#Have I strayed so far from my roots??? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

morose-melodies · 4 months ago

Text

perfect failure | yandere! dottore x experiment! reader

summary: you were a failed experiment... so why didn't dottore just kill you and move on?

content warning: mentions of blood.

part 1 part 2

you were a failure.

you were a failed experiment of dottore's - you were too quiet, too weak. what use did he have for something like you?

dottore had yet to 'recycle' you and start on his new experiment. as much as he spoke about ending you, he hadn't done it yet.

he wouldn't let you stray very far away from him, not that you ever tried to. it was like you were a statue that only moved when asked to.

sometimes, you'd even forget to breathe without dottore reminding you to do so.

being alive was dull - everything was blurry and all the colors were dull. you had heard people in passing talking about 'beautiful snow', what was that?

you wanted to see the beautiful snow.

but you had yet to even leave dottore's manor. this was your home and soon enough, your resting place.

he had attempted to kill you last night but hesitated - he sat the knife down and shook his head. he realized he was acting irrationally.

"(y/n), look at the page in my hand. can you not read the first row of letters?" dottore snapped a finger, tugging your attention away from a vial you had zoned in on, "read it out for me."

dottore was persistent about finding out all of your flaws; thus far, you had bad eyesight, you couldn't properly walk and you couldn't withstand the cold for very long.

you were deeply flawed.

"(y/n)," that was the name he had given you, though, it hadn't clicked for you - he would call your name multiple times and you wouldn't reply, because you didn't understand, "(y/n)," the sound of a snapping finger always caught your attention though, "read the first letter then. would that be simpler for you? read anything you can see on the paper, just do it."

you stared at the paper, quiet. your hands were cold and tucked in your lap, you were wearing a thin hospital sort of gown - you were very cold. your lips parted and dottore's eyebrow twitched but, you said nothing.

sighing, dottore sat the paper down and went to his notes, where he would write that your eyesight was a lost cause.

he needed to find the root of the problem so he wouldn't repeat it once more.

he could not have another failure like you.

...

inside of a dark room, dottore had told you to sit down. he walked away from you and towards the door and said, "After I shut this door, come and knock on it."

so, he shut the door and waited.

he heard you tumbling around, or, perhaps you were crawling around. dottore wrote in his notes that you couldn't navigate in the dark.

"doctor," you called out in that weak voice of yours - it seemed you were in a bit of a dilemma. so, he opened the door to see you mere inches away from the door, facing the opposite direction.

dottore blinked, before holding out his hand to help you up. you placed your warm hand into his and he helped you up.

the fact that he had created you brought much shame to him.

...

"doctor?"

dottore had gotten sick of hearing you call for him; perhaps that was one of the only words you were sure of, or maybe you simply liked saying it.

he wasn't sure.

he wasn't sure of much at this point.

why hadn't he gotten rid of you yet? you were a waste of space and good resources. "what is it?" nonetheless, dottore replied to your call, each and every time.

"what is this?" in reference to what you were asking about, you tugged at the cord on your chest, and dottore hissed, "do not tug at it. put your hand to your side, now."

you obeyed.

unlike his experiment before you - one thing you were good at was listening. "it's a heart monitor," he replied after a moment, looking at the patient monitor - your heart rate had elevated moments before after he had told you not to tug at the heart monitor.

could you feel emotions? or was it simply because he had raised his voice?

...

it was a passing thought and probably pointless but dottore had gotten you glasses.

perhaps it was a waste of time and money, but he was now intrigued by the potential of you feeling human emotions.

"(y/n), can you see the letters now?" holding up the sheet of paper once more, dottore looked at you, awaiting a reply.

dottore snapped his finger when you didn't look.

"yes," you replied, swallowing as you looked at the letters on the sheet of paper - you knew they were letters because dottore said so but you could not read them.

"alright - good job," dottore nodded, setting the paper down and casting a glance at the patient monitor once more.

nothing- it seemed positive words did little for you.

perhaps acts of affection would gain more of a reaction than him raising his voice at you.

...

dottore was sitting by your side at the dinner table - could you taste food, he was unsure. "go ahead, (y/n), eat it."

it was a slice of cake.

though he assumed you would like it, you did not pick up the fork and you did not attempt to eat it.

dottore couldn't get angry, so, he sighed slowly, calming himself. he took a piece of the cake with the fork and held it in front of your mouth, "will this make it easier for you, (y/n). open your mouth," he asked and fed you the cake.

you chewed the cake and then dottore asked, "how does it taste? salty, tangy, is it sweet, (y/n)?"

"i... like it," you replied, watching as he scooped another piece of cake up for you and fed it to you - it was good, very good. you liked it.

dottore watched you - he was observing you, the little smile on your face, the way your eyes squinted as you ate the cake.

and, dottore smiled. you were more human than anything.

you weren't an intelligent being - not by any means. dottore reached out to wipe smeared icing off of your cheek.

and your heart rate elevated.

...

you were sat on the exam table, your kegs hanging over the edge, kicking back and forth slowly.

dottore glanced at the patient monitor before looking at you. he couldn't explain this lack of disgust he felt when looking at you - you were no use to him, you weren't the intelligent being he strived to create.

dottore feelings were conflicted.

turning away from you, he grabbed a scalpel and waved it in front of you, "do you see this, (y/n)? I'm going to make a small incision on your thigh. I'd like to see if you can quickly recover from bodily injuries."

he had warned you - he gave you time to think about what he said as he placed his notepad on the table behind him.

he lifted your hospital gown, exposing your upper thigh, and made the incision, he watched as blood beaded at the cut before running down your thigh.

you were bleeding... and the cut wasn't healing itself.

he turned and wrote in his notes - (y/n) is an enigma.

...

you were completely different from the other experiments of his.

dottore placed a coat over your shoulders and slid your arms through the holes, he then slid gloves onto your hands, "there you go."

you had asked dottore to see the 'beautiful snow'. he only assumed you were asking to go outside.

this would be your first time leaving the comfort of dottore's manor. he held your hand as he opened the front door, and walked your outside.

you had dreamt of this - at least you thought you had. in your head, you imagined the beautiful snow and smiled to yourself.

this was your life goal, to see the beautiful snow.

and when you made it outside, it was actively snowing.

you tugged at his hand, trying to free yourself but he wouldn't let you go, not so easily - he couldn't have you running off and getting mauled by a hilichurl, that was a joke dottore had made. he walked you outside and let you kneel and touch the snow.

but... you looked disappointed.

this wasn't exciting at all. you thought snow would be different. this was a letdown.

you formed a ball of snow in your hands, and looked down at it before bringing it to your mouth and taking a bite of it.

also, very disappointing.

"doctor, i want to go back in."

so, dottore took you back inside and sat you in front of the fireplace. he removed your gloves and coat and sat a blanket over your shoulders.

he sat behind you, on the couch and watched you.

he was growing fond of you. having you near was akin to having a human companion near. dottore wasn't so disappointed in you anymore, he felt different.

dottore did not hate you, it was different now.

...

you had gotten sick from eating the snow.

dottore was having a field day with you - you were sickly and pale. he ran tests and whatnot, taking blood and giving you medication.

he couldn't let you die now, he had come so far with you.

dottore placed a warm towel on your forehead, and said, "I brought you soup. would you sit up so I could feed you?"

but, you didn't sit up. dottore reasoned that you were too tired to do so.

so, he left and came back later.

you had perked up since earlier and dottore had reheated the soup for you. he spoon fed it to you and you ate it, almost desperately.

some of the soup dripped down your chin. dottore sat the bowl down, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped it from your chin, "there you go."

he picked up the bowl once more and continued to feed you.

he wouldn't be able to imagine himself in such a situation a few months back, before you.

it seemed you had changed something in him - was he kinder now? more patient, perhaps? you had changed.

after you had finished, dottore had you lay back down in the bed and placed a cover over you.

but, you never went to sleep.

...

you watched dottore mix colorful liquids a lot.

you didn't understand why, or what the point was. but, you were content with watching his back.

you shifted in the seat you sat on, holding your hands together.

as dottore was mixing two liquids, he made an abrupt movement upon hearing you shift and the liquid splashed onto his mask.

the liquid dripped from his mask and onto his shirt- it wouldn't kill him, at least. dottore grumbled something about not startling him before removing his mask.

this was the first time you had seen his face - the first time you'd seen your creator's face and your heart rate elevated beyond what it had before.

and you stared with wide eyes at him; at his red eyes, and felt amazed - you loved your creator far more than you could verbalize.

and to see his face solidified that love you felt.

dottore took note of this and wrote down in his note - (y/n) feels love towards their creator. what makes (y/n) not a human?

he would need to figure that out next.

...

you could feel emotions, happiness, and sadness, and even love. that's what dottore found out in the past week.

physically, you were very weak and could not even carry a ten-pound weight without struggling.

your eyesight was getting better, oddly enough.

you did not need sleep. he had made you lay in bed with your eyes closed for more than thirty minutes and you never fell asleep.

he had attempted it six times now.

but, you did fall asleep in his bed today.

it was odd.

dottore stood at your side, watching as you slept in his bed, watching as you slept exactly where he did.

you were sleeping.

though, he had proven that you could not. he seemed to learn something new about you each and every day.

why did you take his heart by surprise, (y/n)?

dottore sat down by your side and watched you as you slept. he did this for two hours.

when you woke up, dottore stood and helped you out of bed. you were completely unpredictable, you were different- perhaps the most intriguing experiment of his thus far.

and he was grateful that he hadn't killed you.

so, for that, dottore hugged you.

he held you in his arms for an extended amount of time, nearly smothering you in his chest. "you are absolutely perfect, (y/n). remain the same for me, will you?"

and he was so very grateful that he did not kill you that day.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere scenarios #dottore #yandere dottore #dottore x reader #yandere dottore x reader

753 notes · View notes

wheelie-sick · 5 months ago

Text

cripple punk does not pander to the able bodied

-Tyler, the principles of cripplepunk

I feel like far too many people have caused the cripplepunk movement to stray from its original principles. people have begun to treat the hashtag as if it's a general disability tag and not a movement full of people who are united in a cause.

people have forgotten its roots

where the community was once based around radical ideas of disability now even the slightest dusting of radical ideology is smothered by dozens of people dogpiling in an effort to remove the voices of radical disabled people. you cannot express distaste for the actions of ablebodied people without a swarm of so called cripplepunks racing to justify their actions.

"the accessible stall is only for people who need it"

"well, what if an ablebodied person just feels more comfortable there?"

and

"we can't make a stall exclusive!"

as if I am not more than uncomfortable in an inaccessible stall (I can't get in) and as if ablebodied people haven't made every single other stall in the bathroom exclusive to them.

it's pandering to the ablebodied at its finest. this is a wide spread and growing problem in the community. statements that put physically disabled people first are instantly shut down. it's a violation of the core principles driving the community and the movement.

and this hasn't been without consequences. radical cripplepunks are being driven away from the movement and community by the constant onslaught of harassment by so called cripplepunks. this only furthers the problem as people who cater to the ablebodied become a larger and larger percentage of the community.

and I'm tired of it. I'm tired of the constant justification of ableism happening against me, the use of theoreticals to shut down my real problems. I'm tired of watching the same thing happen to my friends and mutuals who are constantly bombarded with hate for daring to say "ableism is bad"

I'm not leaving. but if you're doing this, you should. you don't belong in a movement you can't follow the principles of. you don't belong in the tags you can't follow the principles of. this was a movement created based on the core idea that physically disabled people come first. by putting ablebodied people above us you say that we are lesser. either follow the principles or get out.

#cripple punk #cripplepunk #cpunk

418 notes · View notes

unconventional-lawnchair · 29 days ago

Note

Hi! I saw that your requests were open and I wanted to ask for a Barty fic. Maybe reader having a similar conversation to the “like my father part 2” but with Barty. She is insecure about never dating anyone nor having even held hands romantically and thinks she will never be loved, not even noticing Barty’s love for her but Barty explodes and confesses.

AN: I saw both of your messages and thank you so much!! I'm sorry for the wait :(! I am so glad people love this Barty as much as I do. 💕

Love me, too

Barty Crouch Jr. x Fem! Reader

Wc: ~2.8k

Summary: Late nights with loose lipped Barty, a single conversation unraveled years of yearning.

CW: Suggestive, devoted!slightlyobsessive!Barty, both reader and Barty have some self loathing going on, non cannon complacent,

“Even Potter admitted it was too much.” Barty chuckled from where he was splayed out on your couch, head in your lap with a blissful look as you ran your fingers through his dark curls. “I don't think Evan should be drinking anymore muggle alcohol.”

“His poor pureblood body can't take it.” You sang to him, at least, that's what he heard as you gazed at him so sweetly. He had just gotten back from a late night excursion with Regulus and Evan, exploring more of what the muggle world had to offer.

“I resent that, I made it home, didn't I?” He hummed and you couldn't help but laugh at him, and he seemed to just relish in the sound.

Not that you ever noticed.

“Home? Barty, might I remind you, your flat is across the way?”

Barty’s grin widened as he shifted in your lap, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “What can I say?” He drawled, tilting his head back to look up at you. “Your couch is far superior to my bed. And let’s not even get started on your hospitality.”

“Hospitality?” You echoed with a laugh, playfully tugging at one of his curls. “Barty, you barged in here at Merlin-knows-what-hour, smelling like a distillery and complaining about Evan’s ‘pureblood constitution.’ How is that hospitality?”

He smirked, completely unbothered, and let out a satisfied hum as your fingers continued their gentle rhythm through his hair. “It’s the look in your eyes,” He teased, reaching up lazily to point a finger at you. “That soft little glare you always give me. You try so hard to act exasperated, but we both know you secretly love it.”

“Do I, now?” You retorted, raising an eyebrow as you gave his curls a particularly sharp tug. He winced- dramatically, of course- but his grin didn’t falter.

“Oh, absolutely,” He replied, his voice dipping into that smooth, confident tone he wielded like a weapon. “You’ve got a weak spot for me, darling. Admit it.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, tugging upward despite your best efforts. “The only weak spot I have is for the idiot who nearly fell into my azalea bush trying to unlock my neighbor’s door.”

Barty gasped, clutching his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “That was one time,” He protested, though the way his lips twitched gave him away. “And in my defense, all these flats look the same. It’s not my fault muggles lack imagination.”

“Right,” You said with mock seriousness. “Because it’s definitely the muggles’ fault you tried to pick a fight with a bush.”

He let out a low chuckle, his hand falling back onto your knee as he relaxed further against you. “You wound me, truly,” He murmured, though the blissful look on his face told a different story. “But you’re still here, still running your fingers through my hair like I’m your favorite stray.”

You shook your head, your laughter softening into something warmer as you gazed down at him. “That word is exactly right. A stray.” You teased and he gave a low sigh as you playfully pulled at the roots of his hair again.

Barty’s grin softened as he let out a low, contented sigh, tilting his head further into your touch. But his smirk quickly returned, laced with amusement as he glanced up at you. “Speaking of strays, did you know Pandora’s getting hitched? Evan’s still in denial about it, of course. Says it’s a phase.”

“Pandora’s getting married?” You asked, your fingers pausing in his hair as your brows knit together. “To Xenophilius?”

Barty hummed, tilting his head slightly into your touch, though he noticed your pause. “Yes, to none other than Xenophilius Lovegood,” he said with an exaggerated wave of his hand. “The eccentric inventor of all things absurd. Can’t you just picture it? The two of them, in some meadow, exchanging vows under a canopy made of... I don’t know, enchanted fungi?”

You snorted despite yourself. “That actually sounds about right for them,” You admitted, though your voice had a softer, contemplative tone now.

Barty’s grin faltered slightly as he caught the shift in your expression. “You alright there, darling?” He prodded, his green eyes narrowing as he studied your face. “Don’t tell me you’re about to spiral because Pandora’s beating us to the altar.”

“I’m not spiraling,” You muttered defensively, looking away from him. “I just... I don’t know. It’s weird, isn’t it? Everyone’s pairing off. Pandora’s getting married, Lily and James have Harry now, even Sirius seems to have a new date every other week. And here I am-”

“Perfectly ravishing and far too good for anyone who doesn’t grovel at your feet?” Barty supplied with a cheeky grin, though the warmth in his green eyes betrayed the sincerity under his playful tone.

You gave him a look, your lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re not helping.”

“Who says I’m trying to help?” He countered, though he shifted slightly to sit up, his hand resting on your knee now as he studied you more intently. “Alright, what’s really going on, darling? Spill.”

You hesitated, your gaze flicking away from his. “It’s nothing. I’m just... I guess I feel like I’m falling behind, you know? Everyone else seems to have their lives figured out, and I’m just... here.”

Barty’s smirk faded entirely, replaced by an expression you didn’t see often: genuine concern. “Falling behind?” He repeated, his voice softer now. “What are you on about? You’re you.”

“And what does that even mean?” You asked, your voice tinged with frustration. “Barty, I’m twenty-three, and I’ve never even been in a proper relationship. Everyone else is moving on, starting families, building lives, and I’m just... I don’t know. Stuck.”

“Stuck?” He echoed, his brows furrowing. “You? The woman who once dragged me into a Muggle club and convinced a room full of strangers I was an internationally famous wizard film star?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the memory, though it was short-lived. “That’s different, Barty. That was... fun. This feels bigger. Like I’m missing something.”

Barty tilted his head, his expression firm as he reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. “You’re not missing anything, love,” He said firmly. “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be. And for what it’s worth, I think the world would be a lot less interesting if you weren’t exactly as you are.”

You looked at him, your chest tightening at the sincerity in his voice. “You make it sound so easy,” You murmured.

“Because it is,” He said with a grin, though the softness in his eyes remained. “You’re comparing yourself to people whose lives are completely different from yours. Pandora and Xenophilius? They’re lovely, but they’re also... Pandora and Xenophilius. Lily and James? They’ve been attached at the hip since Hogwarts. None of that has anything to do with you.”

“And Sirius?” You challenged, raising an eyebrow. “Even he-”

“Sirius Black is a menace who flirts with anything that moves,” Barty interrupted, his grin turning wicked. “He couldn’t hold a proper relationship if it came with instructions and a leash. And you deserve more than that.”

“Do I?” You asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Barty’s expression softened even further, and he leaned closer, his hand still resting on your knee as he spoke. “Yes, you do,” He said firmly. “And one day, someone’s going to see that. They’re going to fall at your feet, completely and utterly unworthy of you. And you’re going to make them work for it- because that’s what you deserve. Not some half-hearted fling or rushed attempt to ‘catch up.’ Someone who sees you for exactly who you are and loves every piece of it.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you looked away, feeling a warmth spread through you that wasn’t entirely unwelcome. “You’ve got a way with words, you know that?” You muttered.

Barty’s grin softened, but his eyes glinted with that signature mischief that always seemed to spark chaos wherever he went. His hand rested on your knee, and you felt the slight twitch of his fingers, like he was holding back something bigger. He opened his mouth, hesitated for a moment, then sighed dramatically, dragging a hand through his dark curls as though the weight of his thoughts was just too much.

“You know,” He started, his tone suddenly more theatrical, “I’ve got to say, darling... the idea of someone being good enough for you? It’s laughable. Laughable. Like, truly the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. And mind you, I’ve spent an evening listening to Evan try to explain the muggle concept of a toaster.”

You blinked at him, a small laugh escaping despite your growing confusion. “Barty, what are you even-?”

“No, no, don’t interrupt,” He cut in, holding up a finger with mock seriousness, though his grin was tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Because here’s the thing: you’re not just any girl, alright? You’re not even in the same realm as the rest of us. You’re- what’s the word I’m looking for? Ethereal? Divine? A literal goddess walking among mere mortals? Yes, all of that and more.”

“Barty-”

“No!” He flung his hands up dramatically, as though warding off any protests. “You let me finish this, or so help me, I’ll combust on the spot. Now, as I was saying- goddess. Goddess. And me? What am I, huh? A stray cat on your couch. A servant in your kingdom. A bloody footman sent to fetch your tea and hope you don’t smite me with your beauty.”

You were laughing now, fully laughing, but Barty only leaned closer, his expression so full of mock tragedy it was almost convincing. “But you know what I’d do, my queen? My liege? I’d find him for you. That’s what I’d do.”

“Find who?” You asked between giggles, thoroughly lost in his spiraling monologue.

“The man!” He exclaimed, throwing his arms out so dramatically he nearly toppled off the couch. “The man who’s actually worthy of you. Because he exists somewhere, right? He has to, in some perfect alternate dimension where the universe handcraft people for each other. And you know what I’d do when I find him? I’d die, darling. I’d perish in his presence just to bring him to your doorstep. Just so you’d have someone who’s worth it. Someone who’s everything you deserve.”

