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blindmagdalena · 1 month ago

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Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter eight)

18+ 5.5k. homelander x f!reader. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, abuse, forced relationship, slow burn, suicidal ideation/close call, dubcon, oral sex, penetrative sex. fic directory | AO3

It isn’t love like they tell it in fairy tales. It’s love the way the poets write it. It’s blood and tears, a gnawing hunger that eats you from the inside out, leaves you empty and clawing to cram something into yourself as replacement. It’s love like an infection, a fever that never fades. It’s devotion and yearning that runs so deep it turns into violence.

For the next several mornings, you make breakfast as usual.

The heat of the gas range and the hissing sizzle of the eggs are always slightly muffled. Time itself moves strangely around you, like you’re standing under a waterfall flowing in reverse. Minutes tick on like hours, but the hours go by without you noticing them at all.

As the days–they could be weeks, you’ve stopped keeping track–pass, that night of intimacy with Homelander feels more and more like a fever dream than a memory. If you really try, however, the details of it are simple enough to recall, if not a touch hazy.

The part of it that’s a struggle is believing any of it actually happened. When you do put your mind to remembering it, it’s as though it happened to someone else. You were an outsider to your body, and now that you’re yourself again, you’re left to ponder the actions of that stranger.

It’s your body that holds onto the reality of it for you. Your stomach still feels faintly tender from the nausea and vertigo of flying. The penthouse air feels stale in your lungs compared to the winds whipping above the city. Your heart pounds whenever your jaw feels tight with the memory of his hand clamped over your mouth, but perhaps the most vexing aspect of it all is the way the throb of your pulse now echoes loudest between your legs.

How your fear now comes laced with an unwanted tinge of arousal.

You’d been left alone that night while Homelander attended a Vought function. He hadn’t been gone long; just long enough for you to bathe. You hadn’t felt up to eating, but he didn’t notice. He’d only cared about coming home, about taking you back into his arms, about breathing in the shower fresh smell of you and exhaling mine into the crook of your neck.

Never before have you felt more like a toy, a possession, a belonging than you did in that moment.

He hasn't touched you like that again since, though you think he aches to. You feel it in the way he squeezes your thigh when you watch movies together, how his hand drifts gradually higher, but it never progresses further than that. Sometimes he’ll press against you in bed, but so long as you lay very still, he eventually drifts to sleep.

When he’s gone, you touch yourself. The ache is there, the pleasure faint, but it’s never quite enough to put you over the edge. It’s never enough to give you the kind of relief–the kind of escape–you felt with him. Your body feels like kindling without a spark, the sensations empty.

You wonder what it would take to prompt him back into that kind of frenzy, that single-minded drive to pleasure you. Would he do it again if he saw you crying?

I’m doing this for you. For us. I’m doing this because you don’t know how to let yourself be happy.

Could he have been right? Have you ever really known how to make yourself happy?

A touch to your waist snaps you from your introspection, startles you into jerking. The pan in your grip would have gone flying if not for Homelander’s hand on your elbow, steadying you.

You completely forgot you were cooking breakfast.

“Eggs are burning,” he tells you, reducing the gas to nothing. They’re far from black, but it doesn’t take much to turn eggs from edible to rancid, the sulphuric smell burning your nose. You can only imagine the havoc it’s wreaking on him.

It isn’t the first time you’ve burned a meal since that night. His tone indicates he’s come to expect it.

“Oh,” you say noncommittally, staring at the curled dark edges, the solid yellow yolk.

His hand slides absently from your hip to your waist. He’s become so familiar in these casual touches, they don’t even make your heart lurch in your chest anymore.

“It’s fine,” he says, clearly reading disappointment in your indifference. The timbre of his voice is ambiguous, but somehow you don’t really think it’s fine. He must be losing his patience with you. His arms slip around your waist like two coiling serpents. “Plenty of time for you to start over.”

Still, he wants you to fix it. Burned eggs don’t suit this idyllic fantasy.

Why bother? you wonder. He peppers light kisses on your neck, lips brushing over a kiss-bruised patch of skin. The heat of his mouth makes you shiver, makes your belly feel tight and hot. You can’t tell anymore whether the heat is anger or arousal. You’re not even going to eat it.

Nevertheless, you scrape out the botched eggs and start over, keenly aware of your pulse echoing faintly between your thighs, and the weight of Homelander’s gaze on you.

Predictably, you eat, and he toys with his food like it’s all a silly game of make-believe. Plastic eggs, foam toast, pretend girlfriend. Homelander’s obsession exists not in what’s real, but in the performance of domesticity. Every day, the idea of what’s real becomes a little more subjective. A little more abstract.

When he goes to leave, he kisses your cheek.

“Thank god it’s Friday,” he says, your chin pinched between his bare thumb and middle forefinger knuckle. He’s taken to touching you more and more without his gloves on. “I made sure I don’t have any weekend obligations, which means you–lucky lady–finally get me all to yourself.”

That’s new. Normally his weekends are even busier than his week.

Sensing his anticipation for your positive reaction, you smile faintly. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, as does his smile. It’s something of an experiment, a deviation from your automatic daily “Have a good day,” and you see the excitement of it written plainly in his expression.

“I won’t,” he says, softer, grip flexing minutely on your chin. He tarries just long enough that you begin to think he may not leave after all. Instead, he takes in a breath and drops his hand to the door panel, using his print to disengage the lock.

“This will be good for us,” he says quietly, lingering in the doorway for just a moment longer than usual.

The door closes behind him. The green circle turns blue, and the locking mechanism re-engaging is the last bit of noise you hear. The door is thick enough that you don’t even hear his steps echo down the hallway.

Crossing your arms, you stand there for a while, staring at the door. The number pad is shiny from disuse, the buttons a gleaming silver. You’ve never seen him bother to input the code. Testing them without pressing, they’re cool to the touch under your finger, and after a beat, you input a code.

0476. America’s birthday.

The blue circle flashes red, and you sigh. You would have been angry with yourself if it’d been that easy anyways.

For another day, you whittle your hours away on nothing, distant from yourself and your feelings. Music drones in your ears like static. Television feels alien and incomprehensible. The whole world is upside down, but it’s as though you’re the only one who’s noticed, who’s being forced to adapt.

Terrible as it is to think, the days are better when Homelander’s here.

You walk the penthouse in familiar patterns like a zoo animal in a too-small enclosure, bereft of enrichment. Knowing what you know about him, it feels like giving him too much credit to think the deprivation is intentional, that he’s putting in an effort to make you miss him in the time he’s gone. It seems more likely that he really is just incredibly ignorant of the basic needs a person has.

You’re not an animal. You’re more like a doll that he puts on the shelf until he’s ready to play with you again.

Coming to the balcony, you pull open the door and step outside, hand tight on the door frame. The wind lashes at you, stealing your breath for a split second in the way it always does before you adjust. It’s bright out today, the sky a crisp blue. It’s the kind of rich blue you’d never normally see through the smog on ground level, which always leaves it desaturated.

The clouds look near enough to touch, were you brave enough. Even standing just outside the doorway, your bare feet against the ice cold cement, is enough to make you weak in the knees. Your heart knocks against your ribs like it means to escape, but the feeling has grown so familiar, you don’t back away.

The fear, you realize, is the only thing that makes you feel present in your own body.

Living with Homelander has forced you to swallow back your instincts so frequently, it comes more naturally now to take a step forward than to run away, your hand slipping from the doorway.

Your heart is in your throat as you near the middle point of the balcony, more and more of the city below coming into view. Your breaths grow shallow, and despite how calm you think you are, your stomach launches into a series of violent somersaults, your eyes glued to the thinning edge of the balcony.

No matter how tattered your thoughts and feelings are, your body reacts. It knows how to keep you safe. It screams and screams and screams as you press on.

There’s nothing around you to steady or brace yourself on. You feel imbalanced, top-heavy in a way that makes you sway, your poor heart lurching with it. You’re too scared to blink, unwilling to risk even a split second of darkness for the fear you might pitch forward.

Closing your eyes only makes it worse, reminds Homelander, his voice unbidden in your mind.

It’ll pass.

It’s worth it.

Trust me.

“Why?” you snap aloud, startling yourself. Why, even now, is he with you?

What’s your alternative?

The air is thin out here. Your eyes water, buffeted by the winds. Your chest feels tighter now, and every breath you take is more hard fought than the last, your lungs constricted. Tears start to roll down your cheeks, though the wind is quick to wick them away.

Your whole body sings with your fear. The adrenaline feels like an extra layer of skin beneath yours, filling your veins with tension and strength. The longer you endure it, the more aware of yourself and that change you become. You take another step towards the edge. Your mouth is sandpaper dry, pins and needles prickling your skin all over.

Don’t look down. Look out.

You lift your gaze to the horizon, exhaling a shaky breath. You take another tentative step forward, relieved when your foot hits solid ground. You can’t see exactly where the ledge ends anymore. Another step, and then another. There’s nothing to hold you back. Nothing to keep you from walking.

Finally, you close your eyes, and move to step forward.

You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?

You gasp, eyes snapping open. Your balance waivers, and as your gaze drops, you see the empty space where your foot was about to fall.

If not for yourself, you’ll do that for me, yeah?

You pitch yourself backwards so hard that you fall, landing on your ass with a pained noise. You choke on the tension in your throat, your whole body shaking as you haul yourself backwards, bare feet scratching against the pavement. You flip onto your hands and knees and clamber back inside, hastily slamming the door shut behind you before you let go a gut wrenching sob, the sound of it strained, agonized, barely enough breath in your lungs to birth it.

You put your back to the door and you cry until your voice runs hoarse, until all the muscles in your stomach hurt and your tears run dry. It’s an ugly, visceral cry that leaves you dizzy and weak-limbed, the space behind your eyes throbbing in a dull headache.

There is an alternative. You’re going to find it.

Eventually you manage to drag yourself up from the floor and to the bedroom. The exhaustion that hits in the wake of your–what, lapse in judgment? Temporary insanity? Whatever you call it, it’s left you so worn out that all you can do is collapse on the bed, your muscles aching.

From the ceiling, your reflection stares back at you. You hardly recognize that face as yours anymore. Time and time again she makes choices that aren’t yours and experiences the world in a way you never could have imagined.

Homelander may have convinced you to look at yourself, but only now do you think you’re starting to see yourself as you are. As you must be.

You close your eyes, exhaling a slow breath. You begin to forget the balcony, the steps forward, the fall. It slots into a distant place somewhere in the back of your mind–where all things like it go–and after a time you’re left with nothing but the thrumming of your own body.

The echo of fear and thrill. The memory of adrenaline coursing through you like fuel, like poison, like divinity. Never before have you felt the kind of power you did when you took those steps. Fear has no control over you. It wasn’t even what stopped you.

You stopped yourself. You took control.

It leaves you electrified. You touch your tingling fingertips to your lips, where the numbness of them makes them feel like someone else’s. You trail them down your chin, your jaw, your throat. Instead of fighting it, you lean into the idea of this other you.

Hand drifting lower, you close your eyes. Instantly that haunting night comes back to you: Homelander’s mouth on your neck, your chest, your lips, his fingers curling inside you while you–that stranger behind your eyes–gasped in pleasure and kissed him back.

You try to replicate his touch. Slow, firm, full of desire and intent. Your stomach flips at the memory of it. How he kissed you like he meant to devour you, how enraptured he became with your pleasure.

I’ll make you happy if you’d just let me.

Swallowing, you skirt your fingers along the waistband of your pants, teasing the exposed skin there. He had taken your fear, your anguish, and twisted it into something with teeth.

Something inside you that hungered.

You have no idea how fucking good I can make you feel.

Slipping under the fabric, you push your fingers into your underwear and touch yourself in every way you remember him touching you.

The chill of your fingers–still cold from the balcony–is stark against the heat between your legs. Your pussy feels velvety under your fingers, soft and slick with arousal.

Look who’s all wet.

You let out a shuddering breath. Trying to replicate his touch only drives home how wholly inhuman he really felt. The unyielding strength in him, how his fingers felt like anchors inside you, grounding you, keeping you so entirely at his mercy that you had no choice but to let go, to give in.

There’s no such plausible deniability here. He’s gone, and yet here you are envisioning him, imitating him, allowing the version of him in your mind to have what you’d been sure he would always have to take. You screw your eyes shut tighter, exhaling a throaty noise as you push your fingers sharply in.

Your hips rock steadily. The harder you try, the less right it feels. You attempt to relax, to let yourself focus on what it feels like now instead of what it felt like then, what it felt like with him. How relentless he was, peppering insistent kisses everywhere he could reach. You touch your neck, press into the tender mark he sucked there. Your pussy clenches at the sensation, and finally you feel as though you’re on the right track.

Something electric begins to crackle inside you. A low, dull pressure that builds gradually. You deepen your breaths, finding a rhythm, losing yourself piece by piece to the dozens of hands pulling at you in your mind. Tearing your clothes, sinking into you, holding you pinned, all of it impossibly happening at once while you’re simultaneously ravaged by lips, tongue and teeth.

Your eyes snap open when a grip like steel snatches your wrist, shocking you out of your fantasy.

Homelander stands over you.

His vibrant blue eyes are dark and glazed over, his lips parted. He’s not looking at you, but instead at your glistening fingers. He tilts your hand, enraptured by how the wetness of them catches the light.

