#and hope his self-confidence continues to grow!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shadesoflsk · 4 months

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RETROSPECTION & OUTCOME

pairing: leon kennedy x afab reader.

summary: The journey of healing is not an easy one. Obstacles and doubts filled the path Leon decided to take. However, the agent had planted the seed of self improvement and with your help, a strong and resilent tree will grow.

warnings: strangers to friends to lovers, mentions of reader being a nurse, age gap (reader is 25+) angst, hurt/comfort, descriptions of gore, blood and violence, no alcohol consumption but Leon attempts to, Leon's inner thoughts, self doubts, lack of self confidence (from Leon's part) mild mentions of religion trauma, smut, handjob, Leon cries during it, kind of switch Leon, needy Leon (give him a hug please) p in v, creampie, fluffy at the end (yipeee)

word count: 14k

author's note: helloooo :] This is my first try at writing a long fic, I had so much fun writing it. It all started as a character study for Leon and then it ended up as... this lmao. For the first chapters, I had vendetta Leon in mind and at the last one we finally have DI Leon! Please... if you see any mistakes no you don't. Anyway love you guys hope you like this as much as I do.

— masterlist

I. ETERNAL DAMNATION.

His cold blue eyes are a pool of misery and misfortune. The dreadful gaze of an individual who once was and continues to be subject to the violent reality of what a government can do.

He remains stoic to whatever adversity he has to face, one look at him and you would believe this man has no feelings whatsoever. He kills, he gets paid, repeat. A never-ending loop in which many would believe Leon finds pleasure. Especially since he carries himself as the Government Golden Boy aka best weapon. To use and to dispose of, Leon S. Kennedy.

Shoulder pats and praise words stir up a pot filled with anger and hatred — emotions that Leon doesn't often feel with others, just with himself.— He tries not to dwell on them, but it gets so difficult and challenging whenever he hears that his own achievements are cause for celebration. Do these assholes know how many people, infected people, he had to kill in order to bring peace? No, they don’t. Unbeknownst to them, those people could have been saved.

At least in Leon’s mind.

The suited men surround him. Privilege and smugness are qualities that Leon would often use to describe what those who hire his service are. Those congratulations and fake praises ring in Leon’s mind as he keeps thinking about the people he had to betray and kill for the ‘sake’ of his country, for his nation, and for the ego of his president.

But he takes the compliments, like a good boy. The president believes he hit the jackpot with a rightful agent who is proud of his country. God Bless America and in God we trust, he says as his hand reaches for Leon’s. The blue-eyed agent hesitates each time, out of fear of tainting his oh-so-dear boss’ white shirt. Because nobody cared enough to spare him new clothes and a wet towel to clean himself. A trophy to show the world what a powerful human weapon they had. Rough, tall, and with calloused hands, hands of a killer.

Leon S. Kennedy is proof of what the cruelty of a government can do. He is no longer a human, but the shell of a man. His name is printed in many documents which shows the gruesome acts he had to endure, in the name of the country. “Agent Leon S. Kennedy had successfully retrieved a sample of the virus.” “Condor One saved Baby Eagle.” He has received a plethora of names yet none of them really encapsulated who he was.

They have shown that they do not care about their citizens, like at all. Raccoon City was a prime example of that. He sounds like a broken record, the memory replaying in his memory every mission he gets assigned. But, for him, it was his first-hand experience with how cruel and gruesome reality could be.

Tough call, they say. We did what we could, they added. Leon knows all of those phrases by heart now. His gentle nature remains in him, even though it was covered by layers of a rough past and self-taught distrust. But even now, at his grown age, he fully believes they could have done so much more.

His mind is all over the place whenever he comes back from a mission. The usual white and never-changing walls surround everyone at the gathering that the president holds each time Leon ‘succeeds’ in a mission. His fingers seek any type of comfort, they twitch, they pinch his own clothes but nothing works.

People notice, they do. It’s obvious that the spotlight is on him yet he never embraces it. Simple nods and awkward smiles are his way to go and signature gestures. Deep inside, he knows those white-collared dicks spare him weird and pitiful glances every chance they get.

His chest burns with a desire for solidarity and altruism. He feels a lot and feels everything too deep for his own liking. His core dances between his hatred for heroism and the need to be a hero. He doesn’t believe he’s one. Throughout his life he has contemplated who he is and the type of man he has grown to be. His mind is a living hell and he’s the demon incarnated.

He wonders when it all started. Maybe he was doomed for the start, as he stood in front of his parents’ grave asking God why.

Deuteronomy 31:8; “The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” The catholic father who used to hold the mass every Sunday said one morning. Now, did God forget about him? He should have prayed harder, to escape his own damnation.

Strained screams and the reek of rotten flesh fill his dreams. Madness and chaos are the main plots in his nightmares in which he pleads to stop having. His own reality was a mirror of every agony he has to face every day in his line of work. Why is God punishing him even in his dreams?

Those cries of pain and the smell of both burnt flesh and gunpowder are a toxic combination to Leon’s messed up mind. To him, they served as an everlasting proof of his devilish nature. He realizes that the image of innumerable lifeless bodies’ guts all over the floor with his brains smashed over the ground is a common occurrence for him. He becomes desensitized albeit his soul hurting for those who lay at his feet.

Now, he knows that what he's doing is in the name of survival. Millions of people live unaware of the dangerous situations he has to fight on a daily basis, they get to sleep on a warm bed next to their loved ones. If he wants to keep that on, he ought to kill.

But he wouldn’t do it otherwise, he wasn’t built for that life.

But despite that, the usual eerie feeling washes over him whenever he has to pull the trigger. He has grown accustomed to them, on the battlefield he was a fiery pawn, following orders as they told him to.

But as soon as his character ends his performance, his facade and mask falls off his face. He’s no longer a puppet from his higher-ups, he was just him. Leon.

II. RECOGNITION.

He places Matilda — his brush to paint every ground with blood — on his nightstand. To be fair, that’s a habit he can’t just let go. After every mission, his mind is all over the place for the next few days. Every sound activates a fear deep within him that keeps him awake at night and worried during the day.

He washes his hands, a thorough ritual he follows step by step. His hands touch the water, lukewarm to bring him some kind of comfort. He rinses away every blood spot he may have engraved on his bruised skin. The warm and clear liquid reaches his fingernails, which he meticulously scrubs, washing away any leftover of someone’s brain.

He takes pride in being clean. However, it had developed into an obsession at this point. Being dirty meant killing, and killing meant despair. So, he tries to avoid his gaze on the mirror each time he arrives home. Sadly, he usually doesn’t recognize the man that is staring back at him.

Eventually, he turns off the faucet and walks towards the couch. He’s tired, both mentally and physically. He doesn’t get any younger and living as an agent surely doesn’t help his case. But at last, his home. Safe.

He turns on the TV, he’s welcomed by the News Channel which he quickly changes. Nowadays, it appears that nothing good happens in this messed up world, and he doesn’t want to bring sorrow to his home too. He searches through the vast choices of channels until something catches his eye. Casablanca.

A feeble smile forms on his face, a simple thing like that brings Leon a small percentage of happiness, which it’s a lot given his constant state of dullness.

He sometimes quotes phrases from the movies he watches. He genuinely expects someone to notice, his tired blue eyes would roam over the numerous faces of agents, hoping someone catches the meaning behind his words. He’s tired, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to chat with someone.

Nobody seemed to notice, maybe they were busy.

Curiously, he had changed the channel just at the right moment when Rick Blaine said his line. Leon’s favorite.

“I never make plans that far ahead.” Both the character and Leon say simultaneously. It brings Leon a sense of joy. Pathetically enough, his hobbies remind him that he is, in fact, still human.

He sighs, looking around his apartment. It was dull, it showed his lack of decoration and personal touch. He believes there was no point in placing ornaments or things of that sort since he doesn’t even spend most of his time there. In recollection, he has no home. At least not physically.

He’s a man of the world, people look at him and see someone who is strong and independent rather than a simple man. But his heart’s heavy, with a burden and anguish that no painkiller could ease.

He’s tempted to grab a bottle from his cabinet. Drown in the burning liquid and pass out. He doesn’t like alcohol. But he has always been weak to addictions. So, even when he was a rookie cop and his girlfriend broke up with him, he ran to the nearest bar and took all the booze he could. Maybe he should’ve noticed the red flags, and maybe gone to therapy or something like that. But… oh, right, the next day the world literally ended for him.

But, he refrains from doing so. Deep down, he knew that letting his addiction win would be a deadly solution to his problems. Acknowledging is the first step to recovery, experts say. However, he knew that he couldn’t do it alone.

Before even letting more negative thoughts come into his mind. He gets up from the couch and walks toward the bathroom, again. He stays in front of the door for a few seconds, as if scared of going back there. Eventually, he does enter.

His hand reaches for the switch and the lights are turned on. The luminescent white light revealed his face in front of the mirror. He takes one, two, and three deep breaths before fully opening his eyes.

He bites his lips, seeking a sort of relief from that action yet he bites too hard that almost draws blood. He’s trying his best, this mundane act is no longer something that he does daily. So, grant him some recognition.

His eyes travel and land on the mirror and after a while, he fully sees himself. His eyes are wide open, not because he was surprised to discover the man that was in front of him. But to compare him to the one he used to be.

Just a few years ago, his blond hair was still bright, showing signs of his thorough routine. But now, it has turned into a black mop that could no longer be compared to his past self. His stubble has grown too, he was a late bloomer, he didn’t grow a beard until he reached the age of 27 when he could finally see some signs of pores growing hair. But to see his face so… rugged and rough was definitely a slap back to reality.

He takes two steps back, his hand reaching for the hem of his shirt. Swiftly, he takes it off, revealing his chest and abdomen. He was no stranger to his own physique since he obviously showers.

However, the sight that the mirror provided was very different from seeing his point of view. His eyes were observing someone else’s perspective, if he ever had the chance to date someone they would see… that.

A chest which was filled with scars and bruises. They were like tattoos, imprinted on his skin. Those will never fade and if he grants someone the misfortune of dating him, will they be repulsed by the idea of witnessing his tainted self?

He wasn’t a hero, he was far away from calling himself that. But he is starting to think that maybe, just maybe, those marks can remind him of his arduous path. Not in a condescending way, but in a fulfilling memory.

III. FURTHERANCE.

He feels… weird. It’s been a while since he last got a haircut, and having someone holding scissors next to his neck wasn’t something he was looking for. But, there he is.

It took everything in him to call the hairdresser. He has long forgotten how to even speak to someone in a normal setting. “Agent Kennedy here, haircut, out.” He couldn’t say that!

At last, he booked an appointment. It wasn’t the most expensive place, not because Leon didn’t have the money but rather, because he wasn’t looking to be surrounded by luxuries and opulence. A cheap but nice place would do.

Once he arrived, he noticed that he didn’t match well with the place. He knew he carried an aura of mystery and unapproachability but Jesus, it was now obvious with the way some old ladies kept looking at him as if asking: Who the hell is this man?

All of his previous actions led him to where he’s sitting now.

The granny behind him keeps showering in compliments which he couldn’t quite understand. A few years ago, he may have blushed and waved a hand dismissively, but now? He doesn’t see how he could be called a handsome man.

For him, looking good and taking care of himself had stopped being a requirement a few months ago. But it wasn’t something that happened out of the blue. He gradually started noticing the changes and once he realized, his whole appearance had changed.

His eyes are piercing and never changing, an unmistakable aura of exhaustion and helpness surrounds him. Yet, once the old lady's eyes land on him, he can’t help but smile back. It was always in his nature — he lives for others.

It’s always been like this. Naturally, his gullibility and his unfounded faith have shaped and molded him differently throughout the course of years. Having to survive an apocalypse, taking care of an infant, and getting betrayed by a certain someone would sequentially take a toll on him. Nonetheless, his primal wish for altruism and hope will always remain in him. They were his roots which led to creating a strong and fortified trunk.

He’s still hoping this tree will thrive.

The lady asks him how long has it been since he last cut his hair, and he doesn’t know how to respond. Normally, he would cut it himself, since time was priceless and he couldn’t nor wanted to go to a specific place to get his hair trimmed. So he learned by himself, which wasn’t the safest option.

By the way the old woman’s hands brush on his hair, shaking and trembling due to the years, he knows that she knows. It’s obvious by the way some strands are awkwardly cut and overall most of them were misshapen. A poor attempt at maintaining his heartthrob boy hairstyle.

He remains silent — for most of the time. — He doesn’t answer any questions that were directed at him. Not because he didn’t want to, it’s just that his line of job never prepared him for small talk. In fact, chit-chat just meant that someone was trying to gather information out of him, which prompted him to just refrain from speaking

The government has fucked him up.

He acknowledges it. But it’s not easy to make a change when that something is the only thing he has known for at least 15 years of his life. The curse of despair had so unlucky landed on him and he knew no witchcraft which could prevent him from that.

His mind register most things people would overlook. Given his duty at the job, he ought to be an observer. Yeah, he is also a fighter but he relies heavily on his analyzing skills before attacking. Knowing your enemy before striking is what has saved him every damn time.

His permanently furrowed eyebrows and cold eyes are the first thing he notices in the mirror as the woman keeps cutting some of his hair. A hand unconsciously reaches for the little space between his brows.

Maybe if he stops frowning.

Maybe if he stops scowling.

Could he give a better impression of himself?

It’s lacking authenticity, he feels like he’s acting rather than being genuine. But for now, he tries forcing a gentle smile which doesn’t meet his eyes yet it’s better than almost pouting every time he breathes.

All of a sudden, the bell of the door rings announcing that someone else has arrived. Some of the old ladies who are waiting for their turn start getting up from their chairs to greet the person who had just come in.

An everyday customer, that must be. Leon thought.

He was oblivious of how much you are going to change his life.

He can’t see you, not yet. But as the observer he is, he can deduce that this said individual is genuinely loved and appreciated. A drastic contrast between the way he’s received when he returns from a mission. Fake laughs, fake thankful words.

A complete fraud.

You walk as if you own the place, but your stride doesn’t come off as haughty or arrogant. You exude an aura of familiarity, hospitality, and therefore a gentleness that it’s foreign to Leon.

You walk towards his seat, where the granny is cutting his hair. As soon as the gray-haired woman sees you, he observes how her eyes light up with delight and joyfulness he hadn’t seen before.

“Adelaide…” You stop before you even reach Leon. He admires the scene developing through the mirror. He sees you for the first time, you’re definitely a nurse or at least you work in the healthcare area given your uniform. You have your hands on your hips and a playful glare was formed on your face. If he could guess, you just caught this lady doing something she wasn’t supposed to do.

“I think I told you you should be resting.” You squint your eyes as you keep looking at Adelaide, Leon takes note of her name. You are accusing her, yet your friendly demeanor doesn’t falter.

It’s refreshing to see innocent social interactions. It's a welcome-back reality check. At least, at this moment, he could embrace the tranquility. Although it will end as soon as the hairdresser informs him that his hair is done.

“You know I can’t stand still…” Her voice comes out as a booming melody. Even though the years were obvious by the wrinkles on her face, she sounded so animated and beaming. “This job is everything I have ever known.”

Now he can agree on something. However, he is fully aware the situation is deadly different. Between cutting hair and slitting someone else’s throat, there is a vast difference. But, in his mind, he could already make up a conversation based on that information.

“I know, but…” You take a step further and place a hand on the granny’s shoulder. Leon couldn’t help but feel like an outsider now that the three of them were reflected in the mirror. “You could just take a few days off… Your shoulder will thank you for it.”

As you advise the granny your eyes dart from her eyes in the mirror to Leon’s.

For the first time.

You acknowledge his presence with a nod and a simple smile. Time seems to stop as he scans your face. You look younger, you are definitely younger than him. Not young enough for him to feel weird about it, but there was a certain glint in your eyes that told him you haven’t experienced misery and desolation in your life. Unlike him who has yet to experience happiness.

He doesn’t want to indulge so much, but his thoughts are having a blast right now. Maybe it was his lack of social interactions and meaningful relationships but he wants to know more about you.

“It’s quite unusual to see a man here. I would have thought someone like you would go to a barber.” He comes back to reality as he notices you are talking to him. Your eyes remain fixed on his as your smile continues to be displayed on your face.

Someone like… him? Yeah, that statement isn’t new to him. Especially since his demeanor is still so rugged. But hey! He’s making a change even though you don’t know.

“Barbers don’t know how to cut my hair.” He realizes his voice came out rigid and plain. He didn’t intend to, but he is used to his military speech and tone. “They… just don’t get it right…” His last sentence is definitely more hushed but not any less monotone.

“Fair enough. At least Adelaide here knows exactly how to keep your hair safe from a buzz cut.” Leon lets out an amused breath as you joke about his hair. It feels like a gentle breeze, indulging in light-hearted teasing with a stranger. And not any stranger, but you.

He has felt attraction, he’s a man after all. His line of job wasn’t the most ideal to find a partner but he can’t deny how some agents were pretty to look at. However, he couldn’t form a romantic relationship there. Between death and violence, the battleground wasn’t the place to have a partner, form a family, and live happily ever after.

“Yeah…” He sheepishly responds, he doesn’t know what else to add. You had taken the reins of the conversation as soon as you teased him. Now, he hopes something comes into his mind to keep the conversation flowing.

“I haven’t seen any other gentleman wearing this hairstyle,” Adelaide says as she resumes her work. She moves the scissors gracefully. She is — with no doubt — an expert in this area. Though the simpleness of her salon tells him otherwise. “If I may say, I think it really suits you.”

“You should have seen me in the 90s.” Those words leave his lips before he even registers them in his mind. It was an innocuous joke, nonetheless, it carried a hint of self-deprecation. He doesn’t look like his old self, he knows that. Especially after seeing himself in the mirror that night. But nobody there has to know, for them, it was a simple light-hearted joke.

The whole salon erupts in laughter, he doesn’t think his words are that funny. But hey, he will take the compliment.

However, his eyes catch a glimpse of you not laughing. At work, most people wouldn’t laugh at his own words because they weren’t needed. He knew that. But then again, none of you were in a life-or-death situation. Leon doesn’t want to overthink, but… did he come out as a pretentious dude? Or an arrogant dickhead?

Or maybe you have caught the real meaning behind those words.

You let out a breathy laugh, not too long to be considered a giggle but not short enough to be a chuckle. You don’t add anything else, your eyes just linger on his face for a few more seconds before turning on your heel.

For a moment, he’s taken aback. He feels like he’s going crazy but for a split second, he sees himself in you. Not because you shared the same past or path and there was no way you had the same traumas. But the way you had observed him, made him feel analyzed, as if you were studying the way he talked and expressed himself.

Maybe he’s indeed going crazy.

Leon watches you taking a seat on an empty chair, next to another customer who gives you a polite smile. From there, he hears you telling Adelaide that your shift at the hospital has just ended and you just wanted to check up on her.

For a while, he relaxes until Adelaide tells him that they are done. She persuades him to bleach his hair after he accidentally told her that he had blond hair in the past. But he escapes her attempts by telling her that he wants to pay.

He walks towards the register and pulls out a 20-dollar bill. It was quite cheap, especially when he had cut so much hair. At least he looks more presentable now.

You appear out of nowhere as he was paying. Your frame leans over the counter and for a second, you let the awkward silence linger in the air.

Eventually, you speak.

“You don't belong here.” You say without an ounce of malice. You're expressing a fact. Leon has never been around the salon and doesn't look the part.

He frowns slightly, he was keeping up his laid-back appearance just fine until you blurted out your thoughts.

“It's my first time here.” He states before turning around and facing you.

“That I know.” You nod.

“Then… was your comment really necessary?” Leon's words could come off as rude even though it wasn't his intention. But, it seems they don't even phase you.

“Not really.” You shrugged. Your voice was nonchalant. “But as you could already guess, I'm a nurse. And I have seen people like you come and go out of the hospital.”

He is trying to understand what your point is. Under any other circumstances, he would have told the other person off for even daring to speak about him and his lifestyle. He wasn't violent, not at all. But sometimes his limit was put to the test.

“What I'm trying to say is that…” He sees your attempt at explaining yourself. “I think It's safe to assume you're an agent or something of that sort, right?”

Leon doesn't react nor wants to. People knowing he was an agent wasn't a problem since it wasn't a secret.

After a few seconds, he lets out a sigh he didn't know he was holding and nods. Being honest could be the start of a friendship, at least that's what Leon thinks.

“Was it my frame and physique that gave it away?” If he was an artist he could easily say he was getting better at the art of improving. Just a few weeks ago, he would have never left a comment like that lingering in the air.

“Nope.” You cross your arms at the level of your chest.

And there you go breaking his fantasies. He thought his phrase was so flirty.

“There's a scar on your cheek, it looks pretty deep.” You gesture to Leon where the scar is on your own cheek. He instinctively brings his finger to where it is in his.

That's one of the few scars he remembers exactly how he got it. 2004, Spain. He experienced what betrayal was beforehand. Who he used to hold in high regard was the one who didn't hesitate to hold a knife and leave a nasty reminder of his deception.

“I got it in a fight.” He sticks with a simple phrase, not diving deeper. Nonetheless, he realized you’re a perspicacious individual, lying won’t get him anywhere.

“Fight… right.”

Both of you smile knowingly, the smirk giving away a sense of teasing between the two of you, for the first time. Even though you know nothing about how far and wild his job actually was, you had an idea that this said fight wasn’t just a normal and common one.

“So…” Leon sees how you shift your weight from one foot to another. There hasn’t been a shy bone in yourself ever since you entered the salon but now words don’t come out of your mouth as easily as before. “If you ever need a nurse, you can call me.”

As you rummage in your bag, you speak once again. “I may not be the most experienced but believe me when I said I had experience with some military and agents.”

You hand Leon a business card, your full name was there as well as your phone number and the hospital you work in. Your name falls swiftly out of Leon’s lips as he reads the content on the cardstock.

“And senior citizens.” He flashes you a dazzling smile, he doesn’t seem to realize that it’s been a while since he last smiled so freely and so.. natural. It feels like the sun hitting on his skin after a cold day. A warmth he had long forgotten he could feel.

He knew it was soon. Too soon to even imagine being your friend. But as he puts the card in his pocket, he wishes that this could be the beginning of something more.

IV. RELAPSE & RESTART.

He almost falls once he opens up at the door that leads him to his apartment. Another gruesome mission to add to his mental diary and more scars that will adorn his already hurting body.

The same never-ending story, the same story being told once again. He doesn’t know when it will end.

If it even ends.

The last months have been all about his ‘recovery’. He was a patient man, he was sure of that. However, he doesn’t understand how doing mundane things would help him. He was taking baby steps and walking on eggshells, trying not to fall back into his old addictions.

Which were slowly creeping into his mind.

A call from Hunnigan was the last thing he expected a few days ago. He was surprised not to get any task earlier but that didn’t mean he wanted to go back to fight off bioweapons and kill walking undead who were once rational people, with dreams and wishes just like him.

But as much as he wanted to hang up and leave that world behind — knowing that the government wouldn’t give two shits about him and would walk through the same door he previously did and blow his brain — he accepted the mission.

In his own story, he’s a tragic character who can’t break the cursed loop he’s trapped in. The soft sounds of the rain no longer brought comfort to his aching heart, since those constant pitty-patter reminded him of the blood dripping from the people who were killed, by no one else but him.

He often thought he was going crazy, especially now as he walked towards the kitchen and stumbled on his own feet. Seeking something to grab on while he fights off the exhaustion. This last mission had taken a toll on him, both mentally and physically.

His fingers reach for the edge of the counter as he finally stays on his feet without the fear of falling onto the floor. His tired eyes close for a moment as he takes in his surroundings, his lonely apartment and his lonely life and his lonely self and his —.

He shakes his head, he wasn’t exactly in solitude. After that hurried meeting with you, he gained a new friend. He got to know you personally, something that he had missed for the longest time. To actually know someone deeper and not only their last names and occupations.

In exchange, he gave himself the chance to be more vulnerable. He couldn’t deny the attraction that he felt. But he was too afraid to fuck up the chance to have something meaningful with you. He told you about his years at the police academy, and he briefly shared his experience in Raccoon City, trying to be as vague as possible. In other words, he bared his soul to you.

But that didn’t mean everything was filled with butterflies and rainbows.

One night when you were treating one of his injuries (which he never treated in the past) he accidentally told you about his addictions and dark thoughts. Those which showed a persistent state of numbness and trauma. It was never his intention to worry you about those minor things, which he truly believed were not important.

But, as he recalls that night, he realizes that sadly, he can’t just end it all with a bullet through his brain. He has always thought about it, it’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed his messed up mind on those lonely nights when he wished someone would grant him a blink of sleep without having to dream about death and despair.

His eyes open as he once again walks through the kitchen, the moonlight provides a faint source of light that casts on his dark space of living. He remembers that you once told him he should get some lights, and he indeed bought them but he can’t just seem to find enough time to put them on.

His mind wanders through the moments he has spent with you. You always said the most soothing of things, when you wanted to. You advised him, told him how worthy he can be and how special he must be to others even though they don’t know it yet.

Another step.

He didn’t quite catch the meaning of those words. For him, he only brings despair wherever he goes. A demon of destruction and annihilation. If hell had a list of its next guests he believes his name would be on the top of that list. God wouldn’t want him in his paradise.

One more step.

Nonetheless, you weren’t a teddy bear who only chanted words of praise and fairy-tale stories. You called out his bullshit, especially when he dared to joke about going back to his old habits.

Stop.

“Would you like a glass of whiskey?” He would sarcastically ask you whenever you visited him at his apartment, knowing the kind of reaction he would get out of you. You had none of that, though. As soon as he uttered those words, the grip your hand had on his arm would get tighter to the point that Leon would beg you to stop it.

He knew you genuinely cared for him and he convinces himself that you’re wasting your time with someone like him. Someone already broken from the start. You were younger, with a life ahead of yourself, and a career to follow. And like the devil incarnate that he is, he is stopping you from that.

The story repeats itself, everything he touches turns into dust. He’s no longer a human but the shell of a man who once had dreams of becoming a cop. To become someone who would help innocent people. But instead, he’s killing those same poor souls in the name of the fucking government.

His fingers graze over the cabinet.

He despises his life, he hates everyone who forced him to follow this path. The resentment flows in his system as his hand grips the cabinet door even tighter; if he wasn’t so tired from his mission, he would have broken the tacky wooden furniture.

Why does it have to be this way?

Why does he have to continue witnessing the horrors of his life every day?

Why do the ghosts of people haunt him every day as he tries to close his eyes and relax?

Why has he become so desensitized to the bloodshed and yet as soon as he comes back to reality, it knocks the air out of his lungs?

And why is he already unscrewing the lid of his whiskey?

Time slows down for a moment as he gambles his choices. It's been months since he last took a sip from his so beloved whiskey. But at the same time, just one tiny drop would crumble all of his progress.

But why is progress so important if the product is going to be the same? Even if he gets better, his life won't. The only difference is that he may smile more during missions and act like everything is fucking alright even if it isn't.