“Barty,” You said, trying and failing to contain your laughter. “You’re completely mad.”

“Mad?!” he gasped, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. “No, love, I’m just devoted. Devoted to the idea that your happiness is paramount in this cruel, undeserving world. And if I can’t be the one to give it to you, then I’ll march into the depths of hell to find the one who can.”

His voice softened then, the chaos settling into something quieter, more vulnerable. “Because you deserve that, you know. You deserve to have someone who sees every bit of you, even the bits you try to hide, and still thinks you hung the bloody stars.”

Your laughter faded, replaced by a warmth spreading through your chest. “Barty,” you murmured, your voice softer now. “That’s... sweet, but also completely ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” He echoed, grinning again as he leaned back dramatically. “Of course it is. Because what’s more ridiculous than me thinking I’d ever stand a chance with you?”

The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, and his green eyes widened slightly, like he’d just realized what he’d said. His grin faltered, and he let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, well, there’s my secret out in the open. Didn’t really mean to let that slip, but here we are.”

You stared at him, your heart stuttering in your chest as his words hung in the air. “You’re serious,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, absolutely,” he replied, forcing a grin but unable to meet your gaze. “Completely, utterly serious. Mad as a hatter, clearly, but serious nonetheless.”

“Barty,” You began, but he waved his hand as if to dismiss your impending response.

“Don’t feel bad for me, darling,” He said, his voice lighter now, though there was a tremor underneath it. “I’ve made peace with it, you know? Loving you is like worshiping the sun. You don’t do it for the reward; you do it because you can’t help yourself.”

He leaned forward, wrapping his arm around the back of the couch, behind you, as his eyes traced your lips. It wasn't typical, no, he wasn't looking for a kiss. He was just admiring that pretty look of your smile, even as it faded to a more conflicted look. He gave an expression, one so devastated, as if your frown physically hurt him.

You stared at him, your chest tight with emotions you couldn’t quite name. His grin returned, smaller this time, almost sad. “And if you don’t find him tomorrow, or next week, or even next year,” He added, his voice almost a whisper now, “that’s fine, too. Because I’ll still be here. Sitting on your couch like the world’s most loyal stray, hoping I get to see you happy, even if it’s from a distance.”

Your heart was racing as his words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. He had laid himself bare before you, his usual bravado stripped away to reveal something far more vulnerable and honest. And in that moment, you couldn’t ignore the pull any longer.

“Barty,” You said softly, your hand reaching out to rest against his cheek. His eyes widened slightly, searching your face for any sign of mockery or rejection. When he found none, his lips parted, but no words came.

You smiled faintly, your thumb brushing against his cheekbone. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

His brow furrowed. “Well, that’s a promising start,” He muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sarcasm. There was an edge of uncertainty, like he didn’t dare believe what might be coming next.

“You’re an idiot,” You repeated, leaning closer, “because you think I wouldn’t want you.”

For a moment, he looked completely and utterly lost, like the meaning of your words had short-circuited his brain. “You- wait, what?”

You didn’t give him time to recover. With a soft smile, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was tentative at first, testing, but the second he realized what was happening, everything changed.

Barty surged forward, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to pull you closer as his lips moved against yours with a fervor that left you breathless. His other arm wrapped around your waist, anchoring you to him like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

When you finally pulled back for air, he was staring at you like you’d just upended his entire world. His breath was heavy, his eyes dark and intense as they roamed your face. “Say it again,” He demanded, his voice rough. “Tell me this isn’t some cruel dream I’m going to wake up from.”

You laughed softly, your fingers threading through his curls. “I want you, Barty,” You whispered, your voice steady. “I’ve always wanted you.”

Something in him seemed to snap at those words. His lips were on yours again, hotter and more demanding this time, as if he was trying to make up for all the moments he’d thought this would never happen. His hands roamed over your back, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt to touch your skin. His fingers were rough, desperate, as if he needed to feel you, to know this was real.

“You have no idea,” He murmured against your lips, his voice a low growl. “No idea how long I’ve wanted this. How many nights I’ve stayed up thinking about you.”

“Then stop wasting time,” You teased, your own hands sliding up his chest and into his hair.

He let out a low, almost guttural laugh, his lips brushing against your jawline, your neck. “You’re gonna kill me, love.”

“Not yet,” You whined back, your voice breathless.

His response was a low growl as his lips found yours again, his kiss searing and possessive. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you onto his lap fully as he deepened the kiss, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before soothing the sting with his tongue.

“Merlin,” He murmured, his voice hoarse as he trailed kisses along your jaw and down your neck. “Tell me this is real. Tell me you’re mine.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your hands framing his face as you whispered, “I’m yours, Barty. Always.”

The intensity in his eyes burned brighter at your words, and whatever restraint he’d been clinging to crumbled entirely. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you flush against him as his lips claimed yours again, leaving no room for doubt.

This wasn’t the playful, cheeky Barty you were used to. This was something raw and unrestrained, something you’d never seen before. And it left you completely and utterly undone.

“Worth the wait.” He let out a sound- almost like a whimper- “Worth every bloody second.”

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter x you #harry potter x reader #barty crouch jr fanfic #barty x reader #barty crouch fanfic #barty jr #bartemius crouch junior #bartemius crouch jr #barty crouch x reader #barty crouch jr x reader #barty crouch jr #bartemius crouch jr x reader

369 notes · View notes

connorsui · 3 months ago

Text

In the Quiet Afterhours

Zayne x reader

Synopsis: In the quiet of afterhours, you and zayne find solace in the intimacy of simple acts of care, your love unspoken yet deeply felt through the tenderness of shared moments.

Genre/warnings: pure fluff, silence of intimacy, zayne wanting to drown himself in your warmth, you are the light in this manz life, no warnings tho …zayne has suffered enough

note: I just wanna take care of him...like plz let me give my man his needed care..

w.: 1,180

There was, perhaps, no greater feeling than the quietude of love that existed in those moments where words fell away, leaving only the hum of companionship to bind two souls together. Zayne had always been a man of few words—practical in his pursuits, level-headed in his judgments, and ever the picture of self-possession. Yet, beneath that stern exterior, there was a tenderness reserved solely for you, a tenderness that revealed itself not in grand gestures or fervent declarations, but in the subtleties of shared moments, and the warmth of a gaze lingering far longer than propriety might allow.

This evening was no different, save for the weariness etched into his fine features, the faint shadows under his hazel-green eyes telling the tale of a long day spent in service to duty. He returned home as he always did—quietly, with little fanfare, his shoulders still squared despite the obvious weight that pressed upon him. And yet, when his eyes found yours, there was a softening in his expression, the firm lines of his brow relaxing as though the sight of you alone was enough to ease the burdens he carried.

"Welcome home," you murmured, the warmth of your voice drawing him nearer.

"Hello, love"

Zayne, ever pragmatic, offered a small nod, but it was the way his hand rose to brush a stray lock of hair from your cheek that spoke volumes more than any pleasantry could. There was an intimacy in that touch, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin as though reluctant to part, as though you alone were the balm to his tired soul.

He said little as you coaxed him toward the shower, his resistance nonexistent, for he had learned, in these quiet moments, to let you care for him. It was a remarkable thing, this unspoken understanding between you—a partnership built on the most delicate threads of love, trust, and respect. You, in turn, had come to know that behind Zayne’s pragmatic exterior was a man who cherished the simplicity of your presence, a man who allowed himself to be vulnerable only when the world outside had no claim on him.

The warm cascade of water was a gentle relief, steam curling in the air as you worked the soap into your hands, your fingers gliding over his tense shoulders. The muscles beneath your touch, though firm, betrayed a quiet exhaustion, and as you began to wash him, you could feel the faint tremor of relief in his body, the tension slowly unraveling.

He closed his eyes, his lips parting in a near inaudible sigh, and for a moment, he was not the stoic officer, nor the pragmatic strategist. He was simply Zayne, a man who found comfort in your touch, in the way your hands moved with careful precision over his skin, tracing the curves and lines that you had come to know so intimately.

In another’s eyes, this scene might have seemed mundane, but there was an indescribable beauty in the familiarity of it all—a beauty that lay not in grandiose acts of affection but in the quiet devotion with which you attended to one another. It was a love that needed no embellishment, no flowery language to justify its existence, for it was rooted in something far more profound.

When your hands drifted lower, the soap lathering between your fingers, Zayne’s eyes fluttered open, and there it was again—that look of quiet reverence that always seemed to accompany his gaze when it fell upon you. It was not the gaze of a man merely admiring your physical form, but the gaze of a man rediscovering you anew each time, as though the sight of you was enough to set his soul alight in ways words could never adequately express.

He said nothing, but the faintest upward curve of his lips betrayed him. “Spoiling me again?” he murmured, his voice low, teasing in a way that would have seemed foreign to anyone but you.

“And why shouldn’t I?” you replied softly, smiling as your hands worked the soap along the lines of his body. “You work so hard... At least let me take care of you.”

There was a moment, brief yet timeless, where Zayne’s eyes softened even further, the weight of his exhaustion giving way to something deeper, something far more tender. It was in these moments that you truly understood the depth of his affections. He would never speak them outright, for it was not his nature to indulge in the overt declarations that many sought in love. Yet, in the way he stood before you, allowing you to see him in his most vulnerable state, you knew. You knew that his heart, so often guarded, was entirely yours.

When it came time to wash his hair, Zayne bent forward with practiced ease, his dark hair falling over his brow as you lathered the shampoo into his scalp. You laughed, as you always did, at the way his hair fluffed beneath the suds, your amusement drawing a faint smile from him.

“You look cute like this,” you teased, the lightness in your voice a welcome contrast to the quiet of the room.

He glanced up at you, one eyebrow raised in mock indignation. “cute?...another word for you to describe me...” he echoed, his voice dry, though the glint in his hazel eyes betrayed his amusement. “If you could see how I invision you, the roles would be reversed"

Yet he made no protest, content to let you have your moment of playful teasing. For all his stoicism, Zayne had always had a soft spot for the way your laughter lit up the room, and though he would never admit it aloud, he found your teasing far more endearing than he let on.

When the roles reversed, and it was Zayne’s hands that worked the soap into your hair, he was as gentle as ever. His fingers moved with a precision that was unmistakably him, careful to ensure no soap slipped into your eyes. “I know you say I deserved to be spoiled but allow me to give that in return, ten times fold ” he murmured, his voice a quiet caress, his touch so tender it felt as though you might melt beneath it.

You didn't argue.

Once the water had washed away the last traces of soap, he reached for a towel, and in the same unhurried manner, began to dry you off with the utmost care, as though each motion was imbued with the love he so rarely spoke of. It was in these moments, in the quiet spaces between words, that you truly understood the depth of Zayne’s love for you—a love that, like the stars themselves, was constant, enduring, and far more profound than words could ever convey.

Even after the task was complete, he lingered, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close in an embrace that spoke of more than just comfort. It was connection, the unspoken promise that even in silence, his heart was yours.

His breath, soft against your neck, mingled with the warmth of your skin, and there, in the quiet afterhours of the day, there was no need for words.

Just the two of you alone.

Gimmie a tired zayne I would take care of him

#suiwrites🍒#love and deepspace x reader #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace #zayne x you #zayne x y/n #lads x reader #lnds x reader #l&ds x reader #lads zayne #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #lnds zayne x reader #l&ds zayne x reader #lads zayne x reader

400 notes · View notes

sleepymarimo · 1 year ago

Text

𝕨𝕖𝕕𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕓𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕤

summary: after becoming the greatest swordsman and learning of his bloodline, the next logical step for zoro would be to return to wano and marry into the kozuki family, right? if only you didn't look so good as a bridesmaid... pairing: zoro x afab!reader cw: mdni, vaginal sex, drunk sex, infidelity, cursing, mutual pining an: this idea has been in my head for a while, so... enjoy!

It's the day of the wedding.

Well, his wedding.

After being the world's greatest swordsman for a few years, Zoro had decided that he had wanted to return to Wano. He never explained why, barking at whoever asked him that it was none of their damn business. The crumpled up paper you'd found in the corner of the training room, which contained details about his lineage, gave you an idea of why he was adamant on returning.

The swordsman was someone you admired very much, from his sometimes frustrating temper to his unshakable will. After sailing together for so long, it was difficult to not develop feelings for him. You liked to think that the two of you were relatively close or at the very least that he tolerated your presence more than others. He never strayed too far from you and even shared his sake with you on occasion, his annoyed grumbles doing little to hide how much he enjoyed providing for you- even if it was just a sip from his bottle.

Your outlooks on life might have been different, but there was a lot to learn from one another. This learning was often done on warm nights aboard the Sunny after a few bottles of sake and a playful spar. Even when there were no conversations happening, you'd enjoy the comfortable silence and the sense of security he brought to you.

Yet, ever since he had achieved his goal of becoming the greatest swordsman, you had to admit that he seemed… different. He of course was as brash as ever, always ready to stand by the crew and act as a protector when necessary, but he seemed to be itching for something. He was lost, plain and simple.

Your mind, ever tumbling with thoughts, wonders what the green haired samurai's goal was in returning to Wano. To reconnect with his roots? To stay? You doubted he would, but the thought still made your stomach drop.

Now, a few weeks later, here you are at the wedding celebration of Zoro and soon-to-be-wife, Hiyori.

Celebration is an understatement, as the whole thing could be confused for a festival. An entire courtyard full of seats, all open to the people of Wano. Its extravagant and lavish, with vendors and performers ensuring that the party would last well into the night. The tables are piled high with a plethora of food and sake. Hiyori had wanted a grand ceremony and it was definitely something, though the large crowd and the unavoidable spotlight didn't seem like something Zoro would enjoy. After the bachelor party, which involved the guys drinking until they couldn't stand, Brook spilled to you and the girls that Zoro hadn't even been the one to propose. Allegedly, he was just going with whatever his teal-haired partner wanted, and she was happy to take over as long as she had the samurai by her side.

The whole thing didn't quite sit right with you, something gnawing at your chest. Jealousy? Worry? You weren't exactly comfortable bringing it up with anyone else, but judging by the knowing looks that Robin sent your way or how Luffy would gaze off to the side and pucker his lips at the mention of the wedding, you could tell that you weren't alone in your thoughts. While you would ask Zoro yourself, the way he responded to Luffy's meddling a couple of days ago has you hesitant to do so.

"But Zoro!" Luffy had whined, wrapping his limbs around the swordsman with a pout. "What about-" Zoro's words were spoken through clenched teeth, one of his calloused hands tightening into the fabric of Luffy's red kimono. "I dare you to keep talking."

Currently, you're chatting it up with Nami and Robin in the bride's quarters. The three of you are in the bridal party, getting ready for the celebration that is soon to be underway. As per Hiyori's request, the bridesmaids are fitted into navy blue kimonos that are woven from the softest material you've ever felt. Your hair is neatly styled and your makeup light as you help the other girls get ready for the wedding. Your chest tightens every time your eyes glance over at Hiyori, her radiant beauty and cheerful demeanor causing your confidence to waver.

The whole thing has you craving some alone time before you go out there and watch your vice captain be wed, so you stand from your mat and give Nami and Robin a small, slightly forced smile. "Hey, I'm gonna take a quick walk. D'you guys remember where that nice koi pond was at?"

Something flashes in Robin's eyes and she sits up a little straighter, giving you one of those smiles that you've come associate with trouble. She gives you directions, but they're a little all over the place and have you questioning every turn. You'd been wandering around the halls for a while now, sure that you were lost as you murmured some curses to yourself.

You're about to turn back altogether when you pick up on a familiar energy. It's Zoro's, of course it is, but there's something different about it. The closer you get to the groom's quarters, the more you pick up on the underlying currents of unease than emanate from his aura. Worry grows in your chest, as such levels of doubt and anxiety weren't usually present in the swordsman. The fact that he isn't even bothering to conceal these emotions is even more concerning, since you knew he had a very good grip on his haki.

One of your hands comes up to lightly knock on the sliding wooden door. You give a small greeting, telling him that it's you.

Zoro, who had been staring blankly at the wall with a bottle of sake in his hand, snapped out of his daze when he heard your voice. He quickly straightened up, his usual irritation returning to his face as he roped in the tendrils of unease that he had unintentionally let slip loose.

"What the hell do you want?" He grumbled, his voice a bit hoarse from the tension. He didn't bother to open the door, expecting you to understand that he wanted to be alone.

“Zoro…” You sigh, your tone laced with caution as you stand behind the door and make it clear that you won't budge until he confirms that he is alright.

"Seriously, I'm fine.” He replied, his voice strained. "Just leave me alone. I'll be out in a minute." His tone was defensive. Though he tried to hide it, he couldn't deny that the weight of the wedding and everything that came with it was overwhelming him. The anxiety and doubts were gnawing at him more than he cared to admit.

Before he could ask you to go away again, he felt a knot forming in his chest. He sighed, realizing that shutting you out wouldn't solve anything. You of all people could ground him, could be there for him when he was feeling things he had no idea how to process. It was a trait of yours he envied, your ability to show people warmth and empathy without a second thought. He needed that, needed you, needed every bit of you.

He finally slid open the door and revealed himself, looking disheveled and restless. His bandana on his arm was slightly askew, and the collar of his ceremonial kimono was tugged open, the belt loose. His green hair seemed even messier than usual, disheveled.

"What the fu-" Your eyes widen and you quickly enter the room, sliding the door closed behind you. The sight of him makes you raise your hands up to help, but they remain suspended in the air as you ponder where to even begin with him. The smell of sake is strong, his posture tense and his eyes slightly blown from the copious amounts of alcohol that's in his system.

“I don’t- Zoro, what’s going on?” You ask, your head tilting.

A light sigh tumbles past your lips as you tug his kimono closed, scrambling to soothe out any wrinkles and make him slightly more presentable. Where were the rest of the groomsmen? Grumbles are all you hear from him and it doesn’t make the process any easier. After you attempt to smoothen out his hair, he scowls and ruffles it up again.

“This whole damn ceremony.” He growls, shaking off your hands and turning on his heel as he walks to the table to open up another bottle. “It’s not-“

A long sigh is heard from him, the sound rumbling in his chest. He takes a long swig from the bottle, wiping away the excess sake from his lips using the back of his hand. He shakes his head and turns back to meet your gaze, taking a few steps forward until he’s in front of you. When he speaks, his tone is stern but forced, like he’s putting in effort to remain calm. “I’m not sure this is what I want.”

His admission leaves you momentarily stunned as you try to make sense of his words. Your hands fidget at your sides, your voice laced with concern. “The wedding? Hiyori?” His state ignites something within you, an overwhelming urge to comfort him in any way you can. "I thought you wanted to come back to Wano."

“Both.” He confesses, spitting out the word like it was made of poison. “And I did. I’m just, damn it, I don’t know! I'm already the greatest swordsman, so I should be out here and doing all this domestic shit, right? Coming back to Wano like my ancestors would've wanted? Marrying into the damn Kozuki family?"

The pieces slowly come together. A swordsman who has accomplished his dream and is unsure of what goal to chase next. On paper, it sounded ideal, like a fantasy that only one in a million could achieve. Yet, Zoro is restless and unable to feel at ease. He's taken to following expectations in a bid to fill the small gap of emptiness that came with establishing himself as the strongest swordsman, a title he fought for almost his whole life. Now that he had completed it, he struggled to find purpose, to find a use for himself other than being a fighter.

His frustration is clear, from the way his jaw tenses to the rigidity of his stance. He’s itching to release his emotional tension, his body twitching in anticipation. It's like watching a caged animal. You’re silent for a moment and sense that he has more to say. He huffs and stares down at you with an almost unreadable expression, the distant sounds of the celebration barely audible through the wooden door.

His mouth opens, before he quickly closes it and clenches his teeth together, looking away. Red tinges his cheeks, from the alcohol or something else, you cannot tell.

“Can I try something?” He asks with only a slight slur, stepping closer. His voice is low and gravelly, his eye shining with a drunken determination that hides something you can't pinpoint just yet. “To see if I’m doing the right thing? With the right person?”

You release a breath that you don’t even know you’re holding, nodding slightly. You’re unsure of what to expect, but there was nothing you wouldn’t do for your crew, especially Zoro.

“Yeah.” You affirm, your voice a bit more timid than you would’ve wanted as you feel the heat radiating from his body into yours.

He grunts in acknowledgment, his eye assessing each and every one of your movements. For a few seconds, he doesn’t do anything. As you’re about to open your mouth, he brings a hand up and places it at the nape of your neck.

