for a breath, and he found it as a sign to kiss you again, leaving you lightheaded, urgent.

Finally, he pulled away, out of breath. His eyes were warm, and his thumb brushed against your cheek. He pressed his forehead against yours, “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

You smile, closing your eyes. It’s been too long.

“Never be sorry.”

You kept your promise to your sweet girl. Heading to the dock the same way she went. Childe hadn’t said anything, but he held your hand firmly, fingers enlaced. That was all you needed.

Considering all that's been damaged, the sun does seem brighter, the sea a lot quieter today. Blood that’s been shed doesn’t compare to the soaring high in your chest.

Walking down the wooden trail, you tug him toward the docking area.

You told her to leave, and surely you should believe she left.

But there she was in the cold. Silently waiting, sitting at the edge of the dock. It’s the most silence she’s gotten in a while, you can’t blame her.

You feel Childe grip your hand harder, his eyes wide at the sight of the girl.

“Sweetheart,” you said softly, making the girl jump in surprise. She glances back, a look of relief crossing her features. Her eyes then flickered to Childe, her brows furrowing, scrambling to get up to get a better look.

“Father?..” she whispered, a question, almost a request.

He opens his arms, trembling to hold up.

“I’m home.”

#genshin imagines #childe x reader #childe x you #ajax x reader #tartaglia x reader #tartaglia x you #genshin x reader #ajax x you #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #childe #epic the ithaca saga #Churi's Melodies ⋆｡♫

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sp4ceboo · 6 months ago

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The Way You Were: Ken Sato x Reader

genre: the one who got away, canon universe, happens post movie, ANGST (gets resolved), fluff, romance, childhood sweethearts, healing old wounds

summary: in which you spot your long lost love from across the club, and he spots you. as he makes his way over to you, you can't help but wonder which side of him will greet you: the one you fell in love with, or the one who left scars all over your heart.

a/n: finally i get to pull this one out of the vault. it's very unlike my normal writing but i'm still very proud of it, pls give it some love :))

tw: no smut just feelings, mentions of sex tho, heavy making out and a bit of grinding, one (1) briefly mentioned hard on, mentions of breakup, crying, ridiculously angsty at the beginning, ridiculously soft, ridiculously nostalgic, lurve lurve lurveeee

wc: 3.7k

If she’s real, Fate sure has a cruel sense of humour.

There’s no other explanation to why Kenji Sato, a man so deeply intertwined into your past, a man you’d tried so many times to extract from where he was embedded into your soul, stands across the club, his back to you.

You know the smile that softens his angular features before he even turns around. You know those hand gestures, that oozing nonchalance, that false cockiness, and yet, all the same, you don’t know who this man is at all - you know the old Kenji Sato, the one who would wait awkwardly for you after class, the one who gripped your hands nervously while watching the baseball championships, the one who kissed softly you under the bleachers.

The one who got away.

Years have passed since those nostalgia sweetened memories. You have no idea how much of that old Ken is left, or if he’s transformed himself into an invincible stranger, one without those insecurities and weaknesses that made him your Ken.

It had started with wide eyed firsts at seventeen years old: kisses stolen between lessons, hands fumbling over each other’s bodies in the dark of his bedroom. By the time Ken was scouted by a baseball team, it had turned into something more solid: the two of you were star crossed lovers, and you fit together perfectly - until you didn’t any more.

You’re not exactly sure who changed. Maybe it was both of you, but you felt the absence of the awkward, lanky teenage boy more acutely than anything else, for he was not your highschool crush any more, but a man who felt the pressure of his reputation as much as the weight of the baseball bat in his hands. He became cocky to hide his fears from you, as if you could ever see him as weak.

The more the baseball critics talked, the less Ken did.

He hated it when you prodded him, when you tried to get past the walls that had been erected overnight. You loved him, even when half the time he came home drunk and damningly silent, his eyes narrowed and his knee bouncing when you could say nothing in response to the sceptics’ articles. You tried to hold on to him, but in the end it was inevitable.

The love of your life slipped from between your slack fingers like the sands of time, and all you could do was watch - all you could do was become increasingly aware of how the two of you had been acting like stupid, starry eyed kids.

When it ended, he was vicious with the same strength of an animal on the verge of death, and you took it all, bearing the pain and the hurt because maybe it was your fault that you hadn’t seen it coming sooner.

When it ended, the sorrow felt as if you had just passed off the opportunity to have your soul completed.

When it ended, it broke you.

It broke you, and he disappeared. He removed himself from your life with surgical precision, as if to prove to the spectators that he didn’t need you and the warm baths you drew when he came back from a game or the softness of your hands or your loyalty, your never wavering faith in him that no one else even tried to pretend they had.

You didn’t even realise he’d left Los Angeles behind for the greener pastures of Tokyo baseball until you recognised him on your TV screen years later.

And now, you’re in the same room as him.

Had your friends chosen a different club or had you stayed home, had you not taken that job in Tokyo almost two years ago, you might have never seen him again. Or maybe Fate would have twisted your paths together anyways, if just for a laugh; maybe he would have gone back to visit his mum and bumped into you on the street, maybe he would have reached out over text. Maybe, whatever path you took, he’d still be weaving his way towards you through the crowd like he is now.

You can see his face now. He’s taken off his reflective shades - they’re tucked into the neck of his black tee, hanging just above the simple gold necklace that sits at the dip of his collarbones. His build is as lean as it ever was, but you can tell he’s gotten stronger, his shoulders broader; his face has slimmed down, matured, lost the last of the baby fat he still had when he was twenty, yet his eyes are the same bright ones that you used to get lost in.

You wonder if he’s changed from the Ken that you couldn’t keep beside you however hard you tried. You wonder if he’s become the cocky, mean Ken who you saw the makings of, that would be walking towards you now just to get in your pants and one up you out of spite, so he could prove you mean nothing to him now (worse, you wonder if you’d let him, just to hold him one more time).

He stops in front of you, and although his expression is soft and surprisingly open, you can’t help but doubt it, can’t help but hide your heart deeper in your chest so he can’t snatch it for himself as easily as he’d done before.

Ken’s lips tilt upwards, but it’s not a smile yet. “Hey.”

You stare at him. You haven’t seen him in years, and the empty space between the last time you saw him and now is so starkly obvious. He’s gotten taller, somehow, and there’s an ease to his confidence that wasn’t there before; you can smell some sort of fancy cologne on him and although there’s bags under his eyes, of course he looks fucking divine.

Yes, Fate has a cruel sense of humour.

Very cruel, and not funny at all when you’re the butt of the joke and when the man before you makes you want to cry as much as the last time you laid your eyes on him. You’ve never sobbed, wept, the way you did when he turned his back on you as he left, cold and unreachable and never to be seen again - until now.

“Hello, Kenji,” you reply stiffly.

He winces. “Not even Ken, huh?”

Mutely, you nod, not knowing what else to say when all you can think about is whether his embrace still feels as comforting as it did all those years ago. You think it might, with those shoulders as broad as the ocean.

“Back to strangers, then?”

You swallow. “No. I’d - I’d like to think I still know who you are.”

“Me too,” he sighs.

“Not sure it’s possible, but I guess it would do us good to start over,” you admit with a dry smile.

“I don’t think so,” he says, voice soft, words slow. “It hurt - I hurt you, but I wouldn’t want to lose all the good parts.” His eyes meet yours, and there is so much in them - almost too much. “Remember that one camping trip?”

Slowly, you nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“And when we went ice skating?”

You can hear what he’s saying, the meaning beneath those words. He’s asking if you remember the tender nights, when you held each other, swaddled in the soft blanket of youth; he’s asking if you remember feeling that magnetic tug in your soul when you touched. He’s asking if you remember how you loved him - how he loved you.