But he isn't so lucky to fall deeper into his hell that easily. As soon as the cap falls onto the floor, the front door knob twists, announcing that someone is entering.

And who else has a key to his apartment?

The last person he wants to see right now.

The door creaks, antagonizing the imminent moment when you would see him at the scene of the crime with him being the culprit of his own homicide.

“Leon?” He hears you say as you step in, the darkness of the room allowing him a couple of seconds to hide the murder weapon – the bottle – and act clueless. But it seems that not even his nervous system is on his side. He just stands still.

“Sorry for being late. I had one hell of a shift back at–...” He sees your frame as you approach the kitchen. Your face falls momentarily, taking in the sight you were watching. Disheveled hair, bruises all around his face, and dark eyebags that gave the impression he hadn't slept for weeks.

Your eyes fall on the bottle in his hand. There was no cap which leads you to believe that he was drinking. Leon wanted to scream and tell you that you got it all wrong, but no words left his lips.

“Are you drinking?” Anger-filled, you take long strides before reaching for the bottle. Your eyes scan the content, seeing that it is half empty. Your accusatory gaze falls on Leon's.

“It's not what it looks like.” Worst phrase ever. He knows that he's telling you the truth, yet he couldn’t come up with anything worse than that.

He looks like a kicked puppy, his eyes wide open as you keep staring at him with those eyes filled with… disappointment which it's worse than being screamed at. He wasn’t built for that. He was used to resentment looks, to punches and kicks. But disappointment came every time he had to tell families that their father wouldn’t make it that night because he died on a mission. It came each time he had to inform a mother that their beloved son succumbed to a virus.

The once rookie cop still lives within him. The one who hates disappointing people, the one who wants to save everyone. But especially the one who can’t do it alone.

“Then help me understand.” You place the bottle on the kitchen counter. Your stare doesn’t falter yet a hint of concern washes over your face. “Because all I see is you drinking after literally promising me that you’d never do it again.”

As a matter of fact, you didn’t actually see him drinking. He wanted to say that, but he knew it would bring even more anger to your already burning expression. However, as soon as that thought left his mind, another one came.

The sole fact that he didn’t drink, doesn’t spare him from any culpability. If it wasn’t for your intrusion, he’d be lying on the couch, wasted and intoxicated waiting to pass out.

You take a deep breath, trying to keep your emotions in check. Leon isn’t dumb, he’s exhausted but he’s aware of how much you’re holding back. You would never scream at him, that’s obvious. But you didn’t want to bring even more self-hatred to him.

He had his own mental battles, ones you will never understand no matter how much he describes them to you. His anxiety was always bothering him, like an annoying bug buzzing in his ear. You knew how overwhelming everything was.

And you knew how recovery wasn’t an easy step to take, but it definitely takes so much maturity and perseverance, something that Leon surrounds himself in – even though he doesn’t see it. He’s a fighter, he’s a hero, he’s a lover. He keeps fighting and fighting even when he doesn’t see an end. But he mastered the art of moving forward.

So, he’s allowed to fall from time to time.

“Did you drink?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Were you planning on doing it?”

He’s silent for a moment, he’s afraid that his answer will mean more disappointment from you. That you will get to see how pathetic he really was.

“Yes.” He eventually confesses.

You absentmindedly nod, letting out a long sigh.

“Another mission?”

“...yes.”

You didn’t ask for the details, knowing – to an extent – about Leon’s job, you knew it must have been so impactful in order to almost throw him back to his old friend, alcohol. And you knew Leon was like a sponge, he absorbs everything he experiences and never tells anyone. You thank God that he accidentally told you about his addiction, now you can at least protect him.

“It was…” Leon continues speaking, his fingers scratching a spot on the kitchen counter. His eyes don’t meet yours, as if he’s trying his best to make the words come out of himself. “It was really bad this time.”

He lets out a dry chuckle that sounds more like an attempt to water down the situation. One thing about him is that he doesn’t cry. He wouldn’t let someone see that side of him. He’s rigid, he’s stoic, he’s unemotional. He’s a DSO agent, born to serve his country and die for it.

But right now he wants to be a child again.

He wants to be that same infant who would fall on purpose just to get kisses from his mother. He wants to be that same innocent child who could come back running to his mom’s arms when the world was too scary.

He wants to stop the world for a second and cry at the top of his lungs, he wants to punch a wall until his knuckles bleed, he wants to be held, he wants to be told everything will be okay even if it will never be okay.

His thoughts drift to when he was younger – to when he could imagine himself being a better person. If he could speak with himself, what would he say? The image of a tiny him crosses his mind, a young Leon playing all by himself with tiny police cars.

Within him, there’s a rookie cop begging for help amidst the gruesome scenario he had to face back in 1998. Beneath all the layers of self-hatred and resentment, hidden in that dead gaze.

He shakes his head, in a poor effort of swallowing the lump that was forming in his throat. An imminent sign that his emotions will fall like a waterfall, reminding him of his own weaknesses. His curtain of hair falls onto his eyes, blurring his vision.

Or was it his tears? He no longer knows.

He deserves an award for how hard he’s trying to stop the inevitable. His fingers shake, his breath gets heavier and his heart aches. But he couldn’t bear it for much longer, especially knowing that at least, he had someone to go to when his mind was too much for him.

So, he allows himself to feel human again.

“It was horrible…” He finally breaks down. He silently lets the tears fall from his eyes as he sobs. The thought of every mission is on his mind as the constant spams of his sobs control his body.

He feels like the air has been knocked out of his lungs, the uncontrollable way that he chokes on his sobs makes his throat constricted.

He lowers his head, he doesn’t want you to see how weak he has become. A tough agent simply doesn’t cry. An agent bites, chews, swallows, and shuts up.

Silence sets in the kitchen, occasionally broken by Leon’s tears and choked breaths. His fingers itched to grab something, to hold onto something. To feel that he wasn’t alone, that he was indeed not all by himself in this messed up world.

You slowly reach for him. Baby steps, for someone who was touched starved, even if he was unaware of that fact. For someone that’d jump whenever he feels touched, because his mind can’t let go of the fear of being bitten, of being killed.

You quietly made your way to Leon’s hand, your fingers ever so grazing it. Feather touches brushes against the back of his hand, making sure to notice if he shows any signs of discomfort. There were none.

However, you surely notice that his sobs have stopped for the time being. He’s still sniffing though. As if on cue, his glassy eyes lock on yours, before you fully intertwine your fingers with his.

You didn’t hug him immediately, you didn’t throw your arms around his neck at the very right moment when he started crying, and you especially didn’t give him a shoulder pat as if saying “Don’t cry.” He appreciates the fact that you took it slow, you gave him a warning and proceeded further when he allowed you to.

Loving takes time, and loving Leon would surely take longer than anything you have experienced. You have treated many patients, you know that the injuries in a body heal fairly quickly. Now, the wounds in a soul that was doomed from the start are not something that easy to mend.

After a while of your fingers being intertwined and sweat covering the palm of your hands, you feel the faintest squeeze, coming from Leon’s side. You look at him and see a tiny smile formed on his lips with some dry tears adorning his face.

You say nothing, scared to break the atmosphere of tranquility that had formed after Leon stopped crying. It took some seconds for Leon to muster up the courage to go further, intimacy and platonic touches were already something he was unfamiliar with. Now, he had to add romantic feelings to that list.

If he had met you when he was younger, he’d have surely asked you out. Take you on a nice little date and steal a kiss or two. But now, he was trapped in the course of the years, older and supposedly wiser. However, you were the one who was being strong – for him. Not the other way around.

But, as much as he wants to pity himself and wonder about those what-ifs, he has a friend now. He would take care of that heart of his in the future. For now, he wants to embrace the one friendship he hasn’t tainted yet.

The one person who still hasn’t seen the horrors that this world has to offer.

He untangles his fingers from yours and looking at your eyes one last time, he brings your hand to his cheek. The palm of your hand bringing some warmth to his skin.

With his eyes closed now, you see an expression you haven’t seen before. A peaceful one, as if he was sleeping without his usual nightmares. It was comforting, in a sense, knowing that you have brought a moment of serenity to his tumultuous life.

You were surprised at first, not expecting Leon to show that display of affection. However, part of you understands that he was seeking comfort. It’s been a while since he last felt safe with someone, someone who he could cry with, someone who wouldn’t judge him.

Your thumb grazes over his stubbled cheek, wiping away any proof that he has been crying.

“Thank you…” His voice is barely a whisper, you almost didn’t hear him singing his gratitude.

You want to say “You’re welcome” or “It’s okay” but none of those phrases convey what you really wish to show. Saying the first one would dismiss all of your previous actions as a simple attempt to comfort him. And the latter was a lie, it’s not okay, even if you wanted to believe it yourself.

“I got you.” You stick with that one. It wasn’t a lie but a promise you plan on fulfilling. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You promise?” He asks, opening his eyes. His tone is a hopeful one.

“I do.” You reassure him.

With your free hand – the one that wasn’t on Leon’s cheek – you reach for the bottle of whiskey that was long forgotten after their little situation.

“But before that, we need to get rid of this.” You show it to Leon before he chuckles. “We’re now only drinking apple juice.”

He didn’t miss the use of we instead of you. Maybe he’s reading between the lines, but he hopes that you’re by his side now that he wants to leave his addiction for sure. He wants you to see how much he can achieve if he sets his mind on it.

“Apple juice it is.”

V. ABSOLUTION.

The nakedness of his body didn't override the vulnerability he showed once he let you in his life, mind, and soul. But as you help him wash his back, he can’t help but reminisce about that first night when he first saw himself in the mirror.

He remembers being insecure about showing his scars to someone, scared that the other person would be disgusted by the sight of it.

However, you weren’t repulsed, far from that. In your mind, Leon’s skin served as a canvas and each bruise and scar were strokes of a paintbrush. In this case, they showed Leon’s hard life and non-achievable freedom. They showed how much Leon had endured and how many fights he had won.

Therefore, they were proof that Leon was a lover of life. He loved everyone else’s lives that he would sacrifice his in order to protect the world.

Leon sometimes drops hints about his job. He didn’t directly tell you about the government and its fucked up methods, but you collected the clues and formed your own puzzle.

He was forced to join.

It was strange, in a way. To know that a gentle soul like him had to face the hostility of a country, of a government that could easily threaten someone into joining the force. However, you weren’t clueless about its power.

Eventually, after those hints, other hints came along the way.

Leon was sweet, funny, and a gentleman. Your dynamic as a nurse and patient was long forgotten even though you still tend to some of his wounds. And your friendship shifted into something more, especially after the whiskey situation months ago.

However, even though his qualities overshadow his flaws, there’s something he can’t hide.

He’s too awkward for his own good.

Ever since the alcohol incident, Leon would always try to be smooth and compliment you over the simplest things. “Have you done something different to your hair? No, you didn’t? Oh… Well, it looks good” He would often facepalm himself because he couldn’t flirt even if his life depended on it.

Eventually, after those not-so-discrete hints, he took matters into his own hands. He often faked minor injuries. “You don’t understand, my eye literally hurts” and he would have access to admire every tiny detail your face had to offer. From your moles to the way your eyebrows furrowed trying to concentrate.

And that led to feathery touches. In the name of friendship, of course.

After one dinner – that Leon so gratefully prepared – you would often find yourself sitting on the couch, shoulders pressed to one another as you played with his rough hands. You would ask him where he got that scar, how he got this one right here, wow it looks really deep.

And he let you because he did the same. Because those angel-like touches soon turned into endlessly staring sessions where silence was more inviting than any word could be. You gazed into each other’s eyes for only God knows how long. Expecting that the other one would break the intimate moment but none of them had the heart to do so.

It would be an understatement to say that Leon felt so safe with you. Over the months, Leon had gotten to know what a home felt like. His apartment remained the same, physically and aesthetically speaking. But the way it immediately lightens up when you arrive – yeah, Leon could finally call it home.

That’s why, it was so easy for Leon to let those words slip out of his mouth one night when you were leaving.

“You feel like home.”

And for a moment, you let those words sink into you. You thought you were merely an acquaintance, a simple friend at most. But no – there he was, Leon Kennedy, US government agent, telling you that you’re his home.

Meanwhile, the silence at that moment made Leon go insane. He thought he fucked it up, you would surely run away now. Who the fuck says that someone is their home? Shit shit shit—

“You’re my home too.”

And that was everything he needed to hear to stop all of his dark thoughts from appearing once again. The darkness that embraced both of them set the perfect scenario to indulge in this crucial moment. A late confession, but a real one.

As he gazes into your eyes, he can’t help but wonder if this tiny fragment of happiness would go away like everything else had in his life. You’re too precious, too important to die, to vanish from his life and never come back.

And your hand reached for his cheek, your thumb caressing the same scar you noticed when you first met him, he couldn’t help but ask God to grant him one more chance in life. He promises — in a fragment of seconds — to be a better human, to be a better citizen but please, don’t take away this last string of hope he’s holding to.

And he felt that God had finally responded to his prayers when he saw how you leaned closer, letting your lips find his in a gentle but so meaningful and awaited kiss. He hesitantly parted his lips, scared that this may be a dream. But of course, he doesn’t dream so that had to be the reality. The sorrow, the anxiety, the longing, and the expectations — all of those were long forgotten as he mentally thanked destiny for this.

“Earth to Leon” You giggle behind him as you rub a sponge all over his back. You were careful not to be so rough on his already aching back. “A penny for your thoughts?”

Of course, he found himself daydreaming.

From that night, his relationship with you skyrocketed. And his home became your home too.

He doesn’t know when it happened, but he found himself getting even more comfortable with you. He didn’t even need to ask himself — letting you see him naked as both of you wash each other’s bodies? Yeah, it was definitely love.

And he loves being in love.

“I just spaced out for a bit.” He responds with a yawn, the silence that surrounded both of you was inviting to just sleep throughout the night. Funnily enough, you only just sleep. Leon was grateful the first nights since he was getting used to the fact that someone else was sleeping on his bed.

But now he was growing a bit impatient.

Especially with your lingering touches.

As you let the water wash away all the soap, your lips soon find his back, pressing soft kisses on each scar that adorned his skin. “It’s okay…�� a kiss on a tiny scar. “Are you going to take your sleeping pills tonight?” Another kiss on a scar that was near his shoulder.

Right… he was put on medication. He often takes sleeping pills when his eyes won’t shut down even if drowsiness is engulfing him. But lately, sleep has become easier, and his nightmares have decreased.

He’d like to think that after you started sleeping next to him, his mind started to feel at peace. But that was something unreal, nobody could fix someone.

But he had to be honest, you surely helped him a lot.

“Not tonight.”

He feels you nodding as your chin lays on his shoulder blade. It’s in moments like these where he thinks that life doesn’t sound so bad. As he zones out and lets you do all the job, he realizes that maybe it’s okay to keep on living.

He’s a big teddy bear, to say the least. The DSO agent who once swore duty to his country was pushed aside when he was with you. Why would he need to keep up his facade when home meant security, therefore you are what makes him safe. So, as you help him out of the shower, drying him off with a towel he lets you take the reins, his body on autopilot mode.

His strong arms wrap around your frame, perfectly molding and fitting like puzzle pieces. It feels like the flow of water, gently swaying your bodies until they reach their destination, their little nest away from everything outside.

He takes pride in serving, providing, and protecting. It was deeply imprinted in him, right in his bone marrow. The blood that runs through his veins pushes him to never stop, to continue working for others.

However, as you help him sit down on the bed his mind shuts down for a moment. He allows himself to take this moment of peace and drown himself in it. Be a little selfish, if he can. The tranquility of a domestic setting was still so foreign to him yet he doesn’t understand how he could’ve lived without feeling this for so long.

The towel around his midsection hugs him just right to prevent the material from falling. His hair is still a little wet, and so is yours. You use the extra towel to help him dry off.

He very much enjoys the lazy touches you share at nights like these. It was a nice reminder that the darkness of the imminent dusk will not bring more nightmares, but peaceful dreams. The ghost of his past was getting tired of haunting him, it seems.

You’re still pretty careful with him, as if you were handling fine ceramic which in a sense, he was. He was shattered porcelain, glued back together with utter care. You both were artists, who completed with great skill this piece of art called life.

And now, your lips are acting like a brush, as they touch Leon’s skin. Kisses are planted along his jaw and he lets out a sigh from the feeling of being treated with so much devotion. If he could serve as a blank canvas, he was ready to rewrite his story with you.

Or maybe not rewrite, his past made him a person as much as it hurts. His grief, his pain, and his previous solitude built up the man that he is now. So, he will add another page to his life story. He will paint another landscape where the sun rises and casts its lights on the world.

He looks at you and sees nothing but raw love and a hint of desire hidden behind those orbs. He notices, then, that just like him you are indeed eager to please him in the other sense of the word. It was embarrassing to realize that he shouldn’t have kept quiet about his needs when you had already proved to him that it was okay to speak, to think, to feel.

It’s been a while since he last let himself be this physically vulnerable. Sure he wasn’t an inexpert in the area but it has never been this intimate. Hearts never bonded and names weren’t remembered. Never has someone truly cared about his welfare before. To put it a name, he’d have called it a trade. He let off some steam and the other part got what they wanted. No strings attached and surely no feelings hurt.

However, it would be a lie if he told himself he didn’t crave to actually make love to someone. To feel someone’s body brushed against his in a sweet and gentle motion. To let himself and his soul be kissed with so much love that it would make him cringe.

You stop your waterfall of kisses for a while, letting the silence linger for a few seconds as you grab his hand. Slowly, you interlace your fingers with him, a well-known display of affection from you. Your signature, you may even say.

“Hey…” His eyes search yours, and he sees how you’re looking for approval, for his consent. He once heard eyes are the mirror of someone’s soul and the world suddenly feels so small as he remembers that he met those same eyes months ago, unaware of the effect you’d have on him.

“Hey.” You repeated, for the second time this night, his mind decided to wander again. “Is it okay if…” you trail off, not because of embarrassment or sudden shyness, not at all. But he can deduce that you wanted him to finish your sentence.

I’ve been dying to touch you. I’ve been craving you touching me, he wanted to say. However, his sense of decency stops him from uttering that rather needy phrase. In a way, he can infer that you already know about his lustful desires. It was a matter of time before both of you indulged in those carnally and normal needs.

Nonetheless, he is oblivious that you won’t let this night be like any other. No, you wouldn’t try anything too crazy — not yet — But after months of knowing him deeper and rawer, you know he’s tired. Exhausted from his life, exhausted from his job, and overall drained. He deserves to be treated right and you’ve been excelling in that task.

But, you’ll show him that he can be as greedy as he wants to be.

“You can trust me.” You say in a hushed tone as if you were whispering a secret to him. Your hand slowly descends until it reaches where the towel meets his waist.

“I do trust you.” He responds with a determined tone amidst the suggestive move of your hand. “I feel like I won the lottery with you.”

“Is that so?” You laugh, resuming your kisses around his stubbled cheek. Although this time, they carry some neediness in them.

“Positive.” He lets out a shaky breath as your finger ever so grazes over where the towel is tucked in. “Because you saw good in me when I had nothing to offer, you—”

“Stop.” Your voice remains soft even though your command doesn’t falter. ”None of those self-loathing words right now.”

He’s speechless for a moment before he slowly nods and lets your hand go lower. Leon feels his blood going south just from a few words.

But then again, loving you was really easy. So it was no surprise that he found himself already leaking at the anticipation of your imminent touch.

“Let me make you feel better.” You whisper, allowing your hand to undo the towel that was previously wrapped around him. In a swift movement, it falls on the floor exposing his already hard length.

You glance at Leon one last time and observe his reaction. There was no sight of changes of mind or hesitation, so you free his and your desire.

You connect your lips against his neck, and with gentle sucks, you prepare him for what’s about to come. Your wish —besides touching him— is bringing comfort in such an intimate act like this. He has trusted you with his soul and body before, that’s correct. But right now, you can feel the level of loyalty and therefore love he’s showing you.

Your hand reaches for his dick, you thumb the slit of his tip collecting the precum that has already formed there, using it as a lubricant.

Your fingers circle around his cock and, slowly, you start stroking him. You don’t want him to cum just yet, the feeling of being treated like this was something you want him to drown in. So, you keep up the steady pace.

You disconnect your lips from his neck and focus your eyes on your ministration on his cock. The lewd sounds combined with the faint whimpers coming out from his lips were almost like background music that you are starting to love.

He takes the opportunity of you pulling away from his neck to hide his face in the crook of yours. His breath tickles your skin as he continues letting out the most pretty sounds you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck…” He hisses as his word gets lost between the shlick sounds of your hand jerking him off. His nose brushes against the side of your neck as his cries fill your ears. You can hear him whispering your name from time to time, as well as some other curses of his own.

However, his tiny cries of pleasure soon turned into real sobs.

No, he wasn’t sad but Christ, it was the first time actually took their time to focus on his pleasure and his well being. He always thought that love was never meant for him, that the simple act of falling in love would be impossible and unachievable. The thought of having his life attached to someone else used to send shivers down his spine.

Now, his world is no longer black and white, your mere existence brought color to his life.

Your hand stops for a minute, worried that you may have done something wrong. That leads Leon to pull away from your neck as some tears roll down his face.

“Sorry… I — just continue please…” The desperation in his voice didn’t go unnoticed as he went back to nuzzle against your neck. And even if he was dazed out at this very moment, you will remember to talk about this again at another time.

“It’s okay, let it all go.” You reassure him as you resume your previous motions. It doesn’t take long before your hand sends him over the edge and close to his own climax.

You pump him, your thumb grazing over the head of his dick from time to time. He absentmindedly thrust his hips up into your hand, seeking his near release. For him, you were granting him a visit to Heaven itself. Just the mere touch of your hand had him seeing angels and cherubims. How would it feel to be deep inside of you?

His lips are red from biting them, attempting to muffle his moans. His brain is a mess, with thoughts of you and only in there and his cock is throbbing as it chases his own high. Overall, Leon was putty in your hands.

And by the way, his hips are starting to miss their rhythm, you know that it was a matter of seconds before Leon came undone in your hand.

“You’ve been so good for me…” You coo, still jerking him off with a slightly faster pace now. “You deserve to cum, don’t you?” You were always good with words but Jesus, he didn’t expect you would literally talk him through it.

As you whisper those praise words, he can’t stop his hips from rutting and bucking into your hand. “Yeah…— fuck — I’ve been so good. Please, let me cum.”

The image of a tough agent begging for release will surely imprint in your mind for a while.

“Of course.” Your lips tug into a smile as you pick up the pace. It was a sight to behold, seeing Leon coming undone in your hands with his eyes rolling to the back of his head, and a dazed out expression that brought butterflies to your tummy.

Eventually, your hands slow down as Leon writhes under your touch. He lets out a loud muffled whimper as white thick ropes of cum spill onto his stomach and of course, your hand.

He stays still for a while, letting his body rest for a second. He plants lazy kisses on your neck as a way of saying “Thank you” since words couldn’t really translate what he was feeling right.

“Shit—” After a while, Leon curses as his half-lidded eyes meet yours. His expression is one of exhaustion but his lazy smile tells you he was brimming with happiness. He reaches for his towel that was previously thrown off and cleans your hand.

“Are you ok?” You ask as Leon wipes your hand, you can’t help but let out a giggle at the considerate action.

“Yeah but…” He trails off as he cleans his abdomen too. You can already predict what was going on in that head of his. “What about you?”

“I’m okay Leon.” You sigh as you bring your now clean hand to his cheek. “Your pleasure is mine. Besides, you’re exhausted.”

But as much as your statement was true, you can’t deny the desire that was dripping between your thighs. Between the intimacy of your act and having Leon so vulnerable in your hands, your system knows what it wants.

“I am.” He doesn’t deny the fact that your ministrations sucked the life out of him. But he can keep going. For the first time in his life, he is grateful for his stamina as an agent. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t do it.”

Before you could even protest, Leon was already kissing your neck. The scent of your body wash filling his nostrils as his lips get hungrier and needier for the taste of your skin. And as you attempt to once again speak, he muffles your words with his mouth on yours.

You feel your reasoning go weak as well as your limbs. It took a few kisses for you to comply and let yourself be laid on the bed, strong but gentle hands holding you close even when you fell on the soft mattress.

He’s above you for a second as he admires the view. Your towel, unlike his, was still wrapped around your body. You wriggle your way to where the pillows of the bed are and you wait for him there.

He wastes no time to join you, carefully lying next to you rather than above you. You catch a glimpse of what he’s trying to do. One of his calloused hands reaches your waist and softly motions you to roll over your side.

You roll over and you’re met with your reflection on the mirror that was next to your bed. Funnily enough, it was perfectly placed so it showed both of your bodies. Somewhere deep in your mind, you wonder if Leon set up the mirror there for this right purpose.

But then again, Leon was spontaneous, behind all of his layers of grumpiness and sadness that once used to surround him, you knew his sappy, corny, and cheesy side that was hidden. And now, you get to notice his quirks every single day.

He grips your hips as he lays sideways too, slightly spooning you. “You no longer need this…” He murmurs as he takes off your towel, the sight of your bare body in the mirror has his mouth watering. Acting like a damn dog wasn��t on the list of things he’s proud of.

As he discards the fabric that covered your body, you feel his once again hard cock. But this time, it was painfully close to your core that you could already feel every vein brushing against your walls.

“May I?” He knows your answer, he’s just asking for the sake of it. To hear your voice dripping with lust and neediness. To hear you hum that yes in your sweet tone as always.

“Please…” Your whisper was enough to make his cock twitch. What is with you and your voice that melts Leon whenever he hears you? You’re both his salvation and weakness. He can’t function without you.

He has always wanted to leave a mark in this world. That he had indeed existed for something else than death and destruction. That he was more than Leon Kennedy, the US’ best weapon. He wanted to show the world that he, Leon — just Leon — was more than his messed-up destiny.

He loves, he desires, he laughs and he yearns for connection. And right now, his body’s aching to feel you around him.

He snuggles closer and wraps a tight arm around your waist, hugging your abdomen just right. Instinctively, you arch your back, letting your rear brush against Leon’s dick making hiss from the friction.

For a moment, he stops hugging you. You almost whined for the loss of closeness when you feel Leon guiding his dick which easily slides through your wet folds. The tip of it bumps against your clit sending electricity all over your body.

He’s savoring this moment. Sadly, he doesn’t think he’ll last much longer once he starts. But, at least, he knows that this won’t be the last time since he finally allowed himself to be selfish, to wish happiness for himself.

Happiness has a name and is both yours and Leon’s.

At last, he pushed into you, just the tip for now. Admiring your face in the mirror, he whispers sweet nothings against your ear. Rambles about how perfect you look and feel right, how lucky he is, and so on.

“Look at you…” Leon points at the mirror and you open your eyes which are glassy from all the pent-up desire you’ve been holding back. At any other moment given, you’d have been quite self-conscious about the exposure of your naked body. But Leon — as you once did with him — is eager to show you that you’re indeed a sight for sore eyes.

