#and one small scrub tree

[lilyoffandoms]

[syoddeye]

deep end

price x transmasc!reader | 7.9k | AO3

cw: dubcon (power imbalance, price steamrolling reader), hints of daddy issues/mild daddy issues for those who want to see them, abrupt ending, age gap, alcohol, masturbation, praise kink, hand feeding, fingering, oral, anal sex a/n: clit, cock, and cunt are used to describe genitalia of reader's body. reader has top surgery scars.

There’s something to be said for the kind of work that doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. 

It’s not glamorous, but it’s yours—a modest business with your name on the side of a sun-faded van, stocked with gear, and enough regulars to keep the bills paid. That’s more than a lot of people can claim. It keeps the lights on. Affords you food and pride, both. Proof you’re getting by.

This little operation, humble as it is, at least gets you outside. And on days like this, that’s a gift. The cirrostratus looks like pulled strands of candy floss overhead, and the breeze takes the edge off.

You tip your head for a moment to admire the clouds, then tug the brim of your sunhat. It’s too big, like everything else you’re wearing. The clothes came out of the same catalog you order your gear from. A stiff, white button-up with your logo on the pocket and shapeless red shorts that skim your knees. Cheap. Chafes in all the wrong places, but expensable.

You scratch absentmindedly near your navel and guide the vacuum along the pool floor in methodic passes. The water is clear, the motion soothing. Slips you into a quiet headspace. 

It’s satisfying. Calming. The zen and predictability of a repetitive task cannot be understated. Lulls you into a lovely state of not-quite-daydreaming. 

So, you don’t hear Mr. Price the first time.

“You with me, lad?”

The vacuum handle nearly slips as you twist around too fast, your foot catching the edge of the pool. You wobble, free arm flailing for balance. Mr. Price steps forward instinctively—poised to surge across the yard. You manage to steady yourself, weight rocking back in time.

Both of you exhale at once.

He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it across his beard.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you.”

“I gathered.”

You switch off the vacuum, the underwater hum fading. “Was there, uh, something you needed, sir?”

His sunglasses are too dark to tell, but you feel him sizing you up, same as he did when you arrived. He hadn’t said much then either, just opened the door, looked you over from head to toe, then gestured toward the side gate with a grunt.

You don’t know what to make of him. In truth, you rarely give your clients much thought beyond big house and lucky bastards. If you see them at all, it’s through the windows.

This is your first time at his place, and you’re still formulating an assessment. 

You don’t know if Mr. Price has a family, but his house is big enough to accommodate one. There’s a sporty car parked outside his garage. A sprawling garden, lined with hedges, mature trees, and a wrought-iron fence. No immediate neighbors butting the property line.

And, obviously, a pool.

What sets him apart is that you met him, and not a housekeeper or assistant. Clients typically let others handle the scheduling and small talk. It caught you off guard, putting a face to the voice, and matching the face to the owner’s name.

Still, your gut says to treat him the same as the others. Another man accustomed to obedience. So, you straighten and lift your chin.

Your change in posture seems to amuse. The corner of his mouth lifts.

“I asked if you needed water.”

Your eyes flick to your bag and your beat-up thermos, plain as day. He had to have seen it. Which means this isn’t really about concern. You’ve done this dance before. A casual, innocuous question preceding a snide comment or suspicion. Are you slacking off? Cutting corners?

Knew it, you think bitterly.

“No thank you, sir.”

His mouth twitches again, this time downward, then flattens. 

“Suit yourself.”

He retreats indoors, and the rest of the visit passes without incident. No more words exchanged. The clouds lift, sharing a rare, naked sky.

You pack your tools and log the time. As you pull out of the drive, you check the rearview.

Mr. Price stands at the back gate with a phone pressed to his ear.

You can’t read his face from this distance—but you feel the weight long after the house disappears from view.

You must’ve made an impression, because Price starts booking weekly. On your docket every Friday afternoon.

It mystifies. His pool is never particularly dirty. Maybe a thin film of grime at the most, a handful of leaves blown in from the hedges and bird cherry trees. No signs of children or pool toys. No evidence of parties. It’s clear he lives alone, and doesn’t host.

Far be it for you to question easy money.

It makes for a pleasant, if not boring, routine. Knock on the door. Head around back. With booking and billing handled online, there’s no need to see or speak to him at all.

For a couple weeks, it’s simple. Another lucky bastard with a big house who leaves blank five-star reviews. The best you could hope for.

Then he starts appearing poolside.

At first, you assume it’s a fluke. That he’s forgotten you’re scheduled. 

He’s the picture of leisure. Drink in one hand, cigar in the other, stretched out on the cushions. If he’s startled or annoyed by your presence, he doesn’t show it. He gives you a polite nod, then buries his nose in a magazine.

But then it happens again. And again. 

Like clockwork. The new fucking routine.

You unlatch the gate, and there he is, waiting. He makes himself comfortable—well, more comfortable, given it is his house—and watches. Or seems to. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses.

He never interrupts, just smokes and reads. The magazines he cradles are dog-eared, covers curled over. Sometimes you catch glimpses of the topics: cars, golf, current events. None of it hints at what he does for money. If he’s retired or working from home. If he’s ever worked a day in his life.

It changes things.

The calm dissolves. You grow more aware of every little thing. The way your shirt sticks between your shoulder blades. The trickle of sweat down your spine. Every time you bend at the waist or kneel by the pool’s edge. 

You try to ignore it, but you feel his eyes brushing over the nape of your neck or small of your back. Yet every time you peek, he’s not looking. You can’t shake it anyway—the sense of being observed, possibly admired.

That’s when the shame creeps in.

What are you doing? What do you think this is, a slow-burn porno? Are you that vain?

This is just a job.

You scold yourself, cheeks burning hotter than the sun overhead. It’s mortifying. To even imagine that a man like him—older, composed, probably has a different watch and woman for each day of the week—would be watching you. You. You’re not special. You’re a line item on an invoice. Background noise.

The thought that you’ve spun some dumb fantasy makes your stomach knot.

You work faster. Keep your eyes down. Try not to think about it too hard.

But when the breeze shifts and carries his smoke toward you, heavy and spiced, and it curls around your ribs like a hook.

Your first real conversation, you’re in trouble.

“You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Price’s fists sit on his hips, a cigar at the corner of his mouth held in place by a frown. Sunglasses hiding a glare.

“What kept you?”

You’re sweating from the mad rush, juggling the hose and skimmer, and running on fumes. A dull throb pulses in your skull, the tail end of a headache from your last client’s shrill tirade. His threats to leave bad reviews over a handful of rowan petals in his pool and a perceived lack of hustle.

A nutcase, you want to spit. You want to tell Price about how you skipped lunch and nearly got sideswiped on the drive. Complain about how your life depends on the goodwill of people who don’t remember your name and settle for obscenities or diminutives.

Instead, you drop your armful on the grass and lie. “Traffic.”

He cocks a brow. “Traffic got you worked up?”

“Yes,” you bristle, and slam the gate to storm back to collect the rest of your supplies.

When you return, he’s still at the gate, and this time, one long arm swings past. He slows the metal before it slams, guiding it shut with a quiet click. Suddenly, he’s too close, and you’re boxed in. A meld of tobacco, sweat, and body heat seeps into the space between. It’s toothsome. Heady on the tongue.

You form an apology—you can’t afford to lose business—but he doesn’t raise his voice.

“Whatever’s actually put you in a mood, you won’t be takin’ it out on my property.” He ducks his head to chase your eyes and you’re forced to stare at your reflection in the dark lenses. “We clear?”

The steel of his jaw, his arm flexing, the authority crackling in his tone like fire splitting wood—it shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it does.

“Yes, sir.”

He smiles then. Not kindly. Smug, maybe. “Good lad.” 

The words hit a nerve you didn’t know you had. They sink in somewhere soft and sensitive. The same place that makes a dog’s hackles rise and puts butterflies in bellies.

“And you better not slack just because you’re behind.”

“I won’t, sir.”

He lets you pass, and follows when you do. It’s a struggle to not trip over your own feet.

This time, he makes no secret of watching. His cigar burns out untouched. The magazine flutters in the wind. He sits with his fingers laced over his middle, legs crossed at the ankles. 

Bent on all fours over the system compartment, a prickle at the back of your neck grows impossible to ignore. You glance over your shoulder. 

He appears asleep—utterly still—until the corner of his mouth lifts. A slow, knowing smirk.

You snap back to the task at hand. 

A chuckle follows, low and indulgent. It drapes over you like velvet and settles somewhere deep, where it can hum and hiss like a wasp caught under a jar.

On a night off, you go dancing. Three glasses of cheap vodka in your bloodstream, the taste coating your tongue. You considered ordering whiskey, but lost your nerve. 

Leaning against a wall outside with your friends, getting air between songs, someone asks if you’ve met anyone lately. 

Or are you all work, no play?

You answer without hesitation. Without thinking.

(It’s not until the next morning, hungover and rueing the sun itself, that you understand they meant someone from an app. A date. A one-night stand, maybe.)

But you’d already blabbed. Confessed.

Mr. Price. 

John.

Your mouth runs wild with the liquor in your blood.

He’s a bit odd, you admit. Hard to read. Just the other day, you’d walked in as he finished swimming laps, and he climbed out the moment he spotted you. You swear it happened in slow motion—water rolling off the hard lines of his chest, the softer spread of his belly, the pelt of hair. The treasure trail and fading farmer’s tan. You nearly keeled over at the sight. And it’s hard to guess his age. He’s fit, and the silver threads in his beard do something to you.

It isn’t until the laughter shifts into something sly, that you realize how long you’ve been going on. The teasing comes fast, merciless but fond. There’s no walking it back.

And when they ask—flat-out—if you’d fuck him, you can’t lie.

That gets them going.

“Do you think he’s—?”

You cut them off. “No. No way.”

Denial is easier than the fantasy of hope.

With an excuse, you peel yourself off the wall and flee back into the fray to shake the heat crawling up your neck.

You attempt to bury it all in the mouth of a stranger. Older, taller, dark hair curling damply at his temples. Broad enough shoulders. A cheap cologne that stings your nose. You let him kiss and paw at you against the sticky wall by the toilets, but it’s no good. He tastes like rum. Too sweet, no substance. Nothing like what you want. 

The night ends early, frustration simmering. Alone in your room, sprawled in the dark, you add one item to the shopping list on your phone:

Whiskey.

The weather turns fast one afternoon.

It starts with the trill of Mr. Price’s phone and a curse. He abandons his post, gritting out a clipped Yeah? before striding toward the house. The glass doors shut behind him, and though they muffle the sound, his voice climbs in volume as he disappears from view.

Almost in answer, the sky darkens. In minutes, clouds quicken and roll in, dragging the light with them and smothering it in a drab, gray sheet. The breeze kicks up and then your sunhat is gone, plucked clean off your head and hurled skyward.

You watch it spiral away helplessly.

Leaving your equipment where it sits, you duck beneath the umbrella between the chairs. It offers little protection. The raindrops fatten, splattering against the stone, and without giving it much thought, you scoop up his magazine and half-finished drink.

Clutching the snifter to your chest, the scent of whiskey rises. You’re more of a wine fan, really, but the smell settles you. Warms you, even as goosebumps sprout along your arms and shoulders. Reminds you of your dad.

You shift foot to foot, back turned to the wind and rain. The uniform clings in cold patches as it soaks through.

Then, from across the lawn—“Inside!”

Mr. Price stands in the doorway, motioning you in.

You hesitate. You have a policy: stay outdoors. Liability. Safety. If rain hits, you wait it out or move on. You know this.

Then a sheet of rainwater sluices off the umbrella as it topples sideways in the wind, sloshing down your back. Shuddering, you shove the magazine under your shirt to shield it and bolt.

The rain lashes your skin. Grass squishes beneath your feet. His drink sloshes over the rim with every step, drenching your fingers in liquor.