“Never said I was going to be good at that,” you huff, cracking a smile.

“And how we used to go to the playground near your house after parties?”

This time, you chuckle. “Can you imagine? You look out the window and there are two deranged teenagers trying to squeeze down the slide at three in the morning.”

Ken throws his head back and laughs, really laughs, loud enough that you can hear it over the pumping music of the club, and the sound hurls you right back into the past. You’ve heard that sound so many times, you’ve replayed it in your head as a longing memory, and now he’s here, in the flesh, and all you can do is try to fight the tears welling in your eyes.

Turning your head, you look away, painting a smile on because you don’t want him to see you cry. Of course he notices - he always did, even though there were times where he would pretend he didn’t - but this time, he faces it head on, placing a gentle hand on your arm, light enough for you to shake off if you want to. All it does is make you want to cry harder.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter, yeah?”

With a hand at the small of your back, Ken leads you out of the club and down a few streets until he can sit you down on a park bench; he plops down beside you, not touching you but not far away, either. The night air is gelid compared to the club, nipping at your cheeks, and he waits quietly until you can meet his eyes again, his gaze steady as he searches yours.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, then swallows thickly and steels himself. “I’m sorry I treated you like shit. I never - “ He pauses when you sit up a little straighter. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

You shake your head. “No, I’m listening. I… I’d like to know how you feel.”

Slowly, Ken nods and swallows again. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, deepening his cheekbones and limning his skin, and you watch him struggle with his words for a moment. You watch as he prepares to tear down walls that are years old for you, while you wonder what has changed him that he is so willing to try to bare his soul to you in a way he never could back then, what shifted while you slowly became strangers.

Gently, you reach out to take his hand to find his already waiting. Stroking a thumb over his knuckles as he works his jaw, finding words, you wait, letting him formulate his sentences; you know it is as hard for him as it is for you to be so close, and yet something in you burns with the hope of new beginnings.

“I was so afraid that you wouldn’t want me if I showed any weakness that I locked myself away, and - and that wasn’t what you deserved,” he chokes out. “I was all wrapped up in myself and too fucking stupid and stubborn to even crawl back. I’m sorry for the things I said to you, called you that night, and I’m sorry I can’t take them back.” He takes a shaky breath. “I took you for granted and hurt you, and I should have never - ”

“No,” you cut in. “The blame isn’t just on you, Ji. I - I should have fought so much harder for us. I saw what the pressure did to you, what the sceptics said, and I did nothing. At that point I may as well have warmed my hands in the fire they used to burn you at the stake with. I fucked up. We fucked up. I’m sorry, too.”

When you look up at him, he’s smiling. A tear slips down his face, and he catches it with the back of his hand; you’re not sure how you’ve held your own back for so long, but now they fall as you fall towards each other, his arms wrapping tight around you as he envelops you. You were right - his embrace is as comforting as it was, and a lump forms in your throat because beneath his cologne you smell his familiar scent, the scent of home.

You stay tucked together, sheltering in each other’s arms for a while. Eventually, he shifts, pulling back a little as his hand brushes over your hair. His eyes are soft, bright like they always were; you think you like this Kenji Sato, who is so similar yet so different to the boy you knew from highschool in LA.

You think you’re falling in love again.

No, not quite; you never stopped loving him.

That revelation almost makes you cry again, but instead you smile at him, and when he returns your expression you feel something mending deep within your heart, knitting itself together after being rent apart for so long. The way he looks at you is tender enough, raw enough, to make old wounds heal.

“Let me help you get back home,” Ken bids you. “I can call a cab?”

“We can walk,” you offer. “It’s not too far.”

“What brought you to Tokyo?” Ken asks as the two of you enter the lift up to your apartment.

“I came here almost two years ago,” you reply. “My company had a big office here and when they gave me the choice to move here or London, I chose here. I don’t really know why, exactly. Everyone says it’s always raining in the UK, and, well, at that point I knew you were here. I didn’t think we’d ever meet but at least there wouldn’t be an ocean between us.”

“Oh, so you’ve been waiting for this to happen for two years?” He teases as you turn the key in your door.

Rolling your eyes, you herd him into your flat before becoming serious again. “No, Ji, I didn’t even understand if I wanted to see you again. You were my first love, and deep down, I, I still lo - ”

Abruptly, you cut yourself off. Ken’s eyes have widened almost comically, but you find you can’t laugh at him with the sincerity of your words still hanging in the air; the pound of your heart in your chest is too loud, like it’s trying to break free of your ribcage. Maybe, to him, you’ve changed as much as he has to you, and he hadn’t been expecting you to so freely confess that you still feel that inexplicable pull of your soul towards his.

Biting your lip, you scurry across your kitchen and open the fridge door, if only to give yourself a barrier to hide behind. Did you just ruin everything? You didn’t even ask if he wanted to come in, you just ushered him into the flat, and although he offered to walk with you and come up in the lift with you, maybe he was just being polite.

“Want anything to drink?” Your voice comes out higher than it should as you turn to glance at him over your shoulder. “O - oh.”

He’s right there. You hadn’t expected him to follow you to the fridge, although you know now that this new, mature Kenji is in tune with your emotions, could definitely sense your embarrassment, and isn’t afraid to face it, yet also that he is the same as the old Kenji - just with his sharp edges softened and a bit more wisdom under his belt.

“Sorry, I didn’t…” He trails off.

You’re staring. You can’t help it. He’s so close that your head is spinning and you haven’t fully appreciated how good his hair looks tonight, sleek and half falling into his eyes, nor the flawless way his black t-shirt fits his arms and shoulders, nor the absurdly perfect bridge of his nose and how it complements his cheekbones and -

You realise with a jolt that he’s staring too. That his eyes just darted from yours down to your lips and back up again, that he’s leaning closer and closer to you until you’re sharing air, and that you really, really, really want him to take your clothes off.

Ken Sato takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and kisses you.

His fingers slide to cup your jaw, his other hand finding your waist and pulling your body closer to his, your lips moving against his in a way that is so achingly familiar; he nips and sucks at your lower lip and you don’t think you could ever get bored of kissing him like this. Running your palms up his back, you bunch your fingers in his shirt - like hell you’re going to let him go, now that you’ve found him again, like hell you’re going to let him even think about walking out while he’s got his tongue moving against yours like this.

Gliding down your sides, his big hands settle at your hips and squeeze. You curse against his soft lips and he dips his head to mouth at your throat, right over your jugular, his nose drawing a line down your skin before he travels lower, his tongue laving along your collarbone. Fumbling to close the fridge door behind you, you steady yourself with a palm on the handle. Fuck, your knees haven’t felt this weak in a while.

You realise that all this time, all those years spent without him, this is what you were missing, searching for it even if you didn’t know it. The way he navigates your body is effortless, as if you’ve only been apart for a few days and not a few years. He knows to kiss you at the hollow of your neck, he knows to cup your waist in his hands, he knows how to drown you in him in a way that still leaves you hungry.

Sighing into his mouth, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt, bringing them round to feel the hard planes of his chest under your palms. Unhurriedly, you drag your nails down his abs, hooking your fingers in his waistband and tugging him closer; he groans in response, biting down on your shoulder, and you feel him, hard against you as you lean into each other.

“Fuck, Ji,” you gasp as he rocks his hips into yours.

Cursing, he grits out your name, and you tug at his shirt - he pulls away, just long enough for you to wrestle it off him before he’s crowding against you again, as if he can’t bear to not touch you. A smirk tugs at your mouth as you run your hands appreciatively over his torso, over his sculpted chest and arms.

Maybe it’s the touch of your lips on his skin, right over his heart, or maybe it’s the way your hands coast over him, eager to feel all of him, that sends a jolt through him. Ken grabs your wrists, halting your progress, and you look up at him, quizzical.