A visceral rush moves through you, heat and shame and excitement and outrage all in dizzying measure. You move to yank your hand back, but despite the looseness of his grip, the curl of his fingers is unyielding. He doesn’t even seem to notice.

With his other hand braced on the headboard, he leans in at the same time he pulls you closer, his eyes falling shut as he sucks two of your fingers into his mouth.

The heat of it shocks you all over, makes your stomach drop in a hot and sudden broil. His tongue slides up the seam between your fingers, pushing between them, licking away every single trace of slickness from them.

“Homelander,” you rasp, tone ambiguous in the flux of your inner turmoil.

His eyes open part way, landing on you heavy and hungry. He pulls your fingers from his mouth with an obscene, wet noise. His tongue moves over his top lip in a slow slide, dipping around his sharp canines. His breaths are shallow, nostrils flaring on every heavy inhale. He’s barely tasted you and yet he looks drunk on it, cheeks flushed red.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks, his voice guttural, raw with open and eager desire.

For once, the truth and what you know he wants to hear are one in the same. It sits on your tongue with the weight of an anchor, his expectant gaze a bottomless ocean.

If you give it to him, are you prepared to sink?

What’s your alternative?

“You.”

Homelander groans.

He releases your hand and takes hold of your hips instead, yanking you to the edge of the bed with such ease of force it makes you gasp. He yanks your pants off with a sharp pull, though he manages not to tear them this time.

The feverishness that he touches you with makes your whole body sing, instantly sparking the ember you’d been tending into a blazing fire. Your blood races with adrenaline, desire surging alongside instinctual fear, the two intermingling to the point where you can no longer discern one from the other.

“I was thinking about yesterday,” you say, breath hitching for the way he kisses his way down your stomach, fingers biting into your hips. “The way you touched me.”

Like gasoline splashed over a flame, your words intensify the ravenous fire of him. He sinks to his knees, your legs hitched over his shoulders, peppering kisses along your inner thigh, hands cupped under your ass, which he’s pulled completely off the bed.

Your heart thunders in your chest while his hot huffs of breath so close to where you’re wet and wanting make you shiver. His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, the thrum of his restraint an effortless reminder of all that he is, all that he’s capable of. The awareness of how easily he could tear you apart is no longer frightening. Instead, it’s the understanding that he won’t that thrills you.

In the same way you couldn’t stop him when he wanted to please you, if Homelander wanted to hurt you, you couldn’t stop him. There is a surreal freedom in that, a permission to let go of the weight of fear and responsibility for yourself, for your actions.

Reap the reward.

He kisses all the way to the core of you, where his mouth closes over your clit, hot and wet and devouring. His tongue slides around and over, the rolling pull of his lips coaxing a deeper pleasure.

All the while he holds you firmly in place, trapping you in relentless euphoria. His mouth is just as merciless as the rest of him, never needing to pause or take a breath. He’s machine-like in his rigor, but the fervor of his consumption is decidedly animalistic.

You can hardly catch your breath in the onslaught. Reaching down, you thread your fingers into his hair–it’s softer than it has any right to be–and pull hard. That earns you a throaty moan from him, the vibrations of it adding an entirely new element of sensation.

Your grip on his hair tightens sporadically, sharp little tugs that match the staccato cadence of your breaths. His tongue moves down, focusing instead on fucking you in shallow but powerful thrusts. The strength of it, the underlying hum of barely contained power that courses through him, and the sheer relentlessness of his stamina drives you wild against his mouth.

Between plunging his tongue into you and sucking on your clit, he drinks you down noisily, a parched man gulping from an oasis. You use what little leeway his grip allows to grind against his tongue, riding the tidal wave of your building release all the way to the top.

His hand slides inward, fingers splayed to support your weight while his thumb dips deep enough to slip into you, finally giving your pussy something solid to squeeze. It’s enough to tip you over the edge. You push your other hand into his hair and hold on for dear life, arching your back with a cry that fills the entire penthouse as pleasure overtakes you, crashing down on you like a tsunami.

Like before, Homelander doesn’t take your climax alone as an invitation to stop. A man possessed, he licks, sucks and kisses your throbbing clit through every single aftershock of your orgasm. Pleasure eventually trails into discomfort, a slight tingling burn that finally gives you the strength to push him away.

He doesn’t relent right away, too lost in you to feel the meager protest. You push harder, making a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper, overstimulated, and he finally withdraws, giving one last noisy slurp before setting you back on the bed and rising. He’s painting, face is shiny and wet with your slick, his pupils blown completely black.

In your euphoria addled delirium, the look of him makes you want to run far away as much as it makes you want to kiss him.

Licking his lips, he crawls up your body, his gaze still predator hungry. You catch his face between your palms, your breaths still shallow, and marvel at how raw he looks.

For all your fears about what he could be hiding from you, Homelander has never been anything but brutishly upfront. He told you who and what he was the moment you woke up in his bed. You can understand his logic now–why bother muddying the waters with needless lies? He never deceived you because he wanted you to know who he was, and who he expected you to be.

Even now, he is an open book to you. Your pleasure is mine, his expression declares. The claim is in his eyes, shining on his lips, in the heady scent of it on his breath. You are mine.

And he is, without a shadow of a doubt, yours.

You trace his bottom lip with your thumb, transfixed by the way he followed it, pressing wet kisses to the pad. You tilt your thumb forward, grazing his teeth. His bottom canines are sharp, and when you press your thumb down on one of them, he closes his lips around it, sucking on it with a needy little noise that lances heat straight through you.

Despite the immensity of his power, he’s malleable in your hands. You pull, he follows, huffing out shallow little breaths. You pull your thumb away and he looks at you with cloudy eyes, brows tightly pinched. Between your bodies, he fusses with his belt until it clicks loose.

“Stop,” you breathe, pressing a hand to his chest.

His expression twists, damn near wounded. “Wha–why? I thought–”

You kiss him before he can put himself in another rejection induced spiral, licking the words right out of his mouth before you say, “Take the suit off.”

Another soft groan from him before he’s lifting off of you, unfastening his suit. You take the opportunity to shed the last of your layers, your heart racing. You half expected him to rush, to fumble in his hurriedness, but despite his obvious excitement, he’s methodical in removing his suit, placing it on the rack in the way he always does.

It’s almost long enough to give you time to think about what you’re doing, about whether the pounding in your chest is thrill or not. That same primal part of you is shouting to run, and you are running, just not away. You’re tired of running away. This time, you’re running headlong into Homelander.

And he catches you.

He’s upon you before you can examine it any further, bare skin hot against yours. He kisses the column of your throat, breathing you in.

At the first nudge of his cock, a breathy little noise escapes you. He savors grinding the head of it tantalizingly against your clit, moving through the mess he’s made of you. You’re soaking wet, thighs coated in saliva and slick. He presses his chest down against yours and the heat of him makes you shiver.

He isn’t putting his full weight down on you, but the sheer force of him over you is suffocating. Breathing makes you feel as though you’re pressed against a brick wall, stifling you. Trapping you. You start to shake your head.

“Wait, wait, hold on,” you say, fighting the welling panic in your throat. “Roll over. On your back.”

Confused but not opposed, he does as he’s told, moving off of you and onto his back. You swing your leg over him, and he instantly understands, grasping your hips to help gather you into position over him. His lips split into a wide grin, dark eyes glinting wickedly.

“Fuck yes,” he breathes, squeezing your hips. There’s a giddiness to him, like part of him didn’t believe that this would happen, much less that you would ever be the one leading it.

Straddling his thighs, sitting just behind his cock, you can feel the tension of his excitement thrumming throughout his body. With control on your side, you move forward, reaching between your legs to angle him into the right position.

His grip on you flexes as he fights with himself to stay still while you descend slowly, the swell of him splitting you open in one slow, hot slide.

Gravity brings you down most of the way, but a jerk of his hips that he pulls you into bottoms him out, and you both gasp with the suddenness of it, your body locking up around his throbbing cock.

“Sorry, sorry,” he pants, but his grip doesn’t ease. Like he’s lost control of himself, he holds you firmly in place while he fucks you, watching you through heavily lidded eyes, lips parted. “S’good, s’fuckin’–so fucking good,” he moans, expression twisting in pleasure.

It’s too much all at once–Homelander always is–but you take it, gripping his wrists. He fucks like a machine, each thrust a shock to your system, momentum building into quicker, harder thrusts.

“S-slow down,” you half moan, practically choking on the overwhelming fullness of him inside you. He isn’t thrusting in and out so much as he’s grinding into you in shallow bursts, carving out the shape of himself within you like he intends never to leave.

“Take me so good,” he murmurs, and if not for the slight slow down of his thrusts, you’d think he didn’t hear you. He sits up, the ease with which he moves even with you on top of him still throwing you for a loop. “Knew you would, knew you’d be mine, all mine. Made just for me.”

His hands slide up your body, one arm moving around your waist while his hand slides up to cup the back of your head. He kisses you, pins your chest to his, ensures you feel every ounce of his desperation to be with you, near you, inside you.

It’s more than being fucked–it’s like being taken apart so that you can be put back together around him. A permanent emptiness in his perfect image.

You were not made for him. You have been remade.

The next thing you know, Homelander is standing up, your legs hitched around his waist, ankles locked behind him. You wrap your arms around his neck and gasp for the way the position brings him in deeper yet, every bounce on his cock heavier now.

“Look at me,” he rasps. You don’t remember closing your eyes, but you open them at his prompt, looking at him through the delirium of heat and pleasure. His dark eyes are glassy, and he’s looking at you with such raw, vulnerable love that it makes your heart twist in agony. “I love you.”

You take a breath, your own eyes welling with tears, and you kiss him.

I believe you, you think, tears rolling down your cheeks while the pressure of climax builds steadily back up.

It’s love like an infection, a fever that never fades. It’s devotion and yearning that runs so deep it turns into violence. It’s desperation and the all consuming desire to be accepted for what you are, no matter the ugliness of it. It’s the most raw form of need a person is capable of.

It’s survival.

The kiss breaks and he presses his forehead to yours, your shallow breaths mingling hot and wet in the narrow space between your mouths.

The rest of the world falls away in jagged pieces��circumstance, fear, pity, hatred, pain–and narrows only to the two of you; your bodies joined, your gazes fixed on one another, and the electric pleasure of the friction between you.

“I–” you gasp, choking on your own words as he fucks you to the razors edge of release. “I love you, too.”

Maybe he’s broken you, or maybe it’s impossible to live in madness without going a little mad yourself.

He makes a noise like you’ve gutted him, eyes screwed shut. He slams in once, twice, thrice more and you lose yourself to the heat of it all, breath stolen from your lungs by the crash of release that overwhelms your every sense.

You lose track of time, of the hammer of his body against yours. He comes shortly after, stilling deep inside you with a rush so hot that it makes you gasp into the crook of his neck, where you let yourself collapse. You’re dead weight in his arms, but you may as well weigh nothing at all for the toll it takes on him.

Sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed, he embraces you like that for a long while. Your euphoria keeps you on a cloud somewhere high above, serving as cushioning between how you feel and what you know. Just like yesterday, mindless pleasure is an intoxicating reprieve from reality, and you’re thoroughly drunk on it.

He rubs your back in slow familiar patterns. You idly toy with the hair at the nape of his neck, which prompts him to pepper you in languid kisses. Touching you like this comes to him as naturally as breathing. Your bodies slot together like two pieces of a puzzle that were long lost from each other.

“See?” he whispers, easing your bodies down onto the bed, under the covers. “I didn’t break you.”

You offer a dazed smile, not quite as certain that he didn’t. Your pelvis aches slightly, an overall tenderness to you akin to the pain you’d feel the day after a particularly hard fall.

That isn’t the ache you’re concerned about, though. It’s the one in your chest that gives you pause.

“There’s still time.”

His brows furrow while he processes the words, but after a beat, he smiles, taking it as a playful challenge.

“Aren’t you just full of surprises?”

Yes, you think, settling your head on his chest, listening to the steady pound of his heart. I certainly am.

Exhaling a deep breath, you close your eyes, content to allow yourself this respite, however brief.

In hindsight, you will always remember this moment as the quiet just before the storm.

#homelander x reader #homelander #homelander x you #x reader #homelander fanfiction #my writing #center stage in a gilded cage

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leonkennedybreedingkink · 3 months ago

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I MUST BE SPOILED AND ROTTEN (CAUSE NO ONE ELSE WOULD EVER DO)

real dad!leon x fem reader

warnings: father-daughter incest. could perhaps be read as a sequel for too close for comfort. daddy kink. also more nicole dollanganger, this is a little more directly inspired by uncle. pussy smacking, d/s dynamics, established relationship. title taken from spoiled and rotten by darling violetta.

Summer is blisteringly hot. It’s been nothing but eighties and nineties and humidity. It doesn’t even have the decency to cool the hell down at night. Your box fan doesn’t do much for you, the only air conditioner is in the living room.

Which is why you’re awake, staring at the ceiling with a gnawing in your lower stomach.

You get up, clad in dad’s old t-shirt and ruffle socks, and pad down to dad’s room.

The door creaks when it opens, there’s no reprieve from the heat in his room or the hallway.

You slip silently into his room and crawl into bed with him. “Daddy?”