You slip through the doors, soaked, clothes plastered on. You produce the rumpled magazine and offer it to Mr. Price with his half-drained glass.

“I, uh, tried to—”

“You’re dripping,” he says flatly, his gaze dropping to the puddle forming at your feet.

You glance down at the water pooling at your feet and almost stumble back outside, stammering apologies, but he cuts you off.

“I’ll get you a towel. Shoes off.” He empties your hands, pivoting toward the kitchen to deposit them on the island. As he rounds a corner, he points at the floor. “Stay put.”

Outside, the rain picks up, and you gingerly remove your shoes and socks, not wanting to make more of a mess. Shivering, teeth clacking from the chill, you rub your arms and gawk. You’ve never been inside a client’s home before.

A polished, heavy table anchors the immediate area. Old wood floors stretch beneath it, the tile under your feet a practical addition. Meant for footprints. Framed photos are scattered throughout, on the walls and sideboard, family portraits old and new you assume.

A grand painting behind the grand table seizes your attention: a small fishing boat, crimson and white, nearly lost in a violent storm. The sea churns around it in deep greens and blacks, lightning tearing across a sickly sky. 

You admire the scene until you hear footfalls.

Mr. Price bears a towel and clothes. You accept the towel, pretending not to notice the second offering. When you peek out from beneath the cotton, he’s holding a shirt out.

Does he seriously think—

“Go on. You’ll catch your death if you stay in that.”

A laugh putters out. You shake your head. “You can’t—I can’t take that, sir.”

His chin dips. “You’re not taking anything. You’re borrowing. C’mon. Shirt off, son.”

An ember catching kindling. You struggle to tamp it down.

“Can’t I change in the–”

He scoffs dismissively. “I’m not moppin’ up a trail. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Transparent, anyway.”

Nothing I haven’t seen before. You doubt that. Your scars have faded into blurs, but they’re recognizable. Obvious in their purpose. 

He is right. Your shirt clings better than cellophane, sheer in all the worst places. You tug at the hem, flustered, burning up under his scrutiny.

Another look at his face says arguing only delays the inevitable. It’s fucked—whatever this is, however he keeps pushing and playing with you. Batting you around like a bored tomcat would a mouse. Worse is how easily you’re letting it happen. Part of you, perversely curious, wants to see where it’ll lead, if he’ll eat you whole or what. Another can’t stop replaying the memory of what he looks like, soaked and shirtless.

One-handed, you work the shirt free, and new goosebumps bloom across your skin. Your nipples stiffen. It shouldn’t be a big deal—but Mr. Price is staring.

Maybe your scars haven’t faded as much as you think. You take the shirt, refusing to shrink, and square your shoulders. Posture makes all the difference amongst men, you learned.

The borrowed shirt slips overhead, and you juggle the towel to thread both arms through. It’s loose in the shoulders, hitting the midpoint of your butt. Plain black, clean-smelling cotton.

Price clears his throat. “Better. Bottoms, now.”

If your cheeks weren’t already warm, they’re scorching now.

“Sir.”

He clicks his tongue and swings the spare shorts. “C’mon, these’ll do if you tie the string.”

“There’s no need!”

“You’d rather make more of a mess on my floor?”

You hold your ground, waiting for an indication he’ll back off, but he doesn’t. An unevenly matched game of chicken and you’re losing one concession at a time. You last all of ten seconds.

With a huff, you wrap the towel around your waist. Wiggling your hips, you coax the shorts down without revealing more than you already have. It takes a long, awkward minute. And when you think you’ve made it through with some shred of dignity intact, he kneels, and closing a hand around your ankle.

“Steady.”

You freeze as he lifts one foot, then the other, helping you step out. 

You snatch the shorts out of his hand and hurriedly shove them on, nearly combusting when the towel comes away in his hand seconds after you pull them over your bottom.

And then he’s up, moving, your wet clothes slung over his arm like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t—like he didn’t just—

“Back in a jiff.”

This is where your curiosity’s led you.

Barefoot, in his clothes, heart fluttering ridiculously. Breaths in short bursts, stifled little things, afraid to be too loud. Dumbstruck.

How ridiculous you must look.

Do you think he’s—?

Well.

You dry off as best you can and sidestep the puddle. Your boxers are likely see-through as well now, but you vow to not mention them. You wouldn’t survive Mr. Price insisting on a fresh pair with your ass on display.

You rinse the whiskey off in a haze and find the kitchen as orderly as the dining room. Together, they’re larger than your entire flat. Modernized, no-frills. 

Through the archway, the hum of a tumble dryer kicks up, and Price reappears.

“Some rain. Didn’t expect it, did you?”

You almost ask which part—the rain, or the forced striptease?

Instead, you mutter, “No, Mr. Price.”

“Think you can call me John now.”

Within minutes, he talks you into tea and a sandwich. While you nibble, he fills the silence with small talk. He doesn’t cook much himself—so if you don’t like it, s’not his fault—and arranges for a chef to deliver meals every Sunday. Nothing elaborate, enough for the week, with extras in case of company.

You work up the nerve to ask what he does for a living.

He’s unfazed. Says his parents passed, left him the house. He’s retired military, lives comfortably off a pension. Mentions he does some consulting now and then—vague, detached, the kind of answer meant to end the conversation, not invite it forward.

“But enough about me. Want to know more about you.”

You wash a bite down with a sip, uncertain that he’s serious. He’s being polite, you reason. A man like him—he doesn’t really want to know. You’re a half-drowned dog he brought in from a storm. A good deed.

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Says the kid with his own company.”

Fair play.

You relent. Share little things. Where you’re from how you started, and that most of your work is seasonal. You help out at a school in the off months, and teach swimming at the community pool when they’re short-staffed. He listens intently, attention never wavering. Probably finds it novel, working more than one job.

“Sounds like you have your hands full.”

You nod, swallowing the last sip of tea. “I keep busy.”

He hums. “You do alright on your own?”

The question is light, but it lands heavy. It’s simple, benign—but it isn’t neutral and it needles. He ducks his head when you look away, searching. Like he’s casting a line, hoping you’ll give something up.

Heat flares under your collar. Your throat constricts, shame blooming sharp and sudden.

You shrug, keeping it light. “I manage.”

When the rain finally stops, you’re overdue, and itching to escape Mr. Price—John’s—attention. There are only so many ways to dodge questions.

He meets you at the van once it’s packed.

“Be seeing you, kid.”

“Yeah,” you nod once. “Thanks again, John.”

You offer a cordial hand, business-like, and his palm is hot around yours. You bet it’d feel like a brand elsewhere.

At a light on the way home, you tug the collar of his shirt up over your nose and inhale. For a brief, blistering second, you imagine his hands around your ankles again. Pushing them up and up and up.

You don’t remember the rest of the drive home.

It’s only after you’ve kicked off your shoes and settled into the couch with a sip of your new whiskey, that it hits you—your uniform’s still in John’s laundry.

Shit.

You go back for it after the weekend, off schedule. Have to. 

Having rung ahead, he’s expecting you. He meets you at the door, phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek. You hand off the spare clothes; he passes yours back. He mouths sorry and squeezes your shoulder, before disappearing back inside like it never happened.

You’re already behind, so you change in the van before your first job. The moment you slide the shorts on, your eyebrows hit the ceiling. They sit higher now, snug around your thighs, hitting well above the knee. You assume they must’ve shrunk in the wash—until you pull on the shirt. It’s been hemmed. Clean, subtle stitching. Tighter at the sleeves, better at the waist.

You consider going back, but your schedule’s packed, and the day runs away from you.

When you see him next, he beats you to it.

“Fits better, doesn’t it?” John claps your shoulder, pinching and tugging the shoulder seam.

“Yes, but did you—?”

“Eyeball the size?” He grins. “Not bad, eh? I’ve got a good tailor.”

It’s not like you can undo it and you’re not about to shell out for a replacement. So you thank him, and receive a pleased, grumbled good lad in return, and a swat to the small of your back, a hair north of improper. 

A wordless dismissal. Back to work.

With every window flung wide, you wage a hopeless war against the stagnant heat. Your sheets are drenched in sweat. Restless doesn’t cover it—you’re strung tight and buzzing, sticky and half-mad with frustration.

Sleep’s not happening, not like this.

You groan and kick your boxers down your legs, then roll to your stomach, pushing up onto your knees. The air’s balmy, sticking in your lungs.

You’re not surprised to find yourself wet. Some of it’s sweat, sure, but the rest—that’s your own fault. The consequence of a wandering mind and no one around to check it.

You let your imagination take the reins.

Face mashed into the mattress, you imagine his foot on your back. Weight bearing down on you, pinning you in place. His cock rutting over your ass, one big hand grabbing himself at the base, slapping it against your hole, and the other digging into a fleshy cheek to spread it.

Your cock pulses between your rubbing fingers and a moan spills out. Your teeth scrape the sheets, eyes welding shut. It’s obscene and loud in your quiet room when you steal slick from your cunt to rub over your asshole.

He would work you open, push one finger in at a time. Get you to cry on two, render you incoherent on three. Your own aren’t enough to bring tears to your eyes, but thinking of what he’d say is.

He’d ask if you wanted it. Needed it. Deserved it. All in that frustratingly even timbre of his.

His voice comes out of nowhere, clear as a klaxon in your head.

Good boy.

You come hard and fast, bucking your cock into your palm, fingertips prodding at your rim. Didn’t even get far enough to slip them inside.

You lie there for ages, gasping, limp. Your muscles are too heavy, and you’re too far gone to care about the mess.

Sleep takes you like that—sticky and spent.

The next morning, you peel yourself out of bed and strip the sheets in silence, tossing everything into the wash, shame eating you alive.

You can’t look at John that week without that memory pumping blood south. Imagining him bending you over a chaise or pushing you into the clover until your uniform turns green.

It’s divine punishment when he decides you need feeding. Like he somehow knows what played out in the privacy of your bedroom, or caught the stench of desperation that only comes with a misplaced crush, and you need your nose rubbed in it.

John presents fruit under a mesh cloche and demands you take a break. Not like there’s much to do, anyway. The pool goes unused most of the time, the maintenance minimal at best. You put up little resistance, beckoned toward him by a crooked finger.

He moves his legs for you to sit as if there aren’t three other loungers ringing the pool. Gesturing for you to scooch closer when he uncovers the fruit, stabbing a cocktail fork into a pink cube dusted with tajin. He offers it handle first.

A drop of juice drips onto his shin, and you think, lick it. You could. You would, if he told you to.

The impulse grips you so intensely, it’s absurd. This whole thing is absurd. Here you are, with a client. Not a date, not a boyfriend. A man with at least ten years on you, casually bullying his way past all personal and professional boundaries, and you’re waving him through as if they don’t matter.

You know he expects you to take the fork from him, but that curious twitch stirs, and instead, your mouth falls open.

His eyes narrow, and he turns the fork, tucking the fruit into your mouth. Your lips close around the bite, tugging it off the tines with your teeth.

“Cheeky.” he murmurs.

A good little pet sitting at their master’s feet.

Your head spins.

You’re convinced now. There’s a tear in reality, one that opens every time you turn onto that private lane. You pass through it like Alice through the looking glass, crossing into another plane thrumming with heat and heavy air, a whole world that revolves around Mr. Price and his whims. 

A gravity all its own.

A special request from John arrives mid-week, close to the hottest day of the year.

Full-service. Deep clean, filter flush, system check—the kind of job that’ll eat your afternoon and keep you working well past quitting time. Two other clients will have to be bumped, but he offers triple your usual rate. Says he understands it’s last minute.

Says he’ll make it worth your while.

For the hundredth time, you’re unable to turn him down.

You tell yourself it’s the money, but that’s only half true. The other half keeps your hands tight on the wheel the whole drive over when Friday rolls around.

Nothing helps your nerves. You can’t stop thinking about eating from John’s hand. The weight of his stare. His attention. About that man at the bar—the cheap imitation whose tongue you sucked in a vain attempt to quiet what’s only gotten louder.