“Wait,” he breathes. “We, I… we can’t do this the same way we did this last time.”

You blink, mind still foggy with wanting. “Ji?”

He cups your face. “It’s not that I don’t want you, my love, it’s the opposite. I’m not going to let myself just fuck you and go to sleep. I haven’t seen you in years. I - I need you to know I’m not here just for that. I want to take my time with you.”

It takes a moment for your brain to catch up with what he said. You gaze up at him, drinking up those sparkling eyes, feeling the gentle way he positions his hands on you, one cradling your chin and the other holding your waist, and realise that you’re seeing your Ken Sato - grown, yes, but still yours, eternally yours.

What he’s saying is right. The old you would have jumped straight into his arms, and he would have let you - you would have spoken with your bodies, not your words, leaving the tears and rips in your hearts to fester and rot, never acknowledging them for long enough for them to heal.

But somehow, Fate has gifted you a second try at love, and this time, the two of you will do it the way it should be done; he’s looking at you so tenderly, so hopefully, and it makes your stomach flutter. There’s no rush. Now you’ve got him in your arms again, you won’t be letting him go.

You brush his hair out of his eyes. “Okay, then. Shall we talk instead?”

He smiles. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

The lens you see the world through after that night with Kenji makes everything brighter, more beautiful. You find new appreciation for the ads of him plastered all over the city when he tells you funny stories behind the shoots, for the way the littlest things make you think of him, for the regular date nights and the hours you spend staying up late, talking with him.

For a famous baseball player, he sure has a lot of time for you.

He hangs on to your every word, looking at you as if you hung the stars in the sky; he listens to your rants about work and your favourite show and your fucking landlord. You make sure you show up to his baseball matches, cheering whether he’s winning or losing, knowing that he’ll be in your arms the moment he’s off the pitch.

You watch him open up to you like a flower leaning towards the sun, his words muffled as he rests his head on your shoulder late at night and tells you how his mum disappeared, how he used to avoid his dad but how recently they’ve gotten closer after they found some common ground.

And when he tells you what that common ground was - a bright pink, baby kaiju - everything falls into place.

Finally, you understand what changed him on his course, what softened him after the critics forced him to build walls: a baby as cute as her size, and a secret life as Ultraman. You kissed him when he told you, melting the tension right off his wide shoulders as you whispered against his lips that you’d love him even if he confessed to eating your leftovers (he had).

It’s not perfect, because love isn’t, but on the nights when you’re tucked into each other beneath the blankets, fitting together like puzzle pieces as you kiss his scars, you know that this time round, you’re doing love right.

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catbolt · 7 months ago

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— FLORIDA KILOS

[SOUNDTRACK] Florida Kilos - Lana Del Rey || ▶︎

Business trips with Sylus are atypical.

[TAGS] sylus x female mc, angsty fluff?, brief smut, canonical sylus but he also sells drugs

[A/N] written very topically in key west cause my vacation would have been sm better with sylus (i need to touch grass)

[WC] 1.2k

songfic 2/?

They touch down in the late afternoon, the sun barreling down over the horizon dramatically like a ball of hellfire, sending ricocheting red tongues of flame out over a turquoise ocean. She feels the ground rumble as the wheels kiss the pavement, Sylus’ strong hand wrapping around her waist to secure her as they roll to a stop.

They step out into the Florida sunset, deplaning onto his private hangar. His arm remains around her waist the entire while, the only sound other than the whirring plane engines being the clank of his rings against each other as he hoists their bags over his shoulder. They descend onto the tarmac. She looks up at him, his face inscrutable behind a pair of dark sunglasses.

She doesn’t get Sylus, not really. Every time she thinks she does, he does something so unexpected that she has to rework her entire understanding of him. Like when he takes extended time to pet the stray cat outside the hotel, or makes casual conversation with the bellhop with a broad and genuine smile on his face. A smile that falls immediately the second the door falls shut behind them, and he proceeds to immediately check the entire room for bugs and arm himself with a gun from his luggage.

Still a business trip, sweetheart, he murmurs softly as he sees her eyes trained on the way he tucks the pistol onto the stomach band holster beneath his t-shirt. Need to make sure I’m keeping you safe.

She knew about the protocores and weapons. What she didn’t fully grasp until now was that when Sylus once told her he had his hands in a lot of pies, he also meant drugs. That was why he'd taken her to Florida. She catches him on tense calls late at night, tapping into security feeds to scrutinize black cars carrying god knows what illicit substances and paraphernalia through back alleys, even rifling through miscellaneous vials and baggies that are shoved into a suitcase he tells her not to open. She ignores it for the most part. She’s learned to push down the moral ambivalence that stirs up whenever she thinks about what Sylus actually does for a living, the mix of guilt and confusion and frustration at her complete inability to reconcile two halves of the man she loves.

When they’re on the beach together, she just pretends they’re just a normal couple on vacation. She relaxes in the warm ocean, feeling Sylus’ eyes on her all the way from their cabana where he sits, preferring the shade. The corner of his mouth quirks into a barely-there smirk as she exits the water, taking in her swimsuit-clad form as he sips on a glass of dark rum. The second she’s close enough, she’s in his arms, his thumbs rubbing circles into the salt still lingering on her skin, his sun-flushed nose nuzzling into the place where her neck meets her jaw. He murmurs unintelligible nothings into her soft skin, more for himself than for her to hear.

He doesn’t tell her details of the business he's here on in an effort to keep work time separate as much as possible, though she can see it weighing on him each time he gets back to the hotel room after one of his “meetings." HIs face always look tired, but quickly softens into a gentler expression when he sees her, and he envelops her in his arms, peppering fluttering kisses over her face and neck. He deftly sidesteps the majority of her work-related questions to ask about her days instead. It’s not because he underestimates her– he’s just unshakably devoted to her protection, and the less she knows, the safer she is.

She doesn’t get him when he insists repeatedly that it’s just a business trip, but makes a continuous and purposeful effort to make sure she’s having a good time, that she’s enriched and well taken care of. The days he’s gone early in the morning, she wakes up to notes on the nightstand: Got you tickets to the museum, if you want to go today. Or I think you should visit the beach while I’m out. I’ve set up a driver to take you at noon. He insists on private charter planes, private drivers, private security, private beaches and excursions for her, ensuring she’s fully surveilled every second she’s out and about while he’s away.

Only when he’s back at the hotel with her does he ease up a bit, dismissing security detail for the night, taking her out on the town holding her hand tightly all the while. He buys her all the mai tais and mojitos she asks for, walking her home with a protective hand on her as she stumbles giggly through the streets, hands toying in the strings of her bikini beneath her cover-up.

When he lays her on the bed, French balcony doors blown open haphazardly by the wind, the sound of the waves battering softly against the shore and the chirp of cicadas are the only sounds other than their breathing. He removes each piece of her clothing slowly, tantalizingly, not with the intention to tease (though that is inevitably the resulting effect) but more because he simply cherishes each millisecond he spends uncovering another sliver of her body, each inch of her he reveals sending a shiver through him like he's discovering a secret. He worships her with slow wet kisses, his hands following close behind everywhere his lips have touched, soothing the skin that blooms purple and red with gentle caresses. He grips her hips softly when he enters her, exhaling a deep and heavy sigh, rocking back and forth achingly slowly with his eyes closed in bliss. He holds her securely in his arms with one hand on the small of her back and the other behind her neck, fingers pressing into her skin, each fingertip of pressure sending hot spears of desire deep into her body.