You don’t even have time to ask him what he is doing before he brings his lips to yours. Your eyes flutter closed, nails digging into your palms as they tighten in response to the sensation.

It was wrong, wasn’t it? Here he was in his groom’s attire, his own wedding ceremony about to be underway. You should be pulling away, stopping him from betraying the woman he was set to marry within the hour.

Yet, when his tongue swipes across your lower lip, you part them without question. He groans. His other hand finds purchase on your hip, rubbing circles on the sensitive flesh there using his thumb. The sake from his tongue fills your tastebuds as he eagerly explores your mouth, drinking in the taste of you as if it were his own brand of liquor.

You couldn't resist him even if you tried, your hands sliding under the collar of his kimono and gliding along the skin of his shoulders and chest. He melts under your touch and takes this as a sign to bring you closer to him, eliciting a gasp from your lips when you feel his already half-hard cock rutting against your tummy.

A string of saliva tethers you two together when you finally pull away, your face hot as he stares down at you with a possessive affection. His gaze shifts from your eyes to the rest of your form, your figure accentuated by the kimono that hugs you.

The effort he puts in is minimal as he wraps his arms around you and raises you off the ground, your hands tightening on his shoulders, though he wouldn't dare drop you. He lays you on one of the soft mats which adorn the groom's quarters, kneeling between your legs and lazily grinding his hips against yours. The sensation has your back arching and your panties dampening.

"Least Hiyori can do one thing right." He drunkenly groans as he continues to grind his dick against your clothed slit, his hands firmly gripping your thighs as he looks down at you. His words are slightly slurred, the lust in them more than apparent. "Gettin' you all nice n' pretty for me, wrapped up like a fuckin' gift."

You hiss and buck your hips to meet his thrusts against your core, your hands tugging at the collars of your kimono in a bid to find some reprieve from the heat that's coursing through your veins. He gets the idea and doesn't waste another second before sliding the fabric off of your shoulders.

His steel colored eye drinks in every inch of you, his hips jolting forward when his calloused hands cup your breasts and knead the soft flesh. Your whines only increase when his thumbs tease your hardened nipples, sending waves of pleasure right to your core. You catch sight of his tongue swiping across his lip before he leans forward and captures one of the pebbled buds into his mouth.

Your hands tangle into his green hair as you hold him there, his fingers lightly tugging and rolling at one nipple while his tongue swirls greedily around the other. The groan he lets out against your breast is desperate and hungry, his hips continuing to grind against yours. He's completely hard by now, and what you feel against your clothes has you thinking about how full you're going to be.

Its already too much and you swear that you're seeing stars.

Through pants, you manage to grab his free hand in one of yours and guide it towards your aching cunt. As soon as his hand slips past the waistband of your underwear, his fingers become coated in your arousal. They swirl just outside your entrance before coming up and messily rubbing at your clit, making you gasp and clench around nothing. When he finally slides a finger inside, your walls pulse around the sudden intrusion. He shudders, wondering just how good it'll feel around his cock.

He adds another finger, then another, every thrust and curl bringing you closer and closer to the edge. When he hits a particularly sensitive spot, you choke out a low moan. "There, there, there!" You cry, feeling your thighs starting to tense.

A low, guttural noise erupts from his throat at the way your pussy is starting to tighten around his fingers. He tugs on your nipple a little harder, his teeth grazing along the other. The sound of wet slaps echo throughout the room and its downright dirty, only increasing your desire for him. Your pupils are blown when you look down at him, his ceremonial kimono making him look unbearably handsome. He makes for one hell of a groom.

When you gasp, he gives your nipple one last lick before gazing up at your face, eager to see you come undone. "C'mon dollface, give it to me." He gruffly orders, curling his fingers just a little more.

You only babble his name before everything gets hazy. Your walls clamp around him and your hips buck desperately into his fingers. The waves of pleasure cascade down your whole body and in the midst of it all, Zoro leans forward and captures your mouth in his. He eagerly swallows all of your moans and cries, continuing to thrust his fingers into you until he deemed it necessary to stop.

Satisfied by the blissed out look on your face, he tugs off his hakama and frees his cock from its confines. He gives it a stroke or two to relieve some of the tension, before he aids you in shedding the rest of your kimono.

He settles once more between your thighs. His eye is fixed on the wetness pooling in your core, his hand lazily guiding the head of his cock up and down your slit.

“Been thinkin’ about this pussy for way too long.” He growls, positioning himself in front of your entrance.

His tone has you whining, your hips gyrating in a way that has his tip slipping into your cunt. The action has him groaning, his patience finally snapping as he buries himself inside of you to the hilt.

The stretch is mind blowing, your hands coming up to his biceps and squeezing the taut muscles in an attempt to ground yourself. Your body reacts to the sudden fullness by clenching tightly around him, the spasms only serving to heighten his pleasure. The grip he has on your hips strengthens and you’re sure it’ll bruise.

In his drunken state he wastes no time, his hips hammering into yours with utter desire. His breaths are heavy as he stares down at you, enamored by how your mouth hangs open and how you cling to him so desperately.

Your back arches, hips angling in a way that has jolts of pleasure running up your spine.

“H-hah! Zoro!” You babble, your whole body hot with delight. His biceps feel like steel under your palms, the sensation making your head feel even lighter.

Your pleas spur him further and he tugs your body closer until your thighs rest snugly atop of his. He releases his grip on your hips, placing his forearms on either side of your head as his thrusts become short and forceful. The muscles in your legs tense at the new angle and you mewl.

The tip of his cock pounds into your cervix, making you let out a choked moan as the pain and pleasure mingle into one glorious sensation. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and you bury your head into his neck. With a light head, you plant sloppy, open mouthed kisses onto the sensitive flesh there in an attempt to return a fraction of the pleasure he’s giving you.

“Fuck!” A groan tears out of his throat and you can feel the vibration from his chest. “Takin’ me so well.”

A particularly sharp thrust has your breath hitching and your eyelids fluttering, your head falling back slightly. His cheek is pressed against yours, his skin cool and clammy from the thin layer of sweat that has formed on his body.

Your eyes lose focus and you pant helplessly. His earrings dangle in front of your face, the metal pieces clinking together in a rhythmic melody that rings louder than the wedding bells banging in the distance. “S-S’good!” You stammer, your grip on him tightening.

Another curse or two spills from his lips, his words grunted through clenched teeth. “Yeah? That right?” He smirks, absolutely reveling in your pleasured state, his core tightening as your body clamps around him in the most delicious way. You have him close, too close, and he doesn’t want this to be over just yet.

His cheeks are colored red when he sits up and pulls out of you. A whine falls from your mouth, pleading with him as you buck your hips for any sort of touch. Your thighs hang over his, while his frame towers over you. “M’not done with you, yet.” He roughly reassures while he brings a hand up to your thigh and rubs gentle circles.

He starts to run his other hand up and down his length, positioning the head of his cock right up against your puffy clit as he jerks himself off to the sight of you. Every stroke of his hand has your hips bucking in pleasure as his tip hits and swirls against you, the clitoral stimulation sending you spiraling. There’s not much to do other than writhe and babble praises at him as you feel your climax inching closer, his tip leaking precum right onto your wet clit. You feel another orgasm creeping up on you, the coil in your tummy ready to burst.

"C'mon!" You whine, your hips bucking as you look up at him with desire-glazed eyes. "Zoro, please! Wanna cum!"

He doesn't deny you, he never would, so he makes sure to keep hitting that spot until you're arching and mewling for him. The way your eyes screw shut and your mouth falls open has his chest swirling with pride. Just as you get pushed over the edge, he makes his move.

Without much warning other than a low growl, he folds you in half until your thighs hug your chest and your ankles rest on his shoulders. His hands are secured under your knees, ensuring that you won't wriggle out of his hold. In this position, your pussy is presented to him beautifully and he sinks into you as you cum.

Your walls are still spasming, clenching when he pries you open with his cock. The gasp that leaves your mouth is akin to a sob as he brutally hammers into you, chasing his own high. The overstimulation is too much and you try desperately to wriggle from his hold, but its useless.

Yet, when your eyes catch a glimpse at his expression, his lustful gaze and reddened cheeks, you can't help but let him crack your knees open a little wider.

"Atta girl." He praises with a half smirk, his thrusts becoming short and erratic.

His grip on your knees tightens and he throws his head back, utterly consumed by how your plush walls are squeezing him. When his breath hitches and he grunts out you name, its not long after that you feel a hotness in your core. His cum coats your insides in bursts, the thick, white ropes pooling all around. Everything sounds more wet, more raw, as he continues to shallowly thrust into you, riding out his orgasm.

He finally lets your legs go and they tremble as they settle back down around his hips. When he collapses onto you, his skin is hot against yours. He rasps out some breaths, his back slowly falling and rising. You can feel his heart beating strongly against your chest, the sensation grounding you.

His body atop of yours serves as a sort of anchor, your thighs twitching as his hips continue to gently rock against yours. He takes a few deep breaths, his head turning to the side to catch a glimpse at you. Lazily, his nose nuzzles your temple.

“Fuckin’ marry me, woman.” He grumbles, his tone stern as his eyelids flutter closed. "You're the one I want.”

Of course, you can't say no.

In your post-coital haze, you can't help but wonder what mess is going to come from this, but Zoro has always had a way of calming your ever-racing mind. So instead, you sigh, running a hand through his slightly dampened hair as a corner of your lips quirk up into a half smile. "Can we still have cake?"

He snorts in an attempt to hide his laugh, saying nothing as he flips you onto him and gives your ass a slap.

#roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #one piece x reader #one piece smut

2K notes · View notes

requiemforthepoets · 2 months ago

Text

this time, i’ll love you much better

PAIRINGS: fernando alonso x ex-wife!reader

SUMMARY: your daughter had been insistent on you letting her attend a summer camp miles away from home, she was relentless, until you had gave up and let her go.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect to the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, divorce, singe dad nando (for the meantime), piercing of ears, cutting hair, typos, not proofread, switching places, named characters (except yours), camp pranks, twin civil war, and cursing.

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hi! i had already posted this fic before, but i decided to rewrite it bc i didn’t like how i wrote it before😅 it will be turned to series (again), and indecided to chop off other stuff and expound the story more. this was inspired by the movie ‘parent trap’ (1998), which is a favorite and comfort movie of mine. also, pls don’t pierce your own ear, this was just for the sake of the story, pls have your ears pierced by a professional!

to those who had read this fic before, i hope thay you’ll like this new version. comments and reblogs are highly appreciated. enjoy reading!

ONE - CAMP WALDEN

𖤓 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒘𝒐 ☽

The warm evening breeze filtered through the lush gardens, the soft, ambience music mingling with the chatter of guests dressed in gowns and suits as elegant as the event itself. You moved gracefully, a familiar figure gliding through the crowd, your hand wrapped loosely around the delicate crystal glass filled with champagne.

Tonight was no different than most—a charity gala held in one of the grand halls that you frequented as often as you flew to Paris for fashion week. Your gown, a soft blush with intricate beading that glimmered under the lights, seemed to cast a spell on those around you, but you barely even noticed. Your mind drifted as you nodded politely at the familiar faces, murmuring polite greetings. Even here, surrounded by prestige and opulence, your thoughts inevitably lingered somewhere else, somewhere that was far away from this world.

There was a gentle tug on the fabric of your dress, and you looked down to see Jullianna standing there, her eyes bright as she held a small, sleepy smile.

“Mama,” she whispered, reaching her arms up. She was the spitting image of you in those early years, with her curious eyes and calm demeanor that could enchant anyone.

“Are you tired, my love?” You knelt down, gently pulling her into your arms, and brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

She nodded, her small hands curling into the fabric at your shoulder. “Can we go home soon?”

“Just a little longer, darling.” You whispered, smiling as you kissed the top of her head as you stood, now hold her close.

You felt a wave of guilt at keeping her here so late, but knowing these kinds of events, it is a part of your life, it is a life you led—a life you had built carefully, elegantly, for her.

The evening passed in a blur, and as you settled into the back of the car with Jullianna asleep in your arms, your mind wandered, as if often did, to Fernando. Your divorce had been for the best, you had convinced yourself of that a long time ago. His world had always been one of constant movement—racing, travel, and late nights. For you, a life of slower elegance, deeply rooted in tradition and legacy, had never meshed well with the constant, fast-paced nature of his life. It had always been difficult to explain to friends or even to yourself in those early years, but you knew it was true, that there were some things that are simply not meant to be.

Twelve years had passed since the day you made the decision, standing in that quiet empty house, feeling like half of you had walked out the door with him and Sofia. You had returned to France almost immediately, not even wanting to stay in the place you once called home with him, and eventually, your heart led you further east—to Singapore, where you thought the new environment might help you leave behind the memories that clung to you like shadows.

That night, as you tucked Jullianna into bed, you sat by her side, brushing a gentle hand through her hair, and whispering the same words you did every night in her sleep, her lips curved into a faint smile, and left you feeling a bittersweet pang.

“Je t’aime, ma belle.” You kissed her forehead softly.

As you left her room, the silence of the night settled around you. Sitting alone in your home office, your gaze fell on a photograph tucked into the corner of your shelf—a rare family picture that was taken on the twins’ first birthday. Fernando was holding Jullianna, while you held Sofia. It was before the late-night arguments that began over small things and grew louder, sharper, until one day they no longer seemed fixable.

A knock on your door had pulled you from your thoughts. It was your housekeeper, Madeline, carrying your tea in your hand.

“Madame, here’s the nightly tea that you had requested earlier.” She said, her voice soft as she set the tea down.

“Thank you so much, Madeline.” You replied and smiled warmly at her.

The moment Madeline had left your office, closing your door softly, you took a deep breath and closed your eyes. A thousand unsaid words had echoed in your head and missed memories washed over you like a tidal wave. Despite everything, there was still that part of you that would always wonder about the family you had left behind, that would forever miss the sound of Fernando’s laugh, how Sofia had wrapped her little arms around your neck as a baby, and the way you once felt—whole.

“Oh, Fernando…if only things had been different.” A single tear streaming down your face as you whispered into the night, as if speaking to the wind itself.

The words hung in the air, unanswered, as the ache in your heart settled back like a familiar companion, and as the city lights glimmered through your window, you realized that maybe, sometimes memories were meant to be kept as they were—frozen in time, a bittersweet reminder of a love that once was.

It was a warm summer afternoon, the sun streamed gently through the windows of your home office, casting a soft, golden glow over the polished mahogany furniture. Outside, the manicured gardens were in full bloom, but your focus was entirely on Jullianna, who was seated on the white velvet couch, her face alight with excitement. She had been pleading her case for the better part of an hour, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling.

“Please, Mama,” she said, voice laced with hope as she clasped her hands. “It’s just for the summer! Camp Walden is supposed to be amazing! They have horseback riding, fencing, tennis, archery, and all kinds of activities.”

You tilted your head, smiling slightly as you watched her. Jullianna’s enthusiasm was really contagious, yet the thought of sending her somewhere far away, even for just a few weeks, filled you with a strange kind of emptiness. Jullianna was your heart, your world, the one who grounded you in all these years since the divorce. Letting her go, even briefly, felt like tearing away a part of yourself.

“I don’t know, darling,” you murmured, brushing a hand over the silk of your blouse as you gathered your thoughts. “You’ve never been away from home before, and this camp is so far away. What if you need something? What if…” your voice trailed off, concern evident in every word.

“Mama, I’ll be fine, I swear!” Jullianna leaned forward, her small hands resting gently on yours as she assured you, voice steady and wise beyond her years. “You’ve always said that being independent is important, and I think I’m ready. Besides, it’ll also be a great opportunity for me to learn new things and make new friends. I promise I’ll write to you everyday!”

“You know, my love,” you said softly, “it’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that it is hard for me to imagine you being so far away, without me there to make sure you’re safe.”

“That’s why Tante said she’d check in on me. She lives so close��just an hour away! She said she’d visit every week to make sure I’m doing okay.” She said as she squeezed your hands.

That part did soothe you, if only a little. Your sister, always the adventurous one, had been quick to support the idea, insisting that it would be good for Jullianna to experience a little bit of independence. But still, the decision weighed heavily. You had spent every moment of Jullianna’s life by her side, and you had always been protective, especially after all the things that had happened with Fernando. The mere thought of her being away from you, even in a structured, prestigious environment, felt like an unfamiliar stretch.

“Alright. Just promise me one thing, Jullianna,” you finally said, soothing her hair back from her face as you looked at her with tender seriousness. “Promise me that if anything feels wrong or if you ever feel scared, you’ll tell someone right away. You’ll let Tante know, or write to me, and we’ll bring you back home.”

“I promised, Mama. I’ll tell you everything, and I’ll call Tante if I need anything.” A small smile spread across her face, and then she added softly, “thank you for letting me go.”

“Always remember, my darling,” you said, leaning down to kiss her forehead, “that there is no place I wouldn’t go to bring you back if you needed me.”

You sighed, and you pulled her for an embrace. The weight of your decision finally settling over you. As you pulled back, her eyes glistened with a mixture of excitement and understanding.

“I know, Mama. I’ll miss you so much, too.” She smiled.

You began gathering the essentials for her time at Camp Walden, and there were moments you found yourself staring at her empty bed or the corner where her favorite books were stacked, a sense of bittersweet filling up your heart. The house already felt quieter, emptier in a way you had not expected, and she hadn’t even left yet. But, you knew that letting her go, allowing her to experience this bit of independence, was necessary, even if it made your heart ache.

A few weeks later, the day arrived. You watched as the car pulled up in front of the sprawling, tree-lined grounds of Camp Walden. Other girls were already waving and chattering with excitement, and you felt a pang of wistfulness as you saw them heading off to the cabins. You stood with Jullianna, adjusting her hat, dusting off an imaginary dirt on her clothes, and brushing stray hair from her face.

“Be good, be safe, and remember everything we talked about.” You said, voice a little unsteady.

Jullianna wrapped her arms around you, her embrace warm and firm. “I’ll see you soon, Mama. Thank you for letting me come.”

You nodded, holding her tightly for a moment before letting her go. As she joined the other campers, you stayed rooted to the spot, watching her until she disappeared into the crowd. There was a strange sense of emptiness as you climbed back into the car, already missing the sound of her laughter beside you.

For now, you leaned back and sighed as you closed your eyes. The image of Jullianna’s smiling face etched into your heart, as the car began its journey back to the airport where your private jet was waiting for you to fly you back to Singapore.

It all started with a tennis match on a warm afternoon, the kind of day where the sun blazed high and relentless, and the sounds of campers filled the air around the sprawling grounds. Jullianna had signed up for the camp’s tennis tournament on a whim, hoping to try her hand at something new and shake off the lingering homesickness that came in waves when she least expected it. Her new found friends had cheered Jullianna on as she walked onto the court, her ponytail swinging and her competitive spirit freshly ignited.

Across the net, Sofia stood waiting, expression cool and confident. She had her own group of friends watching from the sidelines, whispering excitedly and glancing between the two girls with eager anticipation. From the moment the match began, it was clear as daylight that it wasn’t going to be an ordinary game. Every swing, rally, sharp glance, and return was met with a fierce determination, each of them fighting to outdo the other, and neither of them are willing to back down.

The twins’ heated match had caught other campers' attention from their respective activities and gathered around the court, sensing the tension in the air, and whispering amongst themselves. It wasn’t everyday that they witnessed a match this heated, not even during the annual camp tournaments.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Sofia taunted as she shot Jullianna a glance from across the net, smirking. It was enough of a challenge to spark something in Jullianna.

Jullianna’s eyes narrowed, gripping her tennis racket tighter as she retorted. “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

She fired a powerful serve that sent the ball rocketing across the net, forcing Sofia to scramble. But Sofia, with her practiced ease, returned it with just as much force, refusing to let Jullianna gain the upper hand.

The game went on like this, each point hard-fought and full of grit, until finally, with a final stroke, Sofia won the match. She tossed her racket aside, beaming at her friends, who cheered wildly from the sidelines. Meanwhile, Jullianna, panting and flushed with exertion, felt the bitter sting of defeat, and glared at Sofia, unable to believe that she had lost, but her pride would not let her stay silent.

“You got lucky.” Jullianna muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Oh please!” Sofia said smoothly, her tone dripping with sarcasm as her smirk widened. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”

Before Jullianna could fire back, her stance ready to pounce on Sofia if needed just to wipe off that annoying smirk of her, Stella, the camp assistant, with wide eyes and a gentle disposition, stepped forward, looking flustered. Stella glanced back and forth between the two girls, a confused expression evident on her face.