It’s all climbing to a fever-pitch, and you want it to break.

John greets you at the gate.

“Glad to see you.”

He lays a hand across the back of your neck, and you fall into step.

“Hosting a mate’s retirement party. Suspect his kids’ll want to swim.” He continues on about the details, but you’re stuck on how he directs your attention via squeeze.

You expect a mess, or evidence of a gathering on the horizon, but everything’s the same. Practically pristine. Swept and hosed down. You glance sidelong toward John when he sits, buzzing with something you don’t want to name. 

There’s no real reason you should be here.

No real work to do.

But he’s bought your time, so you give it, and it crawls. You move equally slow, checking the seals for wear, inspecting the heater, running tests. All of it busy work and theater.

You’re kneeling on a folded towel, bent over the open housing for the pool’s pump system. Focused until his shadow spills across the ground.

“Don’t mean to sneak up on you,” John says.

You twist to peer over your shoulder and almost swallow your tongue at the sight of his trunks at eye-level, and rise to your feet. “Everything alright?” You swipe your forehead with your wrist, willing yourself to relax.

His knuckles brush your cheek, featherlight. He frowns. “You look warm,” he taps one to your chin. “Come on. Enjoy the fruits of your labor with me, yeah?”

You barely put up a fuss when he cajoles you into a dip. Stripped to your boxers, you wade in, relief singing up your legs. Curling around your waist. You nearly groan from how good it feels.

At the other end, John dives in. He slices through the water, sleek and galeoid, surfacing within reach. Veins of water cut down his chest and stomach, disappearing at the elastic at his hips.

“Better?”

“Loads,” you say, hoarse.

He gives a faint smirk, then turns, launching into lazy laps. Says something about needing to stay limber, working out a knot in his back. You hopeless to watch. He puts those shoulders to use, pulling with long, fluid strokes.

You swallow hard, trailing him shamelessly: the sweep of his back, the bulk and muscles under freckled and scarred skin. You’re greedy. You want him. On you. Around you. Inside you. You want to bite down on that smirk and hear him swear your name.

You sit on the steps, draw your knees in, and press your thighs closed to hold yourself together. Your hands flex on the vinyl. They want to reach. Grab.

He pushes off the wall for another loop, and you stay right where you are, trying to think about anything that isn’t the throbbing pulse between your legs.

John doesn’t bother asking if you’re hungry, or if you’ll stay for dinner.

Haphazardly dressed, shirt half-buttoned and untucked, you stow the last of your gear. You’re in a daze, holding fast to denial. The spell will break, your van will revert into a pumpkin, and you’ll head home to scrub the day from your skin. Send the invoice, knock off a percentage, and you’ll do it all over again next week.

Then smoke hits the air.

John’s at the grill laying down strips of pork, the meat hissing on the grate. He halves peaches with a paring knife that’s tiny in his grip and sets them cut-side down beside the meat. The air turns lush with salt and charred sugars, rosemary and garlic.

You slink to his side, salivating, meaning to say goodbye and thank you. Polite and decisive.

Then he jerks his head to the door and tells you to fetch plates and cutlery, and you bound off. Retrieving them dutifully. Inwardly, a part of you raises the fact you didn’t agree to stay, that you shouldn’t stay—but that flicker of good sense snags on the barb of hunger and all your aching.

By the time the food’s ready, you’re ravenous. You never eat this well. Burnished pork glazed in its own fat and blistered peaches. You stop short of licking the plate.

After washing up, you peek at your phone.

“Stop that,” he scolds. “I know exactly how long I’ve got you for.”

And he does—he keeps you through golden hour.

Abendrot, painted in red and gold and soft indigo, bleeds over the sky. You’re boneless in the lounge chair. Content. Melting around the edges, the line between help and guest completely dissolved. Rendered.

John sprawls the next seat over, holding a lowball glass that catches the last of the light.

You lie on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching the bob of his throat as he swallows.

“Can I have some?” you ask.

“Don’t think you’d like it. Picture you as more of the daiquiri type.”

“Not true,” you sit up. “I’ve got a bottle of that at home.”

That makes him glance your way. Then, he shifts, patting the cushion beside him.

He walks you through it, clearly doubting your tastes and experience: breathe in first, don’t take too much, let it roll. Savor it.

It burns, but it’s smooth. Honey folded in smoke. Leagues better than what you picked up on sale.

“Good?” he asks.

You wheeze, nodding. Emboldened, you try again twice more under his amused supervision. After a shallow fourth, you push the glass to his chest with a breathless laugh.

John chuckles, shoulders shaking. When the sound dies, you notice how close you’ve drifted.

“Well,” you murmur, easing upright. “This has been–well, I should...”

“That it?” he asks. “Off the clock now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but, I should go, since–”

“Yeah?” he smooths a hand up your thigh. “Aren’t you the boss?”

Your brain stutters. Your mouth moves before your thoughts can catch up. “Aren’t you?”

It comes out soft. Sultry. Unfurls like a red flag in front of a bull.

His face blanks. Then, very quietly, “Careful.”

Panic punches through you. Words spilling fast. “I am so sorry, sir. That was—that was over the line. I didn’t mean—”

Storm clouds darken his blues and you brace for it—for the correction, the ending you walked yourself into.

But he moves.

The glass hits the table with a muted clink, forgotten. His hand shoots out, closing around your wrist, and the next thing you know, you’re hauled straight into his lap.

He’s kissing you.

“John–” you gasp against his mouth.

Devouring you.

His mouth slants hard over yours, tongue parting your lips, taking what he wants with a low sound—part growl, part groan.

You try to breathe through it, to think, but it’s useless. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and stone fruit. He grabs your waist and drags you closer, until you’re straddling him, knees framing his hips.

The lounger creaks.

“Christ,” he mutters against your jaw. His teeth scrape there, making you arch. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to make that face again.”

“What face? A-again?” you moan, dizzy.

“That one,” he murmurs, mouth trailing lower, grazing your throat. “Like you’d let me wreck you right here, out in the open. You make it all the time.”

You shudder. He feels it—laughs under his breath.

His hand slips to your nape. His forehead presses to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You want this, hm?” he asks.

You nod.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says, and kisses you again. Rougher this time. Meaner. The decision’s final.

You belong here. On his lap. On his tongue.

“There’s a good boy, fuckin’ good boy.”

A head rush in two ways. The pulse of John’s cock on your tongue rewires your brain, resets it completely when he presses your nose into the steel wool of his hair. Dizzying, both the lack of air and the sheer size of his hand cradling your skull.

Right here, out in the open. Kneeling on a bunched-up shirt.

He had let you take charge to a point. Half-heartedly muttered about there being no need. Though as soon as you slid your tongue along the underside of his cock and hollowed your cheeks, he swore and took the reins.

He fucks your throat in slow, deep thrusts, and tells you what he thinks of your talent. What a nice surprise it is. He coos when tears well and spill, mistaking them, maybe, for strain. But it’s not that. It’s the way he looks at you. He means every word. That’s what’s undoing.

He catches your tears with a thumb, and drags them across his tongue to taste the salt. You could come like this, giving head to a man who calls you kid. When you slip a hand over your crotch he doesn’t stop you. In fact—

“Go on, do it. Show me how desperate you are.”

There’s not a shred of embarrassment when you cup yourself through your clothes, rubbing along the seam, chasing friction. You can’t do much of anything except rile yourself up. It works for John—a line of filthy encouragement streaming from him uninhibited. He grinds his hips up into the heat of your mouth, picking up speed.

John doesn’t give much warning before he comes. A stifled grunt gives it away—then his grip tightens, the pressure turning forceful, insistent, urging you to take more, to take all of him. You gag, sparks bursting in your vision when he spills in your throat. 

He gives another couple thrusts before allowing your retreat. You sputter and cough, lips slick with drool. You curl inward slightly, heels digging into your backside.

While you scrub at your eyes with the heels of your hands, still sniffing, he leans. Drags your lower lip down and hooks a thumb in your mouth to steal a look inside.

“Perfect.”

His bed could eat yours for breakfast.

That’s your first thought when John eases you into it.

Then his mouth finds yours, slower now, pacing himself. He’s got all the time in the world. You’re not going anywhere.

His kiss deepens as he crowds in close, tongue sliding against yours. You can feel every inch of him, chest to chest, the hard line of his thigh slotted between yours. His weight is a delicious trap, anchoring you down.

He shoves your shirt open, one rough palm skimming your waist, the other dragging its thumb across a scar. His mouth works a line down your neck, maw open and hungry.

“You’ve been driving me fucking mad,” he murmurs, gravel-thick. His teeth catch the shell of your ear as he toys with a nipple. “Teasin’ me for weeks.”

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull. He groans, grinding between your thighs.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you gasp. “You—you made me—during the storm—”

“Never made you do a damn thing,” he grunts, tugging at your waistband. “Did I? Didn’t make you wear my clothes. Didn’t force you to eat my food.”

He yanks your shorts and boxers to your ankles, and there’s no hiding it. He finds you wet—slick and ready. His whole body stills to collect himself. Then he exhales slow, grinning.

“Christ,” he kisses your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple. “Don’t need to force a thing.”

John’s touch is as demanding as the rest of him. He learns you fast, using two fingers and his thumb to stroke your cock. His other hand slides under your back, kneading a globe to coax you into another filthy kiss.

He breaks to swipe through your cunt, and you moan into his neck, clinging to him. He groans at the way you flutter when he circles your hole, hips shifting so you feel the hard heat of him against your thigh.

“This alright?”

You nod, helpless.

“Speak.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, John.”

He slicks his fingers and returns to your twitching cock, stirring you up into a fit of noise, hips mindlessly canting into his touch.

You’re right there—right on the edge—when he pulls away. A desperate sound tears from your lips as he stands, leaving you aching on the bed. You turn, watching him through bleary eyes as he looms.

“John,” you whimper, tilting up.

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches down, huffing through his nose, and rolls you onto your front. You scramble to get your knees set.

“Please, please—”

“Know what you need,” He grits, hauling you by the hips to the edge of the bed, swearing when you’re completely exposed. “Fuck, look at that. Could sink my teeth in right here and eat,” he swipes over your flesh, chuckling at your whimpering. “Another time, baby. Don’t worry.”

You hiss as he massages your rim using the mess from your cunt. Firm circles to ease you open. When he finally breaches, sinking to the first knuckle, you lose a little time, and come back to feel the prodding of a second digit. It’s a touch too soon, but you don’t stop him.

Don’t think you could. Not sure if you’d want to.

Soon enough, you’re tearing at the sheets. Tears roll over the bridge of your nose and slopes of your face, staining the cotton. You’re trembling, hiccuping, overwhelmed—barely able to keep up with him working you over on three of his spit-coated fingers.

Just a job, you told yourself, and now you’re crying into his bed. Listening to him purr your name. You sob once—high and cracked—and he hushes you, holding you still at the base of your spine.

“That’s it, sweet boy. Let it out.”

You cling harder to the sheets, the salt of your tears burning where they admix with sweat. You’re not sure what you’re crying for anymore—relief, need, shame. The staggering, unbearable pleasure of being wanted.

Again, he stops short of letting you come.

You’re too far gone to complain, every nerve lit up and raw. The last of your common sense, a final coherent thought raising the issue of a condom, is seared out of your mind when his cocks glides through your folds. When it slaps over the cleft of your ass. Once. Twice.

Then he’s pressing in.

It’s almost unceremonious—the weeks of simmering tension finally and suddenly boiling over—white-hot and unbearable. It ruptures, spills molten in your veins, and splits you wide open.

John’s belly brushes your lower back, then presses, cushioning when he curls over to push until he’s flush.

“Oh–oh fuck, John,” you choke out, grappling the pillow half-tucked under you.

“You’re alright.”

He keeps you close, anticipating the kick of your legs, the instinct to wriggle away. One hand smooths over your flank, gentle as breaking in a wild thing, until the worst of your shaking settles.