“Look how perfect you look being mine.” Even though his words could sound possessive to anyone else, you know his voice brings out affection and tenderness. There are a few things Leon could call them his. And most of them are mundane items that don’t exactly bring comfort to him.

But to call you his was something that he has always looked for. To show you off, buy you everything you’ve always desired, and tell the world that he had finally found his home. His one and only.

As he finishes his statement with a kiss on your cheek, he eases himself into you. He pushes all of his length as he hushes you once you hiss from the stretch.

“Shhh there you go…” He once again wraps his arm around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he inhales the scent he has grown to love. The same that has been lulling him to sleep ever since you decided to move in with him.

He stays still for a few seconds, the feeling of filling you up could make him cum right on the spot but he stops himself. He distracts from your pulsating walls by kissing your neck and sucking on the skin which will clearly turn a soft purple color the next morning.

The pain soon turned into comfort and therefore it resulted in pleasure. As he hears you saying a soft “You can move” he slowly pulls out before thrusting into you with the same pace and force. He feels your walls clamping down his cock as he continues his motions.

He slides in and out with lazy thrusts, his and your eyes are closed as heavy breaths and drowsy moans leave your lips. You were correct, he was exhausted from his previous high. But the way you drowsily made love was making this whole thing even more perfect.

“Taking me so well.” He murmurs against your skin, his breath tickling your neck as he grips your waist even tighter than before, as if he is scared that once he opens his eyes you won’t be there. “Sucking me in, like you know I belong here.”

His hand goes to your chest, where he plays with one of your nipples. His fingers pinching the sensitive spot as his hips continue lazily bucking into yours already feeling like his mind was all over the place.

You feel a heat forming on your belly as Leon continues whispering words you can’t quite register now. Too drunk in desire and too cock drunk to even care. “Fuck I love you so much…”

“I love you too.” You can’t really say anything else, everything would be sentences with no coherent meaning or sense. So you stick with your favorite phrase, you could sing every day that you love Leon, and he would do the same. Because the word love was once so far away from him.

It was poetic to see that Leon could feel his second climax of the night near as he heard you say that you love him. The back and forth of his hips slightly increase their speed but it remains true to the lazy nature of the act right now, though.

“I’m close.” Leon stutters as he says those words. “Can I come inside you? Please tell me I can.” There is some desperation in his voice, an aching and burning desire to paint your insides.

“Fuck, yes. Yes, you can.” You manage to say before Leon lets out countless thanks you. Your body starts writhing under his grasp as your fingers start digging into Leon’s arms, leaving an imprint of your nails on his skin.

“Cum on me. Go ahead, do it for me.” He coos, coaxing more sweet whimpers out of you. “Let me fill you up.”

You let out a muffled whimper as you came undone. He could feel your cunt gripping him as you reach your desired orgasm. Eventually, Leon’s hips which were previously rocking into your and slapping against his skin are now slowing down.

The wet noises sound so filthy yet Leon is having a blast right now. He could imagine himself getting to experience this every night with you by his side. Who could have thought that selfishness could be so rewarding?

With a low grunt, he cums inside of you as he promised. Letting his load fill your insides. He couldn’t hide the satisfied smile that formed on his lips. What a view.

He remains inside of you for a bit longer than needed. You can’t judge him, especially with the way he nuzzles into your neck letting out a yawn. Poor him was worn out. After his first climax, he had already felt that he touched the sky, and now he was in heaven.

After pulling out, he rested his cheek on your shoulder. Part of him wanted to feel you again yet he couldn’t even move an inch. However, it fulfilled him to know that you were going to be right next to him tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and for as long as you allow it.

“Thank you.” He whispers.

“We have to change those thank you into I love you.”

Leon was the sweetest guy. However, those thanks still came from a place of skepticism.

“Sorry…”

He sheepishly said before drifting off to sleep. And, as usual, no nightmare is waiting for him to haunt his dreams.

VI. SERENITY

Attempting to get out of bed on a lazy Saturday morning should be a crime. However, your drowsy state didn’t stop you from reaching the now empty space next to you. The bed still provided you with the scent of the person you loved the most yet he wasn’t there.

With a groan, you decide to get up from the bed. Your feet meet the cold tiles before you curse from the sudden pain you feel as you step on the remote. You have told Leon countless times that he shouldn’t sleep when he’s watching TV, yet the only response you get is “I’m just resting my eyes.” Therefore, that causes Leon to fall asleep with the remote on his chest which obviously falls throughout the night.

After a while of inhaling and exhaling deeply from the pain, you make your way out of the room. The scenario that greets you is the same as other days just that Leon was missing in the picture.

Your steps are slow as sleep is still running in your system, a yawn escapes you while you walk towards the kitchen counter. A note is waiting for you and you deduce it’s from Leon.

“I just went to run some errands, I’ll come back as soon as possible. Love you so so much.”

His name was written at the bottom of the page next to a happy face that he had drawn. Silly, you thought.

You see that Leon had already prepared you a sandwich before he left. It was cold to the touch, so that means Leon has been gone for a while. He may come any time now.

Life with him was… surely an adventure. He still goes on missions, leaving you to your own devices for days or even weeks. But they no longer haunt his mind like before. He still needs to be treated with utter care after one, though. Bruises and scars are not the only effects his journeys have on him.

When he returns from a mission, the once dull and boring apartment welcomes him yet this time, it is full of colors and memories you have made with him. However, it’s not enough for him to completely drop his facade of a tough agent ready to end someone’s life. As you treat his wound, every tiny sound has him jumping on his seat.

You can’t blame him, it takes a while before he can return to his usual self and be embraced by your warm body that will waste no time to hug him tight. Reminding that he was finally home.

Eventually, after settling down and returning to reality, his personality will shine again. If someone asked you to describe Leon in one word it would be impossible. The man that you chose to spend life with was everything all at once. He was definitely clingy, to begin with. Excuses were his everyday words as he tried to explain why it was completely alright for him to follow you everywhere you went.

At this point, it felt like you had adopted a puppy instead of having a boyfriend. “What’ chu doing?” He would often say as he peeked around the edge of the door frame and watched you from afar If he had a tail it’d be wagging so fast. The tough agent no longer existed in your presence, instead, a man who melted as soon as you hugged him took his place.

Loving, in his language, meant going overboard just for you. If he had to get on his knees and beg for a tiny kiss he’d do it. He’s grown needy to those sweet gestures only you could provide. But he didn’t need to win them. Loving, in your language, meant offering your heart on a platter for him.

God does he love you. You have the man whispering funny names in your ears as you wake up. You unlocked a part of him that he had long forgotten he had, he used to joke when he was nervous — freaking out because he thought he might die on a mission. But now, he invented a plethora of new pet names just to bother you and see you rolling your eyes laughing.

He’s gone through so much, he’s seen so much. Tranquility was the last thing he thought he would be surrounded with. Ever since he was forced to join the military, he made up his mind on the fact that his life would never be the same, Racoon City was his starting point and only his death would stop him from suffering.

Now, as you finally hear the door unlocking you admire how his figure appears. You squint your eyes as you try to pinpoint what’s different in him.

“Hey, you.” Leon walks towards you, closing the gap between you two as he hugs you.

“Hey, you too.” You return the hug, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“Missed me?”

“Not much.” You punch his side, not strong enough to make him jump but rather tell him that you were joking. “Now… On what adventures did you go without me?”

“I just paid a visit to Adelaide.”

Adelaide, you haven’t forgotten about the old lady that you treated. However, you didn’t expect Leon to remain loyal to his service. And now that he mentions it, you realize what he has done to himself.

His hair has turned lighter. Blonder.

“Did you bleach your hair?” You can’t help but laugh at the thought, he had poor Adelaide working so early on a Saturday morning. But then again, you remember that both of them are workaholics, even though their jobs couldn’t be any more different.

“No, you’re going blind.”

God, he was so dumb.

Eternity used to sound like a cruel fate before. Stuck in a loop that he couldn’t escape from. But now, he will always look for you even in the tiniest details. He’d look for you in the darkness as two flicks of light trying to reach each other. In the universe, as two particles of stardust waiting to create something even bigger — a world for themselves, and a world to live on.

Because, after all, you reached for him when he had nothing more to offer than his rotten self. You loved him when he couldn’t even love himself.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy #resident evil

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xhoneygirlxx · 8 months

Text

In My Feels

Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

summary: Steve’s heart now belongs to the pretty woman who always comes in with her two adorable kids. When he finally decides to make a move, he’s shocked to find out she’s not their mom.

warnings: fluff. Barista!Steve. Reader and Steve are both in their 20’s. Nanny!Reader. Modern!au. Readers ethnicity/skin tone is not mentioned. Pictures above are used for aesthetic purposes only. Shitty writing/grammar errors, not proofread.

*if I miss anything please let me know.

a/n: day two of my birthday bash has finally arrived!! I’m so grateful for the amount of love and support you guys have given me. Although this is my birthday week, I wanted to spend it with you guys and give us both something we can enjoy :) I love every single one of you guys and I hope you like this!

Now I’m in my feels

Way up in the clouds somewhere now

Don’t know what’s real

Working at the Java Cup, Steve dealt with a lot of different people. Tired students, doctors and nurses coming and going from shifts, and everyone in between. During the six months of his employment there only one customer seemed to catch his attention, you.

From the moment you walked in he knew he was fucked. With one kid on your hip and the other in the stroller, you already had him in the palm of your hand. No matter what, rain or shine, you and your two kids always came in with bright smiles. Although a lot of your interactions were small talk or your older son trying to, his heart infatuation for you every single time.

You were so fucking beautiful and Steve was nothing but a fool for you. So many times he would go home and just pray that you weren’t taken, that maybe somewhere written in the stars there was a chance for him.

Steve wanted to ask you out but every single time he chickened out, throwing out multiple cup sleeves that had horrible puns written on them in the process. Ever since getting broken up with by Nancy, his self esteem and confidence dropped. No matter how many times his best friend and coworker, Robin, tried to talk some sense into him, he just couldn’t do it.

It was comical watching him stutter and blush scarlet every time you would speak, tripping over his words like it was his first time ever talking. Because he was so smitten with you, his insecurities grew and poking fun at him any time he would think about possibly asking you out.

Here you were, a pretty mom with two adorable kids that he adored, so sweet and kind to him, and so far out of his league. There was no pot at the end of this rainbow for Steve, but he continued to chase it in hopes that maybe, just maybe he was wrong.

Now it's been six months and Steve has run out of steam, his legs growing tired and his lungs burning with exhaustion with how long he's been running. So, he's decided that it's time to give up on his mission to of getting to the finish line.

There was no point to continue trying, not when you're probably more than happy with the father of your children, going home to your white picket fence and happy home. So he pulled back, watched from behind the counter, and continued to daydream about the life he's always wanted.

“You know you could just go talk to her, right?” Robin’s voice is louder than she thinks, the low music and hum of the espresso machine doing little to cover it up.

“Say it louder, why don’t you.” Rolling his eyes, Steve continues to wipe down the counter that he’s been working on for the past ten minutes.

“I’m just sayin’, it’s kind of pathetic and creepy that you’re always staring.” Shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly, the brunette girl runs her hands down her black apron. “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“What’s the worst-” Turning on his heel quickly, Steve stares at his best friend with wide eyes, “Robin, there is a laundry list of things that could go wrong.”

“Yeah? Try me.” Crossing her ankle over the other, Robin leans on the sink with a waiting look.

“Firstly, she could be married,” Steve starts counting on his finger.

“No ring on her finger.” Robin counters.

“Well she’s a mom with two kids, I doubt she has time for a twenty something, no good, barista that barely has his life together.”

“EEEEEEEE WRONG,” She makes a loud buzzer noise, “One you aren’t no good, you’re actually a really great person who needs to see just how amazing he is. Two, you may be a barista who can barely keep his life together but, you’re reliable and take care of yourself, not to mention you have your own car and place, more than other twenty somethings. And lastly, you’re also a mother to a group of teenagers, so it works perfectly.”

Dropping his hands down to his sides, Steve lets the words settle into his heart. He was a good person, he did have a good impression with the gaggle of kids he sometimes watches, and he did have some of his life together.

“Okay well, she could reject me and I will not only lose more of my confidence but I’ll also lose my favorite customer.” Sighing in defeat, he whips the rag that still sits in his hand over his shoulder. "Either way, I gave up on that dream a long time ago."

Robin shakes her head, stepping forward to the boy she calls her best friend and shakes him by the shoulders. “You are Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington! There was a reason everyone called you king Steve and it wasn’t just because you were a huge dick.”

“Hey!!” Steve raises his voice in defeat and she waves him off continuing her peptalk.

“Listen, I know that lady killer is somewhere in there,” She pokes at his chest, “So you’re gonna put your big boy panties on, walk up to her and ask her out! I’m sick and tired of watching you look all sad and depressing, so you’re going to do as I say or I’ll do it for you.” Smiling brightly at him, the girl taps him lovingly on the shoulder.

Robin may be a lot of things, including annoying, but a liar is not one of them. Steve knows that she will one hundred percent walk up to you, throw him under the bus, with a mega-watt smile as she does it.

Watching his friend walk around the counter with a broom and dust pan in hand, her head turns to wear your sat at a table by the front window, talking to your older son, rocking your baby in the stroller with your foot. Turning her attention back to Steve, she smiles wickedly and turns slightly like she’s heading your way. Anxiety rises in the back of his throat, heartbeat picking up and banging hard in his chest.

“Fine, I’m going just- fuck off.” It comes out through gritted teeth. Running a shaking hand down the front of his apron, Steve rounds the counter muttering something under his breath.

As he walks to the table, Robin gives him two thumbs up and an exaggerated smile to which he replies by simply throwing a middle finger up at her.

As he steps closer to your table the thought of turning back around and hiding in the back room comes into mind.

There’s no pot of gold here, only gray clouds and roaring thunder. He can turn back now and continue his sorrowful journey of pining.

But then he looks at you, smiling and laughing at something the young boy next to you said, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back. What a beautiful way to die, Steve thinks. The thunder and lightning is all worth it when he gets to see you as he takes his final breaths.

“H-hey,” His voice is wobbly, nervousness clearly showing as he speaks.

“Hi Steve.” Your eyes meet his, saccharine smile tugging on the corners of your lips.

“Hi steeb!” The young boy next to you waves while clutching a red crayon in his tiny hand.

“Hi Aidan. How are you little man?” Steve seems to loosen up a bit, the presence of your son lets him exhale just slightly.

“M’colorin a pixture.” The small boy’s tongue pokes between his lips, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he draws what looks like a demented stick figure.

“It looks good, little dude.” Steve encourages, cooing sweetly at him.

“Fanks.” Still focusing on his picture, the smaller boy grabs a different crayon from the box that sits on the table.

“What’s up, Steve?” You ask, still rocking the stroller back and forth with your tennis shoe covered foot.

“Oh-h yeah, um I was just gonna ask, ah what you were doing.” Just like a switch, he’s back to being a fumbling doofus.

You giggle at him and he feels his cheeks tingle with heat. Looking between the two kids, you look back up to the older man in front of you.

“Well, I’m enjoying a coffee while Aidan colors and Bella naps peacefully.” You nod your head slowly, eyeing the barista questioningly.

Steve wants to slap a hand on his forehead, embarrassed by the fact he can’t even formulate one sentence.

“Yeah, no I see that. Seems fun, I mean not fun but like ya know, seems-“ His stammering is cut off by your soft voice.

“Are you okay? You seem really nervous.” Your eyebrows are pinched together, worry painted on your features.

“Me? I’m great, fantastic!” It comes enthusiastic and way louder than he intended, so loud that Robin hears and instantly facepalms.

“Well, that’s great Steve.” You’re still eyeing him suspiciously and he really wants to jump ship.

“I’m just gonna go and do my ugh, my stuff.” Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, spinning on the ball of his feet leaving before he can say anything else embarrassing.

No, he can’t leave now, not when he’s made it this close to the finish line. This is what he’s been waiting for, the treasure he’s been searching for. It’s no or never and he can’t go back to praying the same prayer that somewhere in this universe you two were destined to be.

With a new found confidence, he turns right back into the eye of the storm and faces it head strong.

“Actually, I came over here because I wanted to know if maybe you’d like to go out sometime.” His chest is puffed out like, more sure of himself than he’s ever been.

The confidence that’s surging through him starts to falter when he reads your expression. You, and Aidan who has now stopped coloring, stare at him with bugged out eyes and gaping mouths.

“Only if that’s okay with you and all. If you want you can bring the kids along and we can go get ice cream and stuff but if you need it I have some friends who are great with kids and who will be willing to babysit for you.” He’s back peddling, trying to give you a way out in case you want to reject him it won’t hurt so bad.

“Oh Steve,” it’s said with pity and he knows the lighting strike is about to hit, “I-I’m not their mom.”

“Yeah no I get it, sorry if I- wait..” Stopping in his tracks, he looks back and forth between you and the small boy, connecting the dots in his head. “You’re not their mom?”

You and Aidan share a look before giggling together. Gazing back up at the flustered man in front of you, you smile kindly at him.

“No, I’m their nanny, Steve. Although I love them like they’re my own, they’re not.”

“Oh.” Steve continues to stare at you, his pretty pink lips in the shape of an O.

“Yeah, I just watch these little guys.” You shrug your shoulders.

“That’s still cool, I mean the offer still stands.” Even though he’s confused, his voice is a little shaky when he asks.

“Do the kids still have to come?” You ask and Aidan shouts an offended “hey”.

“I mean they can if you want, it’s all up to you.” He eyes you, waiting for your reaction but your expression doesn’t give him much to go on.

“Hmmm, I’m going to have to ask my trusted right hand man.” Holding a finger up at him, you leave over to the smaller boy next to you.

Aidan covers you hear with a small hand trying to cover the movements of his lips, even though Steve can still his his muffled whispers from where he stands.

Shaking your head, you repeat back uh huh’s to him, taking everything that’s being said seriously.

Moving back to your upright position, you stare at Steve with a serious gaze.

“Well, my counsel says I should go but you have to buy me ice cream. No buts about it.” Your straight face begins to falter when Steve’s white teeth shine at you.

“Yeah, I’ll get you whatever ice cream you want.” Steve bobs his head, cheeks flaring pink and eyes shining brightly.

“You can’t kiss, only mommies and daddies do dat stuff.” Aidan pipes in and Steve can’t help but chuckle with how the little boys face is scrunched up with intensity.

“Yes sir.” Steve gives the little boy a solute, while sending you a sneaky wink, and the kid quickly accepts.

“So, I’ll text you?” Steve asks

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Your bottom lip is tucked between your teeth as you say it.

“Okay, cool cool. I’ll ah, see you later.” Steve nods his head, backing away from the table slowly.

Sprinting to the backroom, he sees Robin who pretends like she hasn’t been listening in.

“Robs, I fucking did it!” Steve whisper yells, still cautious knowing your still out there.

“I honestly thought you were gonna back out for a second! I’m so proud of you for hanging in there!”

The two of them start hopping around like jumping beans, beaming so brightly they can outshine any star in the sky.

“So you got her number?” Robin asks, heavily breathing from all their excitement.

“Fuck-“ stopping dead in his tracks, Steve bolts to the door and back out to the front.

That’s where he finds you’ve already left and he’s heartbroken. The only memory that you were even there is your lingering perfume that sticks to the air.

You’ll probably be back some time soon but he’s still a little let down knowing he didn’t fully seal the deal. Looking closely at the table, he notices Aidan left one of his drawings.

Picking up the paper, he looks at it closely realizing Aidan didn’t leave it, you did.

Steve,

You left before I could give you my number. I didn’t want to disrupt your little party or anything.

Can’t wait to get that ice cream.

-your favorite customer

683-027-9305

Folding up the paper, Steve sticks it in the pocket of his apron.

“Don’t worry Steve, she’ll be back.” Robin calls out from behind the counter, apparently not seeing the little not that was left.

“I know she will.” It’s said quietly but the smile on his lips isn’t.

It’s beautiful on this side of the rainbow, Steve thinks, the pot of gold was so worth all the work. Robin was right, he still had it.

Thank you all for joining me on this second day of my celebration!!! I hope you all enjoy!! Love you all ❤️

#steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington #steve harrington friends to lovers #modern!steve harrington

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luveline · 7 months

Note

hi sweetie !!! I know you get a billion requests but if u have time maybe an eddie fluff with the reader trying to get out of a postpartum depression slump and hes taking care of her :3 as always no pressure ily!

hi lovely ily, ty for requesting ♡ 1.2k

cw reader has postpartum depression

"Aw, sweetheart," Eddie mumbles.

You hear it through your tired haze, rubbing sleep from your eyes as your turn toward him and his shuffling. He's unexpectedly on the bedroom floor, the baby laid out on a changing matt. Your lips quirk into a smile as you watch him button a fresh baby grow closed around your son's tiny tummy.

"You're so well behaved," Eddie continues, still mumbling, hand careful as it slides behind the baby's head. "There we go. Fresh as a daisy."

You clear your throat and stretch against a cruel knot hiding between shoulder blades. "You okay?" you ask.

Eddie looks at you like you've just asked him to marry you, love lining every feature. "I'm okay, are you okay? You were frowning in your sleep. Bad dreams?"

"I can't remember." You try not to lose your small smile as you hold out your hands for the baby.

You love your baby. That's not up for debate. But whenever you hold him, you feel like you should be happier. That turns to guilt, self-loathing —this has all been so hard. You knew it would be, but it doesn't matter how prepared you are. This is brain chemistry you can't fight.

Eddie sits on the side of the bed and passes the baby to you carefully. You're relieved to find you missed him, tucking him with love against your chest. "Hi, beautiful. Hi."

He's still so small, shiny with newness, his lips parted to show the pink of his tongue. You laugh under your breath, brushing the side of your hand along his cheek.

"Did you, um… did you put the ointment on his rash?" you ask, leaning down to kiss the baby's forehead. "On his tummy?"

"Yeah, I did."

You nod and kiss the baby's head again quickly. "Okay, perfect. Will you take him back? Just so I can get up?"

You have to start the day to avoid falling hard into the slump. Eddie takes him with no qualms. You worry he's held more by his father than you, and there's nothing wrong with that, but he's your baby, you just spent nine months baking him, nine whole months waiting for these moments.

Eddie hugs the baby to his chest and pulls the sheets over both of them. He looks better kept than you even though he's been picking up your slack without complaint, hair clean and out of his face, fresh clothes to match the baby, a black Iron Maiden t-shirt unmarred by spit up and a pair of pyjamas pants you're pretty sure were yours once upon a time. They don't fit him right and he clearly doesn't care. He's good like that; he's obsessed with being close to you.

Your depression postpartum has wedged him away. Not his fault, not yours, and not fair. You're gonna have to try as hard as you can to beat it, and hope against hope that it's enough.

"I set some clothes out for you," Eddie says gently, stroking the baby's hair. "And a towel if you want to shower, but you don't need to. You should be okay until tonight."

"You didn't have to," you say. Your throat feels peculiarly tight.

"Yeah, I did. I know it's overwhelming in the morning for you. I thought the clothes would be one less thing."

You nod hurriedly and turn away from him to change. You can feel his gaze as you step out of your pyjamas and into new sweatpants, the weight of his concern palpable. It's easier to talk about things when you aren't looking at them both, so you say, "I'm sorry you're doing all of this."

"That's okay, it's not something you need to be sorry for."

"No, because it's not fair. You're looking after two people."

"That's what I signed up for. It's literally my job." You seize at the sound of the baby gurgling and whimpering, but Eddie pats his back, and the grizzling fades. "Sweetheart… would you come over here? Let me tell you to your face."

That doesn't exactly inspire confidence, but you pull on the clean shirt Eddie's left on the dresser for you and sit with him as he asked. Only when he smiles at your chest do you realise it's the stupid gimmick shirt he got for you on your first anniversary. My boyfriend loves me more than yours does, it reads, big black font with a red heart behind boyfriend.

Eddie holds out his hand, squeezing your fingers together slowly, as though he's collected them in his palm. His thumb rubs a dedicated line over your knuckles; you're surprised your skin doesn't show evidence of his touch, he strokes this path so often.

"I'm not sorry that I've been taking care of you since he was born, and you shouldn't be either." He says it straight and fast, no hesitation, and no room for argument. "Understand? This isn't about me. This is about how you feel."

"Don't be all serious with me," you plead in a murmur, eyes at his collar.

"If you don't want me to be serious then I won't be. Regular viewing henceforth. But don't forget what I just said. Promise?"

"Yeah, promise." You reach out to twist the baby's hair around your fingertip, smiling when he shivers, tickled by your touch. He's a beautiful kid. Your partner stamped him well. All your awful feelings aren't anything to do with him, though his birth was undoubtedly the tipping point. He hasn't done anything wrong, this fog of melancholy hangs around no matter how beautiful he is, and you can't help hating yourself for the way you feel. "He's perfect," you whisper, eyes aching with the want to cry.

"You did a great job," Eddie says agreeably, pushing his fingers between yours to intertwine your hands.

"Do you think he knows I really do love him?" You can barely hear yourself. It's a miracle that Eddie can respond.

"Undeniably. Sweetheart, I know there have been days where you didn't hold him, and that's not good for either of you, I can't lie to you and tell you it doesn't affect him, but it's not your fault. It just isn't. You're gonna keep trying and I'm gonna keep making sure you can, and things will get better. I swear to you."

You feel as though you'd happily fall into a pit, but with Eddie sworn to take care of you, and the world's prettiest baby in his arms, you force yourself to sit beside him in bed. It's easy to soak in the heat of him as he wraps and arm around you, and easier to take the baby from his arms when the crying begins.

"Don't feel guilty, but he misses you," Eddie says, covering your hand where it holds the baby's back. "He's happy to see you, look."

The baby looks like a baby. It's hard to say that he's smiling, but there is something there. Love in his little eyes. You manage to smile for real this time, toying with his tiny hand, swiftly on your way to joyous as he wraps his fingers around your index.

"You're doing so well," Eddie praises, his hair brushing your ear as he ducks in to kiss your cheek.

"I think I'm feeling a bit better."

"Good. One step closer to taking over the world."

Eddie climbs out of bed with a mission to gather your meds and a quick breakfast. You stay in bed with the baby, holding him. Eddie's made it so that it's the only thing you have to do.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader

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softlyspector · 8 months

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Summary: All you do is want, while Joel worries he won't ever be enough.

Find out how it started: You put aside your touch aversion for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~9.2k

Warnings: slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, just the barest hint of angst/argument, the ‘believes they’re hard to love, loving them is like breathing’ trope, tattoos and getting tattooed (the process isn’t really described), reader is touch adverse, vague mentions of a past abusive relationship, insecurity, self confidence issues, abandonment issues, anxiety, lots and lots of intimacy and touching, mentions of arousal, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this

A/N: Hello, so here we are at the final part of this lil four part thing. This fic owns a piece of my heart now, and I hope it's found somewhere to live in yours too. It's special for a lot of reasons, but the support its gotten has really been something incredible. Thank you for being so kind and lovely.