“Uh…Jullianna…Sofia…” she stammered, clearly unnerved by how alike they looked. “Girls, let’s calm down. It was just a match, let’s shake hands and put this friendly rivalry to rest, okay?”

Neither Jullianna nor Sofia seemed to hear Stella. Each of them was far too wrapped up in her annoyance and indignation, unwilling to back down. It was really uncanny—looking at a pair of mirrors that refused to acknowledge their reflection. But when Stella opened her mouth again to address it, both girls had already disappeared, leaving the camp assistant standing alone, bewildered.

What followed over the next few days was nothing short of a civil war. Each girl, armed with a fierce competitive spirit, began to pull pranks on each other, each more elaborate than the last, and Sofia, being a seasoned camper, had the advantage of knowing the camp’s hidden corners and tricks, but Jullianna proved to be a quick learner, catching up faster than anyone had anticipated.

One morning, Jullianna woke to find her cabin floor littered with marble and lego pieces, strategically placed so she’d slip the moment her feet touched the ground. She had managed to avoid the worst of it, but not without a near-fall that sent her stumbling and feet aching over the lego pieces. When she arrived at breakfast, she spotted Sofia across the mess hall, smirking and laughing with her friends, Jullianna narrowed her eyes, a silent vow forming in her head.

Oh it’s on, Sofia Alonso.

The next day, it was Jullianna’s turn to get back at Sofia. She placed a bucket of water, that was mixed with two big boxes of sugar that she and her friends were able to snatch from the camp’s kitchen, balanced precariously on the ledge. As soon as Sofia opened her cabin door and stepped through, it tipped, dousing her from head to toe, smelling and sticky because of the sugar that was mixed with the water. The sound of Jullianna and her friends’ laughter echoed from somewhere nearby, and she greeted her teeth.

The pranks continued to escalate further—each one more creative and outrageous than the last. Sofia had retaliated by sneaking a couple of live frogs into Jullianna’s cabin, knowing how she hated frogs to the core, and hiding them in her bed just before lights out. The next morning, Jullianna’s scream echoed across the campgrounds, sending other campers into fits of laughter.

This caused the other campers to watch the spectacle unfold, some even placing bets on who would win their latest round of pranks. It became the talk of the camp, and soon, even the counselors started to take notice of it, their amusement gradually giving way to concern.

However, the tipping point came on a humid afternoon when Sofia’s latest prank went awry. She had meticulously planned to replace Jullianna’s shampoo with a mixture of sticky maple syrup and glue, convinced it would finally give her the upper hand once again. But, in a twist of fate, the camp director herself, Marva, just happened to use Jullianna’s shower stall that day. The furious yelp that echoed through the cabin when the sticky concoction met her hair was one no one would forget anytime soon.

Marva stormed into the mess hall that evening, her hair ruined and still a very sticky mess despite doing her best effort to wash it out thoroughly, but the stickiness was making it impossible.

“Jullianna Young! Sofia Alonso!” She barked, voice cutting through the chatter of the other campers like a whip.

Jullianna and Sofia, who had been sitting at opposite ends of the hall, both stiffened, exchanging a glance across the room. They knew very well that they were in big trouble, but neither was prepared for the scolding that followed.

“I have had enough of this nonsense!” Marva snapped, glaring at them both. “You two have disrupted this camp long enough with your childish rivalry. I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, but whatever it is, it stops now.” Both girls just remained silent, each of them secretly fuming at the other.

Marva took a deep breath, clearly struggling to keep her composure. “Since neither of you seem capable of behaving properly, you’ll be spending the rest of your time here together in the isolation cabin. No pranks, no game, and no tennis matches. Just the two of you, side by side.”

A collective gasp rippled through the mess hall as the campers exchanged shocked glances. The isolation cabin was notorious—it is a small, rustic cabin far from the main grounds, used for serious disciplinary issues. Jullianna opened her mouth to plead her case, but Marva held up a hand, silencing her immediately.

“Not another word.” Marva sent Jullianna a pointed look. “Gather all of your things, both of you. You’ll be escorted there tonight.”

As the mess hall fell silent, the girls shot one last, seething glance at each other before trudging out of the mess hall, each silently blaming the other. Neither of them had any idea what awaited them in that cabin, but they were both determined to make sure the other regretted every prank, every stolen moment of peace.

The isolation cabin loomed under the silver light of the moon, its walls pressing down with a silence that seemed heavier than the woods surrounding it, and the faint smell of old pine mingling with the summer air drifted through the cracked window. Jullianna stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over the modest setup—- single room with two narrow beds on opposite walls, a small wooden table on each side, and the dim bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting faint shadows that only added to the sense of confinement. It is not really the kind of space where two strong-willed girls could coexist peacefully for the entire summer.

Sofia brushed past her with a sigh, already so over with what had happened during the day, and just ready to get some sleep. She set her bag on the bed near the door, her expression tense and unreadable.

“Guess you’re taking that side then.” Jullianna muttered, sliding her own bag onto the bed nearest the window, needing the slight reprieve the view might offer.

Sofia merely shrugged, glancing around the cabin before sinking down onto her bed. She did not respond, but the look she shot Jullianna spoke volumes, one of those silent, frustrated exchanges that siblings seem to master effortlessly.

The silence between them stretched, thick and awkward, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp settling in for the night. Jullianna retrieved her pen and paper, intending to start the letter she had been meaning to send to you. She hoped it would soothe the relentlessness that gnawed at her, the unsettling feeling that maybe, she had made a big mistake of coming to Camp Walden.

Jullianna began writing in a neat hand, taking care to choose her words carefully. She even hesitated, chewing on the pen cap as she considered what else she could say to you.

Dear Mama,

I’m doing well at camp, and I’m learning a lot. The counselors are nice, the activities are…fun. I had met a really terrible girl, and she’s very very rude, and got us into big trouble, and maybe you were right after all, maybe I shouldn’t have come to Camp Walden, maybe I’m not ready yet to be on my own…

The moment Jullianna saw what she had ended up writing, had been crossed out, and just sighed. Then, without any warning, the lights flicked off, plunging the cabin into darkness. Jullianna blinked, her eyes adjusting to the faint glow filtering through the windows, and realized that Sofia had casually flipped the switch from her side of the room, clearly telling her intent to sleep.

“Hey! What the hell?” Jullianna snapped, narrowing her eyes in the darkness. “I wasn’t finished.”

“It’s late,” Sofia replied evenly, her voice carrying a hint of smugness. “Some of us actually want to sleep, you pompous ass.”

“Well, I want to finish my letter.” Jullianna replied, ignoring the name calling that had been done by Sofia. “It’s not like I’m even bothering you.” She huffed, reaching for the switch by her bed and flicking it back on.

The light filled the room one more, and she caught a glimpse of Sofia’s exasperated expression before Sofia silently turned it off again. Jullianna gritted her teeth, annoyance already bubbling up as she stretched over to turn it back on, refusing to back down. Suddenly, the twins had fallen into a wordless rhythm—Sofia switching the light off, Jullianna switching it back on, they were going at it back and forth, in an escalating battle of wills. With each flip of the light switch, their resolve only seemed to deepen, neither of them are willing to be the one to concede. It was like the tennis match all over again.

“You know what? Fine!” Sofia muttered, letting out an exasperated sigh, and rolling her eyes as she settled back on her pillow, turning away from Jullianna. “Have your freaking light. Clearly, writing a letter is more important than getting any sleep.”

Jullianna’s jaw tightened, resisting the urge to retort. She knew that Sofia was only trying to get under her skin, but still, she could not ignore the sting of frustration. This was supposed to be her space, her chance to find some peace, and here was Sofia, already encroaching on it. After a pause, Jullianna went back to her letter, scribbling with more intensity than before, as if each stroke of the pen could somehow vent her irritation.

The camp is fine, though I do wish there were a little more…personal space, and that Sofia Alonso was the biggest and awful creature that had ever walked this planet!

She glanced pointedly at Sofia’s turned back. But as the silence settled back over them, Jullianna felt the weight of their situation press down, a heavy reminder of the consequences they now had to endure. She thought back to the pranks, tennis match, and the bubbling resentment she had not quite been able to shake. Now, all of it had come back to haunt her, and there was nothing either of them could do to change any of it. Marva’s words echoed in her mind—you’ll be spending the rest of your time here together in the isolation cabin.

Looking over at Sofia, wondering if she was feeling the same sting of regret. It was one thing to engage in their rivalry out on the campgrounds, where they had their own space, but here, the walls closed in, and the tension between them felt inescapable.

“You know, if this keeps up, they’ll end up calling our parents.” Sofia murmured, her voice laced with a hint of worry.

Jullianna paused, her pen hovering over the paper as he stomach somersaulted at the thought. The last thing she wanted was for you to receive a call from Marva, detailing how your daughter had been banished to the isolation cabin, as Marva listed the things she had done like it was war crimes. She couldn’t bear at the thought of you regretting the decision to let her come home, disappointing the only person she looked up to more than anyone else in the world. To more than anyone else in the world.

“Yeah, well,” Jullianna replied, her bravado faltering, “I don’t think either of us wants that.”

Sofia glanced over her shoulder, gaze softer, almost resigned. “So maybe we should just…stay out of each other’s way.”

Jullianna nodded in agreement, feeling a reluctant agreement settled between them, though the air was still thick with tension. They did not say another that night. She decided to write a new letter and had finished it in silence, leaving out the parts about the pranks and rivalry, keeping the tone cheerful and optimistic for your sake.

When Jullianna finally set the letter aside and turned off her bedside light, she could feel Sofia’s presence only a few feet away, a constant reminder of the thin line they both now walked. They had no choice but to endure this together, their own choice binding them to this small cabin in the middle of the woods.

As Jullianna lay awake, staring at the ceiling, Jullianna realized just how long the summer ahead truly felt.

The late afternoon sun spilled through the cabin window, casting a soft golden glow that painted the room in a warm light. Jullianna sat cross-legged on her bed, journal opened in her lap as she carefully sorted through the small collection of photos she had brought with her from home. The journal was more than just a pastime, it was her link to everything familiar, a little piece of home could flip through whenever she missed you or the world that was beyond camp.

One by one, she arranged the photos—old photos of you and her, her friends from school, and places she loved most. There was one photograph, however, that she always kept tucked at the back, out of sight but never truly out of mind. It was an old photo of her father, Fernando, one taken long before things had changed so drastically for the worst. The picture had been ripped down in the middle, jagged separating him from the rest of the family photo, leaving only his half behind.

Jullianna stared at it for a moment, her fingertips tracing the worn edges, a strange mixture of warmth and sadness filling her chest. She missed him, even if she could hardly remember him. She missed what might have been. As she was placing the photograph ik the journal, she felt a presence near her, and she glanced up to find Sofia watching her curiously. Sofia’s expression was unreadable, but her gaze was sharp, focused on the photo in Jullianna’s hand.

“What’s that?” Sofia asked, a hint of something suspicious in her voice.

“Just…” Jullianna hesitated, holding the journal protectively against her chest. “Some photos from home.” She replied, hoping that her reply would appease Sofia’s curiosity.

“Let me see.” Sofia insisted, taking a step closer.

Before Jullianna could even form a response, Sofia had already leaned over and snatched the photo from her hands, holding it up to the light. Her eyes scanned the picture, and Jullianna could see the flicker of confusion cross her face, followed by something deeper—something darker.

“Why the hell do you have a picture of my father?” Sofia’s voice was low, tense, laced with a disbelief that quickly turned into anger.

Her hands clenched around the edges of the photo as if holding onto it hurt, but she could not let go. Jullianna’s mouth fell open, her mind reeling.

“Your father?” She repeated, feeling a sudden wave of confusion crash over her. “That’s my father.”

“No, this is my dad! Why the hell do you have this picture?” Her tone grew louder, angrier, each word brimming with accusation, as if Jullianna had stolen something from her. “You had no right to—”

“Sofia,” Jullianna’s voice cut through, steady yet trembling, she’s not really used to confrontations like this. “I’m telling you the truth, he’s my father too.” Her words hung heavy in the air, and she could see the rage in Sofia’s face waver, replaced by a flash of doubt.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, both twins were processing the words that had just been exchanged. Then, as if some unspoken understanding passed between them, Sofia reached into her own things, rifling through until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a photograph of her own, one that looked hauntingly familiar. It was an image of you, torn the same way in the middle, only this time, the tear separated you from the man beside.

“This…this is my other picture.” She whispered as she held up the photo, hand shaking and voice barely above breath.

Jullianna took in the image, her heart pounding as she realized what it meant. The jagged tear in each of their photos matched perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle meant to be joined. The world seemed to tilt around her, air getting heavy with the enormity of the truth sinking in.

All those years, all the questions she had never had any answers to—they were standing right in front of her, and her mirror image was the one holding them.

“You’re…” Jullianna’s voice broke, her throat tight as the words struggled to find their way out. “We’re…twins.”

Sofia’s face was a mixture of shock and disbelief. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but no words came. They both stood there, frozen, each searching for the other’s face for answers, for some kind of proof that this was not just a strange dream.

Jullianna sank down on the edge of her bed, staring at the two photographs, Fernando in one, and you in the other, torn apart but now brought together by the both of them. The silence between the twins was thick, heavy with the weight of everything they had missed, everything they hadn’t known until now.

“I don’t understand,” Sofia finally said, voice softer, almost vulnerable. “Why didn’t they tell us anything? Why were we…separated?”

“I don’t know. I never even knew you existed, it was just always me and Mama…” she trailed off, voice trembling, the realization settling painfully in her heart.

Sofia sat down across from her, a flicker of hurt crossing her face. “For me, it’s always been just me and Papa. I thought that was it.”

Both fell silent again, each lost in their own thoughts, the reality of their shared past unraveling slowly before them. Jullianna could see the same ache reflected in Sofia’s eyes, a sense of loss neither of them had expected to find. They had grown up worlds apart, yet they had been carrying the same missing piece all along, unaware that it belonged to each other.

Sofia reached out hesitantly, her hand hovering over the two torn photos, as if by placing them together, she could somehow bridge the gap between their two lives.

“Maybe,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion, “maybe it’s not too late for us, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” she said softly, voice steady and certain. “Maybe it isn’t.”

Later that evening, when the cabin was already dark and quiet, with only the sounds of occasional rustle of leaves outside and soft breaths of the twins can be heard as they lay in their separate beds, each lost in their own thoughts. Jullianna had just started drifting off to sleep when she heard a small whisper.

Hey, psst!” Sofia called, her voice low, but insistent.

Jullianna rolled over, groaning softly. “What do you want, Sofia? I’m trying to sleep.”

“I have an idea, a very brilliant one.” She leaned up on her elbow, a spark of excitement lighting up her face, even in the dim light.

She opened one eye, squinting at her sister. “Can this please wait until the morning? When I’m fully rested and can absorb information properly?”

“No! Come on, it’ll just take a second.” Sofia pleaded.

“Fine!” Jullianna finally gave in. “If this brilliant idea of yours is anything like your last brilliant idea that landed us in this cabin, consider me not interested.” She added, voice laced with a hint of sarcasm.

“Damn, now we know which twin has a stick up in their ass all the time.” Sofia snickered.

Jullianna gasped, looking really appalled. “I do not have a stick up in my ass, thank you very much!”

“Whatever,” Sofia rolled her eyes, “but come on! I swear this one’s different. Just hear me out.”

Jullianna sighed, sitting up as well, rubbing her eyes and reluctantly giving her attention to her sister. “Alright, I’m listening. What’s this brilliant idea of yours?”

Sofia leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We should switch places.”

“Switch places?” Jullianna blinked, staring at her sister like she had suddenly grown two heads. “You mean you want me to go live with Papa, and you’ll go live with Mama?”

She nodded eagerly, her eyes gleaming with excitement at the idea. “Exactly! Think about it, Jullianna! I’ve been dying to meet her my whole life, and don’t you want to know what it’s like to live with Papa? Even just for a little while?”

“Are you insane in the head?” Jullianna looked at Sofia as if she were out of her mind. “How on earth would we pull something off like that? The second I step off the plane, Mama will know I’m not me. We may look alike, but there are a thousand little things she’d notice right away.”

But Sofia was not ready to give up that easily. She shifted closer, her face determined. “Not if I practice. I can learn your habits, your mannerisms, everything. I’ve watched you all summer, and I already know how you talk and walk. I can definitely pull this off, I know I can.”

“And what about me?” Jullianna let out a huff of disbelief, crossing her arms over her chest. “How am I supposed to fool Papa? What if he asks me about something I don’t know or realizes I’m not you?”

Sofia’s face softened, and for a moment, she looked almost vulnerable. “Well, I don’t think he would. He’s always away and busy. He wouldn’t even notice.”

“You really think you can fool Mama? You think you know her that well?” Jullianna’s expression shifted, a hint of curiosity into her voice.

“I know her well enough to know that she loves you so much. I’ve heard stories from Papa about how she’s so elegant, so graceful, and I’ve imagined what it would be like to meet her a million times.” Sofia said earnestly. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to make it work.”

Jullianna felt a pang in her chest at the thought of Sofia’s longing, the years they had missed out on with each other, and with their parents. She tried to shake off the bittersweet feeling, but it lingered, tugging at her heart.

“Sofia…” she started, her voice soft. “This is really crazy, and dangerous. A little bit ridiculous as well if I'm being honest.”

Sofia gave her a small, hopeful smile. “So, you up for it?”

Jullianna bit her lip, torn between Sofia’s skepticism and the growing sense of curiosity. She had always wondered about Fernando, about what kind of person he was, what it would be like to spend time with their father—and as much as she hated to admit it, there was a part of her that wanted to see it for herself.

Finally, she let out a sigh, throwing her hands up in resignation. “Fine. Fine, I’ll do it. But if this all backfires, I’m fully blaming you.”

Sofia’s face lit up, and without any warning, she launched herself across the small space, wrapping her arms around Jullianna in a tight hug.

“Thank you, thank you!” She squealed. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Jullianna, unaccustomed to the sudden skinship, hugged her back, though she couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she whispered, “you better not mess this up.”

“Oh, don’t worry your pompous ass about it.” Sofia pulled back, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Will you stop calling me that?” Jullianna glared at her.

“Naur.” Sofia teased. “But, it was nice doing business with you, partner!”

“I should’ve drafted an agreement before I had agreed to this plan.” Jullianna murmured.

“Too late, no backsies!” Sofia stuck her tongue out at Jullianna.

She just shook her head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Let’s just hope this brilliant idea of yours doesn’t end in total disaster.”

The isolation cabin was not exactly the punishment that Marva, the camp director, had intended for it to be, at least not to the twins. Sure, they were banned from most camp activities and had been relegated to kitchen duties—a consequence they were constantly reminded of as they scrubbed pots and peeled endless potatoes, but it was during these hours of exile that they found an unexpected advantage. They basically had the entire summer to prepare for their switch, and with no one or any camp activities to interrupt, they were free to study each other’s lives without interference.

Every morning, after finishing up in the kitchen, they would take their usual spot at the “isolation cabin table,” a small stable in the farthest corner of the mess hall. The staff had set it aside specifically for them, as if to let everyone know that they were troublemakers. But to the twins, it felt like it was their own private headquarters, a place where they could whisper and plan without anyone overhearing.

One afternoon, with the other campers busy with archery and canoeing, Sofia and Julianna were seated at their table, surrounded by a scattered pile of photographs, notepaper, and a few hastily drawn diagrams.

“Alright,” Sofia said, leaning over one of the photos, her eyes focused. “This is Papa’s sister. Tía Lorena, and she’s a doctor. She really loves giving expensive gifts, so she pretty much spoils us rotten.” She pointed to a woman in the photograph, a glamorous brunette with a gorgeous smile.

Jullianna raised an eyebrow. “How expensive?”

“Well, considering she’s very successful, gifts like Chanel, Bvlgari, Dior, and YSL to name a few.” Sofia explained. “Though I’m thankful for the gifts, I'm never really the type of girl to bask myself in luxury items, though I know very well that once she meets you as Jullianna, you’ll really get along well. Since you’re so…posh.”

She looked at Sofia, sending her a playful offended look. “I’m not posh. But got it, an expensive aunt who gives posh gifts. Noted.”

They exchanged stories, going back and forth, each trying to explain the intricacies of their own families. Sofia’s face softened as she looked over at Jullianna, sensing the curiosity in her eyes every time she spoke of their father.

“Look,” Sofia said, reaching over and handing her a photo of Fernando, smiling and holding up a trophy on the podium. “This is Papa at his happiest, when he’s racing. That’s what he lives for, and I think he’d rather be on the track than anywhere else.”