Leon’s up in a moment, strong arms wrapping around you. Government training left its mark all these years later. “What is it, baby?”

“Can’t sleep.” You nuzzle his neck, leaving a kiss over his pulse.

He laughs, voice ragged from sleep, and your stomach flutters as one of his arms unwinds from you and dives into your panties. “Yeah? Think I know why, baby. Want me to make it better?”

You nod, lifting your leg up a little more for him.

Quickly, he withdraws his hand and smacks your pussy hard enough to make you jolt and cry out.

“What do we say?” No change in his inflection, but that’s your daddy.

“Thank you, daddy.” You mumble, rewarded with a kiss to your jaw and his hand gently petting over your stinging clit.

“My poor baby.” Leon coos, nudging your nose with his and leaving a kiss near your mouth as he slowly fumbles with your clit. “Your fingers not doing it for you anymore?”

You shake your head. “No, daddy.” They haven’t since he got inside you that first time, bending you over the kitchen counter while dinner burned on the stove.

Yeah, it was real fun trying to shut up the fire alarm whilst you both were naked from the waist down. Doing the dishes was awful, but that’s his job.

You stiffen up when he pushes two fingers in, no burning stretch because he got you used to three in no time.

When you moan, Dad rewards you with the heel of his palm grinding against your clit. “That’s my sweet girl.” He rests his forehead against yours, then kisses you as you get close, feeding off your moans and the way your walls squeeze his fingers.

Leon withdraws his fingers and gently wipes his hand on your tummy, patting your mound gently and grinning when you giggle. “Is that better?” He wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you over, head in your neck.

“Mhm…” you nod lazily, already nodding off.

One orgasm plus dad’s weight on you equals a good ten hours of sleep.

You shift a little as you stand in front of your mom’s grave, feeling sort of ashamed in some odd way. Would mom be horrified if she was alive? If she knew her husband and kid were doing it on the daily?

Then again, you kinda ceded the kid label the second you let dad get inside you. Maybe that’s why you’re so interested in Twin Peaks, Laura Palmer was her dad’s own daughter-wife.

You lean into dad’s side unconsciously, staring at the headstone and sweating through your t-shirt in the fucking sun.

Later, as you’re cooking for the two of you, dad’s hands slip beneath your shirt, resting on your waist. “You’ve been all weird today, baby.” He sets his chin on top of your head and comes a little closer, fingers drumming on your sides.

He’s like a cat, Leon is. Never shows up when you’re actively showing attention to him and is bothered by it at best, only to turn around and come begging for it when you inevitably fuck off. You’d think he’d sleep at your feet if he could.

You sigh, stirring the noodles around the pan. “It’s complicated.”

Leon sighs too, dropping his head to ghost his mouth over your cheekbone. “So? Talk about it with me. I’ll uncomplicate it for you.”

You stir a little more, staring down at the pan and slowly sweating through your previously clean shirt. You should’ve just thrown this shit in the crockpot and called it a day. “Feel like I’m disrespecting her. Mom.”

His hands freeze; called it.

“Why?” He asks slowly, like he’s trying to interrogate you. Kinda reminds you of when he’d run a full investigation of why there were no leftover pizza slices left. If there are none left and only two people in the house, no dog, then how many graves are you spitting on?

You scoff, trying to pull away, but Leon’s got you cornered against the stove. “Come on, baby.” He goads, wrapping big fucking arms around your middle and pulling you in. “Why?”

You’d look at him as if he grew two heads if you could. “Because she’s my mom. Cause she’s your wife. You fucked her before me.”

He snorts in your ear, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Is that jealousy I hear, baby?”

You growl in annoyance, turning off the heat. “Don’t ‘baby’ me.”

Dad smiles against your face. “You sound just like your mother.” Of course this motherfucker isn’t bothered by it. “Just like her too.” He pats your ass. “In some ways, at least.” A wet kiss on your neck.

You make an unhappy noise, aiming an elbow at his ribs. “Focus, dad, Jesus fucking Christ. You can’t just fuck me every time we have a disagreement.” It’s not really a disagreement, he thinks you’re all in your head again. Got that from mom too.

Dad freezes, then withdraws, turning you to face him with the hands on your sides. “I’m sorry. Promise I’ll be serious.” Leon takes a hand and kisses it, keeping a hold of it like a bridge between you.

You huff, only slightly mollified by him. “You don’t feel… you’re not bothered by it?”

Leon’s eyes study you for a while, brows slowly furrowing. “I love you. Lots and lots, baby. What—“ he holds your hand a little tighter. “what we have, what we do, is only a natural extension of that.”

When you’re silent again, he reels you in, his fish on a line and hook in your cheek. “The royals did that, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, and Prince Phillip was a ghastly looking beast.” You mutter, pressing your ear to his heart. Dad snorts above you.

Hear that? That beats for you. Used to beat for mom, but he got a new one just for his precious girl.

“And Nicholas the second’s son had that blood disorder because of it.” That’s probably not true, but also could be true, who knows.

Divine punishment, like in a One Hundred Years of Solitude when that kid was born with the pig tail after generations of inbreeding. The entire settlement in Venezuela got wiped from the face of the earth for that. Rocks fall, everyone dies.

Lot’s daughters raped him. His wife got turned into a pillar of salt because she looked back after they fled Sodom and the girls never got any comeuppance.

He smooths a palm over your head. “Honey, Alexandra also had the same problem. So did at least two of the daughters.”

“But we don’t know.” You look up at him and frown.

Dad pouts down at you too before kissing you. “Your mom is always in my heart.” He says once he’s pulled away, wiping a bit of his spit from the corner of your mouth. “And so are you. She’d want me to be happy.”

You hold back a snarky comment, only giving him a look. Leon shrugs and straightens up. “Is that all it was, babydoll?”

You nod after a moment and he pats you on the ass again. “Better?”

You suppose so, you’re not really sure.

You feel a little like everyone knows when they look at you. Like Girl, Interrupted when Angelina Jolie looks at Brittany Murphy’s character and tells her everyone knows her dad rapes her, but what they—we��all missed is that she likes it.

Liked. Likes. Same difference, honestly. All that matters is that she—you—liked what her dad did to her. Rape.

God, what if his coworkers found out? Incest is a felony in most states. You and him go in the clinker, and everyone knows what happens in prison showers.

There are some things better kept between family.

Your dad loves you, you know he does. You love him too, even if everyone else is weirded out about it. He needed a relic of mom’s around, and what are you if not that?

Cum is thicker than water, in that sense.

#mine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you

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stop-talking · 9 months ago

Text

No thoughts, only Derek Danforth sending you nudes while you're at work...

(Thanks, Holden. 🙄) @freak-accident419

Tags: 18+ g!n reader, mentions of drugs, no real smut, just dirty talk and nudes

---------------------------------------------------------

Your phone buzzes in your pocket for the twentieth time in the past five minutes, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is.

Who it always is.

With a sigh, you try and discreetly look at your phone underneath your desk. Opening messages from Derek while you're at work is always a gamble, considering he spends 90% of his time high, horny, or a mix of both.

As soon as you tap the notification, your screen is overtaken by cock. The tip red and glistening with need, his hand wrapped around the shaft, mid-pump...

Fuck.

You quickly turn your phone off, shoving it between your thighs and sitting up straighter. That bastard. He knows you're at work.

Of course, now he also knows you've opened his messages. Your phone vibrates angrily between your thighs, and you start to wonder if putting it there was a smart move.

Fucking Danforth. You try to physically shake the image of his throbbing cock out of your mind, literally shaking your head as you stare at the computer screen in front of you.

That is, until your co-worker in the cubicle across from yours shoots you a glance and asks if you're alright.

"Yeah, just, uh... Tired. Trying to stay awake."

You stand up straight, causing your still-buzzing phone to fall to the floor.

"I'm gonna go make a coffee," you announce.

In your scramble to pick up your phone, you knock your chair over and onto the floor. Damnit, stop making such a scene.

You scurry away, trying desperately to silence your phone. Unfortunately, the last thing you had pulled up was... well, cock.

With a yelp, you turn and duck into the nearest bathroom, praying no one saw your screen.

Once you finally have some level of privacy, standing in a cramped bathroom stall, you start to look over your 50+ notifications from Derek.

He's been sending you messages all afternoon, mostly nonsense texts, with nudes interspersed between them.

11am:

Babe? Baaaaabe. Babe I miss you Come home When is work over

12pm:

Are you ignoring me? Babe I got a new robe Do you wanna see Baby

[A short video of Derek in his robe]

He starts the video making a concerned face at the camera, muttering to himself. Once he realizes it's recording, he sets it down on the bathroom counter and takes a few steps back, showing off his robe.

It's green silk with gold trim, and a gold tie around the waist. He takes a hit of his vape and does a quick 360, twirling for the camera.

"You like it?" He asks, beaming and carding a hand through his blonde curls.

He stares at the camera for a minute, seemingly waiting for a response, before snapping out of it and reaching to turn it off.

"Sorry. Just smoked a few." he mumbles, and the video ends.

1pm:

Babeeeee I need youuu Come home already Come sit on my lap

[A picture of Derek's lap]

He's still wearing the robe, and his hand is wrapped around his hard cock through the thin silk fabric. No skin is showing, but you can clearly see the familiar outline of his dick.

2pm:

Fuck If you don't come home soon I'm dying asjkdakdjha skdjhfskjdh aksjdkadjs Baby Can I send you Pics Baby asdasjdghask It misses you

[A shakily-recorded video of Derek from the waist down.]

He tugs at the golden strip of silk tied around his waist, slowly unravelling the loose knot.

Eventually it completely falls away, and his rope opens, exposing himself completely for the camera. His dick is standing at attention, twitching and leaking pre-cum down his shaft.

The video pans to his face again, and he absentmindedly gnaws at the end of his vape. Sweat drips down his forehead and he mumbles out a plea you're unable to hear with your volume off. The video ends.

2:30pm:

Baby Oh my God I can't wait Come home Looking at your old pics again Miss you so muchh Fuck work I need you

[A short close-up video of Derek's cock]

He's in bed, his animal-print bedsheets peeking through his legs as he lies back and strokes his cock. Slowly, he bucks his hips up into his hand, clearly trying not to finish just yet. You recognize this as the video from earlier, the one you opened at your desk.

2:45pm:

YOU OPENED IT BABE ARE YOU IGNORING ME BABY I'm so hard right now Please Fuck Fuck Fuck I need you to sit on me Please asajshdas hdsjdhfahd asdasjdk sljkdfls Answer Please Babyyyy

You blink at your screen, finally reaching the bottom of Derek's endless sea of messages. Fuck. You really should be angry with him, but he's so goddamn hot when he's needy.

Not that he needs to know that.

Is this what you do all day while I'm at work? Get high and play dress-up?

FUCK Babe Don't go or I'll die Please

I still have two hours of work left, Derek.

You wouldn't need to work if you'd just move in with me already <3

Your house scares me. No one should be exposed to that much animal print.

I'll buy us a new one. Just come home, pleaseee?

This bastard. He isn't going to give up, is he? You glance at the time, and bite your lip. Maybe you could make up the two hours later? Work overtime this weekend?

Babe?

I'm here. Brat.

Are you on your way over?

Yeah. I'll be home in ten.

Suddenly you feel very, very sick. Too sick to work. You explain this to your boss, who shoos you off and tells you to go home.

One thought plays over and over in your mind as you pack your things and scurry to the car...

Derek better still be wearing that slutty little robe when you see him.

#josh hutcherson #jhutch #derek danforth #josh hutcherson x reader #the beekeeper #derek danforth x reader #josh hutcherson x you #derek danforth x you #derek danforth smut #i stopped writing one smut and switched to writing this one #hope y'all are happy #derek is such a brat #i stand by that #hes literally so silly

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adore-laur · 7 months ago

Note

Hii I love your writing ! Idk if you’re still taking dadrry requests but I’d love to see how he’d react to one of his girls being super picky with food and how he deals with that ! Like him making a bunch of meals for his baby hoping she’ll like it :’)

——

Now that his youngest was able to eat solid foods at six months old, Harry took it upon himself to introduce her to the wonderful world of fruits and vegetables. While it might have been easier and more convenient to purchase jars of mediocre mashed baby food from the store, Harry was a chef and wanted to expand his culinary capabilities. And maybe impress you just a little bit. You were slowly weaning from breastfeeding, and he wanted to show his appreciation for your relentless nourishment. Keeping his babies alive and healthy made him forever indebted to you. His favorite way to repay you was by cooking whatever meal your heart desired and making sure your belly was full.

It was eleven a.m. when Harry got started on making lunch. You were out of the house with your eldest at her weekly swimming lesson and were due to arrive home shortly. He was hoping you didn't stop for lunch on the way back since he was planning on making the whole family lunch once he satiated his babbling baby girl seated in her high chair.

After mulling over potential recipes, he decided on something simple—baked pears and a side of steamed zucchini made into a purée. He got to washing and slicing the three pears he nabbed from the roadside farmers market downtown, all while listening to the mourning doves coo and the waves lapping the shore outside the open window. He fell into a tranquil state of cooking, his muscles on autopilot when handling knives, bowls, and pans. It was second nature to him—his favorite pastime next to hanging out with his girls.