Once again, we’re ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

Joel glances up at you from where he’s kneeling on the floor. A lock of gray hair falls to the middle of his forehead. You reach down, without thinking, and push it back into place, letting your fingers trail through his hair. He always wears it so carefully parted to the side, especially now that he’s let it grow out a little longer.

You picture him standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom brushing his hair and feel something warm and fluttery beat against your ribs.

The image comes easily because it’s not something you have to imagine but remember—Joel tilting his chin down, eyes on his reflection in silvery morning light.

Pink stains the tips of his ears when you let his hair slip softly from between your fingers.

“Yeah, I did,” he disagrees before laboring to his feet. You hook one hand beneath his elbow and help him up. His knees pop and he hisses. “It’s past due we fixed it, anyhow. Past time I let you get back to your own life,” he continues, not pulling his arm away from your hand as he stoops down to shove the screwdriver in his hand back into the toolbox on the floor.

You like the way he says we.

You rub your thumb against the inside of his elbow as he straightens again with a groan that means his back is aching again. “Well, now you get your house back to yourself,” you tease.

“Ain’t like you’re trouble to have around,” he grumbles.

You keep a steady pressure on his arm, because you like the way his skin feels under your hand, warm and pliant, like he’s been in the sun. You like the way you can feel the shift of muscle and the micro jump of tendon beneath your fingertips.

You don’t like admitting to yourself that you like touching him, that you like the way he lets you hold on to him but so rarely tries the same with you.

But, you’ve come to realize over the last week, where you shy away from touch, Joel craves it; he’s positively starved for it. He tries his best to hide that he wants for anything at all, but you see it.

He would never ask for anything from you; it’s anathema to who he is, to ask for care. He’s stubborn and a little proud.

When the locks that fit your door weren’t in stock at the local hardware store and Joel insisted on you staying with him until they came in, you saw that want first hand.

He’d been busy for so many years—with work and his kids and his business and his brother. He’d lived in a busy house with a revolving door of people who constantly needed him. And now, he lives alone and away from his kids. His schedule is one he sets for himself, with easy, quiet days. His girls are busy, Tommy has his own family, and his house is empty.

Maybe Joel would never admit it, but he is lonely.

Staying with him for a week had shown you just how much he wanted—touch and companionship and company—and just how absolutely solitary his days were, especially in the evenings. Guilt like a tide had washed over you. How closely he paid attention to you, how cautious and watchful and giving he’s been, and you haven't really done the same. You haven’t tried to give him anything, to meet him somewhere in the middle. You hadn’t even thought of it.

“Thank you for letting me stay with you this week,” you say, releasing his arm to press your hand against his spine, rubbing gently. It’s easier that way, you find, subtly giving, easing hurts he wouldn’t admit to. “And for changing the locks. You’re too good to me.”

“No trouble,” he assures you again, quickly. “It’s too quiet without my girls livin’ with me. It was nice. Havin’ you around.” He clears his throat and bushes past the admission. “Anyhow. I’ll let you get settled back in.”

You frown at him, but Joel only puts an arm around your waist and leans in to press a kiss to your temple and then your cheek. “You call me if you need somethin’. Anything.” He says it against your skin, his lips warm and slightly chapped. “Even for nothin’.”

You close your eyes and absorb that affection, let it sink deep into your body, into your blood and bones, the ventricles of your heart.

For a moment, all you can feel is him breathing against you—the patient, steady rise and fall of his breath—before he starts to pull away. You don’t want him to go, you aren’t ready to be parted from him.

You aren’t ready to let him go.

“Joel,” you say and cup your hand around his wrist to keep him in place. “Wait. Why don’t you come in? For some coffee?”

He meets your eyes, searches your gaze for a long moment there in the doorway of your apartment. His brows relax, his mouth softens, and you know he knows exactly what you’re doing, that he’s been found out. He thinks it’s pity and not cloying sweetness, not needling want and a building codependency that you don’t particularly mind driving your request. “Sweetheart—”

“Please? I don’t want to be alone just yet.”

A few pleading words are all it takes for him to crumble. He nods and relents, “All right. Just for a minute, I have a client this afternoon.”

“Okay,” you nod and pull him inside. You snap the door shut behind you and make a show of locking your brand new locks.

Joel rolls his eyes at you, but doesn’t comment, settling himself at your kitchen table instead, toolbox tucked between his feet on the floor. The morning light paints him in sunburst orange and bumblebee gold, rays falling like a halo around him. He taps his fingers against the muraled, painted surface of the table, tracing the lines with one blunt nail.

Unfamiliar want bubbles up in you again. You want to touch him again.

Already.

You just let go of him.

It’s an ache, right in the center of your chest. It feels like something pulsing and raw, infectious and torn.

You’d like to plant yourself against his side and sit in the brutally warm, fall Texan sun shining so innocently through the slats of your blinds.

Cured. Clean.

That’s what you’d be, if you allowed yourself to reach out and grab it.

Instead, you cup your hands against the sides of his face and stroke your thumbs over his graying beard.

You half expect him to pull away, to jolt out of your hands, like you would. And though he does look startled, he doesn’t pull away. Hazel eyes flick up to meet yours. You trace the scar on the bridge of his nose with one finger. “Thank you,” you say again, just so he’ll hear it even if he won’t respond to it. “You don’t have to worry about me but you do.”

He pulls one of your hands away from his face and nods, staring down at the lines on your palm before he hooks your pointer fingers together. “‘Course I have to.”

You keep stroking his cheek, the soft bristles of his beard catching on your fingertips. “Of course,” you say. “It’s what you do.”

Joel thinks you look beautiful. He also thinks you look wistful, with later October light falling in drafts around your shoulders—merigold, sunshine, sepia.

For once, you aren’t looking back at him. Joel catches you looking at him all the time now, mostly at his hands, chancing glances from the corner of your eyes like he would mind you looking. If he thought more of himself, he’d probably say you look at him with a dreamy cut to your gaze.

Your feet are propped on the porch railing. Your jeans and scuffed sneakers are splattered with bright splotches of paint. His guitar is across your lap and Ellie is next to you, teaching you, he supposes. Or at the very least correcting you occasionally as the two of you talk. You say something and she tilts back with a full bodied laugh.

You’d worked with Sarah and Ellie all day, painting the chicken coop in bright swatches of pastel blush and lavender. It sticks out something awful, but he’d said you could paint it however you wanted and he meant it.

Any way Joel cut it, he was outvoted three to one anyhow.

He thinks you probably let Sarah influence the color palette more than you let on, and that makes something ache deep in his chest.

Joel’s not exactly good at saying what he feels, he knows that. He’s always known it.

But he can build you a chicken coop. He can fix your locks and your door and worry about your safety and drive to get you in the middle of the night. He can sketch out tattoo designs until his wrist aches and make you a million cups of coffee.

And you decided to share part of what he gave you with Sarah and Ellie. Whether you know it or not, it means something to him. It brings a tight feeling to the back of his throat.

Though the afternoon is mild, you’re wrapped up in a flannel over your t-shirt. It’s his flannel from that first night he spent at your kitchen table; the one you haven’t given back and that he doesn’t want back.

Joel keeps his eyes on you as he finishes up the last of the chores that needed doing. His back is aching again, a flare of pain that starts at the base of his spine and ends behind his ears.

It was lucky, maybe, that you’d convinced him, in your offhand way, to get chickens instead of horses, that he decided that was the best thing to give you. He isn’t sure he could keep up with much more than what he has.

“You’re staring again,” Sarah says from behind him.

“I’m not,” he snaps.

“It’s okay to stare at your girlfriend, dad,” she says and he can hear the laughter in her voice, the damn teasing.

Joel winces. “That is not—we ain’t—” Not yet. You aren’t anything yet. Maybe not ever.

You’ve bloomed in the last month or so. Opened up, shiny and blush bright. You’re still that watchful little doe, but now you’re one that recognizes something kind.

Not so skittish, not so afraid.

And that’s good, that’s something. But he worries. Worries you’ll start to see he’s nothing but an old man waiting around for his kids to visit, for his brother not to be busy with his family, for you to pay him any mind.

You surely noticed it weeks ago when you stayed with him those few days, all that painful, solitary loneliness that happened so quickly. Maybe you’d noticed it earlier than that, when you stopped coming by the shop after your first tattoo and his days went lonesome again too. It’s not like he has been subtle about how much your absence smarted.

He’s not sure when his life slowed down so much, when he suddenly looked around and realized he missed the noise.

Maybe he’s been the one to pry you open, but if you wanted something better for yourself, something more, he’d have to let you go. It doesn’t diminish all that time he’d spent gaining your trust, that trust he’s still trying to grasp at some days. He doesn’t want you to be burdened by his loneliness, to feel weighed down with it, to feel trapped by it, to feel like it’s your responsibility.

Joel already worries that’s already the case, with how often you’d ended up at his house in the evenings over the past month. But he isn’t strong enough to make you stop.

Still, he could never live with himself, if he were next in a long line to make you feel helpless and trapped.

Sarah rolls her eyes and herds the second stubborn goat into the barn and shuts the gate. “If you say so,” she says. “I’m gonna get Ellie and head out. Busy day tomorrow.”

“Okay, baby girl,” Joel says. Sarah fits herself into his arms and he presses a kiss to her hair. “Thanks for the help. Be safe.”

She pulls away and nods, jogging across the yard without looking back to hop the little fence that separates it from the driveway. He watches Sarah say goodbye to you, the way your mouth lifts in a smile, the way you move the guitar from your lap and lean forward when she climbs the steps to give you a hug.

Ellie gives you a much briefer hug, one armed and slightly stiff before she follows Sarah. He lifts a hand to her, knowing Ellie won’t come over and say goodbye the way Sarah does. She pulls a face at him and waves back as she climbs in the car.

When they disappear in a cloud of red dust at the end of the drive, you lean back and stare down at the guitar again, adjusting the positioning of your fingers on the strings as though nothing of note just happened.

Maybe, nothing of note has happened.

You’d hugged them so easily, smiled at them so warmly. He’s grateful for it, that ease you have with them, that you feel safe and secure. It makes something warm and protective and territorial for all three of you settle in around his ribs.

His girls and you.

Your mouth pulls down at the corners as he watches you clumsily reposition your other hand along the frets.

He tries to repress a smile and glances away from you to continue his work. A poorly struck chord followed by a frustrated sigh echoes across the yard.

You ain’t exactly a natural with the instrument, though you try.

Joel taught Sarah and Ellie to play when they were young. He taught Tommy, when their mother didn’t have time to. He’s happy to teach you now, too.

More notes float on the air, curl into the whispering leaves that skitter along the drive. You aren’t doing so bad, he thinks, when the music suddenly stops.

He turns to peer over his shoulder at you.

You’ve taken your feet off the railing and have folded your arms along it instead, chin leaning on your forearms, head tipped to the side, guitar propped between your knees. “Joel?”

“Honey?” He answers, and you smile. The effect is like being lit from the inside out. You brighten and there’s sunshine in his soul, in all the dark places in his chest.

“Will you play for me?” You uncross one arm to hold your hand out to him, like you could reach him from there if you tried hard enough.

“You were doin’ just fine at it,” he calls back, escorting the chickens as gently as he can into their newly painted home.

You smile at him again. “I know. But I want to hear you and it’s getting dark anyway.”

“Guess so,” he says, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just a minute, darlin’.”

You nod and grab the guitar again to settle it in your lap.

The evening light is bleeding gold through the boughs of the oak that overhang the driveway, the whispers of autumnal, purpled shadows bruise the horizon as the sun sinks ever lower.

With the other goat and his lone sheep herded into the barn, he crosses back to the porch where you’ve lit a lantern and tucked yourself deep into one of the rocking chairs. The blanket he keeps folded over the back of one of the chairs is now curled over your lap. You look cozy, too warm, in the lingering heat of the day. He takes up residence next to you, picking up the guitar you’ve abandoned in his seat. “What would you like to hear, darlin’?”

It had taken a week’s worth of needling for him to play for you, but now he wants to do it all the time.

“Whatever you want to play for me, Joel,” you say, bracing your elbow on the arm of the chair to lean your chin on your hand, eyes already closed.

He plucks idly at the strings, watching your face. You put yourself in his hands so easily these days, without thought or worry. There’s trust in its purest form in your expression, like you’d laid yourself at his doorstep. He can’t imagine you closing your eyes like that, relaxed and at peace, even a few weeks ago.

Joel says your name, watches your eyes blink open, the peaceful little spell broken. You pull back, sitting up straight. Doe eyes meet his, round with question. “Joel?”

“I just wanted to say how pretty you look this evenin’.”

You transform, bloom, duck your head and say nothing. The air is rose colored, heavy with the scent of magnolia.

You aren’t exactly good at taking compliments, either. But that’s something you’re both working on.

“Hey,” he says. You look up and lean toward him again, like you’re so ready to drop yourself into his waiting hands.

And when he reaches for you, you do.

Joel cups his hands against your jaw, and leans in to kiss you. Your mouth is soft against his. You taste like autumn air, and like the spiked sweet tea at your elbow. When you pull back, your eyes are oceans, like soil, like smooth, dark glass.

You also have a dot of bright paint on your cheek that he hadn’t noticed before.

He sweeps his thumb over it and finds it’s stuck there.

“What?”

“Nothin’. Got a bit a’ paint there.” He presses his thumb over it. “I like it.”

You pout at him, watchful eyes hooked into his. “Are you ever going to play for me or are you just going to make fun of me?”

He chuckles and releases your face. “I would never make fun of you, honey.”

“Good,” you say as he strums the strings again. “Or I’ll never paint another chicken coop for you again. Not even if your girls help.”

He likes that you tease him, that you feel comfortable enough. He smiles, stares down at the toe of his boot. “You know you didn’t have to let ‘em.”

“Let them what?”

“Help. Y’know, create a monstrosity,” he gestures to the monstrosity in question, the pink and purple slightly washed out against the blush of the setting sun. “I built it for you.”

Your foot nudges against his and he looks up to find you already gazing at him. There’s something vulnerable in your eyes, something soft and unafraid. “I know. I wanted them to help. I like spending time with them, Joel.”

He nods and you smile. “Colors are kind of awful, though. Looks like one of Sarah’s old dollhouses. Thought you’d do a mural, like your table.”

You laugh, and the sound is something he wishes he could capture, box up inside him and never release. “But it’s mine, like you said. And chicken dollhouse chic is what we were aiming for.”

He snorts, but he feels better about it. “That so?”

“Yeah. Now, play something for me?” You request again softly.

Joel mentally shifts through the catalog of songs he could play for you before settling on a song. When he glances back at you, you’ve once again closed your eyes. Orange light, flippant and fleeting, has drifted across your face in a fiery bar as the sun sinks lower on the horizon. You glow in that beautiful light.

He itches to do something other than play the guitar for you.

Although he’s painted you as a doe more times than he can count, he’s never attempted to actually capture your likeness. He could never do you justice, so he just shouldn’t try. It would be embarrassing enough, if you ever found out that you’ve been the source of all his creativity the last few months. That you are his muse.

The plum color on the horizon has darkened, the navy of the encroaching night feathering against the tops of the trees.

You’ve settled back into a peaceful position, eyes closed as you listen.

He plays through a couple of songs before he glances up again and finds you watching him, your gaze focused on his hands. “Will you ever sing for me?” You ask softly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

He hasn’t sung since his girls were little, not to anyone anyway, and not to anyone that could tell him his voice was terrible.

Even still, he’s never been more tempted.

“No,” he says, even though denying you anything is hard. “You don’t want to hear me sing, honey.”

“But you have such a pretty voice,” you disagree.

He plucks out a final note, music hovering in the air. “That just ain’t true,” he shakes his head and leans the guitar carefully against the bannister. Night has fully fallen, your face is shaded in shadow when he looks at you. “Do you want to stay with me?”

Joel’s offered a few other times, because he always wants you to stay. That week you’d stayed with him while he waited for your new locks to come in at the hardware store had been kind to him. He’d gotten used to your presence in his house embarrassingly quick, and when he got the call that the locks had been delivered, it was like ice sliding down his spine. He’d forgotten, in just days, that you didn’t actually live with him.

That was weeks ago.

And since then, you haven’t stayed.

You usually, always, decline and then he drives you home.

But today is different.

You reach out a hand to him and fold your fingers around his. “Yes,” you sigh.

“Sure?” He asks, surprised. “It’s no bother to drive you home, honey.”

“I’m sure. If you’ll have me.”

“I’ll always gladly have you.”

Your lips curve up, and you duck your head. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

Joel burns whatever he attempts to make on the stove for dinner. He turns to you, with spatula in hand and an irritated tilt to his brows, and asks if you’d like to ride into town to eat at Flu’s.

You agree, and go, still laughing when Joel pulls onto the main road. He grouses under his breath the entire way to town, but he holds your hand against the center console. And when you get to Flu’s he opens the passenger side door for you, then the diner’s door, his hand held lightly against your spine. He tucks his legs around yours under the table, knees and calves brushing together. The diner’s lights are dim and cozy.

He looks soft, in that buttery light. The hard edges of his face ironed out, smile lines and crow’s feet divoted into his skin. He holds your hand on the table, and you watch his fingers more than his face, the rounded swell of his knuckles, the veins in the back of his hand, the knob of his wrist, on which he always wore an old watch that had long stopped ticking. When you’re apart, you find yourself daydreaming of his hands, scarred and broad and warm.

Joel insists on paying, doesn’t let you even consider doing it.

When you climb back into the truck, he puts one hand on your thigh and you sink back into your seat, warm and full and content. You slide your hand over his and feel the rough calluses on the tips of his fingers.

When you close your eyes, you see him working in the sun, poking fun at you while you and Sarah and Ellie paint the chicken coop, squinting through the bright light. He still smells like sun, like warm skin and his cologne and faintly of sweat and whatever thing he’d burned on the stove earlier.

When Joel kissed you that first time, he opened a door in you, one that’s impossible to shut and that does nothing but want.

You’ve never craved touch like you crave his. Even when you feel like you don’t want to be touched at all, you think his hand would be tolerable, would be okay.

You’re painfully aware that part of his appeal is knowing that he would always let you go, that he always knows when it's time to leave you be. And the times you don’t want him to touch you, have been shrinking.

Lately, all you want is for him to fold his fingers between yours, touch the bare skin at the small of your back, to trace your spine up between your shoulder blades, or cup his palm over the back of your neck and tuck you into him.

When you get back to his place, it’s still pretty early in the evening, and all you can think of is ways to get him to touch you again. He turns on the battery powered radio that sits on the porch, perpetually set low on an oldies station.

You can’t look away from him, something like agony twisting in your chest, like there’s a knife between your lungs. He’s talking about something, gesturing across the yard with one hand, his other tangled with yours. Joel’s thumb strokes little circles against the back of your hand, each pass like a bolt of addictive lightning. It’s not enough. His hand in yours is no longer enough.

Joel doesn’t protest when you pull him to his feet when a new song starts up. He gives what you don’t ask for but desperately want. He drags you into his chest and slides his arm around your back, tucking you in close to him. You can hear his heartbeat, feel it pulsing in his chest. He tilts around the porch with you for a long time, even when the music is interrupted by obnoxious ads.

He hums along under his breath and when you slip your hands beneath his shirt to rest against his bare skin, you can feel the vibrations of his voice against your fingers.

You wish you could sink your hands inside him, just to be a little closer. It feels so strange to want that. You’ve never been held that gently before, it loosens a knot you didn’t know existed in the core of your chest.

And you think, even when things with your ex had been good, when he hadn’t been yelling at you or bruising you with a tattoo you didn’t want, he had never held you gently or with such love.

When you pull back, Joel lets you go. There is no fuss about it; there is no guilt.

Eventually, you go inside.

He lets you shower first, just like he always had when you stayed with him before.

After, you watch him brush his hair and then his teeth and something painfully sharp gets caught up inside your chest. It’s hard to breathe around that feeling, that ache.

You watch him get ready for bed, and you watch him groan when he has to stoop down to pick a pair of socks up off of the floor, and you feel something more than warmth flood your heart. It unravels, spools through your veins, and it's so warm it burns.

Joel catches you looking at him, as he often does these days.

He smiles at you, the lines by his eyes crinkling up. He looks domestic in a heather gray t-shirt that sits loose on his frame, pajama bottoms that look as though they’ve seen a few too many years, and glasses perched on the end of his nose. “You all right?”

You nod. “Really good, Joel.”

That gets a little laugh out of him. “Must be worn out,” he says as he sits on the edge of the bed. You lie back and curl on your side, watching him adjust his pillows, admiring the shape of his hands as he goes, remembering what they looked like sun drenched and warm in the yard. He drags his knuckle over the curve of your cheek and neither you nor your body remembers to flinch away. “After all that paintin’ and gettin’ me to dance.”

“It was fun though, wasn’t it?” You ask, suppressing the urge to trace the length of his spine through his shirt. “You liked dancing with me.” You clutch the pillow tighter to your chest and dip your chin into the fabric.

He takes his glasses off and then finally lies down next to you. Nerves burst in your belly when he turns to look at you. “I enjoyed it very much, sweetheart.”

“Good.” You wriggle a bit closer to him.

He watches you and then offers a place for you to fit yourself against his side. You slide in close to him, tucking your hands between his body and yours, slotting your nose against the dip of his collarbone.

He smells good there, like soap and something that’s purely Joel and so soothing, like sage and pine.

“This what you been wantin’, huh?” He asks, stroking your back slowly. You stiffen but he chuckles into your hair. “I mean that in a nice way.”

You lick your lips, feel the shift of muscle beneath your cheek as he reaches to turn off the lamp. There’s no point in denying it. “Yeah.”

“I know,” he says against your forehead. “Me, too.”

You settle against him, the feeling of his palm sliding over your shirt, up and down, tapping over your spine, soothes you. Your stomach flips when his hand drags along the bare skin at your hip.

If you could dig a trench into his bones, take cover there, you would. And still that wouldn’t be close enough.

“Joel,” you say, tracing your hand over his chest.

For once, your voice seems to encourage more than caution and he doesn’t stop touching you. His hand slides higher again and your breath hitches.

It feels so nice, like all the empty places inside you are slowly being colored in, shaded in emerald green and butter, sunshine yellow, jewel bright blue and blush pink.

You curl into him, shakily pressing the hand on his chest up to his neck. You cup your palm there and Joel turns on his side. His hair is soft and a little damp when you dig your fingers into it, the scent of him wrapping around you, cradling you close and safe. Joel touches his forehead very gently to yours, his breath fanning across your lips.

He waits for you.

You close the distance between you, and press your mouth to his.

He sighs into you, his grip tightening on your waist for a moment, and you push yourself closer to the circle of warmth that is his body.

His fingers graze the edge of your shirt, then push it up, rough palms sliding over your back again. His hand is so big, so warm, it spans your back and then covers your ribs. You gasp into his mouth when the pad of his thumb caresses the curve of your breast.

Goosebumps erupt along your body. “Joel,” you murmur against his mouth.

“Mhm,” he hums. “I know, honey. I got you.”

He touches you there again but doesn’t go any further. You shiver and press your mouth back to his, tasting the mint of his toothpaste when his tongue slips into your mouth.

Moonlight filters pale and bright into his bedroom, and when you pull away his eyes are dark, hungry. You wish you had the courage to feed that gaze, but you aren’t there yet. A stab of guilt pierces your lungs. He’s so patient with you, and you can’t help but wonder if one day that patience might run out.

Instead of lingering on that, on wondering how much time you could possibly ask him to give, you offer him something else. “Can I show you my tattoos?”

He blinks at you, pink, kiss swollen lips parting. “If you want.”

“But do you want to see?”

“Baby,” he touches your cheek, traces the line of your jaw. “I’ve been dreamin’ about it since you told me about ‘em.”

You squirm, embarrassment crawling up the inside of your belly. “You have?”

“Mm.” He kisses you again, his mouth lingering long against yours. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, his breath against yours. “I think about you all the time.”

You get your knees beneath you and push up from your place beside him. Joel turns on his back when you swing one leg over his waist and find yourself, boldly, very much in his lap. His hands anchor on your hips, thumbs beneath your t-shirt.

“Oh,” you say, pressing your hands over his, something nervous wriggling in your gut. “Sorry. Is—”

You try to move away but his grip doesn’t change. “It’s all right,” he says evenly, the barest hint of something tremulous beneath.

Before you can think about it more, overthink being in his lap or how much of you you’re about to show him or how heavy and uncomfortable his hands might become, you release his wrists and tug your shirt up to just beneath your breasts, so your ribs are visible.

Those feelings don’t come though. You don’t feel anxious or weighed down or wrong.

He’s looking at you and touching you and seeing you and it's fine. It’s fine because it’s Joel. No one had ever understood you before the way he has—not your family or your friends or any previous partner. They try, but Joel just seems to know you, understand, without really trying.

Joel clears his throat, his expression unreadable as he lifts one hand to your tattoo. When he traces the ink, you exhale against his curious fingers. It tickles. “That’s real pretty,” he says. “Antlers. It really suits you.”

“Thank you,” you murmur. “Deer are like good luck, I think. They know things.”

He looks at you like you’re some ancient creature he can hardly believe exists. Embarrassment claws at you but you don’t look away. “That so?” He looks at the ink again, tension slicing through the air. “Jesus you’re somethin’.”

You don’t get a chance to respond because he meets your eyes again and asks, “Where’s the bee?”

You laugh and the acid burn of uncertainty disappears. “How’d you remember about the bee?”

“‘Cause I’ve been wonderin’ about it too.” He’s still absentmindedly tracing the antlers, the moss and the flowers that loop through the branches of the antlers. His expression is open now, curious and needy. “It ain’t on your hip, if I’m rememberin’ right.”

You shift your hand to your sternum and carefully tug your shirt up a bit higher. There, nestled between your breasts, is a tiny, tiny bumblebee. “Well, ain’t that a surprise.” He shifts his hand up and covers the bee with his thumb, the length of his fingers sitting right beneath your breast.

An ocean wells up inside you, threatens to break apart your ribs. You lean into his hand, your chest warm, catching, like fire is spreading from all the places he touches you. The knuckles of his other hand drag up your side.

You shiver under his eye, fighting the urge to look away, to tug yourself out of his grip. But the thought of losing his warm hands against you is worse, it outweighs everything else.

“Where did you think it was?” You ask, hardly able to breathe. Everything in the world narrows down to his dark bedroom, his eyes skating over your newly revealed tattoos, milky moonlight parting the tiny space still left between you.

“I couldn’t get it out of my head that it was on your hip.”

You laugh and Joel keeps looking at you, his eyes flicking between your bared skin and your eyes. The room is warm, his gaze heavy. “You’re real pretty. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Once or twice, maybe,” you smile.

“Mm.”

You cup one hand around his wrist, the pressure of his hand against the swell of your breast sending shockwaves through you. It’s all you can focus on, the slow sweep of his thumb against sensitive skin. You push his hand harder against you until it feels hard to breathe.