She doesn’t quite understand the loving things he whispers into her ears in times like this. She doesn’t get where it comes from, the rare, delicate softness in his words so strikingly absent from the way he talks to anyone else— so beautiful for me, my dove, I worship you, my gorgeous girl…

Afterwards, he stands on the balcony, cigarette clamped between his lips as he stares out over the ocean, hair damp from the shower and towel slung low over his hips. He swirls a glass of whisky in his other hand, tendrils of smoke clawing their way into the tepid night air through his teeth. Faint music from the nearby bars mingles with the sound of gentle waves upon the shore, so soft it sounds almost like ripples, like rain.

When he’s in his head like this she knows better than to ask him what he’s thinking. Instead, she just comes up behind him, standing not too close or too far, resting her elbows on the banister. They both watch the starlight freckle the surface of the ocean outside.

I love you, Sylus mumbles. It’s what he always says when he doesn’t know what else to. The utterance is so quiet it’s nearly drowned out by the sound of the water, but she catches it, just barely.

I love you too.

#cat writes ✩#sylus #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace #lads #lads sylus #lads fanfic #lads smut #lads angst #qin che #sylus qin #sylus x mc #songfics #l&ds sylus #l&ds #lads fluff #love and deepspace fic #the way i was like thissss close to writing cokeheadsylus but i held back for now #sylus smut

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strangesuki · 1 month ago

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agree to disagree?

❝i love you; by extension, i hate all other things❞

❝i forgive the world because it has you❞

pairing : euijoo x reader, est. relationship

genre : fluff, comfort, grumpy!reader x sunshine!euijoo but you don't exactly get to see much of his sunshiney side in this so more like subdued sunshine? sunshine but it's a cloudy day kinda vibe? idk what im on about but you get what i mean 😭

prompt (?) : i saw a post the other day about something hozier said in an interview (1st quote from above) and was reminded of another quote (2nd one) that felt like its perfect companion quote and i was like omg someone should write a fic using these two! then i was like wait i can also do that. so here we are. i kinda wanna write an angsty version but maybe some other day

warnings : one instance of bullying mentioned, one cuss word, not proofread

word count : around 800

you had an okay childhood – nice parents, good friends, financially secure environment, fun memories. and so to an outsider, it doesn't make sense why you grow up angry at the world. but those close to you know that it's because you also grew up watching the hypocritical ways of the world that preached kindness on one hand while making the lives of those who chose to walk down that path perpetually miserable. well actually no, scratch that, that makes it sound like you're some sort of good samaritan who is deeply concerned about the well-being of the general public – you're not that philanthropic.

you're really only concerned about one person in particular – byun euijoo. your childhood best friend/love and light of your life. beautiful, soft, kind, and altruistic to a fault. you honestly still can't comprehend how he can wake up everyday and choose to be good despite how brutal the world is to him. all your life, you've grown up seeing him be kind and compassionate to everyone, but most infuriatingly even to people who don't deserve it. and so, because of him, you have a bone to pick with the world and its unfair ways. euijoo does not usually complain and bears it all silently, because he wants to keep the peace, and you hate it. doesn't he have you? all he has to do is tell you, because you would go to war for his peace if that's what it takes.

but that's precisely why he doesn't tell you – because he's afraid you'll get yourself into trouble trying to get even for him. like when you were 5-years-old and you bit a boy's arm because he stole euijoo’s favourite toy and claimed it as his own. or the time in middle school when the class bully tore up his notebooks before the final exams just because he had helped a girl the guy had happened to have a crush on – the next day, you tripped him. he fell and ended up with a bloody mouth and a chipped tooth. or the time in high school when euijoo worked part-time at the local supermarket and the owner fired him without pay after making him work overtime for months and then claiming he had stolen money out of the cash register. there were no cctv cameras so everyone just took his word for it. you threw a rock through the glass front doors.

granted, you are not as…violent as an adult, since that tends to have serious consequences. but by no means are you any less scary.

he doesn't like to complain, but that doesn't mean he's never affected by it – he's only human, after all. there are days when his smile doesn't shine as bright, like today. days when everything feels a little heavier. when you open the door to him tonight, his eyes lack their usual glint, and his smile feels subdued. it's not everyday he lets his weariness show. it's not everyday that he walks over to you like this and wordlessly slumps onto your shoulder, seeking comfort in your arms. he rarely lets you see how draining it is, so when he does, you know it's worse than usual.

blood rushes to your head as you feel a surge of rage, and your hold around him tightens. “what happened? i'm gonna kill the bastards i swear,” you fume.

euijoo lets out a tired chuckle and rubs your back in an attempt to calm you. “i didn't even say anything and you're already plotting murders?”

“fine. i'll do it after you tell me. spill.”

“hmm, let's just stay like this for a while?” he murmurs with a kiss, breathing in your scent and trying to forget about everything else.

you sigh. you suppose vengeance can wait. for now you will be his solace. you comb your fingers through his hair, and he smiles knowing that for tonight you have given in. the weight feels lighter in your embrace.

“do you think i'm a pushover too?” he asks after a while, his voice quiet and muffled.

your fingers in his hair freeze for just a second before continuing. “no. i think you're too nice for this wretched world. it doesn't know a thing about kindness and certainly doesn't deserve yours.”

“you have got to stop making me sound like i'm a saint or something,” he mumbles with a laugh, before settling into silence again. and then, “’s not so bad, you know,”

“what?”

“the world. i like it because it has you. i try to be kind because it has you.”

your eyes sting. “well i hate it for not being nicer to you,”

“debatable. it gave me you.”

“agree to disagree?”

“deal.”

divider credits: @/strangergraphics

#i love him so much bye #&team #euijoo fluff #euijoo x reader #byun euijoo #&team ej #&team x reader #&team fluff #&team comfort #kpop fluff #jpop fluff #kpop imagines #andteam drabbles #andteam ej #andteam

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megumimania · 7 months ago

Text

DIFFERENT THIS TIME — spencer reid

synopsis: things are different this time when you finally understand why spencer has been acting off these past few weeks.

warnings/tags: angst, angst with a implied happy ending, improper use of drugs, addiction, spencer reid x social worker!reader, they’re friends and also neighbours, this is s8 and s2 reid at the same time in my head, whatever works for you. fluff/angst

a/n: my first piece for criminal minds! it’s angsty as hell forgive me but yeah, the title was inspired by a song of the same title by cornelia murr!

spencer has changed.

you are no fbi profiler but you can see the signs. he’s more shifty, more sercretive, he talks less, he eats less. spencer is more irritable than usual and it worries you.

sure you just may be worrying too much, it’s in your nature as a social worker to do so, but when you open the door to his apartment it is a mess. clothes and books are strewn across the floor, dishes and boxes of takeout piled up in the kitchen.

however in true spencer reid fashion they still have a semblance of order to them. you don’t bother trying to establish your own order within his own, so instead you take a snoop around.

his plants still look healthy, so it does look like he has been tending to something and it's not himself. the thought of that makes your heart pang a little. spencer was always the one helping others but in the one instance he had every right to be selfish and prioritise himself over work he didn't.

you figure it probably says more about his spirit and all but you're not here to do some soul searching. the curtains drawn haphazardly allow for a little bit of light to peek through in the otherwise dark apartment.