Then he hooks an arm snug across your chest and the other under your stomach. He finds your leaking dick, thumbing it with a hum while his own stretches you out.

“Kept this waiting, didn’t I? Sweet boy, such a mess.”

He saws in and out slowly, luxuriating in it. The rough scrape of his stubble drags over your shoulder and neck, the humid gust of his breath puffs in your ear. His fingers dip and trace your seam, circling your neglected hole. 

“Please,” you try to buck against him, but it’s impossible to move.

“Greedy,” He grunts derisively, though the eagerness with which he burrows a finger in your cunt, betrays him.

He stalls his thrusts to a grind as feeds your cunt his fingers until you cry and shake anew. They probe deep, the rub of his palm to your aching cock almost too much. You snake a hand under to push his wrist away, but his teeth find your shoulder.

“You begged for this,” he growls. “So you’re gonna let me.”

It’s not so much permission as surrender—inevitable, all-consuming. You don’t allow it so much as you yield, helpless but to drown.

The squelch of your cunt around his fingers is damning. Thicker than yours with a longer reach, he finds what makes you clench around him tight, earning a clipped curse. His wrist must be sore with the angle, but he doesn’t let it stop him. He picks up his pace again, keeping your cunt stuffed and smothered, hurtling you toward your release at last.

“John, I-I’m gonna…” you pant, breath choppy. Drool sticking to the corners of your lips.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Give it.”

Eyelids slipping shut, lightning splits the black and shoots through your nerves and muscles. You seize up with a shout then jerk, orgasm rolling through you in waves.

The rest blurs—distant. Muffled.

A guttural sound, John’s fingers retracting. Clenching around nothing and everything. Two sweat and cum-damp palms flitting over your hips and tugging, guiding you back to meet the erratic snap of his hips. 

Clarity returns with the first spurts of his cum. Mouth falling slack all over again around a feeble, surprised moan as it floods you. You can’t see him, but imagine it. Head thrown, a coat of sweat over his front and back, glutes flexing. Rooted in this deep, all-encompassing.

It’s a while before he pulls out. Seconds, minutes. Doesn’t matter. 

It beads out of you like a pearl, smeared under a thumb, then wiped by a towel.

You don’t fight him when he tucks you into his side. It’s far too hot to be this entangled in each other’s arms, but the musk of sex and sweat soothes. Easy to overlook discomforts when you’re so sated.

He sighs sweet dreams into your ear, but you’re already gone. Pulled under.

In the morning, you wake to a scorching quilt over your back. 

His chest fitted to your spine, cockhead nudging at your sore hole. He contorts you some when you rouse enough to sleepily relax for him, hooking a thick arm beneath both knees and drawing them up. They press toward your chest, folding you like a bug. Tight and close to him until there’s no room, until you’re just a precious thing for him to fuck awake.

Dozing anew in bed, you draw circles through the hair on his stomach, lazy and absent, while his fingers trace soft, idle patterns between your shoulder blades. You yawn, stretching a little into him.

“Shouldn’t you be decorating or something?”

He grunts, the movement of his fingers pausing to scratch his stubbled jaw. “Hm? Wha’s that now?”

“The party,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded.

John exhales, then folds you tighter against him, dragging the duvet higher.

“What party?”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

If You Need To Hear It

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, pre-established relationship (sort), light fluff, light angst, lotta smut (fingering, p in v), humor.

Summary/Warnings: After a tense case, Dean decides to remind you of what you mean to him on the roof of the Impala.

Author's Note: Request from @grosskyjaja! Once again, I can't just be horny, I gotta have feelings too. Enjoy!

Word Count: 4.4k

You’re drenched in things that should never be outside of bodies. Your hair is stuck to your brow, and your fingers are caked in dry blood. Something thick is spattered over your jeans, and there might be hair that isn’t yours in your mouth.

And that was a good hunt.

No deaths. No major injuries, either. Just a few traumatized housewives, and fingernail marks on your palm from when they’d been flirting with Dean in front of you. So you have no real reason to feel horrible. You’ve been covered in worse. You’ve killed more things, and come a lot closer to losing Dean—and actually lost him—in a much realer way.

But you were tired. The week had been filled with women—who had teeth that were straighter than yours, and hair that was better kept—shooting you bitter glares as you stood a little closer to Dean than you needed to. Now, you just want to go home.

And Dean hasn’t fared much better, in the aftermath. At least he remembered extra clothing, though. Clothing that he ditched in favor of his stupid fake-fed suit, in favor of you—after a long, hot shower and a lot of scrubbing your skin until you skin is raw and untouched by blood—wearing his extra shirt and too big boxers.

“They look like shorts-“

“Not they don’t.” You’d grumbled, and Dean had sighed.

“We can stay the night,” he’d said your name, not fully looking you in the eyes. “Most places are closed, I’ll go out and get you a new shirt and pants in the morning.”

“From where?”

“Store.”

“Dean.” You’d given him a flat look, shoving your bra—the only thing you’d been wearing that wouldn’t have to be burned—into your bag. “We’re in Northern Idaho.”

He shrugs. “They got stores. Don’t be classist, sweetheart-“

“I’m not. They won’t have anything I’ll wear twice.”

“They might-“

“They won’t.” Maybe he doesn’t want you to keep wearing his shirt. The thought just makes you more exhausted. “I’m being pragmatic, not elitist.”

Dean frowns. “I didn’t say elitist.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around your chest. “I know. Elitist is what you meant.”

He snorts. “I love it when you talk dirty-“

“Dean.” You’d snapped, and he’d stilled. Your distress must have been audible. “I just want to go home.”

That had been enough. You had fresh clothing at home, and a bed without lumps, and—if you were lucky—maybe Dean would let you crawl into his arms and not let go until morning. 

He’d packed everything up and into the trunk of the Impala without another joke, and when you crawl next to him on the bench, his arm goes over your shoulder and stays there. He doesn’t stop touching you for the entirety of the drive. Lots of fields and forests and sky, Dean’s hand either rubbing small circles on your upper arm or resting on your thigh.

You know he’s pushing Baby to her limits, just to get you home. Or get away from your sulking sooner. You can’t blame him. You’re glaring out the window as if the trees are responsible for your exhaustion.

And it’s so stupid. It was a good hunt. It was an objectively good hunt. And Dean didn’t even flirt back. 

But you’re not his. Not officially—though through your whole body you’re only ever sure of one thing, and it’s that you’re Dean’s—and not in a way that gives him any claim over you. 

Which means that Dean’s not yours. And you have no claim over him. So if he’d decided to indulge one of those housewives, you’d have no good reason to stop him.

You try not to think about it too often. How Dean could, on any day, just decide that he was done with you. You’d wake up, and suddenly last night would be the last night. The last time you’d touch him. The last time he’d touch you.

And you really, really try not to think about it. But the floodgates have been opened, and now you can’t stop.

Dean might be able to sense it. 

Maybe that’s why he’s touching you, even as the air becomes wired with silence. He’s trying to remind you that for now, he’s here with you.

For now.

“It’s gettin’ late.” He mutters, and you only hum. You’d left at dawn, but Montana was a big state. You’d only just crossed the border into Wyoming, and the sky is already dark and scattered with scars.

“You know where we are?” 

Dean shakes his head. “Think it’s nowhere. Haven’t see a sign for miles. And I can soldier through, sweetheart-“

“No.” You sigh. “It’s fine. I can-“

“You’re not driving.”

“Dean-“

“It’s not cause I don’t trust you,” he says your name, giving you a pointed look. “It’s cause you’re tired. We’ll just sleep out here.”

“Out-“ You blink at him. “In the car?”

“Yeah, Baby’s safer than a motel. I used to sleep in her all the time, when it was just me-“

“But it’s not just you-“

“We’ve been closer than squished in the car, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice is a drawl, and he squeezes your thigh like a reminder. As if you could ever forget. “It’ll be fine. I’ve got a gun, and you’ve got me.”

You don’t have him. 

You give in anyway.

And it’s only an hour before it’s too much. Dean pressed up right behind you—there wasn’t any cold to huddle against, but he hadn’t seemed interested in hearing that—with his knee almost between your thighs, his face near your neck, and his arms wrapped around your stomach. 

Everything smells like him. Even the blanket he’d pulled from the trunk. And you’d thought it would be good for him to hold you like this, but this isn’t in the sanctity of his bedroom. No one but you has ever been allowed in his bedroom. You know for a fact other girls have been in this position.

In the Impala, Dean wrapped around them like he’s never wanted to be anywhere else.

You used to be jealous of them, and how they got to be close to Dean, even for a night.

Now, you know it’s never enough. And you’ll never be able to admire those girls more, for having Dean once, then walking away.

There’s a chance they didn’t have him quite like you do. His laughter and company and stupid blanket, his shirt over their body and his total vulnerability as he sleeps.

You’re trying not to think about it.

But it’s hard with Dean pressed right behind you. 

It’s another hour before you squirm away and climb outside. You need the air, the isolation, the anything but Dean holding you like he’d like to keep you, when he doesn’t. 

You just need space.

And there’s a lot of it, above you. Glittering in the sky as you climb onto the roof, and seemingly infinite with the flat skyline. You lay flat on your back and watch it until you feel sleepy again. And Dean will be pissed if you fall asleep outside, but you’re so tired-

“Come back inside.” 

You feel a tap on your knee, and push up to see Dean frowning at you.

“You’ll get sick, sweetheart-“

“I’m fine.” You mutter, lying back down. “I’ll be in soon.”

Dean makes an odd sound. “Will you.”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you come out in the first place.”

“I- Just wanted to watch the stars.”

“Could’ve woken me up.”

You rise back up, and Dean’s almost glaring at you. As if you’ve offended him. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

His jaw twitches. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“What I-“ You frown at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He lets out a long sigh, rubbing his brow with a hand. “Alright. We’re doing this.”

“Doing- Dean!”

He’s yanked you forward until your knees are dangling off the side, and he’s standing between your legs. Pressed between your legs. Pressed into you, and barely a breath away as he scans over your face.

“Dean?” You whisper, unable to move away, and his face tightens. “What’s-“

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I- I’ve been in the car with you all day-“

“But you’re not talking!” He snaps, his tone heavy. Like this is painful. “Ever since we did the interviews, you haven’t talked to me or let me touch you, and I don’t know what I did wrong, baby, but I can’t fix it if you keep-“

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” You grab Dean’s face between your hands, shaking your head. He can’t be allowed to think that. “I- It was me. And it’s stupid.”

He frowns. “Not stupid if it makes you upset.”

“It is,” you mumble. “It’s- Don’t worry about it. You didn’t even do anything, or pretend you would, but I- Never mind.”

Dean’s not pulling away. He’s just examining you. Like the answer will be written all over your face. 

It might be.

Because you can see the exact moment he gets it. His eyes widen, he lets out a sharp breath, and then he presses in closer with a small smirk.

“Were you jealous?”

“I- no-“

“Yeah, you were.” He shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh. “You were upset I might- Son of a bitch-“ He says your name, and looks far too amused for how your face might be burning. “Why didn’t you say something-“

“Because it’s dumb!” You snap, and he doesn’t even pretend to flinch when you shove at his chest. “You weren’t doing anything, and it’s- it’s not like we’re together-“

Dean catches your hand and tugs you forwards, all but pinning you to his chest and scanning over your features with a small frown. “Say that again.”

“I- It-“ You voice is going a little hoarse, but Dean won’t stop staring at you. “It’s not like we’re together-“

“Wrong.” Dean certainly looks offended now, shaking his head with a tight frown. “I got two women in my life, and it’s her.” He pats Baby’s hood with a grin, and it’s hard not to roll your eyes at him. “And- Hey. Saw that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You’re starting to smile.

You’re not sure how he always pulls that out of you.

But he’s Dean. So he does.