You think about how much Joel gives you, how carefully he listens even when you don’t speak.

He deserves to know you hear him, too. That you see what he wants, that you hear what he’s saying, and that you’re trying.

“You show me what you think,” you say. “And I—I get it.”

“I don’t think you do,” he says, eyes dark. He reaches for you slowly, giving you time to tell him to stop or to pull away, but you don’t. You desperately want him to keep touching you with his safe, patient, cautious hands.

Slowly, you’re pressed back into the sheets. Joel goans, a pained sound that means his back or knees hurt and he won’t admit it.

He settles himself against you, his body fitted against the cradle of your hips. Joel is heavy against you, but comforting. His fingers clench around yours, and for a long moment he just looks at you beneath him, starved eyes skittering across your skin.

“You all right?” He asks gruffly, like there’s something tangled in his chest. “You say it. If you aren’t.”

“I’m okay.”

You reach up and touch his cheek, then the tail of his eyebrow, as he assesses you. He tilts his chin down, brows lowered heavily over his eyes. You can’t exactly blame him for being cautious. You warned him that you were hard work, and he meant it when he said he didn’t mind, that he didn’t think you were. Caring comes naturally for him. “Really. I would say it. I trust you.”

He nods once and your chest hitches when he dips his head and presses his mouth softly against the bee and then the antlers.

The rough feeling of his beard against your skin tingles. Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling, and you aren’t sure where to put your hands. Joel’s are pressed to your sides, forearms snugly against your body, warm and twitching. You settle on his shoulders, the wide planes of his back, so reassuringly large against your body.

Then, his tongue, firm and soft, slides over your skin. Over the bee and the tips of the antlers strung through with ivy and flowers, over the underside of your breast.

You gasp and arch against him and you suddenly know exactly where you want your hands. You tuck them against the back of his head, threading through the feathery gray strands to keep his mouth against your skin.

Want tightens between your legs, makes your belly ache. Your nipples tighten painfully hard. A whine catches in your throat that you know he hears because he answers you with a low groan of his own against your throat when he sucks a kiss to the underside of your jaw.

It’s overwhelming. You want to push him away and pull him closer. You want to bury yourself inside him and never look into his eyes again. You want this feeling to last forever. You never want Joel to feel lonesome again. You want him to be able to ask for what he wants, to let you give it to him.

Your ex again, flashes through your mind, an unfair comparison. How rarely he’d kissed you, shown you affection, for just the sake of it.

You want you want you want you want—

You want—

“I want you to tattoo the cover up,” you say suddenly. Tears salt that backs of your eyes, tightness itching at the back of your throat. You hitch your knees up around his ribs, fear that he might pull away swimming to the forefront of your mind. It’s dizzying, because your instinct has always been to move away, to put space between you and things that might hurt you. You’ve given Joel so many pieces of you; he could break every part of you, if he really wanted to. “If you still—if you want—I mean—” you stammer.

His head lifts and your thighs clench because you want him everywhere and nowhere all at once. You want him to want you as badly as you want him, and that just doesn’t seem possible. Not in all the ways you mean anyway, the kind where you tuck yourself inside his ribs, and into the dark places in his mind, like love letters that will never be sent.

You love him, you think. You love Joel.

It doesn’t feel like enough. The word isn’t big enough to encompass what he makes you feel. The feelings worming around in your chest are expansive, wide as the night sky, splattered with stars and distant galaxies that have yet to be found, let alone described.

“‘Course I want to,” he says easily. “Of course, I will.”

“Tomorrow?” You ask breathlessly.

“If that’s what you want, honey.”

You nod. “It is.” You suspect you could say you wanted him to do it right at that moment, and he’d find a way to make it happen. He’d drive you to his studio in the dark. He’d sit with you until morning bruised the sky, until the peach of the sun dripped sticky sweet down the horizon. “I want you to do it. I want it to be from you.”

“All right,” he agrees. “Tomorrow mornin’ we’ll go and do it.” His hand slides down your side to your hip, then your thigh. “You okay?”

You nod.

“You have to talk to me,” he says. “I ain’t a mind reader.”

“I know,” you admit. “I’m sorry I put so much on you to figure out.”

“That ain’t what I meant.”

“But that’s what you do. You figure me out.”

Joel pats your thigh and then presses the pads of his fingers to the hinge of your jaw. His eyes search yours for a long time, black in the low light of the room.

He kisses you until you start to fall asleep, the lazy press of his lips whispering things you can no longer hear.

Morning dawns bright and warm.

Joel gets up long before you even stir. You’re curled as close to him as you can get without actually touching him, hands tucked beneath your face, lips parted softly. You’d migrated to the center of the bed, taking up space he’s not really keen on reclaiming.

The memory of your skin against his mouth, all the other places on your body he’d like to touch and taste, is like nectar, like the sweet promise of a good dream after a long day. You aren’t ready for that though. Not yet, anyway, and that’s all right.

But he’s only a man, and he’s painfully hard.

Before, you were like a deer he’d accidentally come upon, skating around the rim of his peripheral vision. Now, you’re still doe-eyed and watchful, but you’re closer; you’re relaxed, lying in the shade of trees you trust, at ease.

Your hand twitches toward him when he presses a slow kiss against your temple, the jump of tendon beneath his mouth soothing somehow. He pulls the sheet up and tucks it around your shoulders, because without him next to you the draft from the fan overhead is too cool for you.

He takes care of himself in the bathroom without much fuss, and then feels a little bit guilty for it when you’re sleeping on just the other side of the wall. It wasn’t the first time though, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

In the kitchen, he makes coffee just the way you like it, with a little bit of cinnamon in with the coffee grounds. The coffee creamer you like is sweet, so he sets that out with a spoon next to a pale blue mug, pours himself his own cup, and relocates to the back deck.

The trees at the far edge of the property are still dark and skeletal, the thicket full of shadow and the buzz of night insects.

Even at the end of October, it’s still warm. A breeze ruffles his hair, shakes the nearly naked trees and sends a cascade of brown and orange sifting to the ground. Next month it would cool off, just a little.

He hadn’t told you when his birthday passed in September, that you’d inadvertently spent that day with him. Sarah and Ellie had tried to get him to tell you, but he hadn’t been able to stomach it.

Dread accompanies that day.

It hadn’t always, just since Sarah was little, like his body was braced for a tragedy that would never come. He couldn’t have you be a part of that too, though the girls had pointed out you would eventually notice his lack of a birthday, if you were around long enough.

He’d cross that bridge if he ever came to it. It’s hard to imagine he’d get you for that long.

It doesn’t take long for you to find him. The flood of morning sun has passed the tree line and twists dappled green and yellow circles over the deck. When you push open the back door, you have your cup of coffee in one hand and the neck of the guitar in the other.

He’d have to get you your own. Either that, or make one for you.

“Hey,” you smile at him as you set your steaming cup down on the patio table.

“Mornin’. You sleep okay?”

“Mmm.”

Joel expects you to ask him to play, but you settle down in the chair next to his, your bare knee pressed against his, and adjust the instrument in your lap.

The sound is clumsy, but beautiful and careful, when you play. Joel’s glad he decided to teach you. He just listens and watches you. Your expression is thoughtful but closed, like you’re somewhere else. That’s how he thinks too, music in hand, mind far away. He likes that look on you, until you suddenly pause and glance up. You watch him for a long moment with those doe eyes of yours, folding your arms around the body of the guitar.

You lick your lips and his eyes flick briefly to your mouth, the plush curve of your lower lip. He hadn’t kissed you good morning. “I want to figure you out too, you know,” you say.

You hold his gaze for just a second before dropping your eyes to the wooden floorboards instead, fidgeting like you’re repressing the urge to curl in on yourself, fold yourself away. “You got me all figured out, honey,” he assures you.

You shake your head and lift your eyes again, tapping your nails against the wood. “You—” you pause and swallow, “You’re allowed to want things from me, Joel.”

Something falls in his chest, like he’s missed the last step on a long staircase, gravity turned against him.

His heart lurches up into his mouth, tangy with some unknown fear. “I do. Trust me, I do.”

“Why don’t you ask?”

“Honey—”

“I know,” you say softly. “I know. I know how I am and how—” you stop and flounder, frustrated for a moment. “I know I’m not easy to ask. But you. . . I don’t feel that way with you anymore; I’m not afraid anymore. And I want to be enough for you. I hope I’m not too slow about it.” You look away again. “I want you to know you can call on me, too, Joel.”

He clears his throat but the tightness doesn’t go away. “You could never take too long. I don’t mind waitin’.”

“But?”

But, he’s bad at this.

But, he loves too hard, cares too much.

But, part of him is convinced that the loneliness is deserved. Everyone seems to leave him, someway or another. He’s just preparing early for it this time. He’s never held onto a romantic relationship before, so why should this one be any different than all the ones that came before it?

He doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t want; he gives and cares and that’s why people stay. It really doesn’t have all that much to do with him, or what he wants.

“But you don’t want anything from me?” You ask, your voice noticeably smaller, and the warm morning suddenly feels cold.

“It ain’t that.” He should say more, but nothing else comes out, words trapped like moths inside a lamp.

You swallow and nod, like you’re battering back your instinct to flee, to think the worst. You’ve come so far and it’s hard not to feel a little pride, that you stay, that you aren’t worried, not usually, that he’ll hurt you someway. He’s reminded of the first day he’d tattooed you, how one misplaced word was enough to have you jumping to your feet, fretful and afraid. “I like spending time with you. I like touching you. I can give that to you.”

He doesn’t answer and you eventually continue. “You can’t protect me from the whole wide world. Not even from you. I’m making a choice. To be here with you.” And he knows you’ve seen much more than he wanted you to, that you’ve seen the interior of him, bleeding red, splattered onto everything he touches. You’ve seen the want, the need, and you’re still here.

He’s still not sure letting you care wouldn’t end with you leaving. But he doesn’t see what other choice he has.

“Okay. But you promise me somethin’,” he says. “Just one thing and I’ll try.”

You tilt your head, the picture of a curious little doe, almost nosy, peering into unfamiliar woods. “What?” You ask, looking away as you set the guitar aside.

“If you ever want somethin’ better for yourself. You tell me. And you go.”

Your eyes snap back to his, mouth parted in shock. “Joel—”

“I’m serious,” he snaps and you recoil a little, hurt in your eyes. “You deserve better’n this. Better than a lonely old man.”

You shoot up from your seat in a rare show of anger. And that surge of pride hits him squarely in the chest again. He’s proud of you for that. For standing up for yourself, for letting yourself be angry with him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice doesn’t raise in volume, but it is waspish, venom laced. “Better? What’s better for me than you?”

“Honey,” he says, softens his voice. “Just ‘cause you opened up with me, don’t mean I think I get to keep you.”

Your shoulders loosen and you step closer. When you reach out, God help him, he leans into your hand.

Gentle fingertips run along his shoulders, bite into the knot at the top of his spine. “Keep me,” you scoff lightly. “I want you to keep me.”

You don’t protest when he winds an arm around your waist and tugs you down into his lap. You’re warm and soft and frowning so hard at him. There’s a divot between your eyes that he wants to press his thumb over, to smooth away. Instead he takes your wrist in his hand and traces the tattoo on your forearm. “You’re the only one who’s ever wondered if they should,” you say. “You aren’t keeping anything. I’m giving you something no one else ever even tried to earn.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, a hot fist around his words. He’d rather walk away, not talk about it, not talk about himself. But that would break all that hard won trust.

“I just can’t have you feelin’ like I’m your problem,” he admits, voice graveled and scraping. “Like I’m holdin’ you down.”

“It’s okay to need people,” you answer, ignoring him. “I want to take care of you too. I want to be here with you.” You slide your hand over his shoulder again. “Even if it's just like this. Especially if it's just like this.” You scratch your fingers through his hair. Sun spills around your shoulders, blinds him when he looks up at you. “I know how much you like it. And you can tell me when you need something. I’m still learning your tells.”

He chuckles at that, let’s you keep touching him, because he does want it and you don’t seem to mind so much that he’s just some lonely man. “All right,” he runs his hand up your thigh to your hip. “Promise me anyway.”

“I promise,” you say. “To learn your tells.”

You make breakfast without burning anything, while Joel watches, hip leaned against the counter. His smile is soft, affectionate.

Warmth balloons in your chest, bursts in your veins like champagne bubbles. You managed to reassure him, you managed to say what you want without feeling bad about it.

“Lonely old man,” you burst out with a laugh. “I’m lonely and old.”

Joel rolls his eyes when you dig your elbow into his side. “You ain’t old.”

“Neither are you.”

Joel buys you coffee from the little cafe you always stopped at before visiting him at the studio. He drives with his hand in yours. He opens the passenger side door for you and gestures you ahead of him into the studio.

After going through the usual motions of disinfecting and sanitizing and picking one of the many, many, many coverup designs he’d sketched for you and getting the stencil on right, you find yourself in much the same position as the first time you got tattooed by Joel.

Joel isn’t talking. He’s taking his time looking you over, intense and careful and muttering about that bastard that had dared lay his hands on you. He’s meticulous in everything he does, but especially when it concerns someone he cares about, when it comes to you.

You’re lying down, studying the side of his face. He touches you without asking, and you don’t flinch once. The memory of his body against yours sends a flushed heat over your skin. Your scalp tingles with it, your toes curl with it.

He finally seems satisfied after a few long minutes, his hand on the curve of your elbow. You nod your consent when he looks at you, tattoo gun poised in his other hand over your shoulder. “Sure?”

“Never been surer.” You smile and then cover the hand resting on your elbow. He gives, you give back. “You don’t like it when I say thank you.”

“I don’t,” he grunts. There's a blush beneath his beard.

You sweep your thumb against his knuckles, and think about how different that first time had been. Joel had reassured you, gave you a physical anchor you hadn’t known you needed, kind and steady and already lodged somewhere deep inside your heart.

Now you can give that back to him.

“Okay.”

But he knows. You know he hears it anyway.

Still, you want to say it.

“Thank you, baby. For giving me back to myself.”

He leans over you, and you tilt your chin up so he can kiss you.

“Couple sessions, okay?” He croaks when he pulls away. “Don’t want to wear ya out.”

There is nowhere in the world you’d rather be.

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #honeyed fic

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4ngel-inc · 3 months

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𝐘𝐔𝐊𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀 — 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑜𝒾𝓃𝓉 𝓂𝑒 ₊˚ʚ

notes: my thirst for fukuzawa is growing guys !! he's just so beautiful and strong and perfect :')) i rly need him i do ࣪ 𓈒⠀ྀིㅤׂㅤ

warnings: mentions of insecurity, it's your first time with fukuzawa & his first time being intimate in a while. 700 words.

fukuzawa was very much aware you'd been in love with him for quite some time before he decided to give your relationship a chance — he doesn't make decisions lightly, and the fact that falling in love would stir up his peaceful life quite a bit scared him — but if he didn't give himself a chance to really feel something, was he even truly living at all?

it isn't until you're a few months into your relationship that he realizes you'll likely be expecting physical intimacy soon. you've never asked him about it, but he can feel it in the tension between you two each time you kiss, your hands reaching under his shirt to gently caress his sides — you both seem to want more, so why is he hesitating?

fukuzawa hadn't been intimate with anyone in a while before he met you, he hadn't even dated for many years — work was distracting, that was the excuse he allowed himself. but truly, he felt a bit selfish for being a loner sometimes. did he truly believe no one in this world deserved to see every side of him? was protecting the city simply the excuse he clung to because he was scared to open up?

now, in this moment, after all of your soft kisses and gentle touches, he finds himself feeling a bit self-conscious as he hovers over you — it isn't like him at all to feel insecure, when has he ever doubted his ability to do anything? however, this moment feels so different — you're so special to him, so precious, the thought of disappointing you makes his heart clench.

he groans into your mouth as he enjoys the taste of your tongue on his, almost letting go, but not quite fully — his hands caress your body, running up and down each curve and dip that makes you so unique and sexy in his eyes. however, as you reach under the waistband of his briefs to pull out his cock, he sighs into your neck and pulls away before your fingers can even wrap around him.

he's rock hard, leaking and desperate for more of your touch, but he can't shake the thoughts running through his mind, distracting him from giving you what you truly want. "what's wrong?" your voice is gentle but breathless as you reach out to him, attempting to pull him in for more kisses. he only sighs, looking down at his hands. who is this person, who doubts their own abilities? why can't i let go? perhaps i've never cared for something so deeply.

silence fills the room for a few moments before he speaks again, "it's been a while, since. . ." his deep voice makes a statement, and you wait for him to continue. "since i've truly been intimate with someone. i don't want to disappoint you, my love. i hope i can give you what you need."

you smile at that, pulling him in and running a hand through his soft, silver hair, comforting him as he exhales. "you won't disappoint me," you speak against his lips. "i just want to be with you, yukichi, i want to feel you. nothing else matters to me. i want this because i love you."

his heart swells as he holds a steady gaze, eyes locking with yours as he slides his briefs down, aligning his thick cock with your entrance. "we can go slow, if you'd like." your kindness knows no bounds, you've never rushed him — and he's grateful for that, your words are like a salve to him, soothing all of his doubts and insecurities.

you gasp as he presses into you, gently and slowly, before rocking into you with a steady rhythm. "oh, fuck- you're so big, yukichi, oh, yes, keep going." your little whimpers and cries are like music to his ears, and just like that, he finds his confidence again, one hand gripping your hair as the other pushes your thigh open, sliding in deeper as he begins thrusting faster.

#— love notes: [fukuzawa] ୧ ‧₊#bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd x y/n #bsd smut #fukuzawa x reader #fukuzawa x you #fukuzawa x y/n #bsd fluff #bsd headcanons

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prettyobsessed · 2 months

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Part 1: .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💫Constellations of Affection💖.˳·˖✶

☁︎/ pairings: Xavier / fem!reader

☾ / genre: romantic, fluff [sfw, safe for minors]

₊˚ / tags: safe for work, safe for minors, contains swear words, slight flirtations mentioned, fluff, romantic, sweet Xavier, angry Xavier, friendship blossoming, best friends to lovers, slow burn, continuation, fight scene, past relationship turmoil, self-improvement, drowning in work, hectic work life, kisses, hugs, super gentle

♡ / word count: 5.3k

₊⊹summary₊˚⊹

Amidst the whirlwind of a bustling life, I find solace in the unwavering presence of Xavier, my steadfast friend and protector. Despite harbouring feelings for him, I guard my heart, scarred by past relationships. As our bond deepens, I grapple with the desire to reveal my true feelings. Will I find the courage to confront my fears and express my love to Xavier?

﹌﹌﹌

As I pull away from the hug, Xavier's arms remain wrapped around me, holding me close with a tenderness that fills my heart with warmth. His gaze meets mine, and in those kind eyes, I see a reflection of the love and care he has always shown me. "Thank you for staying,” I whisper, my voice barely above a soft murmur, but the sincerity behind the words is unmistakable.

𓍢ִ໋୧🍵 ⋅₊˚*ੈ♡⸝⋆·˚ ༘ *🔭୧ ˙

In the bustling city of Linkon, where neon lights danced upon the urban landscape, I found solace amidst the chaos in the form of Xavier, my steadfast best friend and protector. Xavier, a Deepspace hunter dedicated to protecting civilians like myself from Wanderers, became my protector and confidant after our first encounter on a bridge near Linkon City four years ago.

Our friendship blossomed from then onwards, where we would escape the confines of our busy lives to gaze upon the stars, lost in the beauty of the night sky. Our nights are often spent together, stargazing from rooftops, sharing our hopes, dreams, and even secrets. Sometimes, Xavier would even take naps on my lap and give me gentle head pats, sending a flutter through my heart.

Amidst our shared reveries under the celestial canopy, Xavier would playfully bestow upon me various endearing nicknames, but none resonated with me as deeply as being called Princess. Whenever the word slipped from his lips, the sweet and sultry timbre of his voice carried a softness and affection that enveloped me like a comforting embrace—making me feel truly cherished.

His presence brought a sense of calm amidst the storm of my hectic life, a beacon of light in the darkness of uncertainty. I couldn't help but feel captivated by his mysterious aura, finding him irresistibly charming and attractive.

Yet, despite these intimate moments, our relationship never progresses beyond friendship.

Despite the blossoming of affection within me, I find myself paralysed by the fear of opening my heart once more. The scars of past relationships still linger, casting a shadow of doubt over my longing for something more with Xavier. I tread carefully, concealing the depth of my emotions beneath a carefully crafted facade, praying that Xavier won't decipher the hidden turmoil beneath the surface.

Every interaction with Xavier becomes a delicate balancing act, a choreographed dance of veiled glances and cautious words. I hold my breath, fearing that the slightest slip-up will betray the secret longing I harbor within.

Yet, with each passing moment in his presence, the yearning to unburden my heart grows stronger, the desire to lay bare my soul to him almost overwhelming.

But the spectre of past heartaches looms large, haunting my every thought and action. I am burdened by the fear of repeating past mistakes, trapped by the dread of disappointment and heartbreak. And so, I remain ensnared in a silent struggle, grappling with the conflicting desires to both reveal and conceal the depths of my heart.

As a dedicated professional in the fast-paced world of the fashion industry, I often find myself immersed in a multitude of responsibilities. My days are characterised by a constant juggle of tasks, from meeting deadlines to surpassing expectations set by clients and colleagues alike. The pace is relentless, with back-to-back meetings, creative brainstorming sessions, and meticulously planned photoshoots demanding my unwavering focus and dedication.

Despite the chaotic nature of my professional life, Xavier remains a steadfast and unwavering source of support. His presence serves as a calming anchor amidst the turbulent waters of my daily routine. Whether it's offering a sympathetic ear during moments of stress or providing a reassuring smile to lift my spirits, his unwavering support is a beacon of light in the midst of my busiest days.

Xavier often frequented my apartment, and during moments of respite, I eagerly seized the opportunity to unveil my creations to him, transforming our time together into impromptu fashion shows. With each meticulously crafted garment, I sensed a subtle tension electrifying the air between us, prompting me to ponder whether it was merely the allure of the dresses drawing us closer or the unspoken emotions simmering beneath the surface.

There was a particular allure about skirts that seemed to captivate Xavier's attention. I recall one instance when I slipped into a mini skirt, his eyes lighting up with unmistakable admiration.

His excitement was palpable, and he couldn't contain his enthusiasm, clapping his hands in delight. Even as I changed into another outfit, he couldn't seem to shake the image from his mind, insisting that I don the mini skirt again for a closer look.

A mischievous spark ignited within me, nudging me to flirt back with him. Succumbing to both his charm and my own playful inclinations, I obliged, slipping back into the mini skirt and performing a slow spin that allowed him to drink in every detail.

As I stood before him, adorned in the mini skirt, I could feel his gaze lingering on me, his breath caught in awe. It was as though in that moment, the fabric of the skirt became a conduit for unspoken desires, weaving a silent narrative of longing and admiration between us. With a coy smile, I couldn't resist teasing him, suggesting that perhaps he was too enamoured with the mini skirt.

The tension between us felt noticeable, and I sought refuge in the familiarity of casual attire, hoping to diffuse the charged atmosphere and regain a sense of normalcy—though deep down, I secretly relished the idea of indulging his request.

—

Sometimes, after particularly hectic days at the office, Xavier kindly offers to give me a lift, his bike a welcome respite from the chaos of my workday. Even on days when Xavier himself seems exhausted, he always maintains a vigilant watch on the road, ensuring our safety as we navigate the bustling city streets together.

Sensitive to my needs, Xavier never rides too fast, understanding my tendency to experience motion sickness. This consideration speaks volumes about his thoughtfulness and care, as he ensures our mode of transportation aligns with my comfort, sparing me the discomfort that often accompanies other forms of travel such as cars or taxis. Hence, I usually prefer taking the train—it offers a more stable and soothing journey, allowing me to arrive at our destination feeling relaxed and without any adverse effects.

Despite the occasional setbacks, our bond only grew stronger, anchored by shared moments of laughter and quiet contemplation beneath the twinkling city lights.

—

It was on one such evening, as we lay side by side on the rooftop of my apartment building, that Xavier posed a question that caught me off guard. He lay beside me, his thoughts growing louder with each passing moment.

"Can I ask you a question? What do you think of me?" His words hung in the air, laden with unspoken meaning, and I felt my heart race with uncertainty. His eyes danced in the moonlight, a shimmering reflection of his soul, seeking answers within the depths of mine. Caught off guard by his sudden inquiry, I searched for the right words to convey the depth of my feelings for him. But as I stumbled over my response, I found myself unable to articulate the truth that lay buried within my heart.

"Honestly?" I began, my voice tinged with uncertainty. “I think you're… amazing.” A nervous laugh escaped my lips as I struggled to find the right words. "Your selflessness, your love for animals, and your unwavering presence shines through in every action... whether it's kindness or lending a helping hand to a friend in need. You're a rare gem in a world full of ordinary stones, and I cherish every moment we spend together.

Everything about you is so ho-“ I stuttered, the word "hot" lingering on the tip of my tongue, before quickly correcting myself. "Cool. Everything about you is cool. It's one of the many reasons why I admire you so deeply and… I’m really proud to call you my best friend.”

As I awaited Xavier's response, a wave of apprehension washed over me, my mind swirling with doubts and insecurities. But before I could question his reaction, he deftly changed the subject. "Haha," he chuckled softly, his words masking the disappointment that flickered in his eyes. "Best friend... I see," he echoed, his tone carrying a hint of resignation. Confusion clouded my thoughts as I tried to make sense of his words.

What was that. What is going on? Was I simply reading too much into it—into his reaction? Before I could seek clarification, Xavier changed the subject, his bright facade masking turmoil within.

"Let's go! It's getting late. I’m getting sleepy already," he remarked with a fake yawn, his voice cheerful despite the underlying tension between us. I nodded, the faint rumble of approaching trains echoing through the station, heightening the urgency in his words. As we boarded the train together, the worn fabric seats welcomed us with a familiar embrace, their faded texture a testament to years of commuter traffic.

Xavier settled beside me, his presence comforting yet unnerving in the dimly lit carriage. I stole a glance at his reflection in the window, the soft hum of the train's engine creating a cocoon of sound around us. He rested his head on my shoulder, his breaths steady and rhythmic, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within me.

What did he mean by ‘Best friend…I see’? The question echoed in my mind, refusing to be silenced as I grappled with the uncertainty of our relationship. Did he also see me as more than just a friend? Or was I simply projecting my own desires onto a friendship that was never meant to be anything more?

The weight of my thoughts pressed heavily upon me as I journeyed home, the rhythmic sound of the train's wheels against the tracks serving as a backdrop to my inner turmoil. I wanted so desperately to reach out to Xavier, to confess the depth of my feelings for him, but the fear of rejection held me back, chaining me to the confines of my own insecurities.

And so, as the train rumbled onward into the night, I was left alone with my thoughts, grappling with the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring. For better or for worse, Xavier had become an indelible part of my life, his presence shaping my world in ways I had never imagined possible.