Once the pears were baking in the oven, Harry whipped up the zucchini purée. He chopped one up, placed the pieces in a saucepan, and then seasoned them before steaming the pale green vegetable for ten minutes. In the meantime, he lifted his baby girl from her high chair and snuggled her close while the sweet aroma of his cooking concoction swirled in the air. She was getting bigger every day, and it snapped his heart into little pieces. Pretty soon, she'd be crawling around the house with curiosity. She was already teething and mimicking sounds. Laughing and putting toys in her mouth. And while those milestones filled him with an enormous amount of pride, he couldn't help but realize how short-lived they were.

When the oven timer beeped, Harry sat his baby girl on his hip and carefully took the glass dish of pears out with a hot pad. They were golden brown, which made his stomach grumble. He set them on the stovetop and flicked the heat off for the zucchini. He needed both hands for the next step, but he really didn't want to stop holding his baby, whose wispy hair smelled like the lavender shampoo he used during her bath time last night. She was awake and in a slightly cranky mood because of teething. The only thing he could do to alleviate the irritable pain she was experiencing was to offer his knuckle as a soothing thing to gnaw until he found the time to order a teething toy. He was unconcerned with the drool and dull ache caused by her. This wasn't his first rodeo.

It was actually why you had started to wean earlier than you did with your first child. You mentioned breastfeeding was uncomfortable enough, and adding teeth to the mix was even more unpleasant. He wholeheartedly supported your decision and made it his mission to never have you stress over cooking separate meals for two babies and yourself. It was part of his lifelong repayment.

While the pears and zucchini cooled, Harry rummaged through the living room in search of the baby sling—also known as the greatest invention for multitasking parents. And dads who couldn't get enough of holding their babies. Guilty, he thought to himself.

Once he located it under a pile of princess dresses, he put it on and wrapped his baby nice and snugly in the fabric. Then he went back to the kitchen and used his two free hands to grab the food processor from the corner cabinet. Setting it on the island, he brought over the zucchini and poured them in before pressing the purée setting. The grating noise startled the baby, and Harry gently bounced in place while covering her tiny ears.

Mushy green slop was the result after he turned off the loud device. It wasn't necessarily appetizing to him, but the way his daughter was making grabby hands at it made him proud of his very own baby food creation. He opened the silverware drawer and grabbed a silicone spoon. He dipped it into the purée and then held up a small serving to her awaiting mouth.

"This is zucchini," Harry said, sincerely hoping she'd like it. "It's good for your bones and digestive system. Now, you have to tell Daddy what you think. This is a trial run to find out what you like." He delicately stuck the spoon in her open mouth and watched her slowly remember how to chew. Her rosebud lips smacked together as some purée slid down her chin. Babies were cute when they ate, but boy did they make a mess. Her expression didn't give anything away, but the way she was spitting out everything that was on the spoon sure did.

"All right," he whispered, a bit disappointed. "That’s okay. Zucchini's not for everyone."

Her chubby fist reached up and landed on his neck, no doubt protesting for better food. He couldn't help but laugh at the green smears bordering his adorable daughter's mouth. Taking his phone out, he captured a couple of pictures and sent them to you before wiping the mess with a paper towel. He made a mental note to also order bibs—another sign that she was growing up too quickly. God, it wounded him. He might have to ask for a third baby after all.

Harry walked over to the stovetop and picked up a warm, baked pear slice. Using his teeth, he tore off half a chunk for himself and guided the other one into her mouth. He had to help her chew this time since the consistency was more solid than the purée. His thumb and forefinger held her jaw as he gently moved it up and down. His baby's beautiful eyes stared at him, entranced by his face so close. He stared right back at her, admiring all the parts that were him and you. Day by day, she looked a little more like you, and he was ecstatic about it. His genes might've been strong in the newborn stage, but they stood no chance against the potent beauty of yours.

There was nary a complaint when she swallowed the piece of pear. None at all until Harry got her another, and as soon as it touched her lips, she burst into tears and pushed his hand away like it was the absolute last thing she wanted in front of her.

"Not even pears?" Harry said, equal parts humored and defeated. "You're going to be a picky little eater, aren't you? Just like your sister."

With a sense of mild failure sitting in his chest, he opted to feed her a bottle of breastmilk in the refrigerator until you got home. Your motherly instincts would surely help him figure out her palate. Even though he was a chef and understood everyone's acquired tastes, it was his daughter who was unimpressed with his skills.

Eating the rest of the pears and the bland zucchini purée, he laughed to himself. His girls kept him on his toes, but he wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

——

#harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #dad!harry #dadrry #harry styles au #harry styles #adore-laur

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mooishbeam · 11 months ago

Text

『♡』 The Remarkable Machine Who Learned How to Love

♡ featuring: toji x f!reader

♡ cw/tw: none, a little angst but a whole lot of fluff! wc: 1.6k+

notes: i was thinking about this all day and decided to whip up somethin in a couple hours. hope u like :P art by manuel_juju on twitter! comments and reblogs are appreciated!

In a kill-or-be-killed world, Toji reached the top of the food chain—unfortunately, staying at the top is a thousand times harder than the climb. And when he looked down, there was no one to catch his fall.

Before Toji met you, he was as aimless as a speck of dust, carried endlessly by an unpredictable tide of winds. He followed the cracked and crumbled path bespoken for lost souls like himself. Destined to be nothing but a vessel, a hollow man of sturdy muscle who worked himself to the bone, filthy jobs common men wouldn’t dare consider, because who was there to stop him anyway? Was there anything left for men birthed from hopeless circumstances, raised by broken homes to turn to lives of criminality? He couldn’t find an answer. He wasn’t equipped with the empathy to understand why guilt gnawed at his conscious; why whenever he ate takeout in his dimly lit apartment, it spilled out the chasm in his chest.

It was much easier to complete the task, to trudge to a check cashing facility to retrieve money he couldn’t care less about. Perhaps he’d walk this earth alone forever, constantly watching over his back from a fear of daggers shooting from every direction, waiting to strike at his most vulnerable. It was only a matter of time.

Or maybe he’d allow his sins to surpass him. Accept the peaceful release of death and pay the price of a vacant funeral service.

It was all but irreparable, until he walked into his usual convenience store and encountered the new clerk at the register. It was past midnight, and Toji placed the quick meal on the counter. When his tired eyes panned up from those frozen noodles, his heart reset, a part he thought died amidst the torment. It skipped across his ribcage, stopped until a fleeting breath pulled him back to reality, to the intense fluorescent lights and your warm welcoming smile. There wasn’t a single altercation that stole the air from his lungs the way you did.

Life hadn’t torn you apart yet.

Your eyes didn’t break away, unexpected, as Toji was used to people hanging their heads near him. He’s aware of his threatening stare and intimidating stature; it’s what keeps him alive. And you were unbothered. You scanned his item, and flashed those pearly whites that sent a nosedive straight to his stomach, “I’m a big fan of this brand!”

Toji remained tight lipped, unwilling to sift through difficult emotions and experience a feeling he believed himself to be undeserving of. He nodded, and somehow you continued, “Shouldn’t eat so late, though. Messes with your stomach.” A puff of wind pushed from his nose before he could stifle it. “Are you a doctor in the daytime?” You chuckled and bagged, “Sorry, slow day.”

He arrives the same week, searching for a couple of beers to bring back to his apartment. You were in an obviously dangerous position, with one foot off the step ladder as you attempted to push a bottle of cleaner onto the highest shelf. It was a fight between gravity, and the opponent nearly won before his hand grabbed the handle. “Oh! Thank you” you smiled. It was sunnier than the last and reopened the stitches he’d been struggling to sew since that moment.

Toji suddenly had countless excuses to go to the convenience store. Sometimes he’d enter for a snack, and you’d discuss your favorite chips, other times he pretended to need items just to hear your voice ramble about a niche topic you knew too much about. When his heart thrummed off kilter, and his mind became consumed with thoughts of the pretty night-shift cashier, a piece of him demeaned. How embarrassing it was, to be attracted to the scripted kindness of a service worker. Toji barely recognized he had favorites, let alone desires. So why did he have such an unwavering desire to see you?

He’d snatch a pack of noodles one day, a subconscious grin at the joining of your eyes. It didn’t matter if the twinkle in your gaze wasn’t exclusive to him; for a second, it felt like someone cared, and it was fulfillment he couldn’t shake.

You leaned over the counter on your elbows, “Did you know there’s over 35,000 ramen noodles restaurants in Japan?”

“I didn’t, but that sounds like a lot of options.”

“Mhm, you should try one. The real thing is way better.”

“I’m sure. I don’t really go out to restaurants often, so…”

“Me neither”, there’s a lengthy pause, and you finally blurted, “maybe we could go together!”

He was stunned. Lost for words, really. It wasn’t possible, a girl as beautiful as you who wants to be seen with a stone-cold machine in public. It had to be a prank, a fabrication by fate to taunt him. You grew an anxious smile, “Hah, sorry, I overstep-“

“I want to.” You stiffened, and he found solace in your shared nervousness. “O-oh! Great!”

Toji’s first date with you had been a disaster, though. He’s heavy handed by design, and it’s no different in his daily life. His strength leads to instances of clumsy behavior. He expected you to be appalled, disgusted, or at least judgmental.

You never shunned him. When he held your hand too tight, you slightly unclasped it. He wanted to retreat, to stuff them in his pockets and remain at a safe distance. But you interlocked hands and spoke soft, “It's okay, just try not to hold so tight.”

He swung the door open for your entry and almost shattered the glass door on the opposite wall. “I appreciate your enthusiasm” you giggled.

He was afraid to even hug you—he might underestimate his strength and crush your sternum. Toji walked you back to your place and turned to leave. “I’ll see ya around.” Despite that, you guided his calloused hands around your waist, slinked into his broad body, and embraced him. Every aspect of you, foreign but comforting—little breaths fanning his shirt, fingers brushing along his back, sugary perfume wafting in his nose.

It was heaven on Earth.

Now years have gone by, and instead of bleached walls and silence greeting him as his eyes crack open in the morning, he smells the familiar scent of pancakes, pans clattering on the stove. He waltzes into the kitchen in a hazy state and admires the aching back of his very pregnant wife. You have a hand assisting your lower back and another on the wooden spatula scrambling eggs.

Toji dropped his past for you after the engagement. He cashed his last check and disappeared from the underground circle without a trace. He was aware if he continued the path he was heading, the result awaiting him was six feet under. The outcome was unimportant, however, you—the image of tears streaming down your face at his poor volition, your figure keeled over his gravesite under dewy grass and wailing for his return to no avail. He couldn’t stomach it. He had to protect you and commit to the next stage of his life. He’d never tell you about his previous work. It was for the best. He’d be selfish, just this once.

One sock is different from the other, wearing loose shorts and a random shirt sitting above your massive belly. It’s his preferred version of you. Your stomach and thighs adorned in stretch marks, shaped like tiger stripes that declare your strength through each dip and curve; It's his greatest honor. You’d take on the complications, unending exhaustion, and hormone imbalances to bless him with a child. Toji hasn’t let you lift a finger since you got pregnant, opting to handle all the household tasks, borderline subservient to the mother of his child. So, his mouth twists when he sees you up so early.

He stands behind you, hands trailing from your upper thighs to your stomach, then the small of your back. You lean into him while he massages circles and whisper a tiny “Good morning.”

“Ya could’ve woke me up” Toji mumbles, kissing your temple. He wraps around to the underside of your belly, mindful of his muscle, and lifts it carefully. His respect for you increases tenfold with the heavy weight on his palms. You hum a pleased noise, sudden relief from your back. He carries it and smooths his thumbs over the taut skin.

“You’re a late sleeper, and I haven’t made breakfast in a long time.”

“Ya don’t have to do a thing, y’know.”

“I know. But I wanna do this for you”, and he grins. It’s quiet, standing in the warmth of your bodies, sunshine glowing through the window to cast an angelic gleam on your face.

Then he feels an imbalance of pressure along his fingers and mild wriggling within your tummy. Toji traces the movements, seeking to play a game with his unborn child. Sometimes it scares him, to bring new life into a world that almost smothered his light. He worries that he’ll end up on the same road as him or he won’t be a good enough father. The journey of parenthood is a long, laborious one. You’re always learning, and Toji’s still processing the basics. It’s complicated, he trips and falters; yet you’re there to support him, through thick and thin, sickness and in health.

What was he if not for you—his pillar, his source of happiness and comfort. You’d given him everything to wish for and infinite reasons to stick around. An iron criminal, bested by no mortal, chipped away by compassion and gentle hands.

“You can let go if it’s too heavy.”

I can stay here forever.

#jujutsu toji #jujutsu kaisen #toji fushiguro #toji fushigro x reader #toji x reader #jjk x reader #jjk

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inkyrus · 1 month ago

Text

content ; fluff, suggestive

thinking about your friend, tetsuro who practically begs you to apply to the same college as him. his reasoning is it's extraordinary law program—but you knew the real logic beneath his words.

your friend, tetsuro who never fails to asks you to send him your new schedule every semester. it's almost coordinated, the way he asks if you want to hang out right when class ends.

your friend, tetsuro who insists on spoonfeeding you when you ask to try his lunch, a hand coming under your chin to prevent any stains on your shirt.

your friend, tetsuro who gives you a key to his dorm—just in case you can't sleep at night.

your friend, tetsuro who gives you his scarf when the wind blows a little too hard.

your friend, tetsuro who always pays for your ticket when you go to his games. it'd be rude to make you go all this way to watch him and not pay for your seat.

your friend, tetsuro who loves to take you out to eat. he never allows you to pay. "you'll get next time!" he'd say reassuringly, but you both knew that was a lie.

your friend, tetsuro who gives your coin a kiss of good luck every time you decide to test your luck on gacha machines

your friend, tetsuro who claims that losing your virginity to someone you trust is much better than to some boy who wouldn't even treat you half as good as he does.