“Stop getting smart with me,” He mutters, leaning forward to bump his nose with yours. “I’m trying to be helpful-“

“You are being helpful.” You sigh, dropping your head into his shoulder. “I told you it was stupid.”

“Wasn’t stupid.” Dean’s hand finds its way into your hair, running it carefully through his fingers. “Nothing you do is stupid. Can be dramatic, but not stupid.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, and he shrugs, his fingers stilling suddenly in your hair. 

When he speaks again, his voice is impossible low, and rough, and right in your fucking ear. “You still doubting that I mean it, babygirl?”

“Mean what?”

He chuckles, and god, his voice is getting deeper. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I-“

“Don’t play dumb, sweetheart,” Dean’s palm starts to rub right over the cloth of your shorts, and your breath hitches against his skin. “You’re not that good at it.”

“‘m good at it.” You’re already a little dizzy, but Dean’s all around you and pressing down. “You- I-“

“I know. You need some extra attention? Need me to fuck you until you get that I damn mean it?”

There it is. The deepest voice. The sex voice, that he’ll almost growl in your ear on a case before pulling you into a closet, or hum at you in the kitchen before herding you back to his bedroom.

Asshole. 

He knows you’d jump off a roof if he asked you with that voice.

“Answer me,” he mutters your name, teasing his thumb up and down your still-clothed slit. “Gotta hear it.”

“Ye-“ You let out a breathy moan into his shoulder. “Yes, please-“

“There she is.” He’s almost crooning at you, and it’s enough to make you start grinding onto his hand. “Never anything stupid with you, my smart girl.”

You squeak as Dean tugs you back by your hair, and even in the dark of the night, he’s the best thing you’ve ever seen. Pretty green eyes darkened and focused wholly on you, an expression of something dangerously close to reverence all over his face as he scans over you. 

His hand moves away from your core, bracing him on the hood of the Impala, but you don’t get a whine in protest before he’s pulling you into a long, deep kiss. Taking his time, pressing his tongue into your mouth and humming when you part without a thought, never coming up for air because you don’t need it. You have Dean, grunting when you almost fall over his body, moaning his name against his mouth because if he’s going to let you have this, you’re going to take all of it. 

“Son of a bitch.” Dean mutters your name, pulling you back with a lazy grin, and you can only pant and drop your brow against his. “Never think I want anyone but you. Ever.”

“Dean, you-“

“No.” He shakes his head, pressing a softer kiss and mumbling against your lips. “You’re my girl, baby. Don’t forget it.”

You sigh. “I can’t tell if you’re talking to me or the car.”

Dean barks a laugh, and it pulls a smaller smile onto your lips, that splits into an almost stupid grin when Dean grabs you back into another long, slightly rougher kiss. More teeth and spit, a little bruising and mind-numbing. He might be trying to sedate your brain into not overthinking.

If he is, it’s working.

“Right now I’m talking about you, pretty girl.” He hums, the outline of his cock pressing against your inner thigh, and you can’t even think of a quick comeback.

All you can really think is Dean, handsome and somehow yours. Against all odds and reason, Dean seems to think he’s yours.

And you could never hate yourself enough to deny him.

“That’s good.” You whisper, and Dean chuckles.

“Yeah, it is. C’mon,” his hand goes back to pressing between your thighs, and your hips buck. “Lemme show you, sweetheart. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You nod, already humping his hand as he rubs around your clothed clit, and Dean hums your name.

“Words-“

“Yes, please.” You whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

“Hold on.”

 Dean hooks his fingers on your underwear, pushing it to the side before shoving one finger right into your pussy, and you let out a high squeak.

“Jesus.” He mutters, glancing down to where you’re squeezing around him. “You’re fuckin’ soaked, baby. This all for me?”

You nod, your brow pressed back to his. “Only for you, Dean, only ever for you-“

“Fucking-“ Dean groans, pulling your lower lip between his teeth. “You’re so perfect baby. Always so ready for me-“

You moan as two fingers slam into you, scissoring and pumping with a rough, precise speed, Dean grabbing your chin and angling your head to the side. His kisses fall to your neck as you start to hump against him, scratching at his neck and whining whenever he lets his thumb flick over your clit. You’re already going out of your mind, Dean’s somehow still tucked into his pants, and you want more. 

You must have said it aloud, because Dean chuckles against your neck. “This not enough for you, sweetheart?”

“I- It is- I- Feels so good-“ You moan, your hips jerking as Dean crooks his fingers against the deepest spot inside of you, and his grip tightens.

“Gotta stop squirming, baby.”

“But I want you-“

“You got me.” Dean starts to rub over your clit, and you shake your head, your voice almost a whine.

“But I want you,” You repeat, grinding over his bulge, and he lets out a long hiss, his fingers in your cunt picking up to a brutal pace. “Please.”

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, pulling back to watch you with that reverence again. “This not enough for you, babygirl? You wanna take my cock too?”

You nod frantically, squeaking when his fingers start to rub on that deep spot, his thumb teasing feather-light touches over your clit, and you’re going to fly out of your skin-

“One time.” He holds your gaze, and you might fall apart just from the sight of him. Blown-out pupils on yours, his jaw set as he watches you, so handsome and somehow yours- 

“Dean-“

“Just one, babygirl.” His thumb presses down and starts to roll firm circles around you, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. “There you go, wanna see you cum one time before you take my cock, you can do it-“

It’s like he flips a switch. Your orgasm crashes through you with a high, wanting sound of Dean mixed with pleas, and he swallows it with another rough kiss. You’re only seeing stars and feeling an impossibly good rush of pleasure through your whole body. There’s a brief moment where Dean fingers are gone and you whimper at the lost, but Dean’s knee presses right against your cunt, and you let out a soft, easy sigh.

“Feel good, sweetheart?”

If his question is teasing or mocking, you really don’t fucking care, and nod dumbly as he pulls away. 

Dean only laughs, his fingers—the ones that had just been fucking in you—coming up to his mouth. He licks them clean, his gaze never leaving yours, and your hips roll against his knee.

 “I- C’mon, Dean, please-“ 

“Christ,” Dean mutters your name, brushing some of the hair stuck to your brow away. “You’re like- My dream girl. You know that, right?”

“I- I think I do.” You lean forward, continuing to grind onto him as your hand wanders down to squeeze his cock, straining through his pants. “Can you show me?”

His eyes flash, and he swats your hand away, pinning it to the hood. “You still need my cock, sweet girl? Still need me to fuck you on the roof, make you scream so all of Montana can hear?”

“We’re in Wyoming,” you whisper, and Dean shrugs.

“They can hear too. You want it?”

You nod, not breaking Dean’s gaze. “Yes.”

He’s so fast you almost aren’t ready. Kissing you so harsh you think he’s trying to meld his lips to yours, before pulling you right into his chest and sucking a sloppy line along your jaw and neck. Your fingers dig into his shoulder in a desperate play to keep steady, but it’s not needed. 

Dean won’t let you fall.

There are a few things that break through the haze of Dean’s lip, nipping on your neck. The sound of the Impala door opening and the rustle of a belt, as well as the feeling of big, calloused hands kneading up your thigh before pulling down your shorts, and taking your panties with them.

It’s a quick second, where you’re completely bare and shivering from the cold air on your pussy. But then you hear the door close, Dean’s mouth slams back over yours in a demanding, harsh kiss, and you’re never going to be cold again.

His dick slams into you in one, movement, and your mouth falls open at the perfect stretch of him inside you. Dean takes advantage of it, pushing the kiss further until you’re melted over him, fluttering slightly around him as a second, tiny orgasm rips through you.

“God, fucking-“ Dean groans your name, pulling all the way out before slamming back in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know baby. You’re so fuckin’ tight, feel so good wrapped around my cock, wanna-“

“Do it.” You mumble, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Wanna feel it, please. Need to feel it.”

He groans, his hand moving back to brace himself against the Impala’s roof. “You sure-“

“Yes.” It’s the easier question to answer. 

And the certainty in your voice pays off. Dean’s will snaps with a half growl of your name, and you’re gone.

Usually, Dean lets you lead with sex. And you almost always make it slow. You’ve wanted to savor it as much as you could, to stretch out the stolen moments because you’d thought, one day, you’d never have them again. You’d give Dean everything you had—on your knees and riding him and splayed out below him, trying to put on a show when he’d bury his face in your cunt—because you’d thought it was what you needed to do for him to come back. 

He’s going to come back no matter what. 

And it seems to be your turn to take.

Dean’s almost feral against you. Hammering his hips into your sensitive cunt, splitting you open and pressing against that needy spot over and over until you’re a moaning, writhing mess in his arms. His lips never leave your skin for a second, kissing and biting over your shoulder, nipping at the base of your neck before rising back up to mutter filthy praise against your lips.

“Takin’ me so good, sweetheart, fuckin’ made for my cock,” his thrust are already starting to grow uneven, and when you bite on his lower lip, he slams into you so hard stars start to form behind your eyes.

“Dean.” You gasp, and he groans as you squeeze around him. “Feels so good, you’re- God-“

“You like takin’ my big dick, baby?” He drawls against you, adjusting your hips to hit you impossibly deeper. “Shit, you feel like heaven, wanna- Fuck-“

There’s a tension in his voice, even if he doesn’t stop moving, and you frown. “What’s-“

“Forgot a condom.” Dean grunts, rutting against you as he drops to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “I’m not gonna last, sweetheart- I gotta-“

“Inside.” You mumble, your breath hitching as he bottoms out again, the angle making your clit rub against his abdomen. “Dean, please- I said I wanna feel it-“

“Shit,” he moans your name against your skin, cock twitching in your cunt. “You’re so- Fuckin’ love you, baby, I’m gonna-“

He moves back up to kiss you as he chases his release, still fucking moaning down your throat as he fucks you desperately through it.

But then he doesn’t stop. Dean’s cum is dripping out of your pussy, down your thighs and onto the roof of the car, but he’s not slowing down. Still half-hard and grabbing your waist until you’re sure it’s going to leave a bruise—you hope it does—and fucking his cum back into you, until you’re so impossibly full you think you’re going to fucking die from it, and he- He’d said-

“Dean-“

“Last one,” he mutters against your lips, rolling his hips in a sharp circle that makes your squeak. “You can gimme one more, pretty girl, c’mon,” his thumb moves to your clit, and your hips jerk off the bed.

“God-“

“Not god. Just me” Dean laughs at his own joke, pinching you and rolling the nerves between his fingers, and there’s a tight coil deep in your gut that about to snap, and-

“Dean, please-“

“I know,” he hums, and this is too soft a kiss for how he’s still bruising your cervix, how you’re on fire and he’s still using his sex voice. “Squirt on my cock, baby, you can do it, so fuckin’ gorgeous all fucked out ’n full of me-“

He gives a small, harsh slap to your clit before pressing his palm and rubbing it back and forth, right as his cock presses on that hypersensitive place inside of you, and you cum with a scream that echoes through the night.

Something is flooding out from between your thighs, but in the white-hot daze of your orgasm, you really can’t tell if it’s pee or Dean’s cum-

Not Dean’s cum. He’s still buried inside you, mumbling low words as he kisses all over your face, holding you as you shake slightly against him. 

“You fucking soaked me, sweetheart.” He chuckles, kneading gently against your skin. “C’mon let’s get you inside before you catch a cold.”

There’s no way you’re in danger of catching a cold. You’re all warm as Dean slowly pulls away, making a movement like he’s considering diving between your legs and licking you clean, but deciding against it and hauling you fully into his arms instead.

You’re grateful. Right now it feels like one touch could set you over the edge again, and you’re not sure you’d be able to take it. Dean’s mouth on your still aching cunt might actually kill you. It can be an experiment for another time, when you’re not in the middle of nowhere.

Because there will be another time. Dean wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t want more times. Wouldn’t be cleaning you up with his own shirt, and grinning at you so affectionately when he tries to replace your shirt, and you shake your head in a cock-drunk daze. 

“Sweetheart, it’s covered in-“

“I know.” You mumble. “I like it.”