Jullianna gently took the photo from Sofia, studying it closely. She noticed the proud look in Fernando’s eyes, the way he seemed to radiate energy and excitement.

“He looks…different than I expected. He looks…younger.” Jullianna said, looking at the photo with a longing smile.

“Yeah,” Sofia replied softly, her gaze turning a bit wistful. “That’s the side of him I wish you could have seen sooner. I think you’d like him very much, and he’s also very funny. Cracking a bunch of dad jokes.”

Jullianna gave her a small nod, tucking the photo away carefully in her notebook. It was her turn, and she held up a photo of you, looking radiant at a charity gala, draped in a timeless gown, surrounded by a sea of admiring eyes.

“This is Mama at one of her events. She’s, well, she’s always the center of attention, but not in a loud way. She doesn’t have to try, people just…gravitate to her.” Jullianna explained, and pulled out a photo again. It was one of your poster ads for Dior, where you had been asked to be their brand ambassador.

Sofia stared at the photo, her face filled with wonder, and whispered. “She looks like a queen.”

“She kind of is,” Jullianna replied with a laugh. “She can be strict, though. Like, if my room isn’t perfect, I always hear about it.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Papa’s the opposite. He barely notices if there’s a mess, as long as it’s not his stuff.”

“Also, before I forget,” Jullianna pulled out a photo of your sister. “This is Tante Clarisse, older sister. She’s a really cool aunt, very adventurous, and I know that when she meets you as you, you’ll get along really well.”

“Would you look at that, our parents have the exact opposite of their siblings.” Both of the twins laughed at Sofia’s remarks. “But tell me more about Mama, what is the first thing she does every morning?”

“Hmm, the first thing Mama does every morning is make tea. Always black tea, no milk, just a bit of honey. She stands by the window, looking out at the garden while she drinks it.” Jullianna smiled.

“Got it,” Sofia nodded, mentally filing each detail away. “What is she like? I mean, what’s she like when it’s just you two?”

“Well, she’s calm. Gentle, but not in a weak way. She’s strong, you’d see it in the way she handles everything, like she’s always a step ahead of everyone else.” Jullianna’s face softened, voice becoming wistful. “It’s like everything is just…right. She’s amazing, really.”

“She sounds wonderful.” Sofia murmured, almost to herself.

“But anyway, your turn!” Jullianna quickly cleared her throat, wanting to break the quiet weight between them. “What’s Papa like? I mean, really like, not just what you tell people.”

“Oh, Papa…he’s complicated.” Sofia leaned back in her chair, a smile tugging at her lips. “Always has a million things going on in his head, but he’s also weirdly sentimental. Like, he keeps these little trinkets, souvenirs from places he’s raced.”

“He doesn’t say much, but he’s always present. When he’s around, you know he’s paying attention, like you’re the only person in the world.” She added.

Jullianna tilted her head, trying to picture the man she had only known in glimpses, piecing together this new layer of Sofia was giving her. You never really liked to talk about Fernando, and Jullianna just gave up on asking you about him, the picture was already enough for her to know that she has a father.

“That sounds…really nice.” She said softly, almost as if she were testing the words.

Sofia grinned, a little twinkle of pride in her eyes. “Yeah, he’s…he’s special. But don’t tell him I said that, or he’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

The two of them shared a quiet laugh, finding comfort in the strange, shared bond they were piecing together over their parents.

As they continued trading details, Sofia would occasionally quiz Jullianna. “So, what does Papa do on Sunday mornings when it’s his off-season?”

“You both spend time at Abuelo and Abuela’s home, and go to his private race track for a few sessions.” Jullianna replied confidently.

“Close enough,” Sofia said, satisfied.

“Alright, your turn. What’s Mama’s favorite flower?” Jullianna asked.

Sofia paused, trying to recall the details they had gone over. “Orchids. White ones.”

Jullianna nodded, impressed. “Perfect. She always loved white orchids, didn’t she? She even has one in her home office and bedroom.”

It was strange, Jullianna thought, to feel this kind of connection to someone she had never known, to see these glimpses of her family through Sofia’s stories. She could see Sofia had felt the same, a mix of wonder and longing that neither of them could fully explain.

Sofia suddenly leaned over the table, meeting Jullianna’s eyes. “You know, if this works, if we really pull this off, we’re going to know more about each other’s families than they know about us.”

“Good. That means we’re doing it right.” Jullianna smiled, her eyes glinting with the spark of shared adventure.

During a late evening, as the moon illuminated inside of the isolation cabin’s window, Sofia glanced over at Jullianna with a look of steely determination.

“You know, if we’re going to pull this off, we have to go all in.” She said, her gaze flickering to Jullianna’s long, wavy hair.

“No way! You want me to cut it?” Jullianna reached up, fingers grazing her dark, carefully maintained locks. “I don’t think I can do that. Mama…she loves my hair.”

“I get it, but my hair’s short,” Sofia sighed, her face softening for a moment. “And you can’t exactly show up with long hair when it’s supposed to be, well, me. You’re the one who said she’s notice things, right? The tiniest details?”

Sofia pointed to her own short-cropped style, which was edgy and practical, shaped by years of living with Fernando’s ‘come as you are’ approach. Jullianna bit her lip, staring at herself in the mirror—it was true, you would instantly pick up on something as obvious as a haircut. But the thought of losing her hair, her one piece of comfort in an otherwise chaotic world, made her heart twist.

Sofia saw the hesitation softened her voice, trying to convince her. “Look, I know it’s hard. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was necessary. Besides, hair grows back, just think of it as…as a part of the adventure.”

“Easy for you to say! You’re used to it.” Jullianna sighed, crossing her arms defensively.

“True. But that’s why I’m asking. If we’re really going to do this, it has to be perfect. Foolproof.” She paused, then added, “and…you’re going to have to get your ears pierced too.”

Jullianna’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock. “Wait, what?! Pierced ears?! No. Absolutely not! There is a reason why I never had my ears pierced, despite how Mama told me that I should.”

“Well, Papa definitely won’t let me go back without my ear pierced.” Sofia chuckled, shaking her head. “If you show up with unpierced ears, he’ll notice immediately that it is not his daughter.”

Jullianna groaned, staring back at the mirror. It was more than a little daunting, the idea of changing herself so much for a plan that she was not even sure would work. She had always hated needles so much, that is why despite how much you convince her to have her ears pierced so that she can no longer use magnetic earrings, a simple no would always be her answer. Until you had just stopped convincing him.

But as she glanced over at Sofia, who wore an expression of quiet, almost desperate determination, something softened within her. They were already at 85% of their plan, it’s too late to back out now. This was not just an adventure for Sofia, it was her once in a lifetime chance to meet you—the mother she had never really known.

“Fine, okay.” Jullianna finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s do it.”

Sofia’s face lit up with relief and excitement. She jumped up, giving Jullianna an impulsive hug. “Thank you! This is going to be amazing, I promise!”

Jullianna couldn’t help but smile. The feeling of Sofia’s arms around her, the warmth of this new sisterly bond, somehow made the whole ordeal seem worth it. Worth conquering over her fear of needles.

A few hours later, Julluanna sat stiffly on a wooden chair, with Sofia standing beside her with a pair of scissors that he had managed to borrow from the camp’s art shed. Jullianna closed her eyes, as strands of her long hair tumbled down on the cabin floor.

As the pile of hair grew, Jullianna tried to focus on the bigger picture, on why she was doing this. She kept imagining your reaction when you see her, or rather, when you see Sofia, standing in her place, with every detail exactly right. She imagined what it would be like to stand in her father’s world, if only for a little while.

“Alright,” she said, after what felt like an eternity, Sofia finally stepped back, setting the scissors aside. “Look!”

Jullianna opened her eyes slowly, gazing at her reflection in the cabin mirror. With the shorter, choppy hairstyle, she barely recognized herself, and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Sofia, she saw it—the uncanny, almost eerie resemblance between them.

“We look…we look so much alike, oh my god.” Jullianna murmured, reaching up to touch her newly short hair.

Sofia grinned, a look of triumph spreading across her face. “Told you, we could pull this off.”

“Alright, you win. I’m all in.” Jullianna couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head.

“Now, for the earrings,” Sofia said, holding up the studs with a small, apologetic smile. “You’re doing great, I promise. This is the last and final step.”

Jullianna clenched her jaw but nodded. “Just make it quick, okay?”

Sofia gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, then carefully pierced her ears with a sharp needle, one at a time. It was quick, a short sting, that felt like a bite of an ant, and then it was over. Jullianna touches her new earrings, feeling their cool surface against her skin.

“There. Now we’re ready!” Sofia grinned, stepping back and looking over.

They both stood together in front of the mirror, side by side, transformed into mirror images of each other, the plan they had once imagined as impossible now felt inevitable.

It was already the last day of camp. The final morning was thick with an anxious energy, as if the summer had conspired with the twins’ hearts to make this moment feel both thrilling and terrifying. They had come a long way from that heated tennis match, and now, every glance, every movement was carefully practiced to be someone else. It was very strange and surreal, to think that they were about to walk into the lives they had only ever imagined, guided only by each other’s stories, photos, and memories.

Sofia glanced at the small suitcase she had packed with Jullianna’s things. Her fingers trembled slightly as she zipped it up, feeling the weight of what they were about to do settle heavily in her stomach. She had dreamt about meeting you so many times, but now that the moment was within reach, the reality was daunting. She was about to step into a world so different from her own. What if I slipped up? What if you noticed right away?

“Hey, you’re going to do great. Just remember what we practiced. You’ve got this.” Jullianna said softly, offering a reassuring smile.

Sofia looked at her, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. “What if she realized it’s not you the second I walk through the door? You told me that she notices everything.”

“You’ll be okay,” Jullianna replied, trying to project confidence. “And if anything feels off, just call me, okay? I’ll be there. It’s just a summer, long enough to get some answers, but not so long that anyone gets hurt.”

At that moment, Stella’s voice called out through the megaphone, her tone brisk, business-like. “Jullianna Young! Your car’s here, we’re ready when you are!��

“That’s you!” Jullianna said as they shared a quick, almost panicked look. Her voice became urgent as she pressed her passport and plane ticket into Sofia’s hands, along with her small backpack. “Here. You’re going to need these. Remember, look through all the photos in my journal, it’s where I keep everything, all my photos of who’s who, little habits, and notes. It should be able to help you.”

Sofia nodded as she took a deep breath. “Don’t forget to find out why they split up. I don’t remember much, but I think…I think it’s important.”

“I’ll do my best.” Jullianna’s expression softened. “And Sofia, make sure you keep up with my French homework, alright? Mama won’t let you hear the end of it if you slip, and give her a big hug for me.” She forced a small laugh, trying to mask her own nerves.

“Ms. Young! The car is waiting, come on.” Stella’s voice interrupted again, a touch more insistent this time.”

“Good luck, Jullianna,” she whispered as she hugged Jullianna tightly, one last time. “Thank you for giving me this chance. Please hug Papa for me, as well.”

“Good luck to you too,” Jullianna hugged her back with the same intensity, feeling a surge of emotions she hadn’t expected. “And I will. Remember, it’s just summer. But make the most of it, okay?”

Sofia nodded, blinking back the sudden sting of tears, and with one last look at Jullianna, she walked towards the car and went inside. Jullianna stood there, left with a mixture of excitement, fear, and a strange sense of loss as the car drove away.

Jullianna was about to meet her father in a couple of hours, for the first time as herself but not quite herself, to step into a world she knew through faded photos and stories whispered late at night.

205 notes · View notes

definitelynotshouting · 3 months ago

Text

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.

#goodtimeswithscar #grian #scarian #desert duo #trafficshipping #trafficblr #secret life #life series #mcyt #mcyt fic #mcytblr #shouting speaks #I SPENT WAY TOO LONG ON THIS FRANKLY #yay for. yet another speed-ran secret life fic tho??? gtws what cocomelon shit r u DOING 2 me......#my fics #will go up on ao3 later. when im alive again. YEEHAW #EDIT: THIS POSTED FROM DRAFTS OH MYGOOOOODS WELP AT LEAST THIS WILL KEEP ME FROM CONTINUING TO FIDDLE WITH IT. GOOD FUCKKNG NIGHT #txt

216 notes · View notes

mothandpidgeon · 2 months ago

Text

Nine Lives (witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader) - Part 2

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader

rating: T (evenual E) MDNI

summary: As you came into your powers and your curves filled in, Ezra realized he feelings for you were more than just affection. The only problem? He's a 300 year old crused witch. Oh, and he's a cat.

contents: age gap (like 300 years), alcohol, jealousy, angst, slow burn, yearning, probably anachronistic witchy stuff, love triangle (quadrangle?), Ezra is a cat, he won't be forever, this isnt a beastiality thing, moth never uses y/n.

wc: 3.4k

a/n: Thank you to everyone that read part 1!! I'm so pleased that you're enjoying it so far! I really would've liked to let this part simmer a little longer but I'm holding myself to this publishing schedule. It's time to yeet this into the world. I'd love to know what you think. Your comments and reblogs give me so much joy!

Thank you @lowlights for the beta and help with witchy stuff. Thank you @moonlitbirdie @schnarfer and @whocaresstillthelouvre for listening to me bitch about this and supporting me always.

“Don’t you look nice,” Aunt Margot says.

You’re putting the finishing touches on your make up in the Page’s office. Usually you’d go back upstairs but you don’t feel like hearing it from Ezra.

“Thanks. I have a date,” you say, packing your mascara in your purse.

“Oh,” she replies, not hiding her disappointment in the slightest.

You hadn’t intended to see Connor again but when he texted you, you couldn’t think of a good reason not to. He invited you to his place to check out his vinyl collection which sounds like an insufferable version of Netflix and Chill but you have no plans to listen to a single record. You just want to fuck in his bed and avoid any drama with Ezra.

“Well I hope you’ll put as much effort in for the equinox,” she says. She flips the sign in the door from open to closed then snaps her fingers to turn off the overhead lights.

You and Margot host the coven for the equinox each year which already means extra preparations in addition to work at the bookshop.

“Why would I do that?” you ask. You don’t wear make up for moon rituals, don’t wear much of anything at all.

“Esme is bringing River,” she says with a casual shrug.

“No” you groan.

“He’s visiting from Ireland,” she tells you.

The last time you saw Esme’s grandson you were both in high school. River was built like a string bean, his upper lip dusted with the saddest mustache— if you could even call it that. He reeked of some badly brewed potion that was supposed to attract lovers. You still gagged when you smelled licorice root.

“Good for him,” you say. “Please do not set me up with River.”

“I’m not a matchmaker, dear. I’m just trying to expand your sexual horizons,” Margot replies.

Suddenly, Connor’s vinyls don’t sound so bad after all.

—

Ezra pads through crystals and altar bells. Everything’s been laid out on Aunt Margot’s paisley scarves— scrying bowls and athame blades and jars of rain water all waiting to be charged by the moon of the autumn equinox.

It’s just after midnight and the witches of your coven are gathered in a small clearing far enough into the woods that stray mortals won’t stumble upon them. The air smells fresh and cold like mountain spring water. A bonfire crackles, layered with herbs and pine needles.

The waning moon feels heavy and close like it might just fall out of the sky and nick Ezra’s ear. It makes him feel uneasy. Then again, it’s hard to enjoy these rituals when he can’t participate the way he once did.

Ezra watches you offer mulled wine to Esme and River, steaming cups scented with cinnamon balanced on an antique silver tray. You look beautiful in your simple white dress. It glows in the moonlight and he can see your body silhouetted beneath the fabric of its long skirt by the fire.

He’s never cared much for Esme but, then again, he doesn’t have many kind words for any of the Elders even if the ones that cursed him are long dead. Even if he deserved that curse. She wears her long hair coiled on top of her head, a jade hair pin perched in its nest the same way her familiar, a tired old owl, watches from the branch of one of the trees.

Ezra’s attention isn’t with Esme tonight. He’s keeping a close eye on her grandson.

“He totally sucks. Please don’t leave me alone with him,” you’d implored.

Ezra would be wary of him whether or not you’d asked. River is nothing like how you’ve remembered him to Ezra. He must’ve done a lot of growing up since your last encounter. Tall and lean with thick waves of auburn hair. He’s the kind of witch that even Ezra would have taken to bed when he was human.

He sees the way River looks at you, watches him turn the charm on as he smiles. River’s eyes travel down your body and Ezra knows exactly what he sees. Waves of hot jealousy consume Ezra from nose to tail. For a moment, he worries he’ll get another thousand years added on to his sentence.

After some small talk, Esme wanders away and that's Ezra’s cue. He slinks up between you and River, rubbing up against your legs to let you know he’s ready to bail you out.

River swallows his drink with a chuckle.

“That tastes just how I remember it. Me and Moss used to sneak glasses of Ariadne’s mulled wine when we were thirteen,” he explains.

“Me too. Although I’m pretty sure Margot knew,” you say with a laugh.

“Little mage, you asked me to fetch you when the oils were ready,” Ezra says.

“Oh,” you say, throwing a self conscious smile at River. “I’ll go in a minute, Ez.”

“Margot could use your assistance,” Ezra adds.

“Why don’t you go help her and I’ll be there soon,” you suggest.

Ezra can’t help but glare up at River.

“Would that I had opposable thumbs,” he responds.

You laugh. River doesn’t. You crouch down and glide your hand down Ezra’s spine.

“It’s okay, Ez. I’m good,” you tell him and you wink at him.

His blood turns molten as you turn back to River and continue your conversation. He wants to hiss and claw at him, draw blood. It feels like you’re slipping through his fingers not that he ever held a claim. Not that he even has fingers anymore. He’s completely powerless, standing at your feet like the dumb animal he is.

Rather than watch you moony over River, Ezra turns away and slinks off to the edge of the gathering to sulk. The fire’s warmth doesn’t quite reach and he presses back his ears to stave off autumn’s chill. He can’t run off into the woods the way he’d like to, not without raising questions from the other witches, make you look like you can’t control your familiar.

He can’t stop his eyes from wandering back to you. Your head thrown back in laughter, your hand on River’s forearm. Each moment of your joy is like a knife in his heart.

Ezra’s eventually relegated to the circle where the familiars commiserate. River’s is a jet black bird named Rhea who turns her beak up at him. He’s not one of them, not really. He was human himself with a familiar of his own but that’s not the only reason why they scorn him. They all know that he’s the worst kind of witch.

There are many reasons why a witch might be turned into a cat but there’s only one crime that was punished with 1000 years— murder. And not just any murder. Ezra desecrated the life of another witch and, no matter how loyally he serves you, he’ll always have that stain.

The rituals are done, the chanting. The embers from the fire float up through the trees towards the fat moon. Then the dancing begins. It’s erratic and joyful, Ezra can remember the ecstasy of it in his bones. Esme lets down her white hair and one by one the witches disrobe.

He hears your laughter as you spin, shoulders shrugging with the pulse of the magic that swirls around the bonfire.

He knows he shouldn’t look at you like that. Not you. Not here. You’re not putting on a show, you’re doing your magic. But the way your body moves against the glow of the fire is its own enchantment. He could worship you like the moon.

The spell is broken just as quickly. River’s right beside you, bare skin radiant, muscles rippling with his own rhythm. His fingers tangle with yours and Ezra feels acid in his throat.

The whole night becomes an assault on his senses. The sound of chanting rises, the old words frantic and savage. Amber and patchouli mix with the woodsmoke to choke him. Grotesque shadows fall over the faces of the witches like a carnival of horrors. And then there’s you— incandescent and naked and whispering something in River’s ear that has him grinning. Ezra’s hair stands on end.

“Come dance with me!” you giggle as you leave the circle of merriment. Your teeth are stained purple, drunk on wine and magic.

“I’m quite content here,” Ezra lies.

“Are you having fun?” You ask but you don’t wait for his answer. “River is…wow. He did not look like that when we were kids.”

You pick Ezra up and whirl around in a circle. He smells the incense of your skin, the alcohol on your breath.

“You’re going to get your wish. I’m finally going to fuck a proper witch!” you say.

You toss Ezra in the air and catch him. The bile has come so far up his throat it’s an absolutely nauseating sensation.

“Enough!” Ezra hisses. He swats at you with his claws bared.

You yelp and drop him. Before he even hits the ground, he feels it— a searing hot pain that makes his back arch. You’re defending yourself with your powers like a reflex. He lets out a yowl and just as quickly it passes.

Ezra staggers and looks up to find you with tears in your eyes. He’s never seen you looking so hurt, betrayed. Your jaw quivers. Ezra landed on his feet but he feels upside down. He’s realizing what he’s just done, that he tried to hurt you because he’s pathetic. Jealous.