“look, see?” tetsuro discards his shirt, pulling it off of his head and tossing it into the floor. he turns to you, “your turn.”

you avoid meeting his eyes as you tug at the sleeve of your t-shirt. you, too, pull it over your head and toss it. goosebumps shiver down the dip of your spine as the cold air stricks your skin; the air in his dorm is frigid.

you fold her arms across your stomach, trying to gain some warmth. you are so vulnerable—so exposed and defenseless.

tetsuro slowly shuffles forwards; the bed dips as he move.

your breath hitches, arms tightening around you. anxiety gnaws on the inside of your stomach, heart racing. as he moves closer, you lower yourself down until you were flat on his plush bed.

he hovers over you and leaned into your soul.

tetsuro is so close to you at this point. still unable to match his burning gaze, you feel his hot breath pan the side of your neck and tickle your flushed skin.

“do you trust me?” he whispered.

a weak hum of a yes came in response.

“i need you to say it, baby. use your words.”

your heart hurts. using the back of your hand to cover your face, you mumble something undistinguishable.

tetsuro licks his lips, getting a kick out of your fluster. “what was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

you swallow hard. “i trust you, tetsu'.”

#୧ *·˚ inkyrus #୧ *·˚ haikyuu #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo tetsuro fluff

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apparentlynotreallyfinnish · 1 month ago

Text

It hurts to touch him.

His skin sizzles like butter on a hot pan and Rhett gasps, not from the pain, although that too is sudden and intense, but from the soft smoothness of the angel’s skin. Rhett snatches his hand away, watching in horror as a scarlet afterimage of his fingers rises onto the milky white skin of Link’s arm.

An apology. Hushed one, with pleading eyes and the thud-thud-thudding of Rhett’s heart that Link can hear as clearly as his words. Link shakes his head, the golden leaves of his laurels making a faint tinkling sound that always follows him around. He steps closer, his gaze determined, reaching for the demon in front of him.

Rhett takes a step back, now pleading with his words. He doesn’t want to hurt Link. Never wants to cause him pain. Never wants to see those sweet eyes flash with agony. Link huffs, his wings fluttering in annoyance. He can decide for himself. He’s old enough, nearly a millenia old, no longer a babe in the heavens. He’s seen the earth. He’s seen the humans. He’s seen the need and where it leads. To entangled bodies and lush moans and ecstasy so potent it has the ability to create life.

Rhett’s blood surges in his veins, rushing into his head, making him dizzy; rushing elsewhere and making him feel light and heavy all at the same time. He watches Link talk about the debauchery of the souls below them. Watches Link’s plump lips move. Rhett wants to bite them. Gnaw and chew and taste. Wants to nibble and suck and lick until he’s breathless and Link is whimpering in his arms.

His arms. Rhett pauses. Closes his eyes, the only way to stop himself from staring at the creature in front of him. Unlike Link’s, Rhett’s arms are rough—gnarled and wrinkled, covered in old scars and fresh scabbed-over wounds. His arms are molten. They’re not a place for a being as pure as Link. The devil’s arms are meant for hurting, not loving.

Rhett’s eyes fly open. His face is on fire. He’d scream, but his breath has been stolen by the icy-blue eyes peering at him. So close. Too close. Link’s hands cradle Rhett’s face, skin to skin, palm to cheek. They burn together. Rhett can smell it. A hint of sulfuric ash mixed with the scent of summer rain turning into a thunderstorm.

Rhett tries to back away, tries to save Link from himself, from this twisted thing they have been dancing around for centuries. But he can’t. He can’t, because Link’s lips are closing in and Rhett can do nothing else but surrender to their heat. Just once, he thinks. One time and then no more. A taste. It’s all he needs. All he deserves.

A mosaic of groans and whines. Pain and pleasure. Good and evil entwining, burning, destroying, creating, thriving. Rhett can’t breathe. He only knows need and love and desire. He devours Link’s mouth, tasting the divine within him. The air crackles between them, angry and awed. The wind whips around them, horrified and delighted.

A gap forms between their aching lips. Link pants, begs for more, begs for more skin, more kisses, more debauchery. The devil has never before blushed. Everything in Rhett spins and tilts and twirls. He aches for Link. Aches for something that can’t happen.

“We can’t. It hurts to touch you,” he finally whispers, with a sob so heart-wrenching the world breaks below them.

Link looks at him and smiles with a sad tilt of his lips.

“But it hurts more not to.”

#Appa writes fic #rhink #rhink fic #like how could I not #angel!Link #devil!Rhett #angst

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your-local-simp-writers · 2 months ago

Text

Wrapped in Love

Word Count: 1406

Warnings: None

Ken Sato x Fem!Wife!Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The Ultra Base hummed with activity, the echoes of machinery and distant voices mingling in the air as you stepped into the common room. This space, usually filled with the vibrant energy of teamwork and camaraderie, felt quieter today. Shadows stretched across the room, cast by the soft light filtering through the high windows. It was a sanctuary for those who bore the weight of the world on their shoulders—especially for your husband, Ken Sato.

Ken reclined on the worn leather couch, the unmistakable markings of battle still visible on his body. His Ultraman suit, usually a source of pride, now seemed more like a burden; parts of it were scuffed and marred, with a bandage wrapped snugly around his arm, testament to the fierce fight he had endured. As you approached, the flickering overhead lights danced across his tired features, highlighting the exhaustion etched into his brow. Yet, when he caught sight of you, a weary smile broke through, illuminating his face like the dawn.

“Seeing you this upset over my injuries isn’t helping me feel better,” he said, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. You knew he tried to be strong, but his words only deepened the ache in your heart.

“It’s all fine; I can hardly feel it anymore,” you said, forcing a casual tone as you walked over to him. You settled beside him, the familiar creaking of the couch beneath you grounding you. The fabric was soft and worn, a comforting reminder of the countless hours you had spent together in this very spot.

“Your just saying that to make yourself feel better,” you replied, unable to hide the concern in your voice. You leaned in, resting your forehead against his, the warmth radiating from him comforting and familiar. His eyes, usually filled with determination, now flickered with something more vulnerable, and it stirred a protective instinct deep within you.

“Please, don’t worry so much. I’m going to be alright,” he reassured you, his tone softening as he reached up, brushing his fingers gently against your cheek. The warmth of his touch sent a ripple of calm through you, but it didn’t erase the unease gnawing at your insides.

“I don’t like seeing you in pain,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. Just then, Emi, your beloved companion or more so adopted child in a way, made a soft, adorable noise from the corner of the room. The baby kaiju was playing with one of her toys, her wide, innocent eyes darting between you and Ken, sensing the tension in the air. She scuttled over, her body a bright spot in the otherwise somber room.

“Look at her,” you said, smiling as Emi nuzzled Ken’s arm, her affection a welcome distraction. “That’s it! You go back to bed, and I’ll bring you everything you need.” You stood up, determination surging through you. The thought of him lying there in pain fueled your resolve.

“You don’t have to do all of this…” Ken started, but you could see the warmth in his eyes as he grasped your hand, his grip firm yet tender.

“But I really like doing it,” you insisted, your heart swelling with the desire to take care of him. “I’m not only doing it for you. It’s much more fun if you’re not in pain.”

You walked over to the kitchen area, where the air was filled with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed tea. The space was modest but filled with the essence of home—a place that reflected your shared life together. Pots and pans hung from hooks on the wall, each one telling a story of countless meals cooked together, laughter shared over simmering pots, and late-night snacks.

As you prepared a cup of chamomile tea, the steam curled into the air, creating a soothing atmosphere. You glanced back at Ken, who was now attempting to sit up more comfortably on the couch. The sight tugged at your heartstrings; you could see the effort it took for him to shift, and your protective instincts kicked into overdrive.

“What do you want?” you called, focusing on the task at hand. “Chamomile or peppermint?”

“Chamomile, please. It helps me relax,” he replied, his voice warm, and it brought a smile to your lips as you moved with purpose.

You returned to the couch, the steaming cup in one hand and a bowl of hearty chicken soup in the other. The rich aroma wafted through the air as you set the tea down on the table in front of him, followed by the soup that you had prepared with love earlier in the day. “Eat up; you need your strength,” you said, your tone playful yet firm.

He chuckled softly, the sound rich and comforting against the backdrop of the quiet room. “You always know how to take care of me,” he said, a genuine smile breaking through the fatigue that weighed on his features.

“It’s easy when you’re so worth it,” you replied, your heart fluttering at the sincerity in his gaze. You watched as he took a sip of the tea, savoring the warmth and the way it enveloped him like a hug.

For a moment, the weight of the outside world melted away, and it was just the two of you in your little sanctuary. The walls were adorned with photographs of happier moments—vacations, milestones, and candid shots that told the story of your life together. Each frame held a memory, and they all whispered of love, support, and the strength of your bond.

As the evening wore on, you took on the role of caretaker, ensuring Ken followed Mina's strict orders for rest. You nestled beside him, sharing the warmth of the blanket you had pulled over both of you. Emi, sensing the tranquility, curled up between you two, her gentle breaths adding to the soothing atmosphere.

“Just promise me you won’t push yourself too hard, alright?” Ken said, his expression serious as he turned to you, his eyes filled with a depth of concern that mirrored your own.

“I promise,” you said, feeling the weight of his gaze. You leaned down, placing a soft kiss on his forehead, the warmth of your lips lingering as you pulled away.

In a sudden burst of inspiration, you had an idea. “Let’s build a blanket fort!” you exclaimed, your excitement infectious. You grabbed extra blankets from the nearby shelves, spreading them across the living room. The act felt silly and whimsical, a welcome distraction from the heaviness in the air.

“Really? A blanket fort?” Ken teased, a playful glint in his eye.

“Absolutely! This is a ‘no babies allowed’ zone,” you declared, your voice filled with mock seriousness.

With your combined efforts, you transformed the common room into a cozy hideaway, draping colorful throws over the couch and coffee table, creating a safe space where you could forget about the world outside. The soft glow of fairy lights you had hung earlier twinkled above, casting a warm glow throughout your makeshift fort.

Ken settled in, a look of bemusement on his face as you crawled inside beside him. “What’s next, warrior? Are we going to slay the dragons lurking outside?” he asked, his tone lightening the mood as he joined in on the fun.

“Exactly! But first, we must fortify our defenses with snacks!” you proclaimed, darting back to the kitchen to grab a stash of his favorite treats—cookies, chips, and anything sweet you could find. You returned, proudly holding your treasure trove, and Ken’s eyes lit up with delight.

“Now this is my kind of fort,” he said, chuckling as you nestled back beside him. You shared the snacks, laughter mingling with the gentle sounds of Emi’s playful chirps as she darted around the fort, fully embracing the spirit of adventure.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden hue across the room, you both settled into a comfortable rhythm. The soft sounds of the base faded into a peaceful silence, and you felt a sense of calm wash over you, the worries of the outside world dissipating in the safe cocoon you had created.

“Thank you for being here,” Ken whispered, his voice barely audible above the gentle rustle of the blankets. The sincerity in his tone wrapped around your heart like a tender embrace.

“Always,” you replied, feeling the warmth of his presence seep into your very soul.

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nayziiz · 8 months ago

Text

Stay | LN4

Summary: A new romantic prospect puts things into perspective in the best and worst ways possible.

Pairing: Lando Norris x OC (Cara)

Warnings: None

Masterlist

CHAPTER 2

The golden hues of twilight bathed Monaco in a soft, ethereal glow, while Lando and Cara found themselves nestled in the cosy confines of the kitchen, their laughter mingling with the tantalising aromas wafting from the sizzling grill. With practised ease, they moved in perfect harmony, their movements fluid and synchronised as they embarked on the culinary adventure that lay before them.

Together, they diced and sliced, grilled and tossed, their shared laughter punctuating the tranquil evening air as they revelled in each other's company. Amidst the clatter of pots and pans, their banter danced like music, a symphony of friendship and camaraderie that filled the kitchen with warmth and light.

Max and Pietra, their voices drifting in from the balcony, busied themselves with setting the table, their laughter echoing in the tranquil night air. With a shared sense of anticipation, they awaited the feast that awaited them, eager to partake in the culinary delights that Lando and Cara had lovingly prepared.

Cara paused in her task of slicing carrots and cabbage for the slaw, her attention momentarily drawn towards the door by the unexpected knock. With a bemused smile, she turned to Lando, who was deftly manoeuvring around the sizzling pan of chicken strips.

“You mind getting that? Kind of busy here,” Lando's request was accompanied by a playful dodge, his focus unwavering despite the flashes of oil splattering from the pan.