“spencer?” you call his name out into the void of his apartment, the sound reverberating around the place, the charms of the high ceilings that came pre built in his apartment. no response.

soft whimpers can be heard from the bathroom and you edge closer, not wanting to startle him so suddenly. you turn the doorknob and the sight that confronts you breaks you the most than any other case you’ve worked on.

he’s slumped against the bathtub, his sleeves rolled up revealing the track marks that he’s managed to hide with his vast array of cardigans and long sleeved shirts. all you can make out in his babbles are two names. one male, one female. a reminder of his extensive past that he revealed to you in bits and pieces.

the names don’t linger in your mind for long, not when he lies there helpless and his amber eyes remain vacant. your hands frantically search for a pulse, shaking when you press two fingers against his wrist. one beat after another but it’s weak and thready.

your head spins with things you should do, like the more rational choice of calling his friends, his family—hell even the hospital but even in his state, this would unfortunately open pandora’s box and you knew that spencer loved his job more than anything.

so when spencer rasps out a quiet “no” when you reach for his phone, you acquiesced. you helped him sit up right, his cold and clammy hands that slightly trembled sending a wave of sadness over you. this wasn’t the spencer you knew.

after a quick google search and several minutes of going back and forth with spencer, who looked like he’d rather eat glass than visit the hospital, you help him into bed, bundling him up the blankets that were on hand. the soup you made for him earlier, sits there uneaten but at least he ate the crackers and cheese.

you’re thankful for the small victories.

even though you wanted to give him some space, it didn’t stop you from periodically checking his vitals just in case there was a sudden change. spencer was grateful for you checking in on him it made this part less harder than it needed to be.

“please stay,” he calls out his voice quiet, trying to hide the desperation and loneliness in his voice but it comes in the form of a broken plea, from a broken man.

you figured that you could get to your apartment and back in no less than 15 minutes to grab your laptop and other essentials in order for you to get settled here.

“yeah, just give me a sec.” you say whilst sniffling, the cold already creeping into the building. when spencer is more up to it, you have to tell him to complain to his landlord because another year with a busted heater is a nightmare for everyone—particularly him who was prone to cold hands and feet in the winter.

you quickly slip out, leaving him alone for a while before you return with the essentials at hand. your announcement of your arrival falls on deaf ears as you walk in to a sleeping spencer sprawled out on his bed. the pained and sorrowful expression that had been burned into your mind had is replaced by a more peaceful one.

the sight alone was enough to make you feel at ease, knowing that spencer is somewhat okay, you just hope that one day he’s able to feel it too.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #spencer reid angst #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #this was sitting in the drafts for teww long #planning to make social worker! reader and spencer a running theme #vina writes: misc #vina writes: cm #criminal minds angst

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meiyoks · 7 months ago

Text

the most wonderful time of the year

request: "can you write something cute with daniela from katseye. like maybe her and the reader being cute around the other girls. i just read an angsty one with her and i need to recover :("

warnings/triggers: fluff, established relationship, gender neutral reader

it didn't come as a surprise to you that daniela was a festive person. she hadn't stopped gushing about the gifts (yes, plural) she'd gotten you, and she'd been the one who bought the two of you matching christmas sweaters – not ugly sweaters, she wouldn't have either of you looking anything less than amazing. but as festive as she was, it had taken one little debate with manon over beyonce songs for your girlfriend to leave you alone to put up the christmas tree so they could settle it like real adults – by having a snowball fight. thankfully for you, yoonchae had seen what you were doing and decided to join in, so it wasn't all on you.

which – of course you'd been ropped into putting up the tree. you had come over with your laptop and snacks, fully intending to make daniela watch a new anime with you, but her pout as she asked you to help her put up the tree had made you putty in her hands. until, of course, manon had asked you if you preferred love on top or crazy in love as shevwas putting together a playlist and you were in their shared bedroom as much as they were, and before you could answer daniela had picked crazy in love, starting the debate that escalated quickly.

you were in the middle of placing ornaments on the tree with yoonchae when you felt arms circle around your waist, and a head press against your shoulder. it was no question who it was, your hand reached down to squeeze daniela's that was resting on your stomach. she was cold to the touch, and you placed the ornament on the tree before turning, your arms wrapping around her to pull her in closer.

"my poor baby, you're so cold," you spoke as she hid her face in your neck, rubbing your hands up and down her back until a squeal escaping you as she pressed her cold nose against your skin. the laugh she let out had you beginning to pull away, but her hold tightened on you and she didn't let you go. "no no, i'm sorry, let me steal your body heat." at least she was being honest about using you for your warmth. you couldn't resist the urge to tease her for it though.

"you know, maybe if you had let me answer, manon wouldn't have had to turn you into a dani-sicle," you said, even though your lips pressed against her temple as you did. she let out a huff, pouting up at you. you couldnt help but press a soft kiss yo her lips then. "did you at least win?" you asked once you pulled away, and laughed when the pout worsened in response. "gosh, you're gonna bring my reputation down with yours baby."

"what reputation? you were a dork way before i met you," daniela said, and you raised your eyebrows slightly. "you better be nice to me if you want to keep stealing my warmth," you responded, but made no effort to move out of her grasp.

it was then that manon came into the room, having gone to change out of her wet clothes, and the sight of daniela in your arms made her let out a scoff full of amusement. "that's not fair, if i lost i wouldn't have anyone to baby me, you two need to stop being so cute."

a little huff escaped daniela again as her grip tightened on you, and you met manon's eyes with a grin on your face. "don't worry manz, i would've babied you too. because you're right, love on top is better."

the indignant yell daniela let out was almost as loud as the laugh manon let out, and the blonde pulled back from you to leave a light swat on your shoulder. "no way! you're my space heater, not hers! she can get her own, you're mine." you just laughed as you pulled her back into your arms.

next to you, yoonchae stared at the two of you for a moment, as if trying to find the words she wanted to say. "you wouldn't be as cute with manon," she finally said, and you smiled a little as you rested your chin on daniela's shoulder. "you were supposed to be cute with her, not anyone else."

a warmth you couldn't quite explain filled you at yoonchae's words, but you knew she was right. there was no way you could've been with anyone else, not when daniela existed. you hadn't believed in soulmates until you'd met her, but you hadn't ever really felt complete until you'd held daniela in your arms, either. so maybe yoonchae was right, and you simply were meant to be cute with daniela.

#katseye x reader #katseye imagines #daniela x reader #katseye.#daniela.

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pandora-writes-one-piece · 9 months ago

Note

first off, happy happy birthday to you!!!! Thank you for spoiling us on your birthday.

That being said, my heart is feeling angsty so I wanna request the prompt "Stop pretending that you care! We both know you don't." for a fem reader x Kid (NSFW)!

Again, happy birthday lovely! :3

Hello! @limitlesstildil thank you sooo much for your birthday wishes and for your awesome prompt! Now, I've taken some liberties with it, but I do hope you don't mind! It's now a three part fic of Highlander!Kid, sharing the spotlight with another prompt (to be seen in the last chapter). The NSFW part was pushed forward too, okay? I hope this is still okay! Thank you so much for participating! ❤️

Source for Pic

Mine to Protect

Word Count: 4969

Tags for the whole story: Highlander!Kid; Fem!Reader; Alternate Universe - Scotland 13th century; Gore; Blood; Violence; Death; Mild Angst; Fluff; Nudity; Cursing; Sexual Tension; Explicit Sexual Content; Protective!Kid; Possessive!Kid; Soft!Kid; Feral!Kid; Jealous!Kid; Happy Ending; Sort of Enemies to Lovers; Teasing; Banter; NSFW; MDNI; Mature Audiences;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: Your father and his allied clans are at war, and you're a liability. When you're assigned a guard to protect you - against your will - you do everything in your power to infuriate him. The problem is that he can be more infuriating than you, as you're about to find out.

Notes: Okay... it's finally here! I coudn't hold out any longer. It turned out to be 16k words, so I've divided it in three (not equal parts because the splitting would be weird, obviously). I edited the first part and plan on editing the rest soon. I will have the entire fic out by the end of the week! Gosh... I'm very proud of this one, I do hope you enjoy, let me know!

Part 1 of 3

“I don't need a guard!” Your angered cry echoes down the halls of the keep, but the stationed guards at the entrance barely even flinch at your outburst since it’s a regular occurrence.