“Ez,” you say, your voice strangled.

Like a coward, he takes off, ignoring you as you call after him.

—

It’s the sound of the cat flap that wakes you sometime after sunrise. You’re sprawled out on your bed, head aching, eyes swollen. You’re still wearing your white dress, you threw it on before going after Ezra but it was no use. He was as black as the shadows in the forest and had slipped away under some bushes.

You abandoned the equinox celebration and went home in hopes he’d be there. You waited. Alone with your guilt and anxiety.

I’m sorry. Please come home. You were never very good at telepathy but you tried to reach out to him with your thoughts.

The sound that he made echoed through your mind as you paced the floor. Strangled, terrified. You tried to stop yourself from picturing him out there in the dark shaking with pain.

You hadn’t meant to hurt him. It was involuntary. As soon as his claw grazed your skin, your powers flared. Maybe if you hadn’t been drunk you could’ve controlled it. It happened so quickly you still can’t be sure of how strong it hit him.

Even if it was just a momentary shock, you saw just how much damage that moment did. His hair standing on end, his tail rod straight. But what really crushed you was the look in his eye.

Suddenly you were just as horrible as every other witch that he’d served. You’d used your powers to punish him, to harm him. Every promise you’d ever made to him had broken in that instant.

You see Ezra’s slim form dart to your doorway. In a flash, he slips under the bed and your heart sinks into your ankles.

“Ez,” you say, your voice ragged from the night’s festivities.

He doesn’t answer. You press your eyes shut and swallow hard then crawl to the edge of your mattress. Your stomach lurches as you look over the edge. On top of everything else there’s a hangover churning in your gut. You guess you deserve that, too.

“Ezra, are you ok?” you ask. Whatever words of atonement you pieced together before you cried yourself to sleep have dissolved.

He’s in the furthest corner beneath the bed, tucked against the wall with his tail wrapped tight around his body. You think you might burst into tears again seeing him cowering away from you.

“I hope I didn’t make you fret,” he says.

You want to scoop him into your arms and hold him as tight as you can but it feels like you’ve lost that privilege.

“I’m so sorry, Ez,” you say, climbing down to the floor. “I shouldn’t have done that. I'm sick over it.”

“You were well within your rights. You’re my master and I struck you,” he says. “I’m the one that should beg forgiveness.”

To hear him call you his master makes you feel even worse than before. There’s no amount of tuna belly that will make this right.

“No. It was my fault. And I promise I’ll never use my powers on you again. Ever,” you say.

His gold eyes shift away.

“Keep your apologies,” he says. “And I see I’ve kept you from your new paramour. Another act to add to my contrition.”

“I don’t care about that.” If you hadn’t been so caught up in the prospect of taking River to bed, none of this would’ve happened.

“Nonsense, little mage. You’re a witch. Be with other witches,” Ezra says.

–

River’s in the bookshop when you arrive, standing opposite Aunt Margot. When you couldn’t convince Ezra to come out from under the bed, you decided to give him space. Maybe you could distract yourself re-alphabetizing the cookbooks. You were hoping for some quiet but you’re confronted by the very attractive witch you’d been flirting shamelessly with the night before.

You know you look a mess, your face still feels puffy. River, on the other hand, looks like the definition of a sight for sore eyes. Freshly showered and dressed in a well pressed shirt that’s rolled up to the elbows, the sun is streaming in the front window outlining his still-damp hair like he’s Prince Charming himself.

“There you are!” Margot calls.

You smooth your hand across your top nervously as she appraises you. You threw on a more than slightly wrinkled shirt that was languishing on the floor of your bedroom, too preoccupied to put together a real outfit.

“Looks like we had too much of Ariadne’s little potion,” she says.

“I have a tonic that’s great for that,” River says with a smile. “But coffee’s faster.”

He hands you a steaming paper cup from the cafe down the street. He and Margot have their own perched on the counter. You take a sip and are surprised to find that it’s your regular order.

”Are you clairvoyant, too?” You ask.

River blushes. “Nah. Margot told me how you take your coffee,” he chuckles.

It's so thoughtful and you’re not feeling very deserving. You swallow down a lump in your throat.

“I wanted to go foraging around here but I really need a local,” he says.

“That sounds fun,” you say half heartedly in an attempt to demure. You’re not really up for a good time but it feels like a real asshole move to turn River down considering he brought you coffee after you ditched him at the bonfire. Margot is beaming at the register.

“Doesn’t it?” she asks. “Why don’t I get you a basket?”

—

River carries the basket now overflowing with mushrooms and wild herbs. You’re deep in the woods, branches crunching beneath your shoes. Nature’s sounds echo around you, starlings and chipmunks, the constant whoosh of the breeze through the turning leaves.

This path is overgrown but you know it well. You spent your childhood getting lost in these woods. They have their own magic.

Your guilt overshadows the date. If it is a date. River seems to think it is if the way the back of his hand keeps brushing against yours is any sign. It’s hard to enjoy it especially when your mind keeps drifting off. He doesn’t seem to notice that you’re only half-listening as he tells you just how mystical the vibes are at Stonehenge.

You stop at a stream, sitting on a fallen tree that’s overgrown with moss. It’s one of your favorite spots. The water sparkles where the sunlight spills though the branches, peacefully trickling over rocks. You pick up one of the smooth stones and trace its wet surface with your thumb.

You’ve sat in this very spot before feeling just as shitty. Heartbroken then, too, trying to figure out if you could call it a break up when you hadn’t actually been anything official. She hadn’t wanted anything complicated and you swore your feelings wouldn’t get involved. Unfortunately they had their own plans.

Ezra found you there, sulking by the stream, wondering if anyone would think you were worth breaking their own rules for.

It struck you how quiet he was. There were no anecdotes about what the witch scene was like in 1924 or tips for mouse hunting, indoor versus outdoor. He just padded into the water and nudged a little stone towards your feet. It was just big enough to fit in your palm and it was cool against your skin as you held it there.

“A thing of beauty,” he said and he head butted your shins affectionately.

It was. Round from years, maybe decades under the water’s friction. A dull gray cut through the middle by a wedge of some crystalline mineral like shards of broken glass. You recall exactly what it looks like because it still sits on your night stand. Each time you see it you’re reminded of how Ezra slumped down beside you, his warm body weight like a cozy blanket, a faint purr reverberating through him.

“You’ve got a big heart, little mage,” he said.

You choke up at the memory, unsure if Ezra would ever think that again. You certainly wouldn’t say it about yourself today.

“Either you’re really hungover or something’s bothering you,” River says gently.

You laugh tearfully and he rubs a circle on your back. You try to shake your head but River doesn’t give it up, looking at you with a soft concern.

“I really fucked things up with Ezra last night,” you admit. Telling him what a cruel witch you are might be a huge turn off but the feeling of his palm through your shirt makes you feel at ease.

“Ezra?” he asks.

“My familiar,” you remind him.

“Oh.”

“He scratched me and —”

“He hurt you?” he asks, face painted with righteous indignation.

“No. He barely got me. I totally overreacted,” you say. “I used my powers on him. It was just a reflex, you know? But…I just feel awful.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he tells you with a relieved chuckle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

If that’s true then why do you hate yourself?

“If Rhea was out of line I’d do the same,” he goes on.

You wince at the thought.

“You’d hurt her?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I’ve never had to. She knows who’s boss.”

You’ve always considered Ezra a partner. Of course, there are plenty of witches that think of their familiars as nothing more than servants. It’s an old school way of seeing it. You hadn’t expected River to use words that remind you of the way your grandmother used to talk.

“Maybe it’s different,” you say, trying to give him the opportunity to walk it back. Ezra’s not like Rhea. Maybe you’d feel the same way River does if your familiar hadn’t once been as human as you are. Still, it doesn’t feel right.

“You’re a funny little witch,” he says with a grin.

“What does that mean?” you ask.

“Crying over your familiar. It’s sweet.” He says it as if it’s a compliment but the condescension makes you frown in disgust.

“If you want to make it up to him, why don’t you find him a lady cat that can make him feel good,” he adds with a laugh.

“Is that what you’re into?” you ask with venom.

“What? That was a joke,” River says.

“I don’t think it’s funny. You know, just because Ezra’s a familiar, it doesn’t mean he should be treated like shit. And he’s not a cat. He’s a human,” you tell him.

“He’s a witch killer,” River spits back. “So I’m sorry if I don’t have a lot of sympathy for him.”

Your stomach turns. It’s the truth. Ezra’s served as a familiar in your family for centuries, his history has never been hidden from you and he’s never shied away from it.

But his punishment has never made sense to you. A thousand years, so many lifetimes, watching his friends and family die as he toiled in servitude for witches as backwards as River. It’s cruel, that’s why the Elders changed the laws years ago. And yet Ezra’s remained a cat, a familiar, disdained.

Suddenly, the anger you’ve been tormenting yourself with turns outwards and you think your powers could set fire to the dry leaves at your feet. It’s all so unfair. The Elders turned him and witches like River scorn him and none of them feel a lick of shame. The back of your neck heats with a protective rage.

“He’s my friend,” you choke. “And you’re a fucking asshole.”

And you leave River speechless in the middle of the woods.

🐈‍⬛

Part 3

Thanks for reading! Comments and reblogs appreciated! My inbox is always open.

#ezra prospect #ezra x f!reader #witchy #ezra prospect x f!reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #ezra x witch!reader #halloween

175 notes · View notes

auraxins · 5 months ago

Text

sprint-fic miniseries 05

prompt - train

tags: blade x gn!reader, sparring session, mentions of blood, tension

ik bladie sparring session isn't exactly the most innovative of ideas but idc mum said it was my turn to write the sword-fighting sexual tension smh LMFAO

“Again.”

Blade’s voice echoes through the training ground. You huff and reset your stance, drawing your leg back and positioning your sword to strike. One step, two, lunge. The metal bites into the wicker dummy and sends splinters flying across the gravel.

You look at your ad hoc coach expectantly. He steps around the figure with a glare sharper than the training sword you hold, narrowing his eyes at the site of impact.

“Again.”

“Again?” You repeat incredulously, throwing your arms out. “That was a good hit!”

“One ‘good hit’ isn’t enough in a fight,” Blade says bluntly, prodding at where you’d sliced the dummy. A few more weaves of the wicker come undone under the pressure. “A ‘good hit’ can leave you wide open.”

With a grimace, you turn your gaze straight to him, jabbing a thumb towards the dummy. “So, I have to keep slashing at this damn thing ‘til it breaks?”

“Would you rather learn the hard way?” he asks.

You don’t get the chance to respond before he’s drawn his own weapon, and you scramble to block the first blow he launches at you. Blade fights with a speed you can barely anticipate, and it takes everything you’ve got to even try to match up to his strikes.

This is what you get for complaining about his training methods, you think as you duck below a high slash. An attempt to hit him back is parried effortlessly, and you take a few steps to the side in order to make some distance.

“I think the easy way is fine,” you plead. He’s closed the gap immediately, sword meeting yours with a spray of sparks. “Shit, Blade– don’t kill me!”

“You wanted to learn to fight,” he says simply, voice calm in spite of the ferocity of the attacks he throws your way. “So, we’re going to fight until you’ve learned.”

Blade moves you around the training ground like you’re little more than a stray vegetable on a plate, and he seems to delight in toying with his meal. There’s a gleam behind his eyes with every single advance, and when he draws blood from your cheek he grins. He’s in his element on the battlefield, feeling that adrenaline surge through his reanimated veins.

And oh so foolishly, you’ve become his latest victim.

Your stamina doesn’t hold out for as long as you’d like, and air becomes harder to gulp down with every dodge and counter. If you want to stand any chance of making it out of this combat session alive, you need to think smart.

There’s little give when it comes to Blade’s style of fighting; all erratic and almost thoughtless in nature. But you know that it’s rooted in decades of experience, to the point where his sword has become an extension of himself. His namesake holds for a reason- he is as much the weapon to be wielded as the sword that he holds.

The only thing you can gauge is that he must be holding back. Because if he wasn’t, you’d be dead already.

And then your legs are falling out from under you without warning. Blade has sheathed his weapon and yours has flown out of your grasp, clattering heavily against the gravel. It had taken one swift sweeping kick to fell you, and now you gasp as your breath is knocked from your lungs. Your back aches from hitting solid ground at full force, and your head spins as you evaluate your situation.

He has you pinned down, knees either side of your waist and his hands locking your shoulders in place. In this position, the longer wisps of his hair drag against the side of your neck like feathers. You physically hold back the urge to shudder.

“You think too much,” he tells you. “That’s why you lost.”

His gaze pins you far more strongly than his hands. It is always intense, but to have it fixed so directly on you like this causes a searing heat to flood through your body. Something about it reminds you of an animal with their prey.

“I won’t lose next time,” you declare.

Blade seems to find this amusing, if the small sharp exhale he releases is any indication. In one fluid motion, he’s back on his feet and you’ve been pulled up with him. Your hands cling to his forearms to balance yourself from the movement, feet splayed out awkwardly.

Once you’ve recovered, he pulls away and starts to walk off. You stand there breathless– and just the slightest touch weak-kneed– while you watch him go.

“We’ll see about that,” he calls back to you.

Aeons, you hope you get to.

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #blade x reader

162 notes · View notes

peggyao3 · 1 day ago

Text

Crossfade

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x f!Reader x Benny Cross

SUMMARY: Benny comes home after a week on the road and has things to make up for, to his brother Feyd-Rautha and their sweetheart.

TAGS: AFAB she/her reader, no use of y/n, third person POV, threesome - F/M/M, explicit sexual content, penis in vagina sex, oral sex, anal fingering/sex (f receiving), double creampie, overstimulation, spit kink, slight degradation kink, touch of breeding kink, dirty talk, pet names, manhandling, filthy & messy, twincest/selfcest, brotherly rivalry, dirty stray puppy benny, domestic cat feyd, porn with minimal plot

WORD COUNT: 4k

A/N: Frothing at the mouth, barking at the moon, moaning like a slut, I've been wanting to write this for ages and here it isss 🥹❤️ (after blueballing @sebastianswallows with it for like four months asdfg)

Ao3 | Masterlist 🖤

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

"Look what the cat dragged in. If it isn't my lost brother who has come home to have his laundry done."

The embers of a late summer day still cling to Benny's hair and jacket as he glowers at the scene before him — His twin brother sprawled out on the king-sized bed, big enough to fit three people, legs propped up and spread apart so that the first thing that Benny was forced to see when he walked in was Feyd-Rautha's cock filling out their sweetheart's pussy from root to tip.

She's on his chest, her legs raised and held apart by veined, pale hands, tits bouncing with each obscene upwards thrust, lungs fighting for enough air to formulate a greeting as Feyd carves her insides out. The creaking of the slatted frame is unhealthy sounding, dark wood slamming against the tapestry, the ever same spots crumbling under the force of the bed posts. The cotton sheets are rumpled under their bodies.

"And you've grown into a fully domesticated house cat?" Benny grits his teeth and throws his gloves on the chair, annoyed to find both armrests occupied by Feyd's shit. Who wears a fucking dressing gown at home anyway.

"One of us has to stay home to take care of our poor darling. We don't want her to feel neglected and leave us, do we, brother?"

Benny clenches his jaws and glares. He does not want that.

"I wasn't gone that long." The blonde man squares his shoulders, cheek and forehead still streaked with residue exhaust gases and dirt from the road.

"It's been over a week," Feyd coos promptly, his voice like rattling chains, being calmly dragged across jagged stone. "And you didn't come across a single payphone during your adventures."

Coming home is never not an aching duality. Guilt burns in his guts, a bitter taste at the back of his throat. He always waits for their darling to raise her voice and kick him back out on the street, but she never does. Benny's chest grows lighter, young heart pitter-pattering against his ribs.

Coming home is also like getting candy at a carnival. It never stops being exciting when he wraps his hand around a bag of treats, and he will always moan when the cotton candy melts on his tongue.

"D-Don't provoke him," their darling finally gasps, trying to heave herself into a sitting position on Feyd's abdomen. She might as well have tried to sit still on a Bucking Bronco. The jerky undulations of his pelvis thrust her right backwards, spine colliding with the hard velvet planes of his chest again. Unyielding hands spread her knees that bit further back, tugging her to the sweet edge of discomfort.

"I should have known you would side with him, sweetling," Feyd purrs and Benny catches a glimpse of his brother's ink black canines and incisors that give him the guise of a hissing serpent. "I've been playing far too nice with you lately."

"I'm not siding with anyone, I'm just - ahhh - glad he isn't dead. G-God, Feyd, can you slow down?" Her head lolls sideways, nose and lips sliding against the cords of his neck as her chin settles in the hollow above his clavicle.

"Contrary to other people in this room, I take pleasuring you very seriously, so be a good darling now, yes?" Feyd is by no means done with this demonstration that has Benny’s aching hard-on pressing against his battered jeans. He's a fucking idiot for for being away from home and missing out on this — and leaving her in the care of his psychotic brother for so long.

"I'm sorry," the blonde man grits out, blue puppy eyes framed by long lashes. He's so ridiculously pretty, Feyd has always hated him for that.

"Make yourself useful, brother. You have something to make up for."

Benny doesn't even slip his boots or jacket off before climbing onto the bed like a dog whistled to heel. Leather creaks and the sharp smell of gasoline and cigarettes melts into the heady bouquet of sex, sweat and perfume. The mattress dips under the added weight and soot-stained hands glide over their sweetheart's jiggling ass, pinning her down against Feyd's hard abdomen and hip bones. Calloused thumbs tug her labia apart and his entire torso is forced to move along with his brother's unrelenting lesson to make him jealous.

"There you go," Feyd coos when their darling moans out, pussy clenching like a vise around his pale, milky shaft as soon as Benny's plush lips wrap around her swollen, little nub.

That's what makes it so great to share her, they all get something out of it.

Benny grunts his wordless apology, hot breath puffing out of his nostrils while his tongue gets to work, feasting on the sweet juice of homecoming. Benny is always so eager when he has his face stuffed between her legs, blue eyes begging for forgiveness as if he thinks he hardly deserves to be here in the first place. She can never stay mad at him for long even though she's sworn she will, god knows how many times.

The aching pressure of Feyd's thick cock sinks into her navel and her channel grows tight, every nerve end prickling overwhelmingly, lit by a match that only burns when both of them have their cocks and mouths on or in her.

The strength of two men holds down her squirming thighs and she can only throw her head from left to right, tear on Benny's curls or scratch Feyd-Rautha's hard flank bloody, but nothing can stop the white-hot orgasm from careening up to her.

The truth is, she can't climax so easily when she's worried and worry eats at her most of the time when Benny is away. She feels sorry for making Feyd work so hard for it when he's on his own, sorry to be cumming so fast now when Benny has only had his lips on her for a minute.

Moan after moan bubbles from her throat like beads off a snapped string and her convulsing body bears down on the man below her, hips bucking against the face of the man above her. Feyd-Rautha chuckles, calls her a filthy toy and the crude words prolong her climax for painful seconds. She feels wetness against her cheek and has to claw her way back out of the quivering daze to realize it's neither sweat nor tears, it's Feyd's tongue licking a stripe from her cheek to her temple.

Benny feels the pulsing of her cunt under his tongue, the contractions of her muscles radiating all the way to her swollen clit, and that's all he gets for now. Jealously, he peeks down at his brother's balls and cock, sheathed and snuggled and milked by their darling's squishy cunt. Or — about to be milked. His twin brother has an obscene amount of stamina when he wants to, probably because pain gets him going and nothing hurts like being edged.

Benny's jeans strangle him while he helplessly ruts against the sheets, like a mutt in heat that they had scraped off the road. He has far less self-restraint. His leather suffocates him and perspiration glues his shirt to his back, but he wouldn't take his lips off their darling's perfect little cunt even if a gun was held to his head.

The thick base of Feyd's cock slides repeatedly against Benny's chin. Spit drips out of the biker's pink mouth and down the coarse beard stubble which leaves Feyd's pale shaft with a prickling rash from the bristly friction. The fair-skinned brother hisses, muscles tensing in his glutes as he slams upwards.

Benny has something to make for to both of them.

One calloused palm remains on her thigh, the other slides to his brother's, hard fingertips kneading into white, smooth flesh. Feyd snarls, thrusts growing short and pointed, punching breathless yelps out of their toy's throat. Benny's hand then trails to Feyd-Rautha's smooth, hairless sac that bounces with each upwards slam. He flattens his palm against it and squeezes hard until Feyd hisses a curse in their mother tongue.