With a nod of agreement, Cara set down her knife and made her way to the door, her curiosity piqued by the unexpected interruption. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she chuckled softly at Lando's antics before turning her attention back to the task at hand.

Cara's grin widened as she wiped her hands on a cloth, her amusement at Lando's culinary antics still dancing in her eyes as she made her way to the door. With a sense of anticipation, she swung the door open, fully expecting to greet Max and Pietra with a playful jest or two.

But her playful banter was cut short as her gaze fell upon Maya standing before her, her presence a sudden interruption in the tranquil rhythm of the evening. Despite the surprise, Cara greeted Maya with a warm smile, her voice tinged with genuine warmth.

“Hey, Maya,” she greeted, stepping aside to usher her into the apartment. But to her surprise, Maya remained rooted to the spot, her demeanour guarded and aloof.

“Hi, I'm looking for Lando,” Maya responded, her tone clipped and brusque.

“He's in the kitchen,” Cara replied, gesturing in the direction of the bustling kitchen where Lando's culinary endeavours were well underway. But Maya's response was curt, her words laced with a hint of disdain.

“I know where the kitchen is, doll,” she retorted, her tone dripping with condescension as she breezed past Cara and into the apartment.

Cara watched in silence as Maya disappeared into the depths of the apartment, a sense of unease settling in the pit of her stomach. And as she lingered in the doorway, the echoes of Maya's sharp words hung in the air, a silent reminder of the complexities that lurked beneath the surface of their tranquil evening.

Maya's icy demeanour pierced through the warmth of the evening. Cara felt a pang of discomfort gnawing at the edges of her composure. Yet, for the sake of preserving the fragile peace for Lando's sake, she swallowed her unease and chose to let the moment pass without confrontation.

Turning away from the unsettling scene that unfolded in the foyer, Cara made her way through the apartment, her steps measured and deliberate. The sound of laughter and chatter spilled forth from the kitchen, mingling with the tantalising aromas of grilled chicken and fresh vegetables.

When she passed by the kitchen, a brief glimpse caught her eye, a fleeting moment of intimacy between Lando and Maya as they shared a kiss, leaving a bitter taste lingering in her mouth. With a heavy sigh, she pushed the unsettling image from her mind and continued on her way, her resolve firm as she sought solace in the tranquillity of the balcony.

Max and Pietra were already seated on the balcony, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the evening lights of Monte Carlo. With a grateful smile, Cara joined them, her heart heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts and emotions.

Cara's words hung in the air, a hesitant warning tinged with apprehension as she stepped out onto the balcony, her gaze seeking solace in the familiar faces of Max and Pietra.

“Just a warning,” Cara started. “Maya's here.”

“No fucking way,” Max's response was swift and vehement, his frustration palpable as he processed the unwelcome news. Sensing the tension mounting, Cara urged for calm, her voice gentle yet firm.

“Just be nice to her for the night. It will mean a lot to Lando,” she implored, her eyes pleading for understanding.

“It would mean more to me if he just dumped her ass,” he countered, his voice edged with a hint of bitterness.

Max's retort was swift and uncompromising, his protective instincts flaring to life in defence of his friend Pietra, interjected with a soothing tone, her words laced with empathy.

“It's just one night, my love,” she reassured Max, her hand reaching out to gently squeeze his hand in a silent gesture of solidarity.

Max's keen intuition didn't fail him as he observed Cara's restlessness with a furrowed brow, his concern mounting with each furtive glance she cast towards the door. Sensing her discomfort like a palpable tension in the air, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease gnawing at the edges of his composure.

“What's bothering you?” Max's question was gentle yet probing, his gaze fixed on Cara with an intensity that bespoke his genuine concern.

“Nothing,” she lied, her tone strained as she struggled to mask the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. Cara's response was swift, her attempt to deflect his inquiry evident in the casual shrug that accompanied her words.

But Max, ever the vigilant protector of his friends, refused to be placated by her dismissive answer. With a subtle raise of his eyebrows, he persisted, his unwavering gaze daring her to speak the truth. Before Cara could conjure up another evasion, the sound of footsteps approached from behind, heralding the arrival of Lando and Maya onto the balcony.

“Maya, you remember Max, Pietra, and Cara?” Lando asked.

Lando's introduction drew the attention of the group, his voice laced with a subtle warmth as he gestured towards Max, Pietra, and Cara. As he rested a protective hand on Maya's lower back, his affection for her palpable in the gentle press of his touch, he awaited their response with an expectant smile.

“Yeah,” Maya nodded in acknowledgment, her gaze sweeping over Max and Pietra with a casual indifference. Yet, when her eyes lingered on Cara, a subtle shift in her demeanour caught Max's attention.

The prolonged scrutiny didn't escape Max's notice, his instincts honed by years of keen observation flickering to life in response to the subtle tension that hung in the air. Sensing the unspoken undercurrents at play, he exchanged a knowing glance with Pietra, their silent communication speaking volumes in the quietude of the night.

Cara, though outwardly composed, felt a shiver of unease prickling at the back of her neck as Maya's gaze lingered upon her. A sense of apprehension crept over her, the weight of Maya's scrutiny stirring a disquieting sense of vulnerability within her. Yet, with a forced smile and a polite nod, Cara met Maya's gaze head-on.

“Dinner should be ready in about five minutes,” Lando's announcement filled the air, a sense of anticipation rippled through the group, their appetites whetted by the tantalising aroma of the meal that awaited them.

With a tender gesture, Lando pressed a kiss to Maya's cheek, his affectionate gesture drawing a fleeting glance from Cara before she averted her gaze, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass with a feigned nonchalance.

“It smells great, Lando,” Pietra's words broke the silence, her genuine compliment met with a radiant grin from Lando.

His pride evident in the sparkle of his eyes, he offered a gracious nod of acknowledgement before excusing himself to attend to the final preparations.

“It's so nice that you guys came to spend the summer break with Lan,” Maya hummed, her voice carrying a hint of genuine warmth as she settled into her seat opposite Cara at the table. “He's just been so exhausted the last few weeks.”

Cara's gaze remained fixed on her table setting, her fingers tracing idle patterns along the rim of her wine glass as she struggled to maintain her composure in the face of Maya's unwavering scrutiny.

“That's what travelling so much does,” Max mumbled gruffly, his tone tinged with a hint of bitterness as he lifted his glass to his lips, taking a long gulp of wine in an attempt to drown out the discomfort that lingered in the air.

Maya's attention shifted momentarily to Max before returning to Cara, her gaze piercing in its intensity as she directed her next question towards the silent figure seated across from her.

“Are you all staying here in the apartment while you're here?” she inquired, her curiosity palpable. Before Cara could formulate a response, Pietra interjected with a warm smile, her voice laced with genuine appreciation.

“Yeah, Lando's been such a great host,” she responded, her words a subtle reminder of the kindness and generosity they had experienced since their arrival.

Despite Pietra's efforts to steer the conversation away from the palpable tension that lingered between Cara and Maya, the latter's attention remained fixated on Cara, her gaze unwavering in its intensity. And as the uneasy silence stretched between them, Cara found herself unable to meet Maya's probing stare, her gaze averted as she sought refuge in the safety of her own thoughts.

“So, Cara, where's your boyfriend? Lan mentioned you were seeing someone?” Maya asked, changing the topic once again.

Maya's question sliced through the air, disrupting the fragile peace that had settled over the table like a jagged shard of glass. Cara's forced smile faltered, her grip tightening around the stem of her wine glass as she struggled to mask the sudden surge of discomfort that washed over her.

“Uhm, not recently,” Cara replied with forced nonchalance, her words tinged with a subtle undercurrent of unease. With a deliberate motion, she raised the glass to her lips, taking a sip of wine in a futile attempt to quell the rising tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

The mention of her nonexistent boyfriend struck a nerve, dredging up memories of failed relationships and unspoken regrets. Yet, amidst the tumult of her thoughts, one thing stood out with piercing clarity—Maya's casual use of the nickname "Lan." The moniker, reserved for those who shared a deep bond of love and affection with Lando, felt like a cruel mockery in Maya's mouth. It was a name that Cara herself had used sparingly, a tender reminder of the intimacy they shared as friends. And to hear it slip so effortlessly from Maya's lips felt like a betrayal of that intimacy, a violation of the unspoken boundaries that defined their relationship.

“It's a good thing then, Monaco is full of eligible bachelors,” Maya commented with a soft giggle of amusement.

Maya's comment hung in the air like a taunt, its underlying implications veiled beneath the guise of casual conversation. Cara's forced smile faltered, her fingers tightening around the stem of her wine glass as she struggled to maintain her composure in the face of Maya's thinly veiled jibe.

“Cara! Your slaw!” Lando's voice rang out from the kitchen with a note of playful urgency.

Lando's voice cut through the tension like a beacon of light, drawing her attention away from the uncomfortable exchange at the table. With a silent nod of acknowledgment, Cara rose from her seat, her movements purposeful as she excused herself from the table and made her way back to the kitchen.

As she stepped into the familiar confines of the kitchen, the warmth of Lando's smile enveloped her like a comforting embrace, banishing the lingering shadows of doubt and insecurity that had plagued her moments before. With a grateful sigh, she returned his smile, her heart lifting at the sight of him.

“I'd finish it up, but you're the slaw master,” Lando declared with a playful grin, his eyes sparkling with admiration as he gestured towards the bowl of slaw perched on the counter.

Cara chuckled softly at his jest, her own smile mirroring his as she accepted the unspoken challenge with a sense of playful determination. With a deft hand, she resumed her task, her fingers moving with practised precision as she added the final touches to her signature dish.

As she mixed the crisp vegetables with a generous drizzle of her famous dressing, the kitchen was filled with the tantalising aroma of herbs and spices, a testament to Cara's culinary prowess. Lando, ever the eager assistant, leaned in closer, his eyes alight with anticipation as he dipped his finger into the bowl, stealing a taste of the savoury dressing before it was even finished.

“How do you do it? Every time it tastes better and better,” Lando groaned with satisfaction, his voice laced with genuine awe as he threw his head back in blissful abandon, his moan of pleasure echoing in the confines of the kitchen.

Lando's concern was palpable as he watched Cara, his brow furrowed with worry as he took in her uncharacteristic silence. The absence of her usual cheerful banter and infectious laughter weighed heavily on him, leaving a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. Lando's concern deepened with each passing moment, his eyes searching her face for any sign of the vibrant energy that usually radiated from her.

“Hey, what's wrong?” he inquired, his voice soft with concern as he took a step closer, the tongs forgotten in his hand as he watched her with earnest eyes.

Cara's gaze flickered up to meet his, her forced smile faltering in the face of his unwavering scrutiny. For a moment, she hesitated, the weight of unspoken words heavy on her tongue, but she quickly shook her head, dismissing his concern with a gentle shake of her head.

“Nothing,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper as she avoided his gaze.

Lando wasn't convinced, his intuition telling him that something was amiss. He took another step closer, his expression filled with genuine concern as he reached out to gently touch her arm.

“I can see you're not yourself, Cara,” he insisted, his voice gentle yet firm as he searched her eyes for any hint of the turmoil that lay beneath the surface.

Cara's resolve wavered under his persistent gaze, the mask of indifference slipping further with each passing moment. With a sigh, she relented, her shoulders sagging with the weight of unspoken burdens.

“We can chat tomorrow, yeah?” she deflected, her voice tinged with a note of vulnerability.

Lando nodded in understanding, his concern undiminished as he made a silent promise to himself to be there for her when she was ready to open up.

“If you need anything, tell me, okay?” he reassured her, his voice soft yet unwavering in its sincerity.

“Uh huh,” Cara agreed, her response tinged with a sense of gratitude for his unwavering support.

He wasn't sure if pulling her in for a hug would comfort her or cause her to cry, so he opted for a soft kiss on the forehead before walking out with the wraps on a serving dish. Cara followed suit with her bowl of slaw.

As Lando and Cara approached the table, their arms laden with culinary delights, Maya's gaze lingered on them with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. The sight of Cara's slight blush and the goofy grin that adorned Lando's face only served to deepen the mystery, leaving Maya to wonder about the unspoken dynamics that bound them together.

When Lando settled beside Maya, the unexpected touch of her hand on his thigh sent a jolt of surprise coursing through him. He could feel the weight of her gesture, a silent declaration of intimacy that caught him off guard in the presence of his friends. With a subtle shift in his demeanour, he refrained from glancing at Max or Pietra, choosing instead to focus his attention on Cara, whose discomfort was palpable even amidst the lively chatter and laughter that filled the air.

Max, ever the astute observer, couldn't help but notice the subtle interplay between Lando and Cara, their unspoken connection crackling with tension beneath the surface. The way Lando's gaze lingered on Cara, a silent plea for understanding etched in his eyes, spoke volumes about the depth of their bond—a bond that Max had long suspected held untapped potential.

But Lando, lost in the tumult of his own thoughts, remained oblivious to Max's silent scrutiny. His attention was consumed by the enigmatic figure seated across from him, her guarded demeanour a stark contrast to the easy camaraderie that had defined their interactions in the past.

As he watched Cara, her eyes flitting restlessly around the table, Lando felt a pang of unease gnawing at the edges of his composure. He made a mental note to speak with her later, to unravel the mystery of her discomfort and offer whatever support she needed to ease her troubled mind.