You have been at odds with your father, the laird, since early morning and, as night approaches fast, he’s tired of arguing with you. But no matter how much you argue like a wild thing, plead as if he were a deity or present your arguments politely as a lady, he doesn’t budge.

“You need a guard!” Your father says with a firm growl of your name. “We are at war and you're an easy target, daughter!” You scoff, outraged at the insinuation. You might be a lady, but you know how to defend yourself and you’re a feisty creature. “I don't want to hear any more of what you have to say! Out with you! You'll meet your guard later.”

With a screech so loud it could make a banshee blush in embarrassment, you leave the chamber, stamping your feet like a bratty child, feeling much like one since, apparently, you need nannying. And, well, if you’re to be nannied like a baby, you might as well act like one, while you still can.

Passing by the kitchen, you grab a hemp sack and fill it with anything you can get your hands on: bread, fruit, salted meat and grains. It weighs like hell but you couldn't care less. You have a point to prove.

You don’t need a guard. You can handle yourself.

Night falls quickly and you use the waning light of the sickle moon to guide your steps, the same ones you’ve taken since you were a child. The only difference is that now you’re facing wartime and the streets aren’t as safe as they used to be.

But the people need you and you won’t sit idly by while children starve.

-*-

He was supposed to introduce himself to you as soon as he arrived at the keep, but Kid likes to observe first, so he stuck to the shadows. Despite being big, bulky and muscular, he can move like one. When Kid spots you leaving the keep just as the moon appears in the sky, he realises you're going to be trouble.

Kid’s sick and tired of being a nursemaid to stuck-up, entitled ladies who think they alone rule the world. Yet, here he is again, his body too broken to be a proper warrior, but not broken enough to be able to retire peacefully.

With a heavy sigh and a curse, Kid follows you into town, all the while realising just how reckless you’re being with your actions. Your father hired him because of the war, which means nowhere is safe. Especially after nightfall. Especially if you’re a noble lady.

But you don’t seem to care.

He follows you around town while you knock on doors, delivering food and even some jewellery. He hasn’t even spoken to you and your actions are already intriguing him. He’s never met a noble lady who would willingly part with jewels, let alone give them to townspeople.

Yet, he doesn’t let that cloud his judgement. You think you’re being inconspicuous as you parade around town wearing your expensive velvet cape, with an air about you that clearly states you’re regal. No town girl would have such perfectly braided hair, and fair skin, poised grace, and natural beauty, as well as an elegance to your movements. You’re a dead giveaway for who you are.

And that’s dangerous in these streets.

Tutting silently, Kid watches as you traverse a dark alleyway and, immediately, a group of brigands follows you, their eyes already glinting with greed and something else. Kid approaches, ready to intervene as he’s being paid to do. What he doesn’t expect, however, is the way you pull out two daggers from your thighs and start fending them off.

A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth as he realises you aren’t as defenceless as he thought you to be.

Slicing your way through the brigands, you manage to cut one on the arm and another across his torso, which only makes them more enraged, but Kid nods approvingly from the shadows. There’s more to you than just a pretty face.

Then you make a mistake. You lose sight of the largest man in the group and he gets behind you, locking your arms and incapacitating you immediately. With a grunt, Kid pushes himself off the wall he was leaning on and grips his Lochaber axe with his good arm. Time to intervene.

It takes only the blink of an eye for him to reach you. His weak arm slams a punch to the jugular of the man pinning you, causing him to let go and fall to his knees, gasping for air. Pivoting, Kid slices another brigand with a swing of his long axe, his guts splashing to the floor with a sickening sound as the man screams himself into shock. With a thrust of the weapon, Kid immediately kills the remaining brigand by piercing his neck.

He didn’t even break a sweat.

“I’m not scared of you!” You say, breathing hard, pants escaping your parted lips and Kid can clearly see your fists trembling as you grip the handle of your blade. You mistook him for another brigand. Smirking, Kid takes one step forward and you gasp. “Don’t come any closer.” Your voice is firmer now, a hint of aggression in your words. Good.

He still takes another step, and with a swing of the axe, he lunges. You shriek and tense up but open your eyes as soon as you hear another sickening slice and the unmistakable gargle of a man drowning in his own blood. Kid sliced the neck of the brigand who had pinned you at the beginning of the skirmish and was getting ready to run away.

“I said back away!” You lunge, place your foot wrong and throw your weight like an amateur. Kid scoffs and easily disarms you, raising an eyebrow as if asking if that’s all you’ve got. You huff and puff like a wild beast and lunge empty-handed this time, landing a punch on his chest which he barely feels. He chuckles again and you seethe, swinging again, trying to hit his jaw, but this time he stops your mid-air, twisting your body and pinning your arm behind your back.

“Yer swingin’ like ye’ve never thrown a proper punch, lass.”

-*-

You blush from the tips of your ears to your flaming cheeks as the man twists your arm further, making you wince. Who is he? He easily took down the brigands who attacked you, but he doesn’t look like a common thief. He moves like a warrior, even though his left arm seems slower and heavier.

“Let me go!” You hiss, feeling his taut muscles press against your back.

“Ye did alright with the daggers, but there’s a lot to be said about yer footwork. Also…” His large, calloused hand reaches out as he pulls the hood of your cloak down, his fingers brushing against the skin of your neck. “If yer gonna walk the streets of a war-torn town at night, ya better do it dressin’ like a commoner, no’ a noble, aye, lass?”

The nerve!

“Who are you, trying to tell me what to do? Let me go, right now!” He twists your arm more, and your hiss turns into a groan, but you refuse to scream in pain. You’re not going to give him that satisfaction, though it almost feels like your arm is about to fall out of its socket.

“Who am I?” He chuckles. “That’s rich. I’m the one who just saved yer spoiled ass from gettin’ robbed. Or worse, lassie.”

You lower yourself, sensing a slight give in your arm as he loosens his grip, and elbow him hard in the stomach as you manage to break free from his grasp, hearing him grunt slightly. “I didn’t ask for your help, you brute.” You take two steps back, swiftly scanning the floor, hoping to find your fallen dagger. Since you can’t locate it, you focus back on the enemy, and your eyes widen as you finally take a good look.

He’s huge. Tall, bulky and built like a warrior, full of scars. His eyes and his hair are what make your breath catch in your throat: they’re fiery red.

“Ye did no’, but ye sure as hell needed it.” He grins and takes another step forward, just to see you falter. “I’m no’ gonna harm ya, lass. I’m yer new guard. Yer da hired me.” He picks up the dagger you’ve been looking for but missed and hands it to you, handle first, along with the one he took. “Eustass Kid, at yer service.”

By the resigned sound of his voice, he’d much rather be anywhere else but here. You snatch the daggers from his hands with a scowl. You’d much rather he be anywhere else as well but, alas, here you both are.

“I don’t need a guard.” You grimace as you manoeuvre around the dead bodies, your stomach already used to the stench of blood by now, walk around Kid, and out of the alley, not even bothering to see if he’s following you.

But of course he is. How is he so silent when he’s built like an Angus?

“Ya sure about that, lass?” His voice is clipped and dripping with sarcasm which just makes you grit your teeth as you quicken your pace. “Seemed like ya needed one back there, nae?”

“I had it covered!” You snap back, hands balled into fists as you stomp your way back into the keep.

“Aye, I saw. Maybe I should’ve let ya finish, then. Were ye gonna use yer witty words on them? Pray they let ya go just because ya have a sharp tongue?” He scoffs and you stop abruptly, pivoting with a finger in the air, your eyebrow raised high.

“I don’t appreciate the mockery, you don’t even know me.”