—

That night, as I lay on my bed, memories of my past relationship flooded my mind like an unwelcome torrent. Two years spent together, believing we were destined to be each other's forever, shattered in an instant when my ex-boyfriend cheated on me with my own best friend. Every whispered secret, every shared laugh, now tainted with the sting of betrayal—an irreparable fracture.

The bitter taste of betrayal tainted my perception of love, leaving me disillusioned and wary of entering another relationship.

My days became a relentless cycle of pushing myself to the limit, both physically and mentally. Yet, despite my outward transformation, the pain of betrayal lingered like a stubborn shadow, threatening to consume me at every turn. That day, I found myself unable to hold back the tears as they streamed down my face upon discovering the truth, each drop a poignant reflection of the depth of my heartache.

To escape the tormenting memories, I buried myself in work, immersing myself in tasks and projects with unwavering determination. I also poured my energy into crafting my own set of outfits as a hobby. But no matter how much I tried to distract myself, the ache of heartbreak remained a constant companion—a haunting reminder of the love lost and the trust shattered.

Yet, just when hope seemed all but lost, a flicker of light appeared on the horizon. That is, a year after the devastation of my past, I met Xavier. His presence breathed new life into my world, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness of my despair. Little did I know, he would become the beacon of love and healing that I had long believed to be lost.

As I pondered back to Xavier's words, my eyelids grew heavy with fatigue. Soon, I surrendered to the embrace of sleep, diving into its depths.

—

Ever since then, life became a whirlpool—sucking me into its chaotic currents. It's my typical coping mechanism to bury myself in work, a futile attempt to escape thoughts of Xavier. Days blurred into nights filled with endless work and overtime, a relentless cycle that offered temporary distraction. Then, amidst the hustle, a familiar ping broke through the monotony—a text from Xavier. ‘Princess. U busy? I’m craving for soba noodles suddenly. Wanna eat 2gt?' his messages popped up one by one. Again, his simple words stirred a flutter of emotions within me, and I couldn't help but blush.

Xavier's persistent attempts to meet up tugged at my heartstrings, but I resisted, afraid to deepen my feelings for him and disrupt the delicate balance of our relationship. ‘Kinda tired tonight. Another day okie? Sorry🤍’, I replied, my fingers tapping out the message with a weariness that mirrored my exhaustion. Exhaustion weighed heavily on me as I left the office well past midnight.

The city streets, usually bustling with life, now felt eerily deserted as I made my way to the train station. Boarding the train homeward, fatigue threatened to pull me into slumber. The train's bell-like chime jolted me awake as it announced my stop, piercing through the haze of fatigue that clouded my mind.

I alighted at my stop, the deserted train station casting eerie shadows in the late-night silence. Each step echoed off the empty walls, my weariness dragging me down like an anchor as I trudged wearily up the stairs. Thoughts raced through my mind, a tumultuous whirlwind of conflicting emotions swirling in the darkness of the night.

As I ascended to the top of the stairs, exhaustion bore down on my shoulders, threatening to engulf me. Abruptly, a figure emerged from the shadows, jolting me out of my reverie. Before I could react, we collided.

Nearly stumbling backward, my heart raced in my chest as I struggled to comprehend the situation. With a shaky hand, I reached out to steady myself against the railing. "Watch where you're going, dumbass.” The harshness of this rugged-looking stranger voice pierced the stillness, stirring a knot of anxiety in my stomach. It was a jarring encounter, snapping me out of my tired stupor and reminding me of the harsh realities of the world outside my bubble of work and avoidance.

“I’m so sor-“, my voice trailed off. As I strained to identify the source of the voice, a sense of dread crept over me. The intonation, the cadence—it all felt uncomfortably familiar. Oh no. With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I peered closer, and there he was: Leon, his presence like a ghost from my past, haunting me in the dead of night.

For a moment, I was frozen in shock, unable to comprehend how our paths had crossed again after all these years. But then, as his words registered in my mind, I felt a surge of anger rising within me, pushing aside the fear that threatened to consume me. “Wait… (your name), is that you?” Leon's voice cut through the tension, his tone filled with surprise and a hint of uncertainty. "Leon," I replied, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and disbelief. Trying to ease the tension, I added, “I almost didn’t recognise you.”

But before he could answer, his demeanour shifted, his eyes softening with an emotion I couldn't quite place. “(Your name)…” he said, his voice tinged with regret. "I'm sorry." His unexpected apology caught me off guard, momentarily halting my rising fury. But as I struggled to process his sudden change in attitude, he reached out to grab both my arms, his presence, like a repulsive chill, sent waves of disgust through me.

“It’s been years and I still miss you,” he whispered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can't we just talk?"

I recoiled at his touch, feeling repulsed by the memories of our tumultuous past flooding back. "No," I said firmly, my voice edged with apprehension. "We can't." But as I attempted to pull away, his grip tightened like a vice, his fingers digging into my skin with a disturbing intensity. "Please," he pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation and a hint of madness. "I really miss you."

In that moment, panic flooded through me, memories of past betrayal threatening to overwhelm once again as I attempted to break free from his touch. Leon's expression turned aggressive, his grip tightening on my arms as I struggled to break free. I attempted to flee from his grasp, but he wouldn’t relent.

Leon's voice erupted into a furious crescendo, each word dripping with venomous anger. "Bitch! You think you're hot shit now? Who are you fucking now, huh?” His aggressive tone sent shockwaves of fear coursing through me, urging me to escape his tightening grip. Desperation clawed at my mind as I screamed for help, the haunting memories of our tumultuous past intensifying the terror of the present moment.

Summoning a surge of determination, I gathered every ounce of resolve within me, channeling it into a fierce effort to break free from Leon's suffocating grip. With a desperate lunge, I wrenched myself from his grasp, feeling the weight of his hold relinquish as I staggered downward, my heart pounding with the urgency of escape.

The reverberation of my voice in the desolate station amplified the intensity of my fear. I struggled against Leon's vice-like grip, panic coursing through me as I frantically scanned the empty surroundings for any sign of assistance. Yet, the late hour rendered the station eerily deserted, devoid of any potential saviours. In the grip of terror, my thoughts instinctively turned to Xavier, the one person I yearned to have by my side in that moment. The memory of his unwavering strength and protective presence ignited a flicker of courage within me. Drawing upon every ounce of resolve, I broke free from Leon's grasp, staggering backward in a desperate bid for escape.

“Get away from me!" I cried out, my voice trembling with a potent mix of fear and fury. As I darted up the stairs to get to the street and find help, my heart pounding in my ears, Leon's menacing presence loomed behind me. With a sudden, forceful movement, he seized hold of my hair, his grip unyielding and merciless—anchoring me to the ground with a jolt of pain and terror.

I found myself sprawled on the unforgiving ground, my arms instinctively forming a feeble barrier against Leon's relentless assault. With every ounce of determination I could muster, I unleashed a powerful kick aimed squarely at his groin. The impact sent shockwaves of pain through his body, doubling him over in agony, his knees crashing to the ground as a guttural cry escaped his lips.

Despite the adrenaline-fueled panic coursing through my veins and the tremors that racked my body, I persisted in my struggle against him, each futile attempt to break free intensifying the sense of desperation and urgency in the air.

Leon's face contorted into a menacing snarl as he regained his composure. He lunged towards me once more, but before he could reach me, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Xavier. With his imposing presence and determined stance, Xavier swiftly intercepted, closing the distance between us and Leon with remarkable speed. Without hesitation, he delivered a powerful punch to my attacker—his silhouette blurring with the force of his strike.

His usually gentle gaze now burned with an intense darkness as he confronted Leon, ready to protect me at all costs.

“Fucking coward,” Xavier spat, his eyes blazing with anger as he delivered another forceful blow to Leon's face. “Don’t you fucking dare lay a finger on her again.” With each punch, Xavier's resolve only seemed to strengthen, his determination to defend me evident in the unwavering force behind his blows.

Xavier subdued Leon with practiced ease, pinning him to the ground. The weight of his authority was palpable in the air.

As Xavier continued to rain down blows upon Leon, the sound of fists meeting flesh echoed in the dimly lit space. It punctuated the tension with each impactful strike. It was a visceral dance of justice against brutality, a raw display of Xavier's resolve to protect me. The sight of Leon, bloodied and bruised, bore witness to Xavier's unwavering commitment to my safety.

Never before had I seen Xavier so consumed by rage. It was as though he had transformed into an entirely different person, his usual calm demeanour replaced by a ferocity that I had never witnessed before.

Leon, now all bloodied up, stared up at Xavier in shock and disbelief. His bravado shattered by the force of Xavier's righteous fury.

“If you’re anywhere near her or touch her again, I’m gonna make sure you won’t see the daylight,” Xavier warned, his voice carrying the weight of his conviction, leaving no room for doubt or negotiation.

With fear etched on his face, Leon scrambled to his feet and bolted in the opposite direction as fast as his legs could carry him.

With Leon's retreat, the tension in the air began to dissipate, replaced by a heavy silence broken only by the faint sounds of the night. Xavier's gaze lingered on the spot where Leon had stood, his expression a mix of resolve and concern.

Turning towards me, his face a portrait of pure concern, I could still see the remnants of his earlier anger simmering beneath the surface.

"Are you hurt?" Xavier's voice softened with genuine concern as he focused his attention on me, his hand reaching out to gently cradle my cheek. His touch was warm against my skin, a soothing balm to the chaos that had unfolded moments before. I shook my head, my breaths ragged as I leaned against the solid cement pillar for support. As I attempted to rise, Xavier's reassuring presence steadied me, his strong arms providing stability. Gratitude flooded through me, knowing that once again, Xavier had rushed to my aid, much like that pivotal night at the bridge.

"Thank you… Xav," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, trembling with emotion as I met his gaze. "How did you know where I was?" I asked, my heart still racing from the intensity of the moment. Xavier's expression softened, his eyes reflecting a mixture of relief and concern. "I was worried about you," he replied, his voice gentle yet firm, a comforting hand supporting my back. “I just had a feeling something wasn't right, so I wanted to check on you. I'm relieved I found you when I did."

Despite the lingering rush of adrenaline, I found solace in Xavier's protective presence and his timely intervention.

Xavier's eyes scanned my face, his brow furrowed with genuine worry as he assessed my injuries. "We need to make sure you're alright," he insisted softly, his voice carrying a sense of urgency. Taking my hand in his, he effortlessly hoisted me onto his back, his actions speaking volumes about his commitment to my well-being. As we hurried through the quiet night together, Xavier bearing my weight, a sense of security enveloped me in his embrace. Despite the lingering fear and uncertainty, I found solace in relying on him for support, grateful for his unwavering strength and care.

"I can walk just fine, you know... You don’t have to carry me," I admitted sheepishly, a blush tinting my cheeks as I acknowledged my dependency, my face nestled between his shoulder and neck. Xavier's gaze shifted slightly as he turned his head, locking eyes with me in a reassuring manner. "I want to make sure you receive proper care. We're heading to the hospital to have your injuries checked," he explained calmly, his voice filled with determination to ensure my well-being.

“You’re so dramatic, it’s just a scratch!” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Xavier sighed and replied, "Ok fine, but let’s at least go to the nearby clinic?" I nodded in agreement, grateful for his compromise and his insistence on ensuring my well-being.

With each step, his purposeful stride conveyed his unwavering resolve to take care of me, easing my apprehension about seeking medical attention. The cool night air enveloped us as we moved forward, Xavier's presence providing a comforting shield against the uncertainty that lingered in the darkness.

—

After receiving care and ointments from the clinic, Xavier accompanies me all the way back to my apartment, ensuring my safety with his tender manner and attentive care. With each step, his strength supports me, his presence a comforting anchor amidst the swirling storm of emotions within me. As he guides me through the door, his touch is reassuring, grounding me in the reality of his protective embrace.

Once inside, Xavier assists me in removing my shoes and leads me to my bedroom with a confident, fluid grace. As he settles me onto the bed, his expression shifts between concern and determination, evident in the focused way he prepares to apply the ointment to my scratch.

"Wait," I interject, sitting up. "I'd like to shower first. I don't feel comfortable resting on my bed in my outside clothes."

Xavier nods understandingly, his eyes reflecting his unwavering support. "Of course. Would you like me to leave then?" he asks, gesturing towards the door with a gentle motion.

I pause, considering how to express my desire for his company. However, honesty prevails in my mind. “No, please stay," I reply, grateful for his presence. "Could you help me blow dry my hair after?" Xavier's surprise is evident, but a soft smile graces his lips as he realises I trust him enough to ask for his assistance. "Of course," he says, his voice warm with reassurance.

Stepping into the shower, the warm water envelops me in a comforting embrace. Thoughts of Xavier flood my mind, his timely arrival a beacon of hope in my darkest moment. Gratitude swells within me for his unwavering support, though questions about how he found me linger in the recesses of my mind.

Once refreshed and renewed, I search for Xavier and find him peacefully asleep on my couch. Bathed in the soft glow of the lamp, his expression is serene, imbuing the room with a sense of calm. Drawing closer, I marvel at the tranquility that surrounds him, his steady breathing a comforting rhythm in the stillness of the night.

Studying his features, I notice the gentle fall of his hair and the subtle curve of his lips softened in slumber. A small leaf rests atop his head, a whimsical detail that brings a smile to my lips. As I reach out to remove it, a droplet of water from my hair lands on his chest, causing him to stir and awaken.

Xavier blinks sleepily, his gaze softening with warmth as he focuses on me. “I-I’m sorry!” I stammer, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping up my cheeks. "I didn't mean to disturb your sleep. There was a leaf on your head, and I simply wanted to remove it. Look!” I explain, holding up the leaf as evidence. He chuckles softly, the sound carrying a warmth that melts away any lingering tension.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his voice a gentle caress, softened by the lingering tendrils of sleep, yet resonating with a sincerity that soothes my unease. As he unfurls from his slumber-induced cocoon, the fabric of his shirt tautens, tracing the contours of his toned abdomen with a subtle grace. A delicate flush of warmth blossoms across my cheeks, suffusing them with a soft, ethereal glow, like the first blush of dawn.

With a quiet determination, Xavier rises to his feet, a stalwart figure against the backdrop of uncertainty. The ointment, a healing elixir, already nestled in his hand, ready to tend to the tender wounds etched upon my skin. His touch is gentle yet purposeful, each movement deliberate as he tends to my grazed cheek and elbows, a silent vow of protection and care woven into his actions.

“Now, where can I find your hair dryer?” Xavier asks, his eagerness evident in the sparkle of his eyes and the gentle curve of his lips. The dim light of the room casts soft shadows across his features, adding to his allure as he waits patiently for my response.

Guiding him to the location of my hair dryer, I make my way to the kitchen to prepare some refreshments. The aroma of chocolate muffins wafts through the air as they warm up in the oven, filling the kitchen with a tantalising scent. Meanwhile, I carefully brew a fragrant cup of green tea, the steam rising gently from the cup as it steepens.

Returning to my room with the refreshments in hand, I find Xavier already waiting. With a warm smile, I place the food and drink on my side table, gesturing for him to sit on my dressing stool while I settle onto the bed beside him. As he inspects the wetness of my hair, I can't help but notice the soft glow of the streetlights seeping through the window, casting a tranquil ambiance over the room.

Handing him the hair dryer, I set it to medium heat and watch as Xavier meticulously blow-dries my hair with the brush I provided. Each movement is executed with care and tenderness, his focused attention ensuring my comfort throughout the process. Xavier playfully teases me about the small leaf in his hair, insisting I placed it there, to which I respond with mock offense, playfully stuffing a chocolate muffin into his mouth. Laughter fills the room, muffled by the treat, as we enjoy this lighthearted moment together.

“All done,” Xavier announces with a smile as he switches off the hair dryer.

Throughout the interaction, I can't help but feel a sense of warmth and affection for Xavier, grateful for his unwavering support and the comfort of his presence. The glimmer of streetlights seeps through the window, casting a soft glow on Xavier's features, particularly his blue eyes. In that moment, a tranquil stillness envelops my apartment.

As the sound of the hair dryer fades, I rise from my stool and move towards Xavier, who remains seated on my bed. I wrap my arms around him in a heartfelt embrace, my gratitude overflowing for his timely rescue. Overwhelmed by my emotions, I surrender to the warmth of the moment with Xavier. With a gentle kiss planted on his cheek, I convey the depth of my appreciation, cherishing this intimate connection between us.

Xavier's warm smile softens his features, his eyes brimming with tenderness as he gently reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair from my face. "Princess, from this moment forward, I vow to protect you wherever life may lead," he murmurs, his voice a soothing melody that brings peace to my soul. Nestled in our peaceful embrace, cocooned in warmth and affection, I realise the depth of the bond between us. This connection is precious, a beacon of light in the darkness of uncertainty.

With a contented sigh, I nuzzle closer to Xavier, guiding his head to rest on my chest, where he finds solace in the steady rhythm of my heartbeat. His arms around me are a sanctuary, offering solace and comfort in a world of chaos. And in that moment, I know with unwavering certainty that I am exactly where I belong.

Moved by the depth of my emotions, I lift Xavier’s head to meet my gaze, cupping his chin with my hand, and without a word, I press my lips softly against his, sealing our love with a tender kiss. It's a simple gesture, yet it speaks volumes, expressing all the love and gratitude that fills my heart. As our kiss deepens, I feel a sense of completeness wash over me, as if I've finally found my home in Xavier's embrace.

Reluctantly parting, breathless and exhilarated, a sparkle in Xavier's eyes reflects the emotions swirling within my own heart. In the lingering sweetness of our embrace, I know that our love will endure, steadfast and true, through every twist and turn that life may bring.

—by prettyobsessed⋆˚✿˖°

Editor’s note: So sorry! Work has been so hectic, but I hope this piece that I wrote will make your heart flutter♡

It’s for my Xavier gurlies; those who love his gentle side. Will Part 2 show more of a darker side to him? Stay tuned! For a bad boy Xavier ✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧

On a side, side note: I realise I enjoy writing slow burn scenarios. Do you guys prefer a fast-paced one instead? Feel free to let me know!

—

this content is copyrighted by @prettyobsessed. all rights are reserved. it is prohibited to replicate, imitate, plagiarise, or repost my content on any other platform without authorisation. translations are also not permitted unless proper credit is given🌷

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coralinnii · 11 months

Text

❋ If you are a villain, then let me be your accomplice ❋

feat: Lilia genre: mild hurt/comfort, slow burn romance note: sequel to reincarnated into a new world as the bad guy AU Lilia ver, no pronouns used, Lilia is depicted as his older appearance with long hair, human!reader, mentions of minor injuries unintentionally inflicted on reader, 1.6k word count

I liivvveee! For now, anyway. I still have my job projects and finals are upon me but I finally found some time to myself so I hope you enjoy another addition to the Villain/ess!series. I might end up failing a class but I know it’s not the end of the world for me and I really enjoyed the class so I wouldn’t mind retaking the class.

Yeaa...this did not end up as domestic fluff

WARNING: This part has kinda hard-to-read topics regarding children and childrearing. Sometimes parents, guardians, caretakers and/or other children accidentally get injured by a child and the child doesn’t know how to get over that. We never want to blame the child for these mistakes but we want to make sure they can learn to avoid such mistakes again. This is an odd case since these are fictional non-human characters and some people can view Lilia as too harsh or see MC/reader as too lenient. I’ve seen parents approach this concern differently and honestly to me, the next course of action is never easy to figure out without truly discussing with the child and those involved. I'm not saying whose method is right or wrong, I just wrote what would be the best course of action in this scenario. You might have your own opinions or approaches. Read at your own risk

A lot has happened since your first visit to the Vanrouge household. Lilia surprised you by taking both of you into his home, protecting you while helping to raise the young Yung. He offered a room to the small dragon and one for yourself (though Yung still prefers to sleep in your bed with you).

Speaking of Yung, he was still wary of Lilia and his servants, choosing to hide himself in your embrace or behind your legs. He refused to speak to anyone and if he needed something, he would whisper into your ears and being the pampering type, you would oblige.

“Dear me, he seems to have really imprinted himself on you” Lilia chuckled casually but then he quickly hardened his gaze and the conversation turned more serious. “However, if he does not grow out from this phase, he may end up unable to control his dragon side and hurt himself or you”

This worries you as you know due your knowledge from your previous life that Yung will grow to be very powerful but he fell victim to his own strength and destroyed himself with his power.

Distressed, you begged Lilia to give his guidance as the former guardian of the Dragon King and with a playful smile, he gave an offer to you.

“Very well, I will be his guide. But as a fair trade of service, why don’t you become my attendant? This would occupy your time and perhaps young Yung could use this to be a little more independent?”

And thus began Yung’s days of torture as your new job constantly took precious time from him by Lilia. Yung can no longer ask for walks with you because you’re needed to look over some paperwork with the duke. Nights where you would lull him to sleep were getting less and less as Lilia requested your assistance in looking over some schedule details before the new day. And even when Yung gets to hang out with you, Lilia would almost always be there to monopolize your attention.

At first, you decided to trust the young(?) duke and his tactics since you did come to him for his guidance anyway. Despite the rather playful demeanor he seems to have, Lilia seemed so confident to you and assured you time and time again that this is a rite of passage of sorts for fae like him and Yung since powerful beings like them must learn self-control before anything else.

But self-control continues to elude Yung and it wasn’t long before the cute little dragon decided enough was enough.

“Wuv is mine! Mister duke go away!”

To the best of his ability, Yung wrapped his short arms around your waist as he screamed at the duke. If Yung was any normal child, his growth would have been unprecedented as he was already walking (to chase after you and Lilia) and speaking fairly comprehensible sentences (to yell at Lilia). But as a fae, this was a typical growth spurt, quickly growing stronger and bigger than a typical human to ensure his survival. His physical strength was more obvious to you right now as the young child was unintentionally tightening his grip on you which started to hurt.

“Yung, l-love” you tried to speak but it came out as a short gasp as the small fae ignored your call. His hands, while small, kept digging through your clothes and into your skin which made you wince slightly. You tried other means of grabbing the young one’s attention but all was moot as all of Yung’s focus zeroed in on Lilia alone, his eyes glowing a slightly menacing color and a glare reminiscent of a dragon ready to defend his territory.

“Sigh…you are still a foolish child”

In an instant, the pain in your sides lessened as you found yourself in the arms of the duke instead of Yung’s hold. Both you and Yung were shocked by this sudden change of the situation. How did neither of you notice Lilia as he somehow managed to rip you out from the young dragon’s grip without his notice or harming you in the process?

“Are these the skills of an experienced fae?”

After looking over you for any major injuries, Lilia sighed again with slight disappointment, reminiscent of a father figure upset with a child that nearly broke something precious. “How can you protect your treasure when you can’t even protect them from yourself?”

Following Lilia’s previous line of sight, Yung’s heart sank when he saw the torn fabric of your outfit. With his extraordinary senses, he caught glimpses of red lines across your skin through the ripped clothing. He instinctively reached out his small hand to you but saw his nails were longer and sharper, like talons of a dragon.

He hurt you. He hurt you. He hurt you.

Yung broke into tears as those words cycled in his head, haunting him for his crime. You were instinctively pushing yourself from Lilia by the sound of his cries, running to enclose your arms around the poor fae child, holding him while softly giving words of comfort.

“Love, I’m alright. It was an accident, I know that”

But Yung continued to sob and he apologized profusely, his voice getting sore from his cries. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Lilia stood still behind you, watching silently as you continued to console your child, wiping Yung’s tears and holding his small, shaking hands.

Night came and Lilia visited you in your room once the family doctor was done tending to your scratches. The head of the manor immediately called for the doctor but you refused to show your injuries while Yung was still panicking over the incident. It was only when Yung calmed down and stayed with him until he fell asleep in his room. You kept your smile as you downplayed your wounds, not letting Yung blame himself.

When Lilia entered your room with your permission, he shocked you as he said something unexpected.

“I’m sorry.” He even bowed his head to you, showing the sincerity of his words.

You replied with confusion in your voice. “Pardon? What for?”

“I expected that Yung was getting possessive of you but I didn’t think that you would get this hurt in my attempt to distance you two. I should have intervened sooner”

Lilia held this guilt throughout the day, ashamed that he roped you into his little test for the dragon fae. He knew raising a powerful fae will be a rough journey, taking his experience from caring for Malleus. But if Lilia were the one to get hurt, it would be but a scratch that would heal in an instant. Whatever Yung would do, Lilia can handle it with ease.

But you weren’t fae. You were a human that bleed at the lightest touch from his kind, that break much too easily, and perish much too soon.

“You should leave this manor” Lilia stated with an uncharacteristically serious tone. “I will find a comfortable inn for you to stay in and provide other essentials until you can find another living situation to your liking”

“Wait a minute!” You jumped from your seat, your mind thrown for a loop. “I can’t just leave, what will happen to Yung? It'll break his heart! I didn’t mean to inconvenience your grace and your plans but I’ll be care-“

“Do you not understand the dangers of your situation?” Lilia’s tone was ice cold. “You nearly bled from what Yung thought was a childish hug. What if he were to get angry one day and suddenly knock you unconscious? He is not a mere human child but a fae, and a strong one as well. You are a human that may die by his own hands”

Silence filled your room as the weight of Lilia's words sink in.

You won’t lie, Yung’s nails were painful and your wounds still sting even after treatment. In the story from your past memories, Yung’s power will be on par with the current Dragon King, with the power to move mountains and call upon flames that would leave nothing in its path. Yung will continue to grow stronger and nothing you, a powerless human, can do that will be able to stop him.

But still…

“I stayed silent because I didn't know what would be good for Yung. But damn it, I love that child! As long as he needs me, I’ll be there for him” you locked eyes with the long-haired fae with determination. “He’ll become stronger, but he wouldn't hurt others. He is a happy, kind child"

"And how will you ensure that?"

"I will be there to make sure he stays that way” you made a bold choice, but you're confident in this. You were confident in your little Yung that he will go against his ending in that story nonsense of your previous world.

Crossing your arms, you made another bold comment.

“Besides…you still agreed to guide him. So, this will be a team effort” You were testing your luck but you assumed that should anything like today happen again, then you could always hide behind the great general Vanrouge. That's a team, right? Being able to depend on them during tough patches?

But Lilia stayed quiet and chose to simply match your stare with his. It was intimidating to have such an attractive man look at you with such intensity but you held your ground. You puffed out your chest and refused to look away from Lilia’s admittedly beautiful ruby-coloured eyes.

Then…Lilia giggled.

“Lilia, the renowned general…giggled….and it was so cute?!”

You were taken aback when you saw a soft smile crept onto Lilia’s lips, so different from his mischievous grin whenever he scares you from behind during work or the confident smirk when he wins a round of a card game that you introduced to him from your original world. You were upset, offended even that he would giggle at your proud proclamation to care for Yung. But wow, he was really attractive doing so.