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saetoshi · 1 year ago

Text

there’s an unusual tranquility in his home. that’s the first thing nanami kento notices as soon as he steps through the front door.

it’s unsettling, almost—the silence. he’s used to you waiting for him by the door when he comes back from work, a tv show or a song playing in the background. it’s the highlight of his day, really. (seeing your sleeping face when he wakes up is a close second, though).

he sets his briefcase down on the floor, a tired sigh leaving his lips as he takes his shoes off. he’s hanging his jacket on the coat hanger when he smells something burning.

and then it’s almost like second nature—he sprints into the kitchen, a furrow to his brows that only comes from worry. the sight makes his heart ache.

he gently approaches you, crouching down next to you on the floor. he’s able to deduce what happened—the tears in your eyes; the faint traces of flour on the counters; the scent of burnt pastries.

but he still wants to know it from you.

so, he gently takes your hand, lifting it up to press a soft kiss to your knuckles. his heart breaks a little when he hears you sniffle. another kiss is pressed against the back of your hand.

he rubs his thumb over your knuckles, warmth flooding through his veins when you sidle closer to him.

“what’s wrong, my dear?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

a tear rolls down your cheek, quickly followed by another. and another. nanami scoops you into his arms as soon as you starts crying, kissing the top of your head.

he runs soothing circles on the small of your back until you’ve calmed down. he kisses your forehead when he feels you clutch the front of his shirt.

“i wanted to bake something for you,” you croak, replying to his earlier question. you sniffle, your lips trembling.

he patiently waits to see if you elaborate further. he kisses the top of your head again when you don’t.

“and it went wrong?” he gently asks, brushing away the faint trace of flour from your forearm.

“very wrong,” you reply, your voice cracking at the end. you rest your head on his shoulder, your hands playing with his tie.

“i wanted to have it done by the time you got home,” you softly add, twisting the end of his tie. a small smile tugs at your lips, your fingers delicately turning the piece of fabric.

nanami hums in thought, gently patting your waist.

“i’m sorry,” you quietly mumble. your fingers faintly tremble as you play with the tie, your eyes welling up with tears again.

nanami gently cups your cheek with his hand, tilting your head to the side before kissing your other cheek. “don’t apologize,” he whispers, “you meant well.”

“it went wrong,” you softly retort, a pout settling on your lips.

he offers you a warm smile, kissing your temple. “we can just make up for it, then,” he says.

a soft gasp leaves your lips as he stands up, holding you in his arms before setting you down on the countertop. you frown, your fingers curling around the edge of the counter as he kneels in front of the oven.

“you’re tired from work,” you say, peering down at his back. your nose scrunches up when he opens up the oven. you cough as he grabs a rag and swats the air, dispersing the burnt scent.

“that’s never stopped us before,” he points out, placing the rag down next to the sink before grabbing some mittens. warmth floods your cheeks, a soft huff leaving your lips.

your face scrunches up when he sets the pan next to you. there’s a sunken, charred loaf staring right back at you.

you feel his gaze on you. you look up at him, shrinking into yourself out of embarrassment. “it was supposed to be banana bread,” you mumble, weakly swinging your feet. “i read it was tasty with coffee,” you quietly add, looking down at the floor.

he rests one of his hands on your knee, his thumb rubbing your skin. “do you still have the recipe?”

you nod, gnawing on your lower lip as your gaze returns to his. “i saved it on my phone,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

“do we have leftover ingredients?” he asks, his tone patient. he softly pinches the skin of your knee when you nod, drawing out a soft yelp from your lips.

he hums, gently helping you down from the counter. “then, we can just make another loaf,” he says, kissing your forehead.

“what if it comes out wrong again?” you softly ask—both of you know it won’t happen, not with nanami there. still, he understands your apprehension.

“we’ll just make another one,” he replies, “and if that one comes out wrong—we’ll just keep trying until we get it right.”

the corners of his lips quirk up into a small smile when you hug him. “okay,” you whisper, giving him a soft squeeze.

nanami kisses the top of your head one last time before helping you prepare the ingredients again. and, suddenly, it’s as if nothing had been wrong in the first place. the charred loaf is long forgotten—replaced by another, much better version of it.

neither of you know it then, but it soon becomes a habit to bake together. (it also becomes nanami’s habit to take a slice with him to work. and, even later, it becomes a habit to take an extra slice for itadori).

#nanami kento the man you are #he is THE blonde he is the blonde man i refer to when i say i love blondes #jjk x reader #nanami x reader #jjk nanami #nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #jujutsu nanami #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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sky-is-the-limit · 4 months ago

Text

Title: Inverness.

Summary: At the end of MW3, we see Price, Gaz and Ghost scattering Soap's ashes into the wind because he had no one back home. What if he did?

TW: Mentions of death, Grief, Angst, just pure sadness.

WC: 2.1k

You scrubbed the frying pan with an intensity that would have made your hands bleed if you could still feel them. The sponge grated against the metal but there wasn’t a single speck of dirt left to remove.

It gleamed just as it had every morning for the past five months, yet you kept at it, as if scrubbing could erase the nightmare that had become your life.

You didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel, so you focused on the pan. This useless, spotless pan that he used to make you both breakfast that cursed morning.

The sound of the clock ticking gnawed at your nerves but you welcomed it. It was better than the silence that screamed in your ears, the silence that reminded you of everything you had lost. The same ritual, the same time, 7:05 a.m. Every single day.

Johnny’s face flashed before your eyes. How he looked that morning. Smiling, though you could see the worry in his eyes, deep into his features. You kissed him goodbye, your hands clinging to his uniform.

''Promise you’ll come back to me.'' You whispered, your voice barely more than a breath and he smiled, that crooked smile that always made your heart stutter, ''I always do.''

But promises were lies and you were a fool for believing them.

You hadn’t slept, not really, not since the nightmares began. Two, maybe three hours a night, if you were lucky. But even then, sleep was just another form of torture, bringing images you couldn't escape.

You saw him in your dreams, his body broken, bloodied in a thousand different ways. And no matter how much you screamed, no matter how desperately you reached for him, you could never save him. He was always just out of reach, just beyond your grasp, dying over and over again.

Then your hand slipped and the sponge clattered to the floor but you didn’t pick it up. You just stood there, staring at the wall, your breath hitching in your chest.

You should eat something, you knew that. You should go outside, feel the sun on your skin, breathe air that wasn’t thick with misery. But you couldn’t. The walls of your apartment had become your prison and you were too afraid to leave, too afraid of what waited for you outside.

Your friends had tried to help, bless them. They had come, one by one, sitting with you in that same kitchen, trying to coax you back to life. But nothing worked. Their voices were just noise, their concern an unbearable weight.

So you pushed them away, retreating further into the darkness, until the only company you had was this cursed frying pan and his ghost.

Turning your face to the side, your gaze drifted to the kitchen table, where the letter sat, still sealed, still untouched. What had arrived in his place, delivered by his Captain with a look that told you everything before he even opened his mouth.

The letter that contained words you couldn’t bear to read because once you did, it would all be real. Once you did, Johnny would be gone, truly gone, and you would be left with nothing but the ghost of a promise he couldn’t keep.

They say grief comes in waves and at first, they’re so overwhelming that you feel like you’re being pulled under. These waves hit unexpectedly, crashing into your sense of normalcy and flooding you with tears you thought you’d left behind.

But as long as the letter remained unopened, you could pretend. You could pretend that he was still out there, somewhere, alive and breathing, just waiting to come back to you.

It was a lie, you knew that but it was the only thing holding you together, the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

You couldn’t let him go. You weren’t ready. And maybe you never would be.

That day, life felt worth living, as if everything was falling into place without any effort. The sun was warm, the sky clear and your mind blissfully at peace. Johnny’s return was only days away and the thought of it made everything seem brighter.

You woke up that morning after a full eight hours of sleep and greeted the day with a smile, like always. Work had been the usual, nothing out of the ordinary and the evening was spent with friends, savoring every minute at your favourite corner cafe. There had been no reason to expect anything would change, that it would all come crashing down at exactly 6 p.m.

The knock on the door was unexpected, startling you from your thoughts. For a brief moment, you thought that Johnny would walk in but you paused, puzzled.

He had his own set of keys, so it couldn’t be him. Maybe it was the courier with that package you’d been eagerly awaiting, a little surprise wrapped in lace for when your boyfriend would return and so humming to yourself, you crossed the room.

Opening the door, your smile was ready, friendly and sweet, the kind you always wore when greeting strangers. The very first thing that made Johnny fall in love with you when he first met you.

However, the man on the other side wasn’t a courier or a familiar face.

He was tall, in his 40s if not more, though perhaps it was the untamed beard that added those extra years. He stood there in jeans and a black jacket, a beanie pulled low over his head.

For a moment, the thought crossed your mind that he might be a new neighbour, someone coming to introduce himself.

''Hi! Uh, Can I help you?'' You asked, welcoming, completely unaware of what was coming. He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stood frozen, like a statue, his expression a mask of unreadable emotions. Something about the way he hesitated, the way he just stared at you, began to chip away at your mood. Then, the envelope in his hand caught your eye and the world started to tilt.

''My name is John Price, ma’am-'' He finally said, tone low and controlled, though you could sense the strain in it. He paused, as if the next words were lodged in his throat, refusing to come out.

Everything after that moment was fragmented, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. You faintly remembered him asking if he could come inside, his eyes reflecting a sadness that seemed to share in your grief. But it was not the same.

''I’m so sorry.'' The sympathy was genuine but it was also detached.

For him, Johnny was another soldier, a memory he would eventually leave behind.

For you? Johnny was everything. The beginning and the end of your world, the very essence of your existence. His death was not something you could ever move past. It was an abyss that consumed everything.

Price, was it? His name was Price. He placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed. He kept apologizing, saying something about the funeral but the words were swallowed by pain.

As the door clicked shut behind him, the world around you fell apart. The room felt like it was collapsing in on itself, the walls closing in, pressing you into the earth.

A cry escaped your lips, raw and jagged, repeating over and over,

''No, no, no-'' The sound was guttural, a plea that couldn’t change anything but was all you could manage.

Falling to your knees, the floor seemed to rise up to meet you. Every breath was a battle, each inhale a ragged gasp that barely filled your lungs. Your hands clutched at your chest with a fierce desperation, gripping so tightly that the skin began to tear as memories started creeping through,

"I’m gonna take ye to the Highlands next summer." Johnny murmured and the smile in his voice was so vivid, you could almost see it without opening your eyes.

''Mm?'' The only reply you managed, a sleepy whisper against his skin.

"My dad’s side’s from Inverness-" He continued, his tone like a soft melody. "It’s so beautiful, lass. Ye hae to see it. I spent most summers there when I was a bairn."

A soft kiss on his neck was your only response, your eyes heavy with sleep.

''I’m gonna marry ye there.'' He declared, the promise as sweet as his voice.

Sleep had already pulled you under, leaving his words hanging in the air. The last thing you felt was the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart and the dream of a future that felt as certain as his arms holding you.

Finally, the pan was set aside, the water dripping off your numb fingers. They felt like they were encased in ice after being wet for so long and your throat was parched, having gone without water for hours.

If Johnny was here, he would be furious. He’d lecture you about not eating enough then insist on cooking your favourite pasta dish, all while talking your ears off with his affectionate scolding. He would take care of you, as he always did.

The letter still sat on the kitchen table, mocking you with its presence. No amount of wishing could make it disappear. It was a cruel reminder of what you couldn’t escape. You weren’t sure what was inside. Perhaps a confirmation of his death, or a note from his supervisors but the uncertainty terrified you.

In the quiet, as if Johnny’s presence was a whisper against your ear, you heard his voice, soft and reassuring, ''Dinnae be afraid, lass.. Ye have to open it. Ye have to set me free.''

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you moved closer to the wooden surface and the letter was now within reach, a final step toward confronting the truth you had been too afraid to face. The weight of it seemed almost unbearable before a ghostly encouragement echoed in your mind.

''Ye can do this, baby.''

Listening to him one last time, you reached for the envelope, your heart pounding in your chest. With a deep breath, you ripped it open, pulling out a piece of paper that was clearly torn from a larger sheet. The paper wasn’t formal, it was barely a ragged scrap.

''My Dearest,

I hope this letter finds you well, though I wish I was there to see your smile in person. I miss you terribly.

Every day here in England feels like hell, endless rain everywhere. I swear, the weather’s enough to make a Scotsman lose his patience! I keep dreaming about the day I can sit in that little pub next to our apartment, with a cold beer in hand, and laugh about how much I hate the English… weather, of course.

I wish I could be there right now, to hold you and tell you how much I love you. It’s not easy being away from you, and I’m counting the days until I can see you again.

I know things are hard right now but please remember I’m doing everything I can to stay safe. I have to remind you, though, with this shitty job, there’s always a chance I might not make it back. But I promise, I’m fighting to come home to you.

If something does happen and I don’t make it home, there’s something for you in my nightstand. I was saving it to give to you myself, but if I’m not there, I want you to go into our bedroom and get it.

It’s not meant to hold you back or keep you in the past if I’m not here. It’s a promise—a reminder that I will love you forever, in this life and the next one.

I love you more than words can say and I can’t wait to be with you again.

Yours always,

Johnny."