He leans down, his face inches from yours with that infuriating grin on his lips. “Aye, I know ya well enough tae paint a pretty picture, lass. Stubborn, reckless, proud.” His hand rises and he stabs a finger against your forehead, pushing you back with just the strength of that one digit. “Prancin’ around a war-torn town in fancy clothes, screamin’ yer noble and ready tae be robbed… aye, real smart, lass!”

You swat his hand away with the swing of your arm, growling as your temper flares. “You don’t know shit!”

“Ohhh.” He laughs, this time, a hearty laugh that sends a tingle down your spine. “Witty and foul-mouthed? What cannae that tongue do?”

“What am I supposed to do, then? Behave like a proper lady and stay in my keep, filling my belly while my people die of starvation? I don’t think so.” Crossing your arms over your chest, you raise your chin high, defying the infuriating man to say something else.

“No’ what I’m sayin’, lass. But at least have some sense about it.” The grin fades and his voice hardens as he becomes serious. “There’s a war ragin’ and the street’s nae place for a noble woman. And there’s a difference between bravery and stupidity. Guess which one yer tippin’ on, right now?”

Is he serious?

You don’t even grace that remark with a proper answer. There’s no use fighting with this man. You told your father you didn’t need a guard and he went and got you the most infuriating one of the lot!

Just my luck.

-*-

You’re so pissed that you have a shadow following you everywhere, that you don’t leave your room for the next three days, hoping he gets bored and just leaves.

He doesn’t.

On the fourth day you’re the one who’s bored so as the sun rises, so do you. You take your breakfast in peace, your guard nowhere to be seen because you’re in the keep where it’s safe. You can almost feel him as you walk around your own home. It’s a prickling at your nape, a sensation that makes you want to caress your neck. It tingles.

Days pass and you avoid making conversation with him at all costs. You keep running away from him, trying to evade his ever-present shadow, but you fail every time. More than once you think you finally did it, only to find him leaning against a wall –trademark, infuriating smirk in place– or for him to appear whenever you're about to be robbed.

That is also why you now avoid going into town delivering food. The increase in attacks gives your guard the satisfaction of saving you and it only infuriates you. He shadows you everywhere, always wearing that smug smirk or his infinitely bored expression. He’s insufferable.

The morning breaks like many others but you’re so frustrated you need to vent. So you pick up a sword and decide to take your anger out on the dummies in the courtyard. The sword feels heavy in your hands since you’re more used to daggers, but the recent attacks got you thinking that perhaps the gruff guard made a valid point. It’s wartime. Two measly daggers aren’t gonna save you. The sword might.

You start swinging, hitting the dummy but not making real damage, and then you sense him watching you. That damn prickling again, it’s like a pressing need at your nape. You let out a growl paired with a curse, and a bit of straw flies out of the dummy as you strike it again.

“Ya swing that sword like yer holdin’ a broom.” You stop, take a deep breath and don’t turn around, going for the dummy again and trying your best to ignore the annoying prick. “Yer form’s all wrong.” He continues and so do you. Whack, whack. “That’s a good way tae get killed, lass.”

Pivoting around to face him, jaw clenched and knuckles white from gripping the sword, you show him your best leave me the fuck alone look. “If you have nothing useful to say, then stay quiet!”

“Feisty.” He replies with a chuckle and you grunt in exasperation.

You give him a few more moments of your time, eyebrows raised in defiance as you wait for more remarks, but he raises his hands in the air and you turn your back to him, continuing your dummy slaughter.

It doesn’t take long for him to speak again. “Yer still holdin’ it wrong. Yer gonna hurt yerself first before ye hurt someone else.” You sense him approaching but don’t turn. “But, aye, let’s just be stubborn as a mule, that also works.”

Your head whips back so fast you’re certain you pulled a muscle. “Are you calling me a mule?”

“Just sayin’ yer as stubborn as one.” He takes another step, his head leaning to the side as he observes you and you feel yourself flush under his gaze. “Yer too stiff, relax yer grip on the handle.”

“I didn’t ask for your advice.” You bite back, venom in your voice and fire in your eyes.

“Lucky ye, here I am offerin’ it just the same.”

“Screw you.” You mutter but still relax your grip on the handle as he says.

“Maybe later.” He grins as you scoff, then invades your space, his hands pushing your shoulders down, the touch sending a shock through your system. “I said relax, no’ stiffen more, lass.”

You shoot him a sideways glance but still do as he says, relaxing your shoulders and your hands.

Then he nudges your feet with his own, spreading your legs into a wider stance. “Open yer legs wider for me lass, will ye? Now try again.” You flush crimson at the insinuation but still do as he says, though you keep grumbling. When you swing though, the hit actually cuts through the dummy and you gasp. “See? Yer actually capable.” You grin, a small smug smile curving your lips. “It’s no’ that yer a good student, I’m just a great teacher.”

And there goes your good mood.

“Insufferable.” You bite back.

“That too. But damn good.”

You stop your swing mid-air and turn to him, lifting your blade to his chest. “You know, maybe I should stop practising on dummies and start practising on you.” The smirk you give him is devious.

“Ye cannae take me, lass.”

Glaring at him through lowered lashes, you raise your chin. “Try me.”

His eyes darken and the tingling sensation at your nape intensifies tenfold. You see him tense up but you don’t wait to see what he does next. You lunge forward, sword raised, relaxed grip and a wide stance –like he taught you just now– and he easily swings out of the way.

With a frustrated grunt, you pivot to swing your sword to the left, where he dodged, and he evades you again, a small smirk tugging the corners of his lips. You suck a deep breath through your nose before letting it out slowly through your mouth, centering yourself. Then you swing again, leg planted firmly on the ground for support.

Kid hits your elbow from below, twisting your arm and disarms you with a quick flick of his hand –the sword clatters to the floor– then, in a second he has you in his grip, your back flushed against his chest, one of his hands at your throat and his other arm pinning you against him, rendering you immobile.

Damn.

He’s intoxicating. His scent lingers everywhere and the warmth of his body against yours crackles and burns.

“Yer easy.” He whispers against your ear and it’s a caress that travels down your neck, through your nipples and into your throbbing core. Fuck.

“Let me go.” Lacing your voice with authority doesn’t get you far, as your words fall empty and shaky.

“Make me.” Your breath hitches and he chuckles, sending goosebumps down your neck. “Yer no’ as tough as you think, lass.” He’s well aware of the effect he’s having on your traitorous body, and he’s using it.

Two can play that game.

You turn your head to the side and tilt your chin up, your movements slightly constricted by the hand on your throat, and brush your lips against the exposed skin of his neck. “I’m not what?” Your hot breath fans his skin and you notice how it prickles before his jaw tightens and he loosens his hold. You use that opening to your advantage and shove him, taking a step away from him and almost gaining your freedom back –he doesn’t let you.

With a swift movement his arm envelops your waist and he pulls you to him again as you let out a frustrated groan. “It’s over, lass. Yer done.” There’s more gruffness in his voice now.

“I’m not done until I say I am.” You bite back, struggling to free yourself but he’s not even making an effort to hold you against him.

“Yer stubborn.”

“Aye! We’ve established that already. It also means I’m tenacious!”

“Ya dinnae know when tae quit, nor when tae ask for help.” He twists you in his arms with surprising ease and now you’re facing him as he places his hands on your shoulders. “Ye need tae learn tae trust someone besides yerself.”

“Trust you?” You begin and thank the gods your voice is still stable.

“Aye. I’m here tae protect ya.”

You scoff and turn your eyes away from him, his words hitting too close to the mark, making you uncomfortable. You don’t need guards and you definitely don’t need Eustass Kid as your guard.

“You’re the last person I would trust.”

Kid removes his hands from your shoulders and takes a step back. His jaw ticks and clenches as he nods.

“Understandable. I’ll be around, anyway, lass.”