One never knows with Feyd-Rautha's fickle moods and Benny doesn't want to risk a blade against his neck. That's their darling's thing, not his. In truth, he only wants his brother to cum faster, so he can finally have his turn.

"Benny," Feyd-Rautha growls in warning and the blonde man removes his fingers, finding a more interesting target between the slick mess of slapping flesh.

"Benny!" Their darling yelps, feet kicking adorably in empty air.

"What's he doing, sweetling?"

"He's—"

"Playing with your cute little ass, isn't he? Well I can't stop him."

The biker's finger slides in deep and she's painfully aware, yet awfully indifferent, that he didn't wash his hands. His long, thick middle finger sinks down to the last knuckle and the cool metal of his ring bumps into her puckered muscles over and over. His pink mouth suckles messily on her clit, Feyd's cock pounds the air out of her lungs and her center twists itself so tight that the pleasure of it cramps up her entire lower half.

She climaxes once more with a wailed, inhuman sound, thrashing her head from left to right. This time, Benny can feel the contractions of her hole around his finger. He smirks stupidly against her pulsing clit as juice from her cunt drips over his dirty hand, giving him the means to wiggle a second, thick finger inside that cute little hole.

Her sweetly pain-stricken tone is what finally makes Feyd-Rautha cave into the milking contractions of her cunt that pull him in as if to secure his seed inside her womb. And who is he to deny her. While Benny is the dirty street dog in the relationship, Feyd regards himself as a sophisticated animal, relinquishing every drop of himself only with utmost control.

He holds himself firm against her cervix and the shivers of his peak roll down his pale, twitching muscles. Their sweetheart whines quietly against his throat with spit-wet lips, hands folded limply over her stuffed belly. Feyd's cock gives one last greedy twitch when Benny's tongue slides hotly over his balls, lapping at this leaking seed.

"Filthy dog, that's not for you," Feyd rasps but doesn't command his feral twin away.

Impatiently, one tan, broad hand sprawls across their darling's ass cheek and shoves. Her pliant body scoots up Feyd-Rautha's abdomen until his cock slips out, together with a filthy squelch and a rivulet of frothing cum. Two fingers are still working her tight little channel open, easier than ever with so much gushing lube.

"She's gonna need a third one for your cock," Feyd coos, a drowsy lilt to his severe tone, though his hands still keep her legs bent backwards and her cunt and ass on display like a homecoming buffet for his brother.

"You think so?" Benny's blue eyes twinkle trustfully in the lamplight. Without the crude soundscape of Feyd's hips shattering the slatted frame, the disheveled pair finally notice the needy rhythm of Benny's pelvis, grinding against the sheets as he waits his turn, a dog held back only by the collar and leash of guilt strangling his neck.

"On second thought, she doesn't. Get up here."

Get your part of the sweet fucking cherry pie.

Benny bounces upright like a whipcord and strips out of jacket and shirt. Sweat glistens on tan pectorals and a few beads have gotten caught in the sparse, blonde hair sprinkled across his chest and the trail down his taut abdomen. Her eyes follow the frantic movement of bruised fingers, unbuttoning his jeans and shoving them down just enough to free his flushed cock, jutting out from blonde, messy curls. It bobs obscenely and smacks on her abdomen as he crawls over her, already wrapping a fist around himself to angle the blunt tip to her slick, puckered hole.

"Y'smell like a rat died n'your armpits," she tries to joke, though her tongue feels like a sluggish thing, stuffed and forgotten in her mouth. Reaching up, she curls her palm gently around Benny's hard bicep and her hand shakes ridiculously. The boy smiles stupidly at the comment, proud of himself. Feyd snorts and takes pity on his twin. If he had a tail it would be wagging.

"You can have her cunt too, brother. I warmed her up for you. I know you like it warm and messy."

Even when they were kids, Benny was always the one who loved playing in the dirt. Wetting his cock with his brother's cum only makes him harder. It's just the rotten cream on top of his slice of sweet cherry pie.

"But I— Aahhh!" Her cute complaints are forced back into her lungs as the air is battered out of them. Her cunt is stretched well enough from Feyd's cock to take Benny's to the hilt in one smooth glide. He had probably expected more resistance and found none. The blunt, thick tip of him slams into her cervix, full force.

She hisses through her teeth, staked on the thick, hot lance of his cock. Without delay, he snaps into action, pulling back only to slam back in even quicker. He fucks like he rides — fast and with little care for damage, for the thrill and for the joy of it.

Benny eclipses the lamplight, caging her between his brother and himself. One palm braces himself against the mattress, the other slides softly over her cheek, neck and bouncing chest, happy to find her nipples standing pert against his calloused palm. His fingertips are so gentle, but his pace is not. Her cunt aches, yet pleasure blooms through the blunt, burning pain of being stretched out and used.

"Please, m'so sore." She would have almost preferred to be fucked in the other hole instead.

Feyd's hand curls around her neck, pressing her down against his shoulder. A gentle reminder that any escape attempt will be in vain and also punished.

"Did you hear that, our darling is sore," he purrs in gentle mockery.

"Yeah, I heard that," Benny grunts, blue eyes slipping over her pathetically disheveled face. "Is it too bad, babycakes? I can stop." He slows down, and the slower pace almost aches worse, reminding her every nerve of just how sore they are. It would take him great effort to stop, but it'd be a punishment he deserves.

"She can take it," Feyd purrs, fingers of the remaining hand tightening their grip on the back of her knee, holding her quivering thigh bent and open. "Don't disappoint my brother, sweetness, we've fucked you much worse."

"N-N-Now you're siding with him?"

"Of course, he's my brother. He's been saving up his cum all week. Didn't you, Benny?"

"I didn't cheat if that's what you're asking—hmmph!"

Feyd's hand has abandoned their darling's thigh and curled around his brother's hip, gripping him by the ass cheek just above the haphazardly shoved down jeans, encouraging him to go faster, harder.

"Oh, no, you wouldn't. I'd kill you if you did." Everyone in this room knows Feyd means it.

Encouraged, Benny ruts into their sweetheart's slick, squishy pussy, hard and hurried, taking advantage of the privilege as long as he has it, scared that his baby might kick him off any second. And she could, now that her legs are finally free from Feyd-Rautha's grasp.

But what she does is sling her shaky legs around his hips, heels scraping against the back pockets of his jeans, because she never wants him to leave again.

Feyd holds her steady by the neck, a nice little fuck toy for his brother. Their darling's calf lies over his hand on Benny's ass and his thumb strokes over her pulse. He'll know when it really gets too much for her. She just likes to complain, but at the end of the day, her squishy cunt can't stop weeping for their cocks and her little mouth can't stop drooling for them when they manhandle her and toss her around like a cute, little doll.

Her lungs quiver around the smell of sweat, cigarettes and testosterone, the perfect fucking scent to get high on and chuck the remainder of her brain into the trash. There's nothing to worry about when she's squished between two hard, virile bodies, caged by clenching biceps and twitching abdominal muscles, both of these bodies powered by the strength of their thick thighs and hard shoulders.

The only downside is that she can't catch a break with two of the same kind in her life, but the good thing is that she don't need to worry bout nothing when they're both in her bed, fucking her brain into gummy soup.

"Open, sweetness." Benny's thumb presses against her bottom lip and wriggles into her drooling mouth, tasting of cigarettes and tanginess. Her jaw falls down obediently and Benny grins before spitting on her pink tongue. "Now kiss my brother."

Feyd-Rautha chuckles. "How thoughtful of you."

His pillow-shaped lips descend on her open mouth, her sweaty neck still gently strangled by his palm. Black teeth sink into her upper lip before his mouth slants against hers diagonally, rolling his tongue against the sluggish thing in her mouth with gratuitous saliva. Moans and pitiful whimpers are swallowed by Feyd-Rautha's mouth while Benny's cock pistons into her with hard, slapping rhythm, jolting her body back and forth in the clamp of sweaty muscles.

Sticky flesh rehardens, pokes and twitches against the cleft of her ass. The plump head is nuzzled against Benny's ball sack. Feyd relishes her thunderous heartbeat under his palm, her pupils blown comically wide with fucked-out arousal and fear. She knew this was coming.

"He's already prepared you for me," Feyd coos, pressing wet teeth against the corner of her mouth. "Don't want his efforts to be in vain."

The two men shuffle for a moment and gruff hands pull on her flesh, tugging her in place just how they need her until Feyd finds the right angle to line himself up, evoking snarls and sharp nails in Benny's clenching back when the blunt head of his cock forces her slicked-up ring of muscles to spread open.

"Now, now, don't pretend this is too much. We all know there's enough room for both of us."

"It's alright, babycakes." Benny holds still, letting her pussy flutter meekly around the girth of him. His calloused hand captures her chin, thumb rubbing over the drool-glossy corner of her mouth. He looks so beautiful on top of her, blonde hair frazzled into a shattered lamplight halo.

She pouts at him, grunting when Feyd's cock sinks deeper inside with surprisingly slow, little thrusts. And then, when Benny starts moving again, her holes are stuffed so good, she might just implode around them and never have a single thought in her blanked-out little brain again.

"Ahhh, God, that's so—aaahh~"

"That's it, doll, that's how we like our sweet little thing," Feyd snarls, hand on her neck, arm slung around the small of Benny's twitching back. Benny grins, white teeth among blonde stubble, as if he hasn't been happier in his entire life.

And maybe he hasn't. In his untamable heart, living from sunset to sunset, every day is another adventure as prickling and brand new as the last.

The two of them find a filthy rhythm, viciously in sync like only twin brothers could be.

They are sunshine gold above, chalk white hills and midnight teeth below and yet they are each other's complimentary mirror image, engaged in a brotherly staring and fucking contest and their sweet slice of pie is stuck on the front line between them, moaning and crying their names so good that both of them could go insane and lose their minds in her cute, filthy holes.

"Oh, god... oh, fuck, oh, g-god! B-Benny, ah, Feyyyd—"

"Yes, baby, comeoncomeon!" Benny grunts out, brows scrunching up in despair. His balls ache from a week's worth of cum and desire knots at the pit of stomach, pleasure pulling outwards in a way that he can hardly contain with sheer power of will. He needs his baby to milk the seed out of his cock like she wants to fill herself up with his whelps.

The bed creaks, Benny's sweaty curls grind tirelessly against her swollen clit and Feyd's fingers tighten around her windpipe. Climax wipes out her seeing and hearing for a solid thirty seconds. Both holes clench pathetically around their cocks, drool slips from the corner of her mouth and gathers in the hollow between Feyd's clavicles.

Benny's mouth pops open, string of curses falling out as he lets himself get dragged in by his sweet darling sugar pie's pussy, milking him for all he has, milking him until it hurts and he wants to bury his face in her shoulder.

Feyd watches his brother come apart, gawks at him with parted lips and wickedly twitching smile. Dark eyes gleam and he waits only for one thing, for Benny to look him in the eyes, and when he does, Feyd-Rautha too drains himself into the sweet release of painful pleasure, pumping their sweetheart's ass full of filthy seed.

Three bodies come to rest and time and air stand still. Evening light seeps through the dirty window pane. Dogs bark outside and the stench of sex and sweat is nearly suffocating in the heat. Benny's weight bears down on the both of them as he nuzzles her neck and then his brother's.

"Benny," she sighs, mussing up his greasy strands with gentle fingers.

Pretty, sleepy puppy.

But a heavy one too. Feyd's breath below her is strained and quiet, but he holds out patiently.

Ten minutes. Then, Benny eases off them, cock slipping out of her sore sheathe. Proudly, he gawks down at himself, finding his shaft covered in slick and a lewd combination of cum from root to slit. Feyd-Rautha lifts her gently off his cock and thick dollops escape her clenching hole.

"I'll clean that up for you." Benny darts for the filthy treat between her thighs.

"NOOO, enough!" The sole of her foot splats against his bristly cheek and shoves him off with so much force that he's sent toppling off the bed, landing moaning and groaning on the creaking hardwood floor.

"Kush!" She then smacks at Feyd's bald head and the feline man all but leaps off the bed, knowing that the only thing to save him from a beating — or being sprayed down with a water bottle — is bringing enough distance between him and his sweetling. That and bringing her a warm, damp cloth.

Their baby's sulking with them now, so they better take care of her good.

"Get up, idiot." Feyd-Rautha kicks his brother in the ribs who is still shuffling around on the ground, stuffing his sweaty dick back into his jeans.

"Huh?"

"You know what to do!" Feyd yanks his twin up by the armpits and shoves him towards the hallway door to fetch their darling a nice, big glass of water, like always.

"Sorry, baby~" Benny catches himself against the door frame, looking back to her with big blue eyes that could melt rocks.

"It's fine," she smiles, smirks even, and Feyd tsssks through painted teeth, pale toes tapping on the floorboards.

"Always so lenient with him."

"Can't help it," she giggles. "Look at him."

"Yeah, I know."

"What's that supposed to mean," grumbles a blushing, pouting Benny before stomping out on the hallway as Feyd cracks the bathroom door open, pale, lithe limbs slipping out of view.

Finally alone — at least for a minute — their darling slumps against the damp pillows and lets out the biggest sigh of relief. Finally, things are as they should be again.Tonight, she will sleep sandwiched between the two warmest, nicest pillows in the world, embraced by two pairs of arms and legs and two heartbeats thudding peacefully against hers.

A/N: I want to be their brainless piece of cherry pie so bad 😩💦🥵 I don't rule out writing more random smutty scenarios with them, if inspiration strikes, hehe.

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

#feyd x reader #benny cross x reader #Feyd rautha x reader #Benny cross x you #feyd x you #feyd rautha x you #dune part 2 #the bikeriders #benny the bikeriders #the bikeriders fanfiction #dune part two #dune #dune fanfiction #austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #peggysuave fanfics

82 notes · View notes

improbable-outset · 30 days ago

Text

📄 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦

Kenji Sato x Fem!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐔𝐥𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.7k

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Coach’s daughter AU, Fluff, lots of shameless flirting, teasing, secret relationship

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Over coffee and conversation, Ken finds solace in a café, far from the chaos of the baseball stadium.

Ken had never felt his heart gallop this intensely before. Not even during his rise to stardom with the Dodgers back in LA could compare to the thrill and anticipation coursing through him right now.

This was more personal— unpredictable in a way that no game or spotlight could prepare him for. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t chasing a title.

It was a moment with someone special that made everything else feel secondary.

Tucked away in a quiet street of Tokyo’s lesser known district, the glow of the neon signs reflected off slick pavements as he watched you navigate the path, weaving between parked bikes and stray vending machines.

The faint hum of the distant train was the only sound that filled the night’s silence.

“Ken!” your voice rang through the empty streets, bright and familiar. As you drew closer, Ken couldn’t help but notice how the muted lights reflected in your glossy eyes, giving them an otherworldly sparkle.

He didn’t say anything until you were close enough for you to hear him without yelling.

“You made it…” His lips curled into a smile, meeting your gaze with a tender look. “Did you get enough rest? You look a bit tired.”

“Barely,” you confessed, a playful tilt painted on your lips. “I’ve been counting down the minutes until I can see you again.”

Ken was used to fans clamoring for a moment of his time, expressing their excitement to see him. But something about the eagerness in your voice and the slight bounce in your step sent a flutter through him.

He glanced around, checking that the streets were still empty before reaching out to cradle your cheek.

“You’re so clingy.” he teased, still holding his grin.

“I would’ve kissed you right now if we weren’t in public.” you shot back with a small smirk.

Ken leaned closer until his face was eye level to yours, his voice dropped to a heated whisper

“I wouldn’t complain if you did.”

The impulse to close the distance simmered under his skin, but the risk of being seen was enough to keep him rooted.

“But I also don’t want an angry mob of your dad’s supporters coming after me after catching us in a compromising position.”

Your smile faltered, replaced by a shadow of worry. “Right…my dad. I don’t want anybody from the press finding out either.”

“Yeah, the press…” Ken’s expression hardened, his tone turning bitter.

The media always lurked, threatening to expose what little happiness he could claim. He wished he didn’t have to sneak around like this.

He envied those who could show affection openly, like some of his teammates who left games with their families in tow. The normalcy forever felt out of reach for Ken.

“Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like…” he murmured, eyes drifting past the dim glow of the distant lights. “If we dated openly, without worrying about your father, or the fans, or the media.”

Ken rarely admitted these things, but seeing how you aligned with his unspoken thoughts made it easier to voice his fragile feelings— especially about your relationship.

“What could the fans do anyway? It’s not like they could control your life.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ken said with a hint of edge. “There are some intense fans out there that take their idols' personal lives way too seriously.”

Ken didn’t want to think too deeply about a situation blowing out of proportion. If rumours began, he knew all too well how quickly fans would start prying on your life, looking for any reason to judge.

Even the slightest flaw could unleash a tornado of online harassment. He didn’t want to bring that sort of trouble into your life.

His jaws clenched, a grimace flashing across his features before he shook the thought away.

“I’m more worried about dad. If he ever found out about us…I can’t even imagine how he’d react. Especially after that latest press conference. He came home moping,” you said, the last words trailed into a tired groan.

“I know, I could’ve handled it better.” Ken chuckled, before it was shadowed by guilt as he remembered his altercation with Coach Shimura. “I hate when the press digs for gossip.”

A low rumble of an approaching car snapped him out of his thoughts. Its headlights illuminated the empty street, casting fleeting shadows over the both of you, before disappearing down the narrow road.

You take a hold of Ken’s hand and gently tug him forward. “Come on, let’s head inside.”

You slip into a small, dimly lit cafe— a hidden gem that seemed to be empty from the outside view. It’s secluded places like this that makes your relationship feel safe, untouched by the eyes of the world.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries enveloped him, a silent call of the rare moment of peace you shared.

The cafe itself was modest in size, with wooden chairs and tables neatly arranged beneath the dim ambiance lighting.

There were a few patrons scattered here and there— a couple sharing a quiet intimate conversation near the window at the high table, and a few students hunched over textbooks.

Sparse decorations adorned the walls: faded vintage poster advertising sodas and sweet treats with its vibrant colours faded over time.

At the centre of each table sat a miniature cherry blossom tree, the soft pink petals contrasted against the dark wood.

Together, you crossed the cafe's interior, where a lone worker was wiping down the countertops. The glass display case in front of you showcased an array of cakes and pastries, though the selection was limited at this hour.

“You gonna order anything?” you asked, eyes scanning over the hanging menu above the counter.

“Yeah…a latte and maybe a cake, too,” Ken paused, gaze flickering over the cake display before shifting back to you. “You want anything?”

“I’ll probably get a bowl of anmitsu,” you mused, turning to meet his eyes. “What kind of cake will you be getting?”

Ken hums in thought for a moment, leaning in closer to the display. Rows of desserts were neatly arranged.

Fluffy cake rolls on the tile shelf with their swirls of cream peaking our— flavours ranged from strawberry to matcha. Slices of chiffon cakes in pastal colours on the middle shelf. And finally, tiny containers of pudding at the bottom.

“Not sure yet,” he murmured, his mind wandering over the cake display. His smile took a slight wicked edge as he added. “Maybe a cake I can feed you a bite of…”

The image of him holding out a spoonful to you flashed through his mind, followed by your lips closing around it. His imagination reeled, and he caught himself chewing his lower lip, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

Just as his thoughts threaten to wander further, your voice pulls him back to the present.

“Their chiffon cakes are always good.” you said, gesturing towards the pastel cakes.

“Yeah?” Ken followed your gaze to the neatly placed cakes. “But they’re crumbly. I’ll get cake all over your face.”

“It’ll be worth it though.” you teased.

Ken chuckled, glancing at the display again and taking another moment to look at the options again. His eyes shifted to the pastries with their delicious golden crust glistening under the light.

“Maybe I should get something messy, then,” he leaned in close to your ear, his voice dropping to a whisper again. “Like…one of those cream puffs with the sweet, sticky filling. I could lick it off your lips.”

Your eyes widened, and you let out an exaggerated gasp, swatting his chest. “Shhh! You can’t say that out here.”

“Why not?” he grinned, voice lacing with his smugness. “No one’s paying attention to us.”

Despite your playful scolding, Ken’s chest swelled with satisfaction and his ego soared.

He was aware that he shouldn’t push things too far, especially in public, but seeing how flustered you were and your stunned expression was too irresistible not to enjoy.

“Still…what if someone was eavesdropping on us.” you said, a hint of caution in your voice as your eyes darted briefly towards the other patrons.

“Then they’ll just hear me flirting. Harmless isn’t it? Doesn’t matter if they know how badly I want to taste the cream puff from your lips.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“What? I can’t tell my girlfriend how badly I want to kiss her?”

“Hmph, just order already.” You crossed your arms with mock indignation.