He laughs, kissing you once with a grin. “Alright then, dirty girl. Keep the freakin’ cum shirt, see if I care.”

You smile like an idiot as he pulls away—likely cleaning the roof—and then it hits you again. There will be more, because Dean- He- He said-

You sit up suddenly, pushing open the door, and Dean is running back in a second. He doesn’t get to bend down to your level, though. You wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face in his stomach before he gets the chance.

“I, uh-“ He clears his throat, tugging on your hair until you look up to meet his gaze. “What’s- Are you good?”

In the dark, with all the shadows and lights, and the vast night sky above him, he looks like an angel. Not the real kind, but the story kind. That only protect and care and guide you home, even if—as long as Dean is here, with you—you’ll never need to be guided.

Dean is home.

“I love you too.” You whisper, and his eyes widen. “And you don’t have to say anything. I know you feel it too, and I- you’re mine, and I’m yours, and that’s it.”

He nods slowly, his thumb dropping to trace over your lips. 

“Only competition I have is Baby, right?”

Normally, Dean would laugh at that. But tonight, his throat just bobs as he shakes his head.

And his voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“Never any competition for you. I feel it.” He mutters your name with that same reverence returned. “Always feel it. And I- Thank you.”

You can’t stop your smile. “Of course. I love you, Dean. I mean it.”

His lips twitch. “I know.”

End Note: God, help me. I'm giving myself impossible standards.

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[julymusings]

love in withdrawal

true that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me, that the sound of the saw must be known by the tree.

or; in the aftermath of that night, you're both wracked with regret, wishing it went differently. [3.3k]

jason todd x fem!reader; warnings from pt1 also apply; typical jason-angst (so ptsd, self-image/hatred, family issues, etc) + virgin!jason YOU ALR KNOW THE VIBESSSS😝😝😝👹👹 previous: you're good to me, baby

Jason Todd has tried very hard to be normal. At least, as normal as he can get. After returning to his home city and settling into his role as the Red Hood, crime lord and resident anti-hero of Gotham, he really did try. He went out with his 'coworkers' to have a good time. He spoke to his neighbors, hoping some friendship would stick. He went to a seedy bar with Roy and stuttered through some flirting with the girl who eye-fucked him from across the bar for fifteen minutes. With Roy’s encouragement (read: peer pressure), he followed her out to the alley behind the bar. He kissed her a little, tried to do what he was supposed to; put his hands on her waist, maintaining a respectable distance from too high or too low. But it felt…off, somehow. His heightened senses made the way she trailed one finger up and down the muscles of his arm feel prickly, the scars under his sleeve sensitive and itching at her touch. Her lips were too sticky with gloss, and its saccharine watermelon flavor lingered on his teeth for days. No matter how hard he scrubbed at them.

Roy hadn’t let him live that down for months. His recounting of Jason leaving her in the bar when she invited him home, looking ‘scared shitless and fumbling hard’ was an exaggeration, but maybe not that far off. Looking back, he wasn’t sure what he expected; he could barely look his own family in the eye. How did he think he’d be able to keep it together around a pretty girl? He was quick to give up any hopes of being ‘normal’ after that.

He lived like that for a while; putting all his energy into keeping the city safe, working himself to the bone as the Red Hood so he wouldn’t have time to reflect on who he was as Jason. He fixed things with his family just enough to have a place to go every other weekend to “upgrade his gear.” When he stuck around long enough that it was ‘only convenient’ to stay for dinner, no one commented on it. He’d accepted that this was his life now.

He never meant for things to go this far with you. Honestly. He was just doing his job when he gave you a ride home after you sprained your ankle trying to fight off that mugger. When he had to hold your weight so you could walk up the stairs to your apartment, he was still just doing his job. And when you, still in shock and heart pumping with adrenaline, put your frantic energy into nervous ramblings and fretting over his bruises— making sure you were okay before he left was part of his job. But one visit to your apartment turned into two, and two turned into three, each under the guise of ‘checking on your ankle’ or ‘being on his route’. Somewhere along the line your arrangement came to be: he stopped by with wounds needing to be treated, you treated them, and then he’d leave. And if you wanted to make some small conversation, getting to know each other a little more with every visit, that was harmless. Seeking you out for the smallest injuries that he was fully capable of dealing with himself was harmless. Holding you in his arms while you clutched onto him for dear life and sobbed into his shirt, neglecting his knife wound for far too long in favor of wiping away your tears—

He never meant for things to go this far.

Two days after that night, Jason is still reeling. In hindsight, letting the slice on his arm sit in the open, stale air for as long as it did was not the best idea. Sewing it closed one-handed so as to relieve the burden from your shoulders, taking no care to sterilize the instruments that fell to the floor in his hurry to follow the alarm bells in his head that screamed go! Get out and go! was a horrible idea. Sure, having you kneeled in his lap, pressed against him for the better part of the thirty minutes he spent at your place wasn’t exactly a regret. But was it worth the round of antibiotics and week-long benching ordered by Bruce after he stumbled into the Batcave an hour ago, hastily stitched up by his own hand and running a fever? He can’t decide. Was it worth the consequence of his siblings taking turns covering the patrol route of his city sector during his absence? Definitely not.

Was it worth the sight of you looking up at him, watery-eyed with flushed cheeks and fluttering eyelashes accentuated by the shine of your tears? The feeling of your hand sliding over his chest?

Maybe.

Maybe he could use the time off, as pointed out by a sneering Timothy, considering he was so stupid as to let his wound fester to the point of infection. He’d be too distracted to give the city his full attention, anyway. He needs time to think. To lie down in his old bed, stare at the ceiling, and think about if he’ll ever see you again.

Tim’s comment earns him a smack to the back of the head from Dick, who promptly kicks Tim out of the room.

“How are you feeling?” Dick stands at Jason’s bedside, arms crossed in concern.

“Same as when you asked me five minutes ago.” Jason wheezes. His pit-enhanced immunity makes the infection symptoms much easier than they could have been, but Bruce still insisted on him staying the whole week for observation. With how much he’s grown since he last used it, his childhood room feels much smaller than he remembers.

“Yeah, but…” Dick narrows his eyes at Jason. His gaze flits to his arm, wrapped in fresh bandages with an ice pack pressed over the stitches. “How…are you?”

“The same as…before,” Jason says, mimicking his brother’s cadence.

Dick sighs, thinking over his next move. He walks to the door, closes it, and pulls Jason’s desk chair to the bedside and sits down.

Jason groans. “Do you really have to—”

“Just humor me,” Dick interrupts. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He takes Jason’s silence as resignation. “Did something happen?”

Jason rolls his eyes. “I got stabbed, Dick.”

“Is that all?” There’s a lilt in Dick’s voice.

“What are you implying?” Jason shoots back, though his hoarse throat negates his attempt to sound intimidating.

“Nothing! I’m not implying anything!” Dick leans back in his chair, holding his palms up in surrender. “I’m just saying. You seem…bothered. By something.”

“Yeah, the stab wound.”

“Okay. Okay, fine.” Dick clears his throat. “If there’s nothing.” He stands, returning the chair to its place. As he’s leaving, though, his hand settled on the doorknob, he hears a rustle of fabric and turns back to Jason. He’s shifting around in his old bed, awkwardly pulling at the comforter and he moves to sit on the edge, staring hard at the red pattern of the blanket while opening and closing his mouth, battling with himself on whether or not he should speak. Dick waits, giving him the time to work it out.

“I think I…” Jason says finally, not looking up from his lap. “I messed up.” He looks very uncomfortable. If opening up wasn’t such a rare occurrence for him, Dick might have found humor in his brother’s embarrassment.

Dick lets go of the doorknob, but doesn’t dare move closer. He knows that Jason’s fight or flight instincts will take hold the second he feels too caged in. “Messed up how?” He asks, keeping his tone even and unemotional.

“With…someone.” Jason forces out the words, cheeks burning as bright as his bedspread. He still refuses to look at Dick, but at the surprised, choked-back sound he makes at the admission, Jason’s face snaps up to his. Dick is disguising his shock as a cough into his fist, but his wide eyes are unmistakable, even behind the curtain of thick hair falling over his eyes.

“That’s…uh…” Dick clears his throat again. Then again. “That’s great, Jason,” he says, at last regaining his composure.

“Is it?” Jason says, squinting at his brother.

“No, I mean—not that you—” Dick sighs, running a hand down his face and deciding to abandon that train of thought altogether. “What happened?”

“I sort of…left. Abruptly.” Jason rubs at the growing stubble on his jaw. “Like— like after…” He trails off, hoping Dick will get the idea.

Dick has to quiet the extremely loud sirens going off in his head when he (albeit incorrectly) has the realization that his baby brother, the one he still sees as four feet tall, swinging his little legs off the kitchen island and covered in cookie crumbs is, in fact, having sex. 

“Is it serious?” He asks through a stiff smile.

Jason, ever oblivious to the silent breakdown his brother is having at the door, is not sure if he’d describe what you two have as serious. He knows you fairly well, knows what you do from the nights you talk about what’s going on at work; what you like from the posters and trinkets you have hung up around your place. And yeah, you talk sometimes. He may not speak that much around you, and it’s usually just frustrated complaints about the other bats, but it’s certainly more than he speaks to most people outside his family. And he sees you more often than he does most people outside his family. And he feels more comfortable with you than—

“Jason,” Dick calls, pulling him from his thoughts. “Is it serious?” He asks again, though there’s a quirk in his brow that suggests he already knows the answer.

“I don’t know,” is what Jason settles on.

“When did this happen?”

“Uh, a few days ago?” Jason says, even though he knows that’s a lie. It was 45 hours and 26 minutes ago, to be precise, but he doesn’t say that. He’s not sure how it would be received.

“You can’t go back? Just try to apologize?”

He wants to see you again, but he can’t. Doing so in the first place only put you in danger, and he was an idiot for ignoring that. If the wrong person had seen the Red Hood making consistent visits to the same window of the same building? His stomach turns at the thought.

Jason can’t imagine you’d be welcoming, either, after the way he left two nights ago. He watched you splash your face with cool water, leaving him with a shaky, watery smile, then listened to you putter around the kitchen with the promise of tea for the both of you. He felt like an asshole, picturing you coming back to the bathroom with his mug in hand, only to be met with an empty room and scattered first aid supplies on the floor. He didn’t even leave through the living room, like he entered, because you were in the kitchen. He climbed out of your bedroom window, like a coward. In his haste, he left those bloodstains he promised he would clean.

“I’m not sure she wants to see me.” Jason says quietly.

Dick answers thoughtfully; “Did she tell you that, or are you just making assumptions?”

Jason sighs. “Shit.”

“But, actually,” Dick winces. “You do have to stay here for the whole week, so…”

Jason lets out a tired groan and drops his face into his palms.

“Maybe call her?” Dick offers. He gathers the conversation is over from the way Jason glares at him, and turns to leave. But when he’s halfway out the door, he turns back. “Hey, Jaybird?”

Jason lifts his chin.

“You’re, uh…using protection, right?”

Jason blinks. It’s now that he realizes what Dick thought he was talking about and it burns him, leaving his skin red-hot.

“Get the fuck out.”

“Look, I’m just trying to—” He cuts himself off with a yelp, leaping out of the doorway to dodge the projectile pillow thrown at his head.

Jason hears a ‘good talk’ from the end of the hall, but is too busy with brand new concerns about his situation with you. If he could call you, he would, but he doesn’t have your number. He could easily find it, but not while he’s confined to this bedroom; he’d need access to his gear at home. And with the entire manor breathing down his neck for the next week, there was no way he’d be able to sneak out. So he’d have to wait an entire week before coming to see you again.

Maybe showing up at your place two days after the ordeal would have you understandably hurt, but nine days? You were going to be pissed. You are pissed.