Not noticing your conflicted expression (or choosing to ignore it), Lilia placed a hand on your head, closer to your forehead, then moved slowly to caress your head. His touch was so gentle, careful not to scratch you or add unnecessary pressure.

“He’s good at holding back his strength” you thought, only having heard the stories of the unbeatable general. Lilia is a playful man but his power is impressive even among other fae so this gentle side of him was a pleasant surprise to you.

“Goodness gracious, I wonder if this is where Yung gets his audaciousness from?” Lilia had a shine in his eyes as he kept his gaze on you, almost as though he was captivated by what he saw. “I look forward to your cooperation then, teammate”

#twst x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst imagines #disney twisted wonderland #villainess au #twisted wonderland imagines #twst scenarios #lilia vanrouge #lilia x yuu

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animehideout · 4 months

Note

Hiiii could you please add INTP for your MBTI series? 🩷🩷🩷

Your MBTI, Your Relationship With JJK Characters Part 6

INTP + ESFP

Check out Part 5 here

check out part 7 here

a/n: Thank you Anon, @tojiiismyhusband @system753 @venus-xxoo for requesting INTP. Also thank you @suchasecretiveninja for reading 🫶🏻💕 I hope you enjoy these headcanons.

INTP:

Gojo Satoru = Fiancé

As an introvert who relies on the power of mind, I think you'll be fine having a loud extrovert as your partner; Gojo Satoru. INTP appreciates an open-minded partner who is willing to engage with them in intellectual conversations, challenges and debates, and Gojo is the one. INTP has a unique sense of humor that couldn't be understood by everyone, so with Gojo being witty, he'll find no problem in matching your vibe and continuing with your jokes even in serious situations, making the relationship even more enjoyable. Gojo is egocentric, so your wittiness would humble him everytime. INTPs prioritize logic, but also crave emotional connection which is the case for Satoru, he's so affectionate with you, and willing to satisfy your emotional needs. A balance between intellectual discussion and emotional support. Also both of you value independency so none of you feels restricted in the relationship. Let's not forget that Gojo is an ENTP so you're basically his introverted version.

Megumi Fushiguro = Friend

INTP values friendships that align with intellectual curiosity, and with Megumi being an intellectual himself with smart ideas, you'd totally become hooked. You would engage in deep existential conversations, debate and explore abstract concepts, while at the same time you respect each other solitude and independence without forcing your opinions on each other. Megumi is an honest person and honesty is something that INTP values. You are a fan of constructive criticism and feedback, you accepted it as long as it makes you grow mentally. Despite being logical most of the time you still have warm emotions which is the heart of your friendship.

Toji Fushiguro = Has a crush on you

INTPs are determined despite being a huge procrastinators. Toji likes how logical and rational you are and how you neglect your feelings when taking decisions and life choices. Despite being an introvert you engage well in conversations in public making you look like as if you are an extrovert. You are good at making your voice and ideas heard and understood. Toji appreciates your self-confidence even though you hide a lot of anxiety inside of you. He is also charmed by your mockery for situations that others may find scary, but you manage to find a humor in them, even though your humor serves as a coping mechanism. All these qualities made Toji drawn to you.

Ryomen Sukuna = Love hate relationship

Sukuna loves you but hates you at the same time. Despite him seeing humans as inferiors, he can't help the attraction he has for your badass side. He is attracted to your analytical thinking and overly logical mindset. As the king of curses, he sees human emotions as a weakness and burden so seeing a human who actually relies on their mind and neglect feelings intrigued him. Your unique and controversial thinking is also another hook for his interest. Your witty side completely swept him off his feet, you're kind of similar in this. Having a mocking and quirky kind of humor is kinda relatable for him. But at the same time he hates your resistance. INTPs worship independence and freedom, they completely oppose submission to someone else and don't accept forced rules. Let's not forget that Sukuna is an extrovert so extroverts that want to forcefully dominate introverts for perceiving them as shy individuals who are unable to defend themselves is a type that INTPs can't stand and that's how the tension / hate between you too was born.

ESFP:

Aoi Todo = Boyfriend

ESFP is a lively and affectionate partner you, totally match Todo energy. Your presence keeps him recharged, your energy and enthusiasm are infectious. Despite him being strong both physically and mentally he still needs your affection to function properly. INTP infuses excitement and passion in the relationship. Given that both of you and Todo are extroverts you thrive on social interactions and enjoy spending time together doing fun and spontaneous activities. You also have similar love languages. Both of you are also sensors so you have an awareness of each other's discomfort which brings a huge understanding between the two of you.

Geto Suguru = Rival

One thing that was able to make you consider Geto as your enemy; lack of emotions and empathy. ESFPs are highly emotional individuals they are expressive and very sympathetic towards others. Geto's ruthless side clashes with your nature, effortlessly creating a hurdle. His behaviors choices and mindset go against your principals and values leading to a significant conflict. You can connect with trustworthy people but with him there's no connection, you believe that empathetic individuals can't be trusted as they only care about their own desires without taking into account other people's well-being. On the other hand, Geto sees you as weakling and a burden on society for simply being an emotionally oriented.

Kamo Noritoshi = Source of comfort.

As someone who has dealt with a lot, lacking the families' warmth in his life, he always find himself indirectly dependent on you for some comfort. ESFP excels at expressing empathy through both words and actions Despite Noritoshi skills at hiding his emotions, you as a sensor you can sense his troubled spirit and provide for him a safe space by acknowledging and understanding his feelings without judgment and serve as a listener when he's ready to open up. Aside from comfort you also radiate a contagious positive energy that can break through the toughest walls. It makes ESFPs happy knowing that they had a positive impact on people around them.

Thank you for reading, remember this piece of writing is just for fun, also IMO so it's not necessarily accurate ✨

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queenshelby · 8 months

Text

Forbidden Desire (Part 13)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader (Female/Incestuous)

Warnings: Incest (at this stage accidental), Age Gap, PTSD, Domestic Abuse, Self-Harm, Fluff, Smut

Please comment and engage xx 😘

Late at night, after the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting an eerie glow across the sky, you slipped out of the townhouse you now shared with your mother in Birmingham, which your father had bought for you. Your heart raced as you navigated through the dark streets, headed towards Liam's secret hideout.

Echoes of laughter and music drifted through the air, drawing you closer to the source. The sounds of revelry made your pulse quicken as you neared the entrance of a dimly lit pub.

Its wooden door swung open with a creak, revealing a dimly lit interior where patrons clad in colourful garb danced and sang to the lively melodies of traditional Irish tunes. Liam greeted you with a broad smile, his armoured vest and sleek trousers accentuating his muscular build. As you entered the establishment, your eyes met his, and the intensity of your attraction grew stronger.

Liam's gaze bore into yours, conveying a mix of hunger and longing that sent shivers down your spine. The scent of whiskey and sweat mingled with the rich odour of cigarette smoke permeated the air, creating an atmosphere that seemed to envelop you in its thick embrace. You found yourself drawn to Liam as if under a spell, compelled to follow him deeper into the labyrinth of the pub.

Each step you took echoed against the wooden floorboards, causing you to feel increasingly disoriented.

Despite your growing unease, you could not tear your eyes away from Liam's mesmerising figure. He led you through the crowd, weaving effortlessly through the press of bodies as they swayed to the rhythm of the live music.

The room gradually transformed, becoming more private and intimate as you progressed. The smell of alcohol, leather, and humanity intensified, leaving your senses reeling with excitement.

As you continued to follow Liam, his arm brushing against yours ever so subtly, sending shockwaves of desire coursing through your body.

In the depths of the pub, Liam guided you toward a small, secluded corner. Surrounded by velvet drapes, this area exuded an air of exclusivity, allowing you to feel sheltered from the chaos of the crowded room. Liam's hand grazed your shoulder, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

"We need to be careful, Liam," you reminded him, wanting to keep the fact that you were dating a secret from your family.

The last thing you needed was rumours spreading about your romantic interests, getting to either your father or Tommy.

"Don't worry, love," Liam replied confidently, drawing you closer with his powerful arms.

"Our time together will remain our little secret. Nobody needs to know about us except for you and me." His tender kisses along your neck heightened your arousal, causing you to lose control of your breathing.

His lips trailed down your neck, slowly working their way back up, eventually reaching your own.

His touch sent electric currents surging through your body, making you feel weak and yearning for more. Your heart raced, pounding fiercely in your chest, as his tongue lightly grazed your lips, seeking entry.

As you opened your mouth to grant him access, you felt a wave of apprehension wash over you, and you, again, remembered the intimacy you had shared with Tommy.

Kissing Liam was not quite the same and even though you had been dating for almost three weeks now, you still had not slept with each other.

The thought of doing so terrified you. You did not know what he would do when he got to the point of having sex. It was all new territory for you, and you were still learning how to navigate it since the only man you ever slept with was your very own uncle.

"Slow down," you thus said to Liam, hoping he would understand your hesitation. His face hardened, and you saw his determination rise.

"Just give me a chance," he pleaded, his hands now cupping your face gently.

"If you trust me, let me prove myself worthy of your trust," he begged, but you felt somewhat uncomfortable still.

It was as if you could not fully surrender yourself to him. There was something holding you back, and you were not sure whether it was fear or just plain resistance.

"I am sorry Liam; I am not good with this. Intimacy scares me and I am just not ready yet," you admitted honestly as your heart ached at the thought of disappointing him, yet you could not bring yourself to push past your boundaries.

"Who would have thought that a member of the Shelby Family can be so prude, huh?" Liam sighed disappointedly, looking away from you. "You don't know what you're missing out on," he added, trying to tempt you further.

But you held firm, standing your ground, determined not to let him pressure you into doing something you were not comfortable with.

"You should focus on proving yourself worthy of my trust in other ways," you suggested, attempting to ease the tension since you were aware that Liam knew that you did not fully trust him just yet. "Besides, we don't need to rush things," you explained.

Liam's eyes narrowed in frustration, clearly unhappy with your decision.

"Alright, alright," he finally relented, seemingly resigned to respecting your wishes. "We'll take it slow. Just remember, this does not mean we're not exclusive. If anyone else tries to pursue you, I will not stand for it," he said as his tone conveyed a sense of possessiveness.

Awkward silence settled between you two as you navigated the aftermath of your disagreement.

Liam's expression remained tense, his jaw tightening as he fought against the urge to argue further. Recognizing his displeasure, you decided to attempt a change of subject but, before you could do so, Polly came walking into the room.

Her eyes immediately widened upon seeing the two of you, and her demeaner shifted from relaxed to alert in an instant.

"What's going on here?" she demanded, her voice edged with concern.

Feeling cornered, you glanced at Liam, who responded by stepping protectively between you both.

"Nothing's happening," he lied smoothly, his tone suggesting otherwise. "We were just catching up."

Polly eyed both of you suspiciously, but the moment passed without incident.

"Well, whatever it is, just remember Y/N, you are a Shelby now," she admonished before turning towards Liam.

"As for Liam O'Connor, you should know your place," Polly lectured him harshly, drawing disapproving looks from you.

"Polly, please. That is not necessary. We were just talking," you told her, knowing full well that her interference was not helping matters.

Polly's brow furrowed, her expression filled with scepticism. Her eyes flickered between you and Liam, weighing the honesty of your words. After a moment of deliberation, she appeared to accept your explanation, nodding curtly before turning to leave.

***

Unbeknownst to you, the following day, at the offices of Shelby Company Limited, Polly brought what she had witnessed to Tommy's attention.

"Tommy," she began as she barged into his office. "We need to talk," she stated bluntly, her tone serious. Tommy looked up from his desk, instantly recognising the urgency in Polly's tone.

"What is it?" he asked, setting aside his work as he rose from his chair. Polly hesitated for a moment, gathering her thoughts before continuing.

"You will not like this, Tommy," Polly said, choosing her words carefully. "But, last night, I caught Y/N in the middle of a conversation with Liam O'Connor. They appeared close, too close for my liking," Polly pointed out, causing Tommy to sigh.

Tommy's face contorted into a mask of anger, his eyes darkening with jealousy.

"Are you saying that one of my men is involved with my fucking niece?" he snapped, his eyes blazing with rage. Polly nodded grimly, confirming his worst fears. "How long?" Tommy asked sharply, his jaw clenching in anger.

"Since her birthday, I think. They must have met that night at your house," Polly answered, struggling to find the right words to explain the situation.

Tommy's grip on the edge of his desk tightened, his knuckles whitening as his grip intensified.

"Do you think they're sleeping together?" he questioned, his voice hoarse with barely contained fury. "Because if he does as much as lay a fucking hand on her, I will kill him, eh" Tommy warned, his face flushed with rage.

"Oh god, Tommy, enough with the jealousy already," Polly said, trying to calm him down but Tommy was beyond reason now. All he could see was the image of his beloved niece wrapped around another man, his mind racing with jealous thoughts.

"Don't you dare talk to me about jealousy, Pol," Tommy retorted angrily, his eyes flashing with a mixture of hurt and anger. "I am not fucking jealous," Tommy argued defensively, trying to convince himself more than Polly. "But I am cautious, eh? She is family after all," he added under his breath, unable to suppress his rage.

"Look, Tommy," Polly began, trying to reason with him. "I did not come here to tell on her. For all I care, she is a grown woman who can do whatever she wants...," Polly then began to say, trying to get to the point, but Tommy interrupted her again.

"That bastard, he doesn't deserve her, Pol!" Tommy said, the heat in his eyes betraying his jealousy, making it clear to Polly that she had struck a nerve.

"That's not the point, Thomas," Polly retorted calmly, trying to reason with him despite his temperament. "Now, would you please let me finish talking?" she asked, seeing that he had interrupted her several times by now, unable to deal with his growing jealousy.

"Yes," Tommy muttered darkly, his fingers fidgeting. "Speak," he commanded, his voice cold and detached.

"The reason I came here to even tell you about this is because I have a bad feeling about Liam. I always did, but usually, I would not interfere in your affairs, and I know that you put him in charge of fixing your races," Polly explained. "I cannot shake this nagging sensation that there is something wrong with him. He is hiding something," she warned, and Tommy, his face unreadable, remained silent, taking in Polly's words.

It was clear that he was weighing her concerns, considering them seriously.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and controlled. "So, you believe that Liam might be trouble, eh? And why exactly would you think that?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Polly hesitated, collecting her thoughts once more.

"I may not have concrete evidence, but I have a feeling that Liam isn't who he seems to be. He has been seen with a few unsavoury characters recently, and some whispers suggest that he might be involved in some activities that could interfere with your own," she revealed slowly, her eyes locked with Tommy's intense gaze.

Tommy's eyes narrowed slightly, a frown marring his features. His brain raced through various scenarios, analysing the potential consequences of Polly's claims. The fact that Liam had connections to unsavoury characters did not necessarily mean he was involved in activities that go against the interest of Shelby Company Limited, but it certainly raised suspicion.

"So, I should keep an eye on him, eh?" Tommy mused, deep in thought. His expression hardened; his eyes gleaming with determination.

Polly nodded in agreement, grateful that Tommy was willing to listen to her concerns. "Yes, you should keep an eye on him, and you should also keep an eye on Y/N. She could be in danger," she affirmed, her voice strong and confident.

"Trust me Pol, I will put an end to their interactions right fucking now," Tommy spat, calling for Arthur, but Polly intervened.

"Do you think that, telling Arthur about this, is the wise thing to do?" Polly asked, her voice low and cautious.

"You are right. I need to handle this myself," Tommy acknowledged, but Polly pointed out that if he were to intervene directly, disallowing you to see Liam again, this would likely backfire on them all.

"So, you want me to watch on and do nothing while this fucker makes a move on my fucking niece?" Tommy questioned with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Yes, but get your trusted men to watch them both. You should also act cautiously around Liam and give him some space to find out what it is that he wants, Tommy," Polly advised, her eyes earnest and determined. "Let us not jump to conclusions yet. It is better to know our enemy first,” she said, and Tommy considered her advice, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"Alright, Pol, I will sit back and observe," he promised solemnly, his resolve evident in his eyes.

Polly nodded understandingly, knowing how deeply Tommy cared for you.

"Good," she told him, her voice gentle and reassuring before bringing up some other matters, including Lizzie's pregnancy and the upcoming elections where Tommy was in the run for the Labour Party.

Polly pointed out to Tommy that, by now, Lizzie was showing. Most people knew that Tommy was the father of the child, and, as such, Polly considered it to be wise if Tommy was to marry her.

Polly understood that Tommy cared deeply for you, but she also knew that he needed a wife - someone to solidify his position for the upcoming elections.

Tommy's brow furrowed at Polly's suggestion, his mind spinning with the implications of what Polly had told him to do. While he was aware of the political benefits of marrying Lizzie, he could not help but feel uneasy about the idea. His feelings for you were complicated, to say the least, and marrying Lizzie would only complicate his personal life further.

But as he mulled over Polly's suggestion, he realised that the stakes were high. With the upcoming elections, it was crucial for him to secure his position and gain public support. Marrying Lizzie could accomplish both goals while simultaneously shielding you from his desires for you. It would make things clear. It seemed like a strategic move, albeit an emotionally painful one.

His heart ached at the thought of losing you completely, of no longer having you in his life, though he knew that, ultimately, it was for the best.

"I will think about Pol," he said finally, a slight quiver in his voice betraying his conflicted emotions. Polly looked at him with concern, understanding the weight of his decision the depth of his feelings for you.

"Just remember, Tommy, you cannot have the woman you are in love with. She is your niece," Polly reminded him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Tommy's eyes met hers gratefully, and he sighed.

"You're right," he acknowledged before telling Polly that he had other business matters to attend to.

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chrliekclly · 25 days

Note

if you ever want to talk about your thoughts on joyce .. Peeks over the corner of your blog. i love talking and hearing ppls thoughts on joyce sooo much even if they're different from my own!! and your analysis and stuff is always so well thought out

i hope u dont mind if i answer this publicly to take advantage of th request nd get my ideas out ther (also tyvm im happy u like my insane takes on these idiots, iv ben thinking abt them for almost 10 years)

i said a lot here so gnna 'read more' it

iv ben building trans charlie n my head fr, like i said, nearly 10 years. i used to view him as cis bcuz i always try to take as much frm th source material as i can wen i craft my HCs nd i had v personal (stupid) hangups insofar as him explicitly referring to his junk multiple times nd bottom surgery simply not being on my radar as a naive littl trans idiot deep in th sauce tht transmen oftn fall into w phallo being viewed so so poorly

evn still i leaned towards transmasc charlie nd always lovd moments tht let me imagine, for a moment, it being true, like his discomfort w taking off his shirt [hundred dollar baby, charlie kelly: king of the rats, the gang exploits the mortgage crisis, young charlie and mac deleted scenes, etc etc etc], or bonnie yelling abt ppl stealing her "charlie-girl" [the waitress is getting married] which i lovd to see as her accidentally misgendering him while drunk off her ass.

having grown out of my phallo issues (nd if ur reading this and u still view phallo super poorly, please do some research and grow too), ive in recent years fully subscribed to transmasc/nb charlie, and view his timeline something like this:

baby -> elementary: charlie refers to himself as a boy, doesnt "come out," simply has no idea he's afab. bonnie lets him dress however he wants and refers to him as asked. when charlie gets confused about his genitals, bonnie says his dick will grow in later lol, makes charlie wear a dress in public restrooms and tells him its just a game

middle: puberty hits and charlie gets confused and scared. bonnie puts him on blockers w.o explaining them ("my mom used to vaccinate me like every month" [the gang gets quarantined]) charlie goes on content and oblivious. STP acquired because hes "a late bloomer" and his dicks still not growing in?? weird. confides this in mac once, but he doesn't understand.

high: charlie finally registers that he's trans after forgetting theres a health class 1 day and not being able to skip it. throws him for a loop a bit but he becomes actively invested in his goals. he gets to start T and wants to have surgeries. "what guy hasnt done some extensive research on his own genitalia?" [mac is a serial killer]

college (aged): able to surgically transition (ty medicare) and continues on with life as we kno him now

joyce, imo, fits neatly into these views.

as a transmasc nb who came out young nd prefers to be seen as just A Guy by strangers, i grew up v vehemently against anything girly that might get me misgendered, but th more i began to 'pass,' th more @ home n my body i felt, th more and more comfortable i am w femininity, th more i wdnt mind putting on a dress, as long as th general public wd see me as "a man in women's clothes." n my mind, i prescribe something not exactly th same but v similar to charlie.

i see charlie "i dont really identify" kelly as afab and nb. i see joyce as a "character" he originally created to distance himself from the dysphoria of putting on a dress as a young trans boy, but that became part of him as the hard lines he drew in the sand as a child became blurry with age and self acceptance. charlie's comfort with himself allows joyce to evolve into a more solid persona, one he enjoys embodying and allowing to become a permanent facet of who he is. he's ok with being referred to as either. they're both him.

so maybe joyce comes out a bit more outside of the bathroom now.

#ask #pariskim #charlie kelly #joyce kelly #ramblings #i hav lots of thoughts nd feelings nd smday ill draw out charlie's whole timeline th way iv ben meaning to #th same way charlie holds th gang togethr charlie holds my whole viewpoint of iasip togethr #i gave myself a headache writing this post i spent more time xplaining my years of tboy charlie thinking than joyce im sry lmao #but i do lov her

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wing-ed-thing · 5 months

Text

Jean Kirstein Relationship Headcanons

Tags/Warnings: No Reader Pronouns

𓆃 All around a fairly well-rounded partner who will treat you right in a simple, low-drama but loving relationship.

𓆃 Jean is the kind of guy who thinks he already knows it all, especially if it's his first relationship. Most of this has to do with his mom, who raised him "to be a gentleman."

𓆃 Buying chocolates, flowers, holding the door open, walking closest to the road on the sidewalk, and paying the bill to name a few, Jean has a strict list of behaviors that he's already designated as his to perform in a relationship.

𓆃 It'll surely throw him for a loop if you don't want him to do any of them, especially if your relationship leans on the more non-traditional side.

𓆃 But no matter the dynamic or how you present in a relationship, Jean continues to function with his own idea of "chivalry."

𓆃 Throwing your card or cash out to pay the bill on one of your first few dates will surely throw a wrench in your night.

𓆃 And it's not that Jean thinks that "you think he's weak" or is insecure that you might "have a higher income," but it comes more from the fact that he had a specific idea of how things were going to go and Jean isn't great at readjusting.

𓆃 He's upset and semi-moody the rest of the night because Mama Kirstein taught him that he's supposed to get the bill, but how the hell is he going to bring that up? He can't.

𓆃 Not to mention if his finances are a lot lower than he anticipated. He wants to pay, but who else isn't embarrassed by their card declining?

𓆃 He's not attached to an unhealthy extent to the concept of being a man (or masculinity in general), but it is very important to him and a part of who he is.

𓆃 While this correlated to physical strength and status to him in his youth, as he grows older, this will manifest as healthy self-grooming, confidence in his communication skills, and emotional sharing, using language that doesn't denigrate others, and strong and inclusive leadership skills.

𓆃 And it's important to note that Jean's idea of being a man also strongly correlates to taking care of and caring for you.

𓆃 He's especially skilled at baking, and prides himself on making meals for you. Whether it's baked goods for special occasions or little treats like breakfast in bed, Jean enjoys using his skill in the kitchen to surprise you.

𓆃 Even if his surprises are impractical. You might have to tell him that while some of his gestures are thoughtful, they aren't practical.

𓆃 Breakfast in bed means you have to change the sheets because crumbs got everywhere. His running you a nice bath with flower petals was thoughtful, but you had just seen the largest insect you had ever seen in your entire life and you think it ran to hide in the towels.

𓆃 He gets a bit down on himself the same way you paying for your date would. Where he almost sees it as a personal failure. That he wants to do nice things for you and it's embarrassing when he doesn't hit the mark.

𓆃 Jean has a bad habit of inadvertently taking this out on you by becoming quiet and pouting, making you regret saying anything. That's a conversation to have.

𓆃 And sometimes he's misguided about what he thinks is best: for you, for himself, and for both of you.

𓆃 Sometimes, he'll fixate on something "chivalrous" to an annoying extent.

𓆃 Perhaps he notices you're walking on the street side of the sidewalk, he might grab you by the shoulders and physically move you to the other side saying, "Nope, wrong side."

𓆃 That might be annoying to you, and you'll have to remind him multiple times to stop.

𓆃 That's one thing that might be concerning to you, is when he locks into something, he needs to be told multiple times before he actually listens to you.

𓆃 He also has a hard time setting boundaries with his mother, so hope you have a good relationship with Mama Kirstein.

𓆃 Overall, Jean clearly cares about you very much. He's just a little slow when it comes to change and admitting when one thing isn't the answer to everything.

𓆃 It might take you both some time to adjust to and communicate how you want your relationship to operate, but once Jean understands what you need, you'll never want for anything.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

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justabigassnerd · 9 months

Text

I've Got You

Pairing - Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell x daughter!reader

Word count - 2,751

Warnings - self-harm, bullying, cancer mentions, angst, Goose mentions, mentions of death

Summary - at a low point in your life, your dad is there to help you through it

A/N - hey y'all sorry it's been a while since the last fic I've just been busy. this was an anon request and I hope I did it justice. I did do some research and I tried my best to approach this subject in a way that would be acceptable and I'm so sorry if it's not bc it was not my intention at all. as per y'all, please send requests, feedback and enjoy

Growing up, you were an outgoing and confident person. You’d be the first person to extend a hand to make new friends at school and try to make sure people were happy. Parents of your fellow pupils, when you were in preschool, had gushed to your dad about how confident and comfortable you were as a young girl when they noticed you give your dad a quick hug and disappear into the classroom while every other child clung to their parents, begging to stay with them.

However, in your final year of high school, people began to change.

Over time, girls in your grade at high school began to turn on you, listening to the whispered words of the queen bee and her gaggle of followers and you became isolated. You tried everything and anything to get someone, anyone to talk to you but everyone turned away from you. You refused to let anyone see that they were getting to you. You were a Mitchell. Mitchells are tough and you knew your dad wouldn’t want you getting upset over something so trivial. You tried to remain tough, but your defences came crumbling down when you reached the security of your bedroom. Your only friend was Bradley, but he was a year older than you, at college, and incredibly pissed off at your dad so it was near impossible to communicate with him. You were sure he hated you too for your dad pulling his papers and you couldn’t blame him. He had every right to be mad.

As the noises and voices in your head grew louder, you started searching for ways to quiet them down, even for just a moment. You tried and failed multiple different ways to keep yourself calm and level. You couldn’t talk to your dad, he was in the middle of dealing with your Uncle Ice’s cancer scare, both men waiting with bated breath for the test results to come back. So, with all his focus on Iceman, you faded into the background, the noise in your head almost unbearable at this point.

One evening, after your shower you caught a glimpse of your razor sitting snuggly inside your shower caddy, gleaming against the bright light of the bathroom as you stared at it. You tried distracting yourself, splashing your face with cold water before changing into your pyjamas but the object continued to call out to you making you squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to banish the thoughts from your head until they became too much.