“Alright I’ll order for us, you go and find us a seat.”

His eyes followed your form as you weaved through the tables, your movement unhurried but purposeful. You found a table in the corner of the cafe that offered both privacy and a clear line of sight to the entrance.

Ken couldn’t help but hold his gaze at you with the cafe’s lighting cast a warm glow over your features.

Dragging his focus back to the task at hand, Ken stepped up to the counter and placed the order— a latte and a slice of cake for himself and a bowl of anmitsu for you.

Ken watched as steam erupted with a high-pitch hiss from the milk frother, the aromatic scent of the coffee mixed with the faint sweetness from the pastries.

The barista poured the milk into the latte cup with grace and precision, creating a delicate foam on top. Besides her, another worker arranged your anmitsu, layering the sweet toppings before placing it alongside with a spoon.

When the tray was finally ready, Ken paid and carefully carried it across the room. The clinking sound of ceramic cups and murmurs of the patrons accompanied his steps.

Setting the tray down on the table with a small smile on his lips, he slid into the seat across from you, feeling the soft cushioned chair beneath him.

Your eyes swept over the content of the tray before landing on the cream puff besides the latte. Your brow arched in disbelief. “Oh my God, you actually got it.”

“I did. Why? Did you think I wouldn’t? You thought I was bluffing?”

“Well, yeah. You’re always bluffing.”

The corner of his lips curled into a smirk at your surprise. Ken pushed your amnitsu closer to you before claiming his own plate. A faint whiff of the dessert’s sweet and rich scent rose to his nose, stirring his anticipation.

Picking up the fork, he scooped a bit of the cream cake and popped it in his mouth. He deliberately closed his eyes and let out an exaggerated, drawn-out moan of pleasure at the taste.

Even with his eyes shut, he could feel your gaze burning into him. He even took it a step further and started licking the cream off his lips.

When he opened his eyes, he found you pulling a face and he couldn’t help but give you a cheeky grin. “It’s delicious, by the way…”

“Hmm, it does look good.”

“Come on…you’ve been staring at it long enough. Have a bite.”

Ken took another spoon full of the dessert before holding it out to you. The moment you leaned in to reach for the spoon, he felt his heart spike and his senses on high alert— taking in every single detail of your action.

His eyes never left your mouth as they parted and closed delicately around the fork. He felt the fork grow lighter as you took the bite.

His focus stayed on your tongue flicking across your upper lip to catch the traces of cream and powdered sugar.

Witnessing it happen in real time was far more tantalising than his imagination— the sight was intoxicating.

He swallowed thickly, forcibly pushing the heat stirring in his chest.

A heat pooled in his gut, seeing you chew on the cake thoughtfully, completely oblivious to the effect you were having on him.

Ken inhaled sharply, trying to ground himself as he reached for a napkin. His hands trembled more than usual as he leaned forward and dapped the corner of your mouth to wipe away the cream you’d missed.

But instead of pulling back after, his thumb lingered, brushing over your lower lip— the same lips he had kissed feverishly in the past. The contact was light and featherlight but enough to make his stomach flip.

You froze under his touch, meeting his gaze. Your lips parted slightly to speak.

“Light and fluffy…”

“Mhm…” Ken hummed, completely distracted. Though he wasn’t sure if he was thinking about the cream puff you just had or the softness of your lips.

“Do you wanna try mine?”

Ken blinked rapidly, snapping out of his trance. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away from your lips, the warmth of your skin fading too quickly.

But his attention turned to your bowl of anmitsu, taking in the vibrant layers of fruit, glossy jelly cubes, and the soft mochi balls.

“Sure…looks delicious.”

Taking the spoon you offered, scooped a piece of mochi and fruit from the bowl.

The fruits were cool and refreshing in his mouth, and blended with the mochi which gave a pleasantly chewy texture.

He handed the spoon back to you, still chewing on the mochi. You pushed the fruit and the mochi around in the bowl with the spoon meticulously.

“They put a lot of mochi in this.” you commented.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised.”

You reached for the brown sugar syrup that came with your anmitsu and poured it over the bowl. “Try it now.”

Ken scooped another bite, now coated in the syrup. The sugary bursts mixed with the fruits tang, and he let out a low hum of approval at the sweetness. “Hm…it does taste better.”

“Too sweet?”

“It’s already sweet enough, though I think you’re sweeter.”

“Corny.” you said, dragging out the word to emphasise your disapproval, though the faint smile on your lips betrayed you.

Ken chuckled at your reaction, he knew you were only disguising the effect his words were having on you.

He propped his elbow on the table, leaning his chin against his palm with his eyes drinking in the sight of you.

“It’s only corny because you get flustered every time. Did you see your face earlier? When I was talking about the cream puffs?”

You only rolled your eyes at his words, a grin forming on your lips now. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“So, you’re only putting up with me because I’m cute?”

“And maybe because you’re a star player and super rich and whatever.” you replied, twirling the spoon through the anmitsu and waving your hands dismissively.

Ken tilts his head, the back and forth banter bringing a warmth in his chest. Being with you like this— relaxed and unguarded— was a relief in ways he rarely allowed himself to think about.

Having conversations like this with you felt refreshing knowing he would tease and you’ll do it right back.

He tapped his finger against his chin in a mock pensiveness before responding back. “Right, so you’re telling me it's my money and status you’re after, not my dazzling personality or good looks?”

“Oh, that too, I guess.”

“Is that how it’s gonna be, princess? Pretending you don’t secretly like me for more than my money or looks.”

“And what if I said yes?”

“Well,” he said in mock contemplation. “I’d have to work extra hard to win you over. Though I’d say that I'm pretty confident I have a head start.”

“I think you might need to focus on getting on dad’s good side first.”

Something struck inside him at your words— like a whiplash. The mention of your father always hit differently, a reminder of the uneasy dynamic that lingered between them. Ken let out a short sigh, his chest tightening.

It was still a sore spot for him that Shimura initially disapproved of him and his less-than-stellar past behind— though it wasn’t unexpected.

Despite everything Ken had accomplished back in LA— leaving his troubles behind and earning his respect in the field— it seemed his reputation preceded him.

Shimura, along with his teammates, had always treated him like the brash American kid trying to catch up, even though he came back to Japan to prove him among his own people.

With you, however, it was the opposite. You didn’t see him as an outsider or just another player in your dads team. You made him feel like he belonged.

That contrast made moments like these jarring, as if he was living two different lives— one as your boyfriend, and the other as a player constantly trying to win over your father.

Ken’s tone shifted quickly to be more serious, exposing his vulnerability in his words.

“Yeah…I’m trying, princess. It’s just, I don’t want to screw things up and risk not being able to see you again like this.”

Ken took a sip from his latte, the beverage now lukewarm against his tongue, but his mind was elsewhere and far from the cozy warmth of the cafe.

He knew he shouldn’t be dwelling on the ‘what-ifs,’ not when he was on a date with you. But as he sat there, he couldn’t ignore the nagging thoughts that pulled him under. How different would his life be if things had turned out another way?

What if his mother had never taken him to LA? If he’d stayed in Japan, would Shimura still look at him with the faint edge of distrust?

Would he see him different— one who wasn’t marked by a childhood spent feeling like an outcast in a foreign country?

Ken’s jaws clenched. He had spent most of his life in America, trying to fit into a culture that didn’t quite know what to do with him. The bullying had been relentless, the teasing cutting deep in ways he hadn’t fully healed from, leaving the scar of isolation.

Friendships were distant at best. Romantic relationships were practically nonexistent. For a long time, he felt like no one truly saw him.

Even the rise to stardom with the Dodgers hadn’t changed that much. Sure, people admired him, celebrated with him— but it still felt hollow and fragile.

None of it felt real, not like this. Not like you.

He glanced at you across the table, your head down as you inspected your dessert in front of you. If he’d never returned to Japan, he wouldn’t be sitting here right now, sharing this quiet, intimate moment with the only person who truly sees him.

Still, a bitter reminder lingered in the back of his mind. Would he have risen to stardom at all if he hadn’t gone to LA? Despite how brutal it was, the isolation and struggles had shaped him— it made him resilient-driven.

Without those years of grit and loneliness , would he have had the means to lead the Giants to victory? Would he have been ready to take his father’s Ultraman duties when the time came?

Ken sighed again, finishing off the last bite of his cream puff before taking another sip of his latte. It really was strange, the way life worked.

The very things that had made him feel out of place— his complicated family history, his American upbringing, the expectation of following his father’s footsteps— had somehow led him here, with you.

However, the weight of those ‘what-ifs’ still pressed onto his chest. His life with you— a fragile happiness— was precarious. He couldn’t shake the fear that one wrong move could send it all crashing down.

Being caught in the act by your father. It made his throat constrict with anxiety. He already knew that Shimura didn’t trust him. What if that made him believe that he wasn’t good enough for you? That he couldn’t take care of you the way you deserve?

He took another sip from his latte, though it did little to sooth the knot in his chest.

“You know,” you began, not looking up from your bowl as you stirred the syrup into the anmitsu, “being with you makes it easier to forget about everything else.” you said, not looking up from your bowl as you spoke.

Your words caught him off guard, but the tension in his shoulders started to melt. His stunned expression softened, replaced by something gentler.

“Yeah…that’s part of why I like you so much. You make me forget about everything.” His cheeks flushed slightly how openly heartfelt he was now as the words left his mouth, but he didn’t shy away from their weight. “It’s like…you make me want to be a better man.”

He reached out and let his fingers skim across the back of your hand— a subtle touch that carried all his unspoken emotions that he struggled to articulate.

You paused, looking up at him. “I don’t think I can imagine your struggles…especially considering your money and fame overshadow all of that.”

“Everyone thinks that it's easy.” Ken’s lips quivered into a humourless smile. “Being a player admired by thousands. I guess some parts of it are great. But there’s still a lot of stress and pressure.”

He glanced down at the flakes of his cream puff on the empty plate with his thoughts flickering like the steam rising from his latte.

Expectation pulled at him from every corner of Ken’s life— like a massive tree, sprawling yet burdened.

The roots that ran deep were from his fathers influence. They were planted firmly in the soil of his childhood and enchtranched his upbringing and identity.

The roots were unshakable, just like his fathers legacy of being Ultraman— something he was expected to fulfill.

No matter how far he had gone, across the Pacific to LA, he’d never truly escape those roots. Even now they wound tighter around him, tethered to the ground he was expected to nurture.

Then there was the bark— the protective layer. That was Coach Shimura and his teammates. It shielded him from the eternal storms, but it wasn’t invincible. It still demanded so much from the tree itself.

Shimura’s expectations weren’t harsh, but they were heavy and carried their own weight. The bark was strong and steady, but sometimes, it felt like it was tightening. As if holding the tree too firmly in place.

But it was the branch of the tree that weighed him down the most— the fans and the public image. They reached far and wide, growing outwardly. Branches were supposed to flourish.

But how were they expected to grow if you don’t cater to its needs. That’s what it felt like for Ken.

One wrong move; one bad game, and they could snap off. Every game felt like a performance of those branches, trying to keep those intact, making sure they don’t fall under pressure.

But no matter how strong they appeared, Ken knew how easily they could break.

And then there were the leaves, fragile and fleeting— the opinion of the critics, the headlines of papers, the ever-shifting opinions on social media.

Leaves changed with the seasons. One day could be lush and green, full of praises and admiration. The next, they withered and fell, leaving the tree bare and exposed. Their praises were temporary and their critics were choppy.

Though the leaves were less permanent, they still needed care and their loss could hurt the tree entirely. However, Ken couldn’t stop the seasons from changing or the wind from blowing.

Ken swallowed thickly, his eyes glued to the table as his train of thoughts spiraled further. Being that tree sometimes felt like he was stretching thin, trying to meet the demands of every root, branch and leaf.

And then there was you.

You weren’t a part of that endless tree. Not another branch to hold up, nor another leaf to nourish. At least, not yet. But the fear gnawed at him, dark and persistent, whispering at the edges of his mind.

What if you have expectations too?

You hadn’t said much or demanded anything, but it was only natural, wasn’t it? Relationships are always built on unspoken agreements of needs, hopes, and desires.

What kind of boyfriend did you want him to be? What were you looking for in him? Would he ever be enough?

It wasn’t that he doubted your feelings for him. It was the pressure he felt to be the person that you deserved.

To always be charming, supportive, attentive. To make time for you despite his demanding career.

For so much of his life, he had been judged by the outside world— his performance, his persona, his wins, and his losses. The thought of being seen by you that way made his throat tighten.

What if one day, you grew tired of him or wasn’t getting what you wanted from him and left? The thought alone of the empty space you would leave behind broke his heart and made his mouth dry.

It was worse than losing a game, worse than headlines calling him a failure.

Even with the lighthearted conversation and teasing you just shared earlier, his doubts were almost impossible to shrug off.

His mind were a battlefield of his insecurities and worries, but the warmth of your hands that pulled him out of his dark thoughts startled him.

You brought his hand and gently kissed over his knuckles. “Even if things do turn out bad for you, I’ll still think you’re incredible.”

The affectionate gesture unravelled him, nearly spinning him off his axis from being flustered— his mind momentarily going blank.

It wasn’t just the kiss— it was the conviction in your voice. The quiet, unwavering way you said it.

He let out a quiet sigh, his eyes half-lidded as he leaned a little closer to you. The warmth of your kiss still lingered on his hand.

“You always know how to make me feel better.” he murmured, his voice carrying a sincerity he rarely let show.

“You’ll still have all of me, even if you mess up. And I know you’ll do the same.” You brow arched as you added, “Right?”

Ken tilted his head, an amused smirk played on his lips at your remark at the end. The tension in his chest was replaced by fond amusement.

“Of course I will. You think I’d trade you in for someone else?” his voice lowered, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made his next words feel like a vow. “I'm not letting you go princess…not for anything.”

At that moment, the weight of the world seemed distant, as if the noise of expectations and pressure had diluted to a low hum.

He was so focused on looking at you, Ken didn’t notice you sneaking your hands across the table to reach for his coffee mug until you announced it.

“I’m taking a sip from your coffee.” you said, already snatching the cup.

Ken blinked, catching up to the present. “Hey…that’s mine.”

“I don’t have anything to wash down the mochi.”

“Hmm, can’t say no to that.”

Your face scrunched slightly in distaste after you took a sip. “You don’t put sugar in coffee?”

Ken shook his head and chuckled at the face you made. “No…I like the bitterness of the coffee. It’s more enjoyable that way.”

“I suppose the cream puff makes up for the sweetness.”

“No cream puffs for you any time soon if you keep stealing my drinks.”

“I don’t want anymore anyways,” you huffed in feigned offends. “Too bitter.”

“Awh what’s wrong? Can’t handle the taste of something that’s not over-sugared.”

“It’s not that…how do you drink that raw with no sugar?” your nose scrunched in mock indignation.

“I’m just used to it, I like the stronger taste of my coffee.” he glanced down at his coffee mug before looking back at you. “How could you drink something that’s so sweet?”

“It won’t be too sweet. The sugar just cancels out the bitterness.” you said, matter-of-factly.

Ken only rolled his eyes, responding with an exaggerated sweet tone. “Sure, princess. It’s not too sweet…just enough to make it a sugary drink instead of actually having a coffee taste.”

You pushed the mug back to him, waving off his dramatics. It was almost cathartic how the conversation could go from heartfelt and tender to teasing and flirting, like a flip of a switch.

With you, it always felt right, like stepping into the sun after being caught in the rain.

Ken shook his head at your dismissal, lifting the mug to take another sip of the latte. He didn’t mind the bitterness, especially if it meant sharing more moments with you.

Your eyes flickered past him, freezing on something near the cafe entrance.

“Crap.” you muttered.

Ken’s brow furrowed before turning to see where you were looking. Blood rushed in his ear the moment he spotted his teammates walking through the door.

Their presence wasn't loud or disruptive, but rather casual as they made their way towards the counter. The familiar jerseys and laughter sent a jolt of panic through him and a look of slight trepidation crossed his face.

“Crap…” he echoed your words, quickly turning back to you. “I think that’s our queue to leave.”

What were the odds? The cafe was in a quiet area, far from the usual hotspots, and yet here they were. His shoulders stiffened as he scanned the room, trying to gauge if anyone had spotted you.

Ken stood up first, his chair scraped softly against the floor. They weren’t looking in your direction but it was only a matter of time if you both stayed there any longer.

His voice lowered in your ear. “Come on.”

His hands found your wrist, lightly gripping it as he guided you towards the door without being noticed.

“They haven’t seen us, yet.” you said, glancing nervously at the group.

“Let’s not give them the chance.” His voice was barely audible, and his grip on your wrist tightened as you both made it to the door.

The air in the cafe felt heavier with every step. Ken’s pulse quickened and he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.

The brass of the door handle was cool against Ken’s palm as he pushed it open. The cool breeze brushed against his face, a welcome contrast to the tension that had knotted inside.

The cafe, once a warm refuge that provided comfort, now felt like a minefield— every glance a potential threat.

Ken scanned the area of anybody potentially following you both. The buzz of distant traffic and the rustle leaves were the only signs that greeted you. Once he was satisfied, he let out a loud sigh of relief.

“So, where to now?” you asked, breaking the silence.

“We should probably get off this street and go somewhere else more quiet…and private.”

Ken turned down the corner, his strides confident but unhurried. The two of you emerged into an empty car park bathed in the dim, orange glow of streetlights.

Everything else felt insignificant now, far from the predicament from the cafe or the traffic beyond. Ken led the way toward the far corner, where a sleek bike rested— its polished surface gleaming under the lights.

“Is that your bike?” you gasped, taking in the sigh that was in front of you.

“Yeah, that’s my ride.” The pride was evident in his voice and his expression, seeing the look on your face.

“It’s beautiful.” The genuine awe in your voice sent a ripple through him.

He didn’t say anything, only gave the bike a fond pat before throwing his leg over it and settling into the seat.

“You up for a quick cruise?”

“You sure?”

“Of course. Have you ever been on one?”

“No….” you admitted sheepishly, your eyes darted to the floor out of shyness. He felt a hint of his male ego spike at that, his eyes roaming at your figure.

“Well,” he said, shifting forward on the seat to give you room. “I guess I’ll be your first ride, then. Hop on— I’ll take care of you.”

You hesitated for a moment, your hands brushing against the cool leather of the seat.

“Have you ever had a woman ride behind you before?” you asked. Ken didn’t miss the flicker of doubt in your voice

His hands tightened on the handlebar, looking back at you. It wasn’t the question that threw him off but the way you asked it.

He recognised the insecurity, the way it slipped out almost against your own will. And it hit him harder than expected.

The idea that you might think he was the type to collect fleeting connections and one night stands stung.

“Of course not.” His voice was steady, stripped of its usual tease. “You’re the only one I’d ever want to give a ride to.

You let out a small, nervous laugh at that. “I guess I’ll be your first, too.”

Ken chuckled, patting the seat behind him. “Damn right you will be.”

He wouldn’t admit it, but making you feel secure in this moment felt more important than anything else.

Ken’s joyrides were something sacred— his personal retreat from the noise and chaos. The familiar rumble of the engine had always been his companion, a constant source of solace.

It wasn’t something shared with anyone. Ever.

But now, as you stood next to the leather seat, it struck him how different this felt. Letting you into this part of his life was like cracking open a private door, one he’d never let anybody step into.

The thrill of it sent a flutter through him, both exhilarating and unnerving.

You finally took your seat behind him, and the shift in weight sent a wave of awareness through him. He swallowed hard when it suddenly hit him how close you were behind him.

Then your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, and he felt his nerves spike. The heat of your fingertips grazed his abdomen sent little sparks of electricity through his body.

It wasn’t fear he was feeling but an intensity he wasn’t prepared for.

He let out a shallow breath as he felt your body pressed even closer. The sight of you behind him in the side mirror was enough to draw in a quick breath.

With a flick of the kill switch, the bike roared to life beneath him. The vibration and the sound broke the stillness, carrying you both out of the car park and into the Tokyo streets at an incredible speed.

The neon glow of the city painted streaks of light across the dark streets, and the hum of the traffic blurred in the background.

It was just you and him with the quiet rhythm of your trust that kept him grounded.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @despacito-uwu16 @roserfz27

#★— ayrus writes #coach’s daughter ☆#ultraman fanfic #ultraman: rising #ultraman rising #ultraman #kenji sato x y/n #kenji sato x you #kenji sato x reader #kenji x reader #kenji sato #ken sato x reader #ultraman ken #ken sato #ken sato x y/n #ken sato x you #ken sato ultraman

88 notes · View notes