Not at the Red Hood. You’re mad at yourself for being so stupid as to break down in front of him. It’s no fucking wonder he ran out the first chance he got. You sobbed into his shirt like an idiot for who knows how long. You practically felt him up. You’re an idiot for not thinking that would make him uncomfortable. And now, he’s never coming back, and you can’t even blame him!

There’s a book on your coffee table with a bookmark near the end that’s been staring at you since that night. That night when you, more consumed with confusion than anything else, dumped two mugs of fresh tea in the sink and flopped down on the couch and…waited. For what, you had no idea. The cover art took up your entire field of vision while you lied to yourself, saying you weren’t stealing glances at the window, hoping for a certain body to appear in the frame.

In the days following, the book sat there, practically taunting you until you turned it face-down so the sight of the star-constellated cover would stop making your stomach twist over in nausea. Nausea at the memory of how eager you were to pick it up at the library mere days after he had mentioned it, how you buzzed with excitement, and maybe something deeper, when you came home at night ready to snuggle into the couch with a blanket and your favorite mug to read the next chapter.

I hate you so much, you had murmured into a nasty bruise on the back of his left shoulder one night, though you couldn’t stop the grin that broke through the words.

What did I do? He replied, turning to look at you over his shoulder. 

You never told me that would happen halfway through, you said, forcing a frown when you looked up at him.

He chuckled. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to spoil it for you.

Through the amusement there was a lull in your usual rhythm. He did not need to ask which part of the book you were complaining about. He knows, knows you well enough to understand that you would be angry, reading about a budding, hopeful love that’s marred by the revelation that the boy and the girl will not make it. That their love was doomed from the start because, inevitably, he will have to leave her, and he has known the entire time that he would have to leave. That he loved her with one foot out the door.

You turned him around, ready to focus on the small abrasion at his temple when he asks, forgive me?

Fine, I guess so, you said, standing on your toes to get closer to his head.

That night replayed in your mind too often. The way he moved a ghost of an inch closer to lean into your fingers. The smell that was purely him in the grime and sweat in his hair when you pushed it back from his forehead, hoping he wouldn’t notice the extra second you lingered, fingers threaded into those streaks of white. You always wondered if they would feel different than the rest of his hair. They didn’t. They were just as soft. You wondered if anyone else knew that. You hoped not; no one else needed to know him the way you did.

(No one needed to know that you revisited that night with such frequency, either, in the middle of the night hidden under layers of blankets and darkness with nothing but your hands and imagination. You’d take that to the grave.)

Perhaps, deep down, there was a small part of you that wished he would turn up at your window again, this time armed with reasonings and apologies.

There was an emergency.

My team needed me.

I didn’t want to leave.

But after five days of radio silence, there’s not much you can do except take the hint.

You go about your normal routine, trying your hardest to push him out of your mind. Things at work are steady, your position intact and safe from usurping coworkers. You resign yourself to a fate of friends with questionable compassion, grateful to have any at all, and call up your best friend to smooth things over. She accepts, moving on to squeal about her boyfriend’s friend that she’s been dying to set you up with. You reluctantly agree to a double date somewhere down the line, but start preparing excuses and illnesses in the back of your mind.

Ten days after that night, that book is one week past its due date when you muster up the will to take it back to the Gotham Public Library.

(So maybe you still held out a small flicker of hope. What matters now is that you’re here, ready to return it and blow out that flame.)

There’s one person ahead of you when you fall into line at the front desk. He makes easy conversation with the librarian while she scans his library card; judging by the waves he garners from other passing staff, he must be popular around here.

“Thanks again, you’re the best,” he says, taking the book she hands him.

“Oh, of course,” the librarian gushes, a faint rouge coloring her face. “You let me know how you like that one.”

“I will.”

He turns around, halting suddenly to stop himself from walking into you. You mutter out an apology, ready to move past him, but he stares at you, saying nothing. His large hand tightens its grip on an old and worn book. The ends of jet black strands peek out from under a red beanie and he searches you with wide, teal eyes, mouth agape like he wants to speak. He’s looking at you like he’s been looking for you for ages, and he can’t believe you’re here.

“Hi,” he says, sounding a little breathless.

“Hi.” You clutch your book tighter against your chest, not knowing what to make of this man. It draws his eyes lower and he sees the title.

“Hi,” he says again. Then; “I— I was wondering. About that book.” He nods toward it. “I’m, uh, thinking about reading it. What did you think?”

“Oh,” you exhale. “I actually never finished it. Sorry.”

“Oh,” he echoes. His face falls, but only for a moment, before returning to a neutral expression. “Okay, sorry.”

He brushes past, leaving you addled in his wake, but also next in line. The librarian flashes you a glare when the book is scanned in as one week late. Sheepishly, you pay the fine and watch as it gets rolled away on a re-shelf cart, the last of your connections to the Red Hood rolling along with it.

It would be another two months before you saw him again.

remember after the last part when i said "ignore how his open would is just sitting there marinating"? well i figured out how to amend that👍 idk why i feel like this is so short i tried to write more but yk how it is the story goes the way it wants to i am but the messenger. i've been experiencing mad writer's block this past couple of weeks please pray for me🙏🙏🙏

listen to the inspo song!!!

[evilgwrl]

TF 141 x Reader (Apocalypse!AU)

Immune: Three

WARNING: This is a 18+ Poly!141 series (MDNI)

CW: Suggestive themes (smut is coming I promise)

I literally wrote a whole chapter and it deleted </3

Masterlist

You woke up, body slumped against the door as you groaned. The soft strum of pain vibrated through your lower back, the dull ache sending a small zap through you as you stood up.

Groggy eyes drifted to the stained window, the barely visible streak of sun peaking over the forest as you sighed, feet padding against the floors as soft creaks spoke back to you.

You stared in the mirror, dull eyes staring back. You rubbed your face, small streaks of sticky sleep dragging across your palms as you picked them off.

Mortification is all you could feel. Not only are four men in your house, but you touched yourself to one, and another walked in on you. MID ORGASM. You silently prayed they had packed up their stuff and left. Or maybe it never happened and Ghost hadn’t seen anything. Or maybe- fuck it. There wasn’t much use denying.

The chill of the water woke you up as you scrubbed vigorously, almost as if you could wash away the embarrassment you felt.

You dressed yourself before heading to the barn, the acreage becoming more and more visible by the minute as you fed the animals, collecting any eggs in your makeshift apron, before letting the horses roam in the paddock

You took note of the overcast, thick smog of clouds littering across the barely visible sky. You needed the rain, but you also knew it would make it harder for them to leave if it did.

Conjuring that it would make things easier if they woke up and you were gone, you cooked yourself breakfast before heading out, planning to target a small set of shops you were yet to raid, tucked away on a more secluded part of the area. In fear of waking them up, you rolled out the rusting bike from the garage, a small woven basket adorned with half broken flowers as you rolled the worn wheels onto the gravel road.

You didn’t take much with you. Only a bottle of water, a pistol (incase you magically needed it) and two apples as well the large backpack stitched on your back.

The trail was mostly flat, a few rocks causing you to wobble from time to time, but for the most part it was an enjoyable ride. The soft flicker of the sun stretched through the adorned trees, the heaviness of the clouds beginning to weigh on you as you peddled faster.

It was an hour or two trek, you believed, the roaring ache of your thighs begging for the needed break as you pulled into the abandoned town. Sometimes you expect people to run out, waving you down in celebration, but it never came.

You could hear the soft groans of nearby dead, wobbling their rotting limbs towards the bike before turning around. The tinkle of the rusted bell greeted you as you ducked through the aisles. It was a small store, only supplying anything for a couple hundred, most items expired now anyway, but it was worth a look.

You held your bag open, dumping a few cans of tinned vegetables in as well as a bag of sugar, a pack of razors and some long-life cartons of skim milk. With achy thighs, you jumped over the counter, mess everywhere, register half open with nothing inside. It was funny, even during an apocalypse people found the time for money.

You rattled at the metal knob on the staff door, growing frustrated when it wouldn’t budge before you began to kick, slamming your boots against it repeatedly before it eventually swung open. It might have taken you 15 minutes, but it was sure worth it as you snatched up the golden sweetness many would refer to as whiskey.

You headed off with a few other things, half open stock boxes tipped everywhere as your hands grabbed for anything that hadn’t expire, or was about to. With a heavier bag, and a smug smile on your face, you peddled your way home.

“Y’ think she got scared and buggered off?” Soap quipped, mouth half full with an apple, juices spurting across the room as Ghost glared back.

“If it wasn’t for him,” Gaz interjected, thumb pointing towards the masked-man, “she probably would have let us stay.”

Ghost rolled his eyes, replaying the scene in his head for the hundredth time. Sure, he should’ve knocked but he’s glad he didn’t. Half of him wanted her to ask him to stay, to fully satisfy her, to fully satisfy him.

“She wouldn’t have just packed up and left- put far too much effort into all this place to leave,” Price said, voice deeper than usual as he took a swig of water. Time ticked slowly as they waited around, searching every crevice of the house before they landed on a bow and arrow.

Soap snatched it, veiny hands clawing at the weapon as if it was gold. “What’dya say, LT? Fancy hunting some deer?”

“I ain’t hunting for anybody if I ain’t staying-“

“Go hunt a f’cking deer,” Price huffed.

The two me disappeared into the forest as Gaz stepped outside, bottom plonked in the barely comfortable porch chair. The Captain knew you would probably bitch them out, but a sick part of him wanted you to let them stay, wanted you to realise they were what you needed, that they magically landed on your farm for some Godforsaken purpose.

He would make you realise. He knew he would.

You felt like vomiting now, your bones burning as if they had clawed through your flesh, attempting to escape the treacherous journey that you forced yourself to endure.

You almost felt lost. Why did it feel so much longer on the way back?

You smiled to yourself softly as you passed the tree you marked a few months ago, the unmistakable smiley face almost greeting you. Your smile quickly faded when you felt a spit land on your cheek. And then another. And another. Until you were peddling faster as wet pellets hit the ground.

Slippery hands clutched the leather handles as you neared the entrance of the farm. You were drenched now, hair matted to your neck and face as you flicked it behind you, annoyed that you neglected your clip.

Your boots squelched against the ground as you slammed the garage door shut, weak arms clutching your bag as you swung it around your shoulder, weaving in and out of trees as you stumbled up the front steps.

Tumbling inside, you took note of the cleaner house, a small wrapped bowl of vegetables and a bowl of tomato soup (that was probably cold now) greeting you as you kicked off your boots. You stood over the sink as you scrunched your hair out, the trickle of water tapping as you shrugged off your coat, fumbling outside to hang it on the underground clothes line.

For a minute you thought they had left, no manly faces greeting you until you heard the soft clearing of a throat. “Made you some lunch,” he said.

“Thank you… Gaz, isn’t it?” Clammy hands gripped the bowls as you sat down on the couch, the lukewarm mixture sliding down your oesophagus.

“That’s right,” he replied, gentle smile adorning his face as he watched you, trying to observe you, almost as if you were a war criminal he wanted to break in. Military men, you thought.

You sat in silence, yet didn’t find it to be uncomfortable. Though Gaz was incredibly handsome, and well built, you almost felt comfortable in his presence and you couldn’t quite place why.

“Where did you go?” He asked, almost as if he was hesitant to speak. Your eyes flickered to his lap, hands gently rubbing together before rubbing against his denim-covered thighs. He has nice thighs.

“Uh, I went into a town.. bout two hours from here. Got a few things and I also just wanted to.. get out, I guess.”

He nodded.

Once you finished up, you braced yourself as you ran outside, yet found no horses frolicking frightened in the paddock. Fear ran through you as you sprinted to the barn, heavy footsteps slapping against the mud as you took in the closed door.

You let out a shaky sigh, relieved, when you saw two large, longer heads staring at you from inside, the gentle squawks of hens sounding across the room.

“I hope you don’t mind that I put them inside, figured you would hav’ done that anyway when you got back.” You jumped at the voice, body jolting as you snapped your head.