Over the coming days, the bathroom and your razor became your escape, the only way for you to temporarily forget what you had been through during the day. Maverick had noticed that you’d been pulling away slightly and had asked if everything was okay, but you were quick to tell him that you were just busy with school work and didn’t really have time to hang out with people while you prepped for your exams. That weekend, Iceman had invited you and your dad around for a barbecue in his garden since it was almost summer, and the San Diego weather was exceptionally gorgeous.

“Have you noticed that y/n wears a lot of hoodies lately?” The hoarse voice of Iceman cuts through to Maverick who had been staring intently at his beer bottle. Maverick winced at his wingman’s voice, sore from the constant coughing fits that attacked the pilot. Maverick glanced across the garden to where you were sat with Iceman’s wife Sarah and a friend of hers, remaining silent as the two women chatted. He then briefly glanced up at the sky, unsurprised to see no clouds in the sky which made him realise how out of place you looked sat next to Sarah and her friend in an oversized hoodie while the two women were in sundresses.

“I also feel like I haven’t seen her much recently either.” Maverick thinks aloud, glancing over at Iceman who sips on a glass of water.

“You should talk to her, Mav. Maybe she needs her dad and just doesn’t know it yet.” Iceman says as he and Maverick watch you carefully, both men realising your smile seemed forced and didn’t meet your eyes in the same way it used to. You used to love spending time at the Kazansky household, usually sticking with Iceman and chatting with him while simultaneously teasing your dad. Iceman figured you chose to sit with Sarah because he’d figure out something wasn’t right too quickly. He was good at reading people, and it was something he had relied on a lot in his lifetime. In taking a step back and just observing, Maverick was able to pinpoint behaviours he’d never seen from you before and could feel the worry tightening his chest with each passing second.

“Mav. Breathe. It’ll be okay. Just, make her feel safe and loved like I know you do.” Iceman urges gently, resting a friendly hand on Maverick’s shoulder and squeezing it softly, fighting the hoarseness of his voice to comfort his wingman. Maverick nods lightly, putting his beer bottle down before crossing over to where you were sitting.

“Come on squirt, let’s head home. We’ve bothered these fine people enough.” Maverick says, throwing a teasing wink in Sarah’s direction who laughs and rolls her eyes.

“You mean you’ve bothered Tom too much. y/n has been an angel like usual.” Sarah says as you get up bidding the two women goodbye with a soft voice and a small smile before crossing the garden to Iceman and hugging him quickly.

“Bye Uncle Ice.” You whisper, pulling away almost as quick as you initiated the hug, barely giving him time to reciprocate.

“Goodbye, y/n/n.” Iceman says, a small smile on his face yet it couldn’t hide the sadness in his eyes at how fast you pulled away from the embrace. Maverick muttered a goodbye to Iceman, giving him a hug and clap on the back before exiting the Kazansky household. You climb onto the back of your dad’s motorbike and wrap your arms around his waist loosely.

“Hey, tight grip kid I can’t risk you falling off.” Maverick says, taking your wrist softly to pull your arm further around him but stopping instantly when he felt you flinch and lets go.

“I got it.” You mumble, tightening your grip around his waist as he flips the kickstand up and begins the journey home. When he pulls into the drive, he turns the engine off and kicks the kickstand back down as you climb off the back of the motorbike. You wait at the front door for Maverick to unlock the door since he was the only one out of the two of you to bring the house keys with you. The second the door is opened, you make a beeline towards the stairs, but Maverick is quick to call you back, making you stop in your tracks and turn to face him as he closes and locks the door behind him.

“Can we speak in the living room, please?” Maverick asks gently, waiting patiently for you to nod lightly and head into the living room with Maverick following behind. Both of you sit on the sofa, a small space separating the two of you.

“Is everything okay, dad?” You ask quietly, worried you were about to receive some bad news.

“That’s actually what I wanted to ask you. I haven’t seen you much recently, and I’ve noticed you wear hoodies a lot more than you used to, especially in this weather when everyone else is in t-shirts.” Maverick asks, making you immediately avert eye contact, focusing on your hands as you instantly start fiddling with your hoodie toggles.

“I mean, you’re the kind of guy to wear a jacket in the middle of summer. I don’t think you’re in much of a position to judge, are you?” You ask weakly, a feeble attempt at a chuckle escaping your lips.

“Yeah, I was asking for that one. But I am worried about you, sweetheart. You’ve locked yourself away and I just want to help. You can tell me anything, you know that don’t you?” Maverick says softly, his eyes filled with worry as he watches you carefully. You pressed your lips shut, not wanting to tell your dad what was going on with you when he already had enough on his plate with Iceman’s possible cancer, Carole passing away recently and Bradley cutting off all contact.

“I’m fine dad, just stressed about school.” You say, plastering a smile on your face to convince your dad that you’re okay.

“Sweetheart. This is a safe space; you can tell me whatever is upsetting you. I know it’s not school because you would’ve gone to Ice about it. He’s always helped you with school work.” Maverick says, his voice never raising or showing any more than his genuine concern.

“I know Uncle Ice is dealing with a lot right now. Waiting for his test results must be terrifying and I didn’t want to bother him.” You say, grabbing at the first excuse that came into your head.

“We both know Ice prefers to be busy and doing stuff when he’s awaiting big news, regardless of whether it’s good or bad news. He would’ve loved to help you with your work. Please tell me what’s wrong, y/n.” Maverick urges softly, his worry reaching an all-time high as you briefly glance at him.

“You’ll hate me.” You whisper, your voice cracking as some tears make their way out of their ducts.

“y/n, I promise you, there is nothing you could say to me right now that would make me hate you.” Maverick says, watching you carefully as you think over his words, taking a deep breath before you speak.

“Recently, a lot of girls at school started picking on me. At first, it was manageable, just whispers in the hallways but they started spreading rumours and I lost all my friends. I felt so alone, no one likes me at school anymore. I know it shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I just hate it so much.” You say, a tear rolling down your cheek as you speak. Maverick reaches out for your hand, pausing when your hand twitches away from his.

“Is there more?” Maverick questions quietly, warning signs flashing in his head at your behaviour, remembering how you reacted on the motorbike as well.

“I started… hurting myself. The noises were just so loud in my head that it was the only way to make it quiet even if it was just for a moment. I just wanted the noise to stop.” You say, tears now flowing freely down your cheeks as your dad wastes no time pulling you into a hug, a hand running up and down your back as he presses repeated kisses to the top of your head.

“Oh y/n/n. I’ve got you.” He whispers, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears that threatened to fall at your confession.

“I’m sorry, dad. Please don’t hate me.” You say through your tears, clinging to your dad as he shakes his head against the top of your head.

“You have nothing to apologise for, sweetheart. I couldn’t hate you for this. I’m the one who didn’t notice you were struggling.” Maverick says gently, yet firmly as he squeezes you just that little bit tighter.

“You were busy with so much. I didn’t want to bother you. I just wanted the noise to stop.” You whimper, burying your face in your dad’s chest as Maverick let the tears fall, gently cradling your head to his chest.

“Please don’t ever feel like you’re bothering me. Not about something like that. I love you so, so, so much and I hate that you went through this alone because I wasn’t paying attention to you. I should’ve done better.” Maverick says, his voice breaking as he spoke, giving away to you that he was crying which made you cry harder. You made your dad, the strongest person you know, your hero, cry.

“It wasn’t your fault dad. You’ve been dealing with so much.” You say, reaching up to wipe at your eyes with your hoodie sleeve.

“But I could’ve lost you.” Maverick whispers, every worst-case scenario now flashing through his head.

“I didn’t want to die. I just wanted something to stop everything going on in my head. I swear.” You say urgently, not wanting your dad to think the worst, although you were sure it was too late as you looked up at his face. He remains silent for a moment before speaking.

“I know how that feels.” He says, keeping you in his embrace as you pull away slightly to look up at him.

“You do?” You question softly, unable to imagine your dad in such a state.

“You were only little when Goose died. But when he did, I practically shut down. I stopped training for a while, and I could not stop thinking about how I could’ve, how I should’ve been better for him. I thought about hurting myself then. Just to shut the voices up.” Maverick says, lifting a hand to swipe your tears away.

“How were you strong enough to not hurt yourself?” You ask, you were sure you tried everything you could’ve done to not get to that stage, yet you still did.

“Viper sent me to therapy after the accident. I didn’t think it would work at first but once they got me to open up, it helped a lot more than I could’ve ever thought. Maybe, if you want, we’ll look into finding a therapist for you, to help you through this. You’re not alone, y/n. Not while you have me, Ice, Slider, and the others.” Maverick says, running a hand through your hair. You lift your hand to swipe away at any excess tears Maverick missed and your hoodie sleeve slipped down an inch, exposing part of a scar and Maverick was quick to look away. You hadn’t chosen to show your scars and so he wasn’t going to impose anything on you unless you made the decision. After wiping your tears, you gingerly lift a hand and wipe at Maverick’s face, making a soft smile appear on his face.

“Thank you for being here for me dad.” You say quietly, making Maverick nod.

“No need to thank me, sweetheart. It’s my job. I just want you to know that I’ll always be here for you. You don’t have to be afraid to tell me anything, no matter what’s going on with me. You can always come to me for help.” Maverick says, his gaze never leaving you as he speaks, making you nod in understanding.

“I know dad.” You whisper before a small yawn slips past your lips, it was then that Maverick had noticed that the sun was almost gone, and night had fallen.

“Let’s get to bed, it’s been a long evening. We’ll talk more in the morning.” Maverick says, getting to his feet and waiting for you before the two of you head upstairs. You enter your room while Maverick enters his, both of you getting ready for bed before Maverick knocks on your bedroom door, asking for permission to enter. He finds you already curled up under your covers and as he bends down to bid you goodnight, you speak up.

“Stay. Please.” You whisper, watching as your dad nods and you quickly move over to make room for your dad. Once he’s settled next to you, you curl into his side, allowing him to wrap an arm around you and allowing your eyes to slip closed.

“I love you dad.” You whisper in the darkness.

“I love you too, y/n.” Maverick replies, beginning the action of running his hand up and down your back which lulls you to sleep almost instantly, the final thought running through your head being how grateful you were for your dad, and how much you loved him.

Maverick watched you sleep for a moment, listening to your soft breaths as he continued to run his hand up and down your back. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much you went through without him knowing. But as his eyes slipped closed for the night, he swore that he was going to do better by you, and he was going to make sure you never felt alone again. Because no one deserves to go through that.

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asumofwords · 8 months

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Blood, grief, stabbing, death, PTSD.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello my babies! Well..... I know a lot of you prayed that the last chapter was a dream... It wasn't. And apologies for that haha. But we aren't finished just yet, we have 5 chapters to go!!!! I hope this satiates your little desires. Enjoy <3

Chapter 105: A Crown Forged in Blood

“When I’m Queen, we shall fly to Essos and eat as many lemon tarts, star fruit, and pies as we wish.” You had smiled at the older boy, sitting in the Gardens, hidden away from the searching eyes of the Septa.

Aemond grinned, both eyes creasing as you spoke, “When I claim a dragon, we can race there.”

“Syndor would beat you any day.”

The young Prince pouted, “We shall see if that’s true.”

“Yes, we shall.” You had said haughtily, lifting your chin higher as you tried to squeeze the smile from your face.

“When I’m Queen,” You had stood, looking down at him in mock regality, “I shall make you my knight, so that you may always be at my side to bring me lemon tarts.”

Aemond’s button nose scrunched, “Why not make me your King? Then we can make Aegon be our cup bearer.”

You snickered, “You’re right! How did I not think of that? Gods, I've been so blind, Aemy! I would have no other man by my side but you.”

The older boy blushed, looking away shyly.

You sat down beside him again, nudging his shoulder, “What’s wrong?”

Aemond shook his head, “Nothing.”

“Don't you lie to me. It's a sin to lie. What would the Septa say? What would your Lady mother say?”

The young boy gave you a glare, to which you giggled lightly.

“You mock me.” The Prince whispered.

You frowned, “I don’t mock you, Aemy. Never you.”

“Do you think being wed to me would be a punishment from the Gods?” His voice was so small, so quiet, and your ears had strained to hear it come from his lips.

But there it was, his ever present self doubt, lack of self worth, and constant state of anxiety. Aegon no doubt being the thorn in Aemond’s side, which continued to grow and press meanly into the wound, festering into the young boys confidence.

“Kepus,” You grabbed his small hand in yours, shaking it about between the two of you, “I think that being wed to you would be the greatest gift the Gods could ever give me. Who else makes me smile but you?”

Petrichor floated over the realm, the soft earthy smell of rain settling atop Kings Landing after the storm had finally passed, making its way further West, where it would eventually run out of its rage, and dissipate into the sky.

Your chambers smelt coppery, irony and thick, from the blood that had begun to coagulate beneath you, beside you, on you. Much like the blood that had begun to coagulate within his own body, that lay still and cold at your side.

But the smell of rain lingered in the chambers, if only just so, as the sun slowly rose into the sky, the first glow of morning light filling the room.

Your hand continued to brush through his hair, soothing his silken strands whilst your palm cupped his cheek with each movement. Admiring his beauty, committing his image to your memory forever more.

His eye was now closed. For you had brushed it shut with shaking fingertips, and pressed another kiss to his lips. Just as the prophecy had said.

Another eye will close.

And it had.

The tears on your cheeks had dried, and your sobbing had ceased.

The ache that had once settled deep within your chest had gone cold, and now a subtle numbness spread through your limbs, up your arms, all the way down to your toes.

Shifting amongst the sheets, you looked down at the man you loved, the chemise against you cold and sticky with his blood, clinging to each and every curve of your body. Your love's blood.

The man you had killed for.

The man who had killed for you.

And the man, you ultimately killed with your own hands.

His face was soft, and he looked at peace. Finally at rest.

No more sneers, or scowls, or frowns. No more anxiety, or worry, or anger.

Just him.

Your Aemond.

Sister, A voice whispered in the low light of the chambers.

Your head moved slowly, sluggishly, as though your body had been frozen in ice, or as though you were moving through thick layers of snow in winter. Winter had finally come for you.

At the side of the bed, stood the young boy who had been taken first. The first loss in the sea of losses. The first life to have been taken in this war. The first person to pierce all who had been close with grief.

His dark brown curls were dry atop his head, cow-like eyes blinking at you gently, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks, and atop his lips was a small and sad smile. His robes were no longer wet as they had been during the night, and his cheeks held the soft rosy blush that they used to.

It’s time, Lucerys spoke again.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

It’s time.

With one last glance at Aemond, lips pressed against the cold of his forehead, you slowly stood from the bed. Joints aching and sore, but only just. The chemise stuck to your flesh, and the coldness of your hair that had settled in his blood sent shivers down your spine.

But it was time.

And you had been waiting for this moment since you first arrived.

Every move you had made had come to this, every piece of the board you had meticulously placed had finally fallen to where it had needed to be. Every hour of suffering, of agony, of isolation, was so that this moment could come to fruition. From the moment you had stepped back into the Red Keep with Aemond, the pieces had been moving.

As you started to walk across the chambers, almost in a dream like state, you turned one last time, in the hopes that you would see his chest rise and fall, the colour come back to his cheeks and the violet of his eye open to look at you.

Hoping to see him sit up in the bed, sheets tucked around his waist as he looked at you in disappointment, for him to chastise you, mock you, call you to him. To give you a lecture, tell you were a fool, tell you that he forgave you.

To have him hold you, and kiss you, and feel him against your skin. To plan a future together, more children, and convince him, truly convince him to flee with you. To leave Kings Landing and start anew, somewhere far away.

To say, 'See? This is what would have happened. Now we know what we must do. Now you can see I was right. Now we can leave, be together.'

But he didn’t, and he was still, and he would be still forever more.

The glinting of the blade on the bed caught your eye, and so with fingers dried with his blood, you picked up the Valyrian steel and gold dagger, red on its blade and hilt, splashed against the emerald stone of one dragon. You spun, taking slow steps across the chambers towards you brother.

Lucerys turned his head, looking to the table.

And there it was.

The Conquerors Crown.

Sitting where it had been placed the night before, in wait for Aemond to rise that morning with the sun and place it atop his head. But the Targaryen man would not rise that morning, nor would he rise ever again to place that crown atop his head, or rise to place a kiss against your lips.

Nor would he rise to see the suns gentle warmth or feel its rays. Nor would he reach out and grasp it with his long fingers. Nor your hands, not your face, nor your body, or his goblets of wine. Not his tomes that he loved reading, or his quill that he spent countless hours writing with, nor the reins of his dragon he had lost an eye for.

Aemond Targaryen; a son, a brother, an uncle, a nephew, a lover, a husband, a King, was no more, and grasp, or hold, or sneer, or kiss, or smile, or breathe he would not. Never again.

The crown of Aegon the First.

Valyrian steel that had been passed down generations, its sharp edges and points curved to its peaks at the front, and smaller ones at its sides stared up at you. The ruby in the centre, a blood coloured stone, round and perfect sat at its front.

The last one left.

No more were the others flanking its sides and around the entirety of the crown.

Were they plucked by greedy hands, or lost to falls or breaks? Or did they never truly exist in the first place?

Fingers wrapped around its rim, small smudges of blood smearing atop the steel, you turned it in your palm. It was heavier than you had remembered, the weight of the crown balanced in your hands.

But the weight of the crown atop your head was barely felt.

Some say, the weight of the crown can drive men to madness and cruelty, or impassivity in the face of adversity, but was it the true weight of the physical crown, or the weight of what it represented. The weight of the duty that it carried alongside. The weight of the realm at your finger tips.

But to you, the weight was both overwhelming and not there at all, and it was only when Lucerys whispered your name in your ear did you look up, catching your reflection in the mirror of the vanity at the far wall.

The chambers were filled with an amber glow of the early morning sun, a warm orange that touched all inside, casting shadows atop the furniture and art, illuminating the ruby at the front of the crown.

And there you stood, bare except the blood stained chemise that clung to your curves and the crown that sat atop your head, smeared in the blood of the King. Silver white locks were clumped with blood on one side, whilst a smear of red appeared across your cheek, where Aemond had held your face in his dying palm.

But it was your eyes that truly caught your notice. Not the crown, or the blood, or the dagger that was still clutched in a loose hand by your side. It was the violet of your eyes that had seemed to darken, seemed to have dulled, in the way Aemond’s had.

It was as though you were looking at a stranger.

They’re coming, Luc whispered again behind your shoulder, head turning to look at the door.

And there, at the entrance, stood Helaena. Dressed in an apricot gown, hair pulled away from her face in the braid she wore every single day. Never changing, never evolving. She stood and watched.

Waiting.

Your throat felt dry as your aunt stared at you, her face void of any emotion, ghostly white and silent. Her lavender eyes were locked on you, never once straying to Lucerys or Aemond.

And she stood where you knew you had to go.

She stood where you knew you had no choice but to.

She stood in the room alongside her only niece and deceased nephew, her younger brother still, and bloodied on his bed. The last of Alicent's children to fall. The last of her brothers to meet the same fate as her.

All gone.

All lost.

Taken by the stranger.

Hand on door, you pulled at the handle, slowly sliding it open, the weight of the wood against your stained palm, bare feet pressed into the cold stones of the floor. Your heart thumped steadily in your chest as you stepped out.

You looked down the wing, eyes searching the walls and space before you. The corridor was quiet, no maid nor servant moving through your wing of the Keep as they usually would.

The knight at your door was gone.

He knew.

And so you left, leaving your chambers behind you, the corpse of the man you loved, bloodied and cold in your bed. Leaving it behind to do what you knew you needed to do. Like an invisible string pulled and guided you, down the corridors, down the halls, the many stairs and steps, with not a single guard present.

Not a single knight to be seen.

Nor Lord.

Nor Lady.

Nor maid.

Empty.

Too early for the morning rush of the higher Lords, racing to their duties.

Too late for the maids and servants to not be racing about.

But none were seen.

As though the Gods had cleared you safe passage, ensuring you go undetected for as long as inhumanly possible.

They were helping you, you thought, after all you had done.

And so you kept on, toes having gone numb from the cold stones below, and all feeling in your body disappearing; like you were floating. Hovering above the stones, body as light as a feather as you moved. The feeling of being foreign in your own skin, bones not feeling at all like your own, thoughts lost to the cool morning air.

And then suddenly there you were, standing in the large chambers of the Iron Throne alone.

Empty.

You stared up at the mangled and broken swords, crafted to create a monstrous throne that would and should spark fear into any enemy in its presence. Into any man who dared to defy it.

The embodiment of the Targaryen dynasty. The legacy of fire and blood. A promise of dragons and death.

A silent tear fell from your cheek.

“Your Grace?”

You blinked, brows twitching, the hand holding the blade at your side tightened, hidden amongst the folds of the chemise that was caked with Aemond's blood.

A noise came from behind, a thumping against the stones.

Clunk.

It seemed to echo in the space around you, jolting your brain with each step as it became louder and louder behind you, coming nearer and nearer.

Closer and closer until it was right behind you, and a large hand had reached to press itself against the flesh of your shoulder, fingers curling over you gently, a position that could shoot back quickly if needed.

You slowly looked over at the hand that gripped your shoulder, nails were cut neatly back to the cuticle, and a singular gold ring upon its forefinger.

A bee engraved in its centre.

You followed the hand up its wrist, to its elbow, then all the way to his face.

Larys Strong stood behind you with caution in his Strong brown eyes.

Eyebrows knitted in concern.

Uncertainty.

He took in your appearance, eyes roaming down your bloodied body, chemise clinging to your skin, stiff backed and quiet, crown atop your messed waves of silver white hair.

“Where is the King?” He asked, voice quiet as he looked at you.

You breathed in audibly, throat rasping as you parroted him back, “The King.”

“Where is your knight?” Larys Strong’s voice became sharp, prickled, as he looked about the chambers in search of the man who had known, who had fled, who had most likely had warned others to go with him.

You shook your head, body still facing the throne, hand tightening against the blade as your knuckled creaked. Eyes unblinking as you took a shallow breath.

“I must-“ Larys began, but the words were halted in his throat.

You had spun.

Quicker than you thought you would have.

Not unsure of what you were truly doing, but following instincts.

The instinct to survive.

His cane fell to the floor loudly, rolling away from him, as his brows pulled down in agony.

A cough of pain bubbled from his lips, spittle laced with blood dribbling down his chin. His deep brown eyes finally dropped down, your fist pressed against his stomach, the blade of your dagger thrust deep within his gut.

He opened his mouth to cry out, but you jolted the blade upwards, using all the strength you had left, his hands gripping your shoulders painfully as you held onto one of his, keeping him on your blade.

You looked into his eyes and leant forward, whispering beside his ear, “A dragon devours the sheep and wolves whole, Lord Larys. I warned you of this. And I always keep my word.” Your voice came out smoothly, softly, as though a coin had been tossed, and the shock of Aemond’s death had fallen away like a curtain, drifting down to the stone below.

“I- you have-“ He gasped, one hand moving to grasp your wrist, to try and pry the blade from where it was nestled in his flesh, blood spreading outwards on his green and brown robes, the soft dripping of the thick, viscous liquid hitting the stones below.

“The King is dead, Larys." You pulled back to look at him, "And I am the Queen.” You yanked the blade from his gut, stepping back as you watched him stagger backwards and fall to the ground with a thump, his iron foot scraping against the floor loudly.

“You-” He coughed, blood dripping from his lips, and overflowing from his hands where he clutched desperately at his robes, “Y-ou have p-layed the ga-me well.” He praised brokenly, another pathetic cough falling from his lips, a thin string of bloodied saliva dangling from his chin.

“I have not played the game, Larys. I have won it.”

You turned away from him, and slowly made your way up the steps of the Iron Throne, Lord Larys Strong watching weakly from the stone floor where he bled heavily against the grey stones, his crimson spreading across it rapidly.

They would be fed once more.

Blood dripped from the blade with every step you made, a long trailing path following you up to where you finally stood, eye to eye with the monstrosity.

The Iron Throne.

You thought of all the blood that had been shed for this throne.

All the suffering that had been endured.

All the loss.

For, Aegon the Conqueror, who slayed each man and took their swords to create it. To Maegor the Cruel, who was destined to flood the Keep with blood from those who defied him, and the men who built it. To Viserys, your Grandsire, who let blood be spilt in his inaction. In his complacence. Incompetence.

To Aegon.

To Aemond.

And now, you.

And in that very moment, as you stood before something you had desperately craved as a child, which you had thought you would be promised, which was yours by birthright, it caused nothing but hatred and despair.

A throne which had taken so much of you. So much from you.

But when you fight for the Iron Throne, you either win, or you die.

The Greens had declared war.

And you were still standing.

After all odds, you were still here.

You turned to face the room, looking out at the many large stone pillars, the stained glass windows, the unlit torches, and slowly sat atop the throne, looking down at Larys as he lay on his side, chest rising weakly as he blinked sluggishly up at you.

It was cold, the throne.

The sharp edges beneath your flesh poked at you threateningly, but it did not break the skin, nor tear at you chemise. A reminder of the threat of sitting atop it. Perhaps the true intentions of Aegon the First when he had the throne made. Have a throne that reminded you of the threat that was sitting atop it. A reminder of the enemies, the usurpers and turncloaks alike that would nip at your heels and back when you blinked.

The dangers of even your own self.

And yet even still, you were not cut. As if the Gods had made it so.

And they had.

You sat and watched quietly as Ser Larys Strong, The Master of Whispers, took his last, dying breath against the stone floors of the Iron Throne chambers. You watched as his head rolled limply against the cold floor, and the hands clutched at his stomach loosened.

You let yourself smile, an angry smile, and rage filled smile, small on your lips as you looked at the corpse below you. A man who had done so much damage, who had taunted and teased you, mocked and provoked.

A man who had whispered in Alicent's other ear, whilst Otto purred in the other, pushing her to choices which started the pieces that would fall. That would start the pieces of all her children dying.

To her being alone.

The blood beneath him pooled thickly, reflecting the ceiling of the chambers like a puddle.

They were coming.

And you would wait.

Dagger in hand, crown atop your head, seated upon the Iron Throne, you would wait.

And so you did, for a time, until the familiar screech of a dragons flew over the Red Keep, and the deep rumble of another crossed closely by. Shadows sweeping across windows, distant screams, men running, and the sound of dragon fire.

But you could not pull your eyes away from the doors as you waited, not as you saw men run past the Iron Throne chambers, nor when you heard rumblings from Flea Bottom.

You were to wait.

And wait you did.

As though you had gone into a dreamlike state, a meditative state, no worries, nor cares, nor thoughts within your head. No feeling but the cold numbness that creeped through your pores and crawled through your bones.

Time moved differently.

And the noises became louder.

Until there, at the far end of the room, stood a pair of silver hair and violet eyes.

One much larger than the other, taller and broader, the other smaller and dainty, a golden crown atop her head. Their eyes were open in shock, in relief, in fear, heads snapping from Larys and then to you.

Daemon and Rhaenyra had returned to the Red Keep.

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