Sobs wracked your body uncontrollably as you clutched the letter to your chest, desperate to keep your tears from staining its precious words.

With shaky breaths, you began walking towards the bedroom, as if Johnny's voice was gently instructing your every move. You placed the letter gently on his pillow and sat on the edge of the bed. It felt right, a final gesture of love and farewell.

You had to do this, for him and for yourself.

With trembling hands, you opened the nightstand, the drawer sliding open with a hesitant creak. Inside, nestled in the shadows, was a small blue box. Underneath it, a postcard. Inverness.

The sight of it made your breath hitch. You already knew what was inside and the realization cut through you like a knife.

Slowly, with a sense of dread, you opened it.

There it was. A beautiful silver ring, its band engraved with intricate floral patterns on the inside.

With trembling hands, you slid the silver ring onto your finger. The cool metal felt strange but the emerald sparkled softly in the dim light, though you didn't pay it much attention. Instead, you laid down on Johnny’s pillow, you let your tears soak into the fabric. His scent was still there, somehow. Maybe you'd imagined it.

As you closed your eyes, you promised him. You'd carry on, for him and for you. You'd carry on and visit Inverness with him, so he would rest there.

#something jolly #something pleasant #cod #call of duty #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #cod x reader

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danistartt · 2 years ago

Text

Jamie Tartt's Awful Breakfast and Lovely Morning

pairings: jamie tartt x reader, roy kent warnings: reader is not a very good cook, fire?, language a la kent about: a request about reader not being a very good cook and jamie kind of liking it, and a request about touchy jamie <3

“You don’t have to get up with me ev’ry day, babe,” Jamie insists, his honesty doubted when he rests his chin against your shoulder.

“I don’t mind. I miss you when you’re gone.” You shrug, trying your best to keep the motion identifiable but unbothersome for the man gnawing at your skin. You laugh at him, shimmying your shoulders to get him away. “Jamie, what are you doing?”

“Y’smell good,” he hums.

“It’s the batter,” you say. Jamie disagrees. “Can you get some butter, please?”

Jamie raises a brow and looks over to your hands, busy with the flour. Clumpy yellow bubbles trap more white into sticky goo. “More, love?”

“Yeah.” You wrinkle your nose, scraping gross residue off your index before sticking it back inside the mix. “I don’t think I used it right. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to melt it?”

“What’d the recipe say?” Jamie asks, opening the fridge.

“Soften. But there are different levels of soft, right?” You grimace at your concoction, but take your free hand and wrap it around the stick of butter he hands you.

He watches you settle into your position, microwave ignored. “What’re you doin’?”

“Softening,” you murmur, concentrating on your mixture.

“Don’t ya think we’ve advanced a little further than that as humanity?”

“You’d think, huh?” Your fingers squeeze a little tighter.

He stares at the jutted bottom lip, the little lines between your brows, and decides you must be right. With only a chunk of your attention, you’re trying to figure out a way to rush heat into the stick of butter through your palm. He bites his lip. “We have mix,” he offers.

Your head swivels toward him, features scandalized. “I’m doing good!” you defend.

“I know,” he says. “You’re doing great, I can see that.”

“I wanted to make them from scratch. With love.”

“You are.”

“They’re easy,” you insist, turning back to your task with a distressed look on your face. You squeeze the butter a little harder, the wet noises of your mixing speeding up. The butter’s wrapped ends crinkle. “It just needs more butter.”

Very suddenly, you drop the bar inside the bowl, holding its greasy wrapper between your middle and index. Jamie winces as it plops in, some of the mix drooling onto the counter.

Nodding happily, you shove both hands inside the too-small bowl and look at him over your shoulder with a grin. “See?” You wince when your nails glide into the cold middle, recovering quickly in a facade of surety.

He nods, eyebrows uneven in light concern, but encourages you anyway, trying not to shudder at the sound before you decide you’re finished and begin pouring it onto a hot pan already smeared with more butter.

It’s both too runny and too thick, creating a wavy circle in the center of your pan. You frown at it, looking at your batter again. “Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“That doesn’t look very right, does it?”

Jamie loops an arm around your waist and presses a noisy kiss to your cheek. “I like it. Like a flower.”

“A wobbly flower,” you comment, leaning toward it, “that’s not bubbling.”

“I don’t think they’re supposed to bubble, love.”

“Inverse bubbling,” you explain. “Nothing is happening, is it on?”

Jamie turns the knob very gently, satisfied when it rotates easily. “Yeah. Give it a second.”

“It’s not doing the thing!” you exclaim, grabbing the spatula and flipping it too early. Jamie watches as it splatters part of the stove and streaks a thin line across the counter. He breathes in, about to say something, and decides against it.

“It’s bubbling,” you say optimistically, sheepish at its ends.

You’re correct. Thin, popped-bubble circles peek out from the edges of the lump-petals. “Huh,” Jamie says inquisitively, leaning in. “That’s interestin’.”

Your brows knit. “I think that’s good.”

Jamie is inclined to disagree, but he refuses to.

“It’s browning really quickly,” you observe, turning it over. It’s splotchy, but it should be fully cooked. You plop it on a plate, lips pinching and face struggling to stay proud.

“It smells edible. Could even say good,” Jamie comforts.

“It’s the bacon.” You say solemnly, poking at it with your spatula, its sizzling soft and barely beginning.

“No,” he says stubbornly, edged hair poking the curve of your arm.

You pluck a fork from your cupboard and cut a neat square of pancake, popping it into your mouth. Jamie watches you chew amusedly, raising an eyebrow when you look down at your flapjack forlornly, a defeated realization on your face.

“What’s wrong, babe?”

You swallow solemnly, meeting his eyes. “I forgot the sugar.”

Jamie inhales, the air stuttering in his throat before shifting into a laugh. You look so sad, and he wraps you up in his arms, kissing your temple through soft laughter. You slump into his chest.

“It was not good,” you admit. “It was really gross.”

“I love ya,” he tells you, still chuckling. “You—” he snorts, “You’re great, you know that?”

“This is awful, Jamie,” you moan, making him laugh harder against the crown of your hair.

“It’s not,” Jamie insists. “We still have the bacon.” He giggles and you watch him, pointy strands of hair prodding his cheekbones.

“Where’s your headband?” you ask, lowering the heat on the stove to turn to the man next to you. You cup a side of his jaw with your hand and pull hair away from his face with a frown.

“Broken.” He mimics your motions, both of his hands flat against your cheeks and squeezing with a careful mischief.

Breakfast failure forgotten, you huff, dropping your fingers to circle around his wrist and pulling him to your bathroom. You lead him inside and push his shoulders to sit him down. He watches as you pull little boxes out of the cabinet, hooking an index inside and pulling out random colors of bands, big and small.

You find a yellow-lined one that seems appropriate and turn to him again. “This should fit even you and your big head,” you murmur affectionately, gently combing his hair back to tug it on. He shuts his eyes when you drag it over his face, pinkies keeping it from brushing against even the highest of his pretty features. You use your index to fix his sliced brow, marriage fixing the band to fit his face. You drop a sweet kiss at his hairline, wiping it away as if it left a mark. “Perfect.”

“Thank you,” he says very quietly, light eyes constellating along your pinched lashes and pursed lips.

“I don’t know what you keep doing to these,” you scold playfully, slipping two others, a glittery blue one and a speckled pink, out of your tray to hand to him.

“Me big head,” he reasons, the left edge of his lips quirking up at your laugh.

“Probably,” you say.

He stares at you for nearly a second before realizing he has no reason to hold back, the heat of his palms grazing your ears when he kisses you.

You hum, delighted, and hook your arms around his waist. “Jamie,” you murmur, nudging his nose with yours.

He laughs against you, pulling away to see your confusion. “You taste like batter.”

You grimace. “Not very good?”

"You always taste good," he rebuts easily, stealing another kiss. He smiles at you when he pulls away, that wonderfully insolent lid to his eyes. You are putty in his hands. He knows this too well.

You twirl a blond strand of his hair around your finger. “Did you use that hair mask I got you?”

“A li’l while ago. Worked great.” He presses his lips against the hard hill of your cheek.

“You’re supposed to use it regularly.”

“Can you do it?”

“Right now? You don’t have enough time, babe.”

“Then when I come home.”

“Sure. We can use those cucumber things I’ve been meaning to try out, too.”

“Can’t wait,” he tells you, crushing you in a sudden hug. You laugh in surprise, going limp in his arms.

“What has gotten into you?” you ask, wriggling in his hold when he presses open-mouthed kisses to the thin skin of your neck.

“I can’t touch ya now?” he teases, a cruel finger digging into your ribs. You squeal, twisting away from him. He only catches your cheek, biting above your jaw with just enough pressure to sting.

“When has that ever happened?” you challenge, turning your face to finally catch his lips.

“Does right now count?” he asks against your mouth, diving back in to press a harsh kiss to your bottom lip.

“Right now is not an example,” you laugh, quiet. His palm smooths over your cheek.

“Agree to disagree,” he offers with one last kiss. “‘Cuz I like ya.”

You snort, pushing him away. He doesn’t let you, dragging his hands down to your waist and keeping them there. “I’m honored.”

He shakes hair away from his eyes, giving up when it does little. You raise an index finger to do it for him when the fire alarm shriekingly cuts in. It bumps harmlessly against the rise of his eyebrow, landing very sorrowfully in sorry circles on his temple when you and he flinch.

You turn your face away from him and toward the door. It only takes you a moment to realize what is going on, the smell of burnt bacon sudden and harsh.

“Fuck,” you say, scrambling to the kitchen.

Your breakfast is but a dark chunk of coal when you arrive, plumes of smoke gathering at the ceiling like a flipped waterfall. You turn off the stove and wince at your tragedy while Jamie shuts off the alarm and opens the doors, pulling you away from the worst of the fog after too long of your lingering.

“You’ll inhale smoke,” he warns.

“It's the only edible part of our breakfast,” you say mournfully.

“Not anymore.”

You snort and lean against him, pouting at your little garden still clothed in the residue of pale moonlight. The flowers haven’t even opened their petals yet. “I’m sorry you won’t get bacon for breakfast today. Or flapjacks.”

“S’okay.” Jamie shrugs, genuine pleasantry leaning delight. “I’m distractin’. You got distracted.”

“So did you,” you oppose.

“You’re distractin’ too.” He grins at you, dropping a swift kiss along your forehead.

“I’ll drop you something off today,” you amend.

“You don’t hav’ta do that, love.”

“I want to. I’ll go to that cafe and get you one of those sandwiches you like. And cookies.” Your smile goes gooey. “Maybe a cinnamon roll.”

Jamie raises an amused eyebrow. “Alright, then.”

You inhale deeply, face contorting at the smoky vignette it comes with. “Do you think the smoke went up to our room?”

“Probably. Stay out here for a little after I leave.”

You moan at the stars. “It’s like five AM. It’s cold out here.”

A loud noise erupts from the opposite end of the house; Roy has arrived.

“He’s earlier than usual,” Jamie muses.

“Give him some of the leftover eggs,” you urge. “And apologize.”

Jamie stares at you quizzically. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I told him I’d send breakfast today and because none of it is fit for human consumption, I’m sending something we bought yesterday.”

“You talk about my breakfast with Roy Kent?” Jamie sputters.

You glare at him, rushing inside to collect the container. “I feel as though you’ve missed the point.” The smoke that continues to linger rushes hatefully into your throat. “Not your breakfast. His breakfast.”

“What? Why?” Jamie asks no one, staring at the little case of eggs you shove into his hands.

“Because I thought it would be nice for him to have one.” You give his dazed face his goodbye kiss before opening the door. Roy stands in your doorway, clearly impatient. He gives you a tight smile.

“Hello.” You smile, some smoke rippling from behind you.

“Hello,” Roy says, slanting two fingers in greeting. He watches the plumes swirl around you with an upturned bushy eyebrow.

You wave it away. “Sorry, we had a little incident.”

You shove Jamie out the door. Roy watches him stumble beside him. “No rush.”

Jamie turns to him, nose wrinkling. “Right. The poundin’ of the door really says that.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “You haven’t seen me impatient, Tartt.”

“Will I?” Jamie dares, glancing at you. “By the way—totally unrelated—lovely, lovely y/n’s sent you some breakfast today.”

Roy follows his line of sight and growls. “No,” he answers.

Jamie steps closer to you with a cheeky smile and kisses you goodbye. “Love ya.”

“I love you too. Have fun. Be nice,” you tell him.

“Tell that to Kent!”

“I’m nice,” Roy grunts. “I’m like a fucking golden retriever.”

“I can see that,” you nod supportively.

Roy juts a thumb toward you.

Jamie shakes his head, lips parted. “I don’t like this.”

“And I don’t fuckin’ care,” Roy buts in. “Let’s go.” He ducks his chin at you respectfully. “Y/n.”

You mimic his motion. “Roy.”

Jamie looks between you two, an index gesturing lazily. "Stop that."

“How about you stop blabberin’ and start runnin’?”

“I’ll see you later, Jamie,” you assure, pulling him in for one last kiss. “I recommend you run, babe.”

“Me too,” Roy barks, a few steps away. “Babe.”

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tart fic #jamie tartt fluff #jamie tartt #jamie tartt reader insert #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt x reader fluff #jamie tartt fic #roy kent #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso fanfic

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