Price stood there, rough hands clutching a wooden broom as he swept, a beanie now plonked on his head instead of the hat he greeted you with.

“Uh- thanks. Yeah, they’re afraid of the rain.”

“Y’r a good owner, picking up the slack after they were abandoned.”

“I guess so,” you conceded. You looked at him, taking in the way his eyes flickered down your drenched frame, a cerulean blue darkening into a navy.

“Y’r wet.” His tone was sharp, even while stating the obvious, a visible clench of his jaw causing you to tense as you wobbled, suddenly nervous under his gaze.

“Well, I was out in the rain,” you said, almost like it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world. You looked away but could feel him walking closer to you.

“Y’r gonna catch a cold if you don’t change.”

“I’ll survive,” you replied, your voice now dropping to a low whisper. You looked at him, his stare heavy, almost like it was weighting you down. He smiled at you, a hand reaching out before it landed on the flesh of your waist, squeezing as you felt the familiar heat you encountered last night, prickling through you again.

Your breathing was shallow, an occasional hick passing through you as his hand lingered. “Pretty thing, hm?” He gestured, nodding towards your chest as you noticed the faint outline of the rose-coloured brassiere you chose today. You blushed and you were sure you looked silly, a red hue across your face as you barely stuttered a reply.

You turned, almost feeling like you were about to choke. Feeling betrayed by your own body, you pressed your thighs together and you were sure he noticed.

“Y’n need any help staying warm,” he began, “just tell me, sweetheart.”

[redcherrykook]

✰ 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦.

✰ 1 / 02 / 03 / series m list.

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tags: bestfriendsboyfriend!jungkook, boxer!jungkook, cheater!jungkook (not on oc) , making out, grinding, mini tit play, oc is a piece of shit, sneaking around

note from cherry: shameless one is here!! debuting a morally grey (fucked up) lil three shot. yay!! Lmk what u think >_<

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The grey, cloudy storm outside knocks on your window rather gently, brushes against the glass with it´s windy strokes as if asking to be let in rather than commanding you to. But you knew Jungkook wasn´t really asking.

"Hey doll" the sleezy smile spreads across his features quickly, his scratched up, tattooed hand wraps around the window seal while he kicks his legs over, invites the rain in briefly. The sliding window shuts closed behind him- shakes off the wetness from his leather jacket, runs a hand through his damp mullet.

"You look beat up, what happend?" he hums briefly, letting your exposed arms sneak around his neck while he find the familiar spot on your waist- he shouldn´t know that that´s where you like to be held. Does nonetheless, rubs his rough palms under the flimsy material of your cami.

"Street fight, coach said i shouldn´t but the bastard was asking for it" he lowly murmurs against your lips, unable to resist their proximity anytime he crosses boundaries again. Instinctively leaning down to meet you, splatter ink on to your skin that you would have to spend hours scrubbing off of every patch on your body he´d touch- everywhere, only to still linger around with his cologne.

He brushes his busted lip against your own plump, soft ones- vanilla, your usual lip balm that´s kept on at all times. Even on mundane days where the thrill of his presence lies low.

"Want me to patch you up?" your words fan against his small wound, breathe the hot air, thus the life, back into him like you always do. Like you´ve grown to do in the reflection of broken vows and in corners you should not be lurking in.

"Hmm, missed you" Jungkook grins, feeling your own smile creep up into your lips, invading that slight scowl you worse tentatively. Outside becomes louder, drags the trees against your window now, but you can´t hear it, not against your heart pounding in your eardrums, not when you try to ignore the guilt that bubbles up every time his lips hungrily meet yours. Clash, collide, collapse.

You moan at the wet sensation of his mouth trailing down your neck, he blindly finds your sweet spot and you let out his favorite sigh, tangle your fingertips into his midnight hair and tug on it near his roots. He matches the sound, groans and embeds himself deeper into your delicate skin.

You smell like his favorite too, cotton, a hint of lavender. He had always despised strong floral scents, especially artificial ones. They make his head hurt and his nose burn, he´d say.

Your breeze of lavender kisses his senses as much as it devours him whole. He indulges in it, drinks every drop, tongue darting along your skin to feel it rise, feel how you shiver through his open mouthed, hot kisses.

"Come on, let me clean you up baby" you speak through breathy moans, gliding your finger along his jaw, he whines; then chuckles "Fine"

"This is so unnecessary doll" his teeth chew down on his pillowed bottom lip, oozing out more red liquid - you wipe it again, scoffing "Well stop getting into street fights. Turn left" you nudge his chin, inspecting the dirty scratch on his cheek- shake your head as you bring the disinfectant to the cut up skin. Jungkook tries his best not to wince at the sting, but you see right through him, his eyes scrunch up briefly "Such a baby"

"You just need an excuse to sit on my lap don´t you?" the flat tip of his nose nudges yours, pokes little holes into your annoyed facade, he throws your other thigh over his hip aswell- planting you to straddle his larger frame. You proudly nod, shimmy his leather jacket off his shoulders and let him find his rightful place around your waist again. He massages the flesh carefully, taking his silver lip ring between his teeth while you apply the last little bandaid just above his eyebrow piercing.

The storm roars now, banging against your windows, breaking through to be acknowledged. But you´re oblivious. Focused on the routine like feel of Jungkook´s hands sliding up your cami to cup your breasts, he gropes the soft swells, brings his head forward to tug down the lace with his mouth, "So cute" he mumbles, runs his tongue flat over your hardened pebble. The neglected, bruised knuckles of his caress you with airy adoration that don´t seem to match their broken exterior, bled through, vulnerable. Contrary, they´re feather light, guarded. Almost, as if he´s still afraid to go too far. His cock strains at the memory of being nestled inside of your cunt.

"Kook.. she´ll be here soon you know" the sentence floods his mouth, invading your sweetness with bitter aftertastes- he´s aware that he can´t fully enjoy you without it stringing along, but he likes to pretend in these moments, that it´s just the taste of sweat, part of your giving body that he claims with vile breaths. Inhales, swallows.

Your airy noises of enjoyment deafen him, edge his tongue to swipe across the skin of your chest and make his palms itch to grind you against his clothed cock, run your throbbing, wet core over he bulge to create electricity throughout his system, strain his throat with gutteral groans only a equally hungry man would understand.

"Just a little, missed you all week" it echos through your made empty head, fills up your every cell with lust for something in your possession, inside of a grasp you dug your claws in, fitting in holes that aren´t yours- molds you never made, though you seem to fill them out better than their originator. You sneak your way down his body, work to zip open his heavy jeans while he´s long gone in pulling down your little sweatpants- sighs at the view of pink undies covering your pussy.

"Did you know i was coming?" he jokes, engulfs your hips into his hold and stutters out a curse at collision, "No, but I was hoping"

Every ragged, filthy drag of your panty clad core to his messily pulled out, thick cock feels like a hit of gratification, he glistens with the cover of your sins and swells at the fat tip every time you rub your needy clit against it, digs deeper into you.

His solid muscles flex under the touch of your eager hands, it burns on the surface of his skin and Jungkook wastes a thought on wishing it wouldn´t show when he faced the mirror later. Invisibly ruined by your fingerprints, committed to his pleasure once his hand wraps around his cock in solitude- even when he tries to wash off your remains, the chamber of his mind found it´s way back. In horror, his heart always pumped his blood in the route to where you tainted him.

"M´close" you whisper ravishing his jaw with your dainty kisses that don´t mirror an ounce of the true need coursing through you, you weren´t allowed to bruise his skin more than you had already done so in the secrecy of your affair, a single visible mark and it would be over. It can however, not be over, not yet, or so he thinks even when his milky cum splurts on his stomach, paints the sensitive flesh of your cunt as you lazily drag over it. Let out little whimpers that make his chest clench with ownership.

The fever dies out into a candle, he smiles, presses a kiss to your nose "We should be quick baby"

Fast enough to make it seem natural when he just undoes his no longer wet jacket at the front door while it rings expectedly,

"Hey- oh baby, you´re here already?" she chimes, turns the corners of her lips up in excitement

You watch as your best friend leans in, kisses his cheek on the side he´s been patched up on, "Yeah, came here just now, had to get fixed up first"

"What happend?" you hold back the answer that prudes the tip of your tongue, glance at his loose hold on her hips and briefly allow yourself to proudly smile, just before you recoil in shame.

"Street fight, all good"

The rain trickles down her wet hair, pools down at the floor but calms down significantly on the other side of your four walls, sings against the heavy curtains, asks you to forget.

"You smell so good" Jungkook tells her, letting the words intoxicate her innocent head with lovesickness, but his eyes dull with boredom even when she beams, he´s good at lying you´ve learned- even burries his nose into her hair.

"Thank you babe. Gucci flora, got it just the other day"

It takes a bit not to chuckle, stepping behind her back to carefully send him a knowing smile before you turn around- walk back up to your room and leave the lovers in their confined, rightful space.

[the-fiction-witch]

Forgive Me

Media - EPIC The Musical Saga Character - Prince Telemachus Of Ithaca Couple - Telemachus X Reader Reader - Y/n (Palace Handmaiden) Rating - 18+ Word Count - 1575

(Telemachus' Art by GIGI)

Telemachus walked through the vibrant palace gardens, he yearned for a moment of solitude amid the chaos that consumed his home. The air was full of the scent of blooming roses and jasmine, while the sun cast dappled shadows through the leaves of the ancient trees. He had left Argos, his loyal hound, to guard his mother’s chambers like a devoted sentinel. And he made sure the corridors were secured by the guards he trusted most. Though he was constantly uneasy when out of sight of the suitors he knew he had to take a moment even briefly just to clear his foggy mind.

As he strolled along the stone path, each step leading him farther from the tension of the palace, his restless mind began to find solace in a soft, lilting song carried on the breeze. The melody seemed almost ethereal, it weaved through the air like a delicate rope, to drag Telemachus in.

Without realizing it, a contented hum escaped his lips, and brought momentary silence to the storm of thoughts racing through his head. It felt as though the song, imbued with a kind of magic, had a soothing effect, if only for a fleeting moment.

Guided by this unseen force, Telemachus moved forward. The gentle song beckoned him onward.

Finally, he emerged into a small clearing, where the enchanting singer awaited him.

It was one of the garden falls, water tumbled from a statue that turned a vase down into a waiting pond surrounded by rocks, often the water from these falls was often used to water the gardens, and used by many servants to bathe if the palace baths were too crowded.

There he found the maiden, Y/n. She was one of his mother’s handmaidens, he’d often seen her helping to do his mother’s hair and other such things, He had often tried to strike up a conversation with her… but had always found himself unable to find anything to say to her beyond.

‘It uhh is a uhh… warm… warm day we’re having…’

But she stood barefoot on the rocks, leaning into the water to wash her hair. Her long hair was dark and heavy from all the water as she ran her hands through it singing softly to herself. Her figure was shrouded in the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the leaves.

Telemachus however didn’t want to be spotted and called out for potentially watching her. So he darted behind the plants hiding himself there for a moment. It was likely not the best idea… but it was the first one to arrive in his mind at the time.

Her song still made him feel warm and cosy, unable to make himself stop listening as she sang. He tried to catch another glance at her but as he poked his head out enough to see, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

Y/n tugged at the tie of her dress, she loosened it and tossed it off her shoulders, and the fabric settled on the grass. Her skin was exposed to the sun, water from her hair ran down her body, her breasts bounced slightly as the dress fell away, her thighs slightly open with her pussy on display.

Telemachus immediately gulped at the sight of her, unable to rip his eyes away. His heart began to race. His body grew tense. And his cock grew hard and perky making a tent of his robes below his waist.

She continued to sing, as she began to wash under the water. Her hands scrubbed across her body, cleaning away the sweat from the day.

His hands pulled hard on the hem of his robes desperately trying to resist his urge to touch himself as he watched her. A small whine escaping his lips,

As she washed, her body seemed to glitter in the water, her nipples hardened, and her pussy softly glistened.