He turns to leave and your body suddenly feels cold, though it’s still tingling from the earlier blaze. His words hang heavy in the air around you. Trust. How can you trust somebody other than yourself if you’ve been doing that your whole life?

-*-

Weeks pass and you’re getting more used to Kid being your shadow. You fight like cats and dogs. He’s insufferable and you’re, in his words, a brat. No accidents have happened while you deliver food and money to the surrounding towns, but you know that’s because nobody dares to attack you while Kid is around. His imposing figure is threat enough for any brigand who wishes to rob you.

You train a few more times with him watching but he doesn’t give you any more pointers and you start to think that maybe it was your trust comment that got him angry at you.

Like I care.

You try to fool yourself, but you do care. He’s not the best company but he’s not the worst. If you take away the amused snickers, the mocking undertones in his words, or his gruffness, he’s perfectly tolerable. Though he gets under your skin like no one else.

That, and the tingling sensation that doesn’t seem to go away. To add to it, there’s also a throbbing of need in your core that nights alone, pleasuring yourself, cannot push away. You hate the fact that you loathe your guard almost as much as you desire him, and that alone drives you insane. You're hyper-aware of the way his muscles flex as he moves, the grunts he releases when he exerts himself and his strong scent of steel, sweat and leather. Even worse, all you can think about is how those muscles would flex as he handles your body, or how his grunts would sound as he sinks deep into you and how you'd be smelling him on yourself afterwards. It's overwhelming.

There's the heat and throbbing again, at your core, in your nipples, everywhere! Fuck.

“Lass?” His voice near your ear almost releases an unbridled moan from you, since you were lost in thought, so you groan and get up from the dining table where you were reading some letters, stomping your foot.

“I’m going to bed!”

You don’t even look back at him.

-*-

You retired early but sleep doesn't come easily. You overheard your father's meeting today and learned that there's been unrest at the borders and another clan abandoned your cause to join the opposing army.

You're concocting a plan to gather information from the warfront that could tip the scales of the war, and if all goes well, you'll have it by the end of the week.

You toss again in your bed, kicking the covers off with a loud groan. It's unusually hot for the middle of the night. The window is open but there's hardly any breeze, making it difficult to sleep. It doesn't help that your mind keeps drifting to an insufferable redhead –and how there's just a wall separating you.

Eventually sleep claims you, and you drift into a dreamless slumber.

You're jolted awake by a calloused hand clamped over your mouth, as another rips the front of your nightgown. You try to scream as you open your eyes, meeting the lecherous gaze of a scrawny, dark-haired man. He’s trying to grope you as his filthy fingers press against your lips with such force, you're sure they will leave bruises.

If you survive.

“Aye, bonnie lass, keep thrashing. I don't like it when lasses lose their fight.” He's untying his breeches with one hand, pinning your arms beneath his legs, his weight pressing down on your torso, and panic floods you. You need to make noise. It's the only way to alert Kid. “I was gonna just rob ya, but ye looked so pretty with yer legs bare. I had to touch ya.”

His hand leaves his pants to grope your bare thigh and you whimper. Then you remember that you can fight back and bite down hard on the hand that's covering your mouth. He yanks his hand back with a yelp, and – gagging at the lingering taste– you take advantage of the distraction and unbalance him. Grabbing the oil lamp from the bedside table, you smash it against his head, scattering scalding oil over his head, your hand, and legs.

The pained groan that escapes your lips brings tears to your eyes as your skin begins to burn and blister. The bastard is in worse shape, but you don’t look too long. Swinging your aching legs to the side, you try to get up and away from him, but he pins you again, spittle flying from his mouth as he leans closer, the angry red welts from the oil are already forming blisters across his face.

“Burn me ya bitch? Ye’ll pay for this!”

But before he can act, the door crashes open, nearly flying off its hinges, and Kid enters, his eyes burning with rage as soon as he sets eyes on the scene unfolding in front of him. He’s shirtless and you can’t help but gasp at the enormous scars covering his torso and left arm –a continuation of the ones trailing down his face and neck, scars you hadn’t yet seen.

“Get the fuck away from her.” His growl vibrates low and deadly and you sense the man shiver for a second. He yanks you up, his filthy hand clawing at your exposed chest, forcing your back against him as he cowers behind you. A small dagger presses against your throat, and you immediately feel a trickle of hot blood running down your neck.

Kid growls again, a feral sound that bristles the hairs in your body and you smell urine as the man behind you leaks his bladder with fear. “Don’t come any closer!” He squeaks, pressing the dagger harder and you whimper softly at the sting of the blade.

Kid hesitates, then stops. One hand grabs his Lochaber axe, the other, a small dagger. You lock eyes with him and then you lower them to the dagger he’s holding, a steely determination purses your lips and you hope he understands you. “Kid, I trust you.”

He exhales a breath, flips the dagger in his hand, catching it by the tip, and throws it in your direction. It takes a blink of an eye for you to hear the sickening thud as the blade pierces the man’s skull through the forehead, killing him instantly. Then it takes you another blink of an eye to waver forward and away from the man’s crumpling, smelly body, but in less than that time, Kid is by your side, holding you, pulling you against him with another one of his wordless grunts that, somehow, tells you much more about his relief than his words ever would.

“Lass, yer alright?” His clipped tone masks the slight quiver in his voice, but it’s there, barely noticeable. You nod, still too shocked with what happened to do much more and Kid sits you on the bed, settling beside you. The man must’ve entered through the open window, you think, as Kid fumbles with your bedcovers, pulling a blanket loose and draping it over you. It dawns on you that your breasts were exposed and you should care, but you don’t.

As the fabric brushes the blisters on your hands and legs, you hiss, jerking slightly. Kid’s eyes trace the red welts marking your skin. Each new one he finds just deepens his scowl. “Fucker.”

“It’s fine.” You say. “I’ll put some honey and knitbone poultice on it. It will heal.”

“Lass…” His tone softens as his rough hands gently touch your cheeks on the area near your mouth, clearly seeing the beginnings of the bruise the man’s fingers left there. He tips your chin up to inspect the small cut the man’s dagger left on your throat. “Ye did well, but ye’ve been through hell. Let’s get ya cleaned up.” He tries to move you but you shake your head, your breath coming in gasps as the shock sets in. Kid grips your shoulders, trying to ground you. “Oi, oi, it’s over, look at me lass. Look at me.”

Tears stream down your face, blurring your vision, but you focus on his fiery eyes, your lifeline in the midst of a violent storm. “Ye did well. Ye defended yerself. But I’m here for ye, I told ye.” His hand moves up, the caress lingering softly against your cheek, a gentle contrast to his usual harshness. “Dinnae try tae do everythin’ yer own. Ask for help. I’m here for ye.”

A ragged sob makes your lips tremble and you shake your head, swatting his hand away with more force than necessary. “Stop pretending that you care! We both know you don't. You're just a hired sword and I’m a spoiled brat. So stop trying to make me feel better!”

Your breathing quickens as your heart hammers in your chest. The tears don’t stop, everything hurts and you feel so alone. You decided to trust him and he didn’t fail you so why do you feel like this?

Because he’s paid to protect you. He’s paid to take care of you. He doesn’t really care.

Suddenly Kid leans forward, pulling you against his chest, his hand cradling your head as his lips brush the crown of your head. You cry, releasing hot tears against his bare skin.

It’s comforting.

“I care.” He says softly, barely a whisper against your hair. “Yer mine tae protect.” A few moments pass in silence and comfort, only broken by your sobs and sniffs. The keep is quiet. You thought you’d screamed loud enough to wake the townspeople, let alone the whole house. But you must’ve been quiet, for only Kid heard you.

Kid cares.

He cares for you.

To Be Continued...

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|Part 2|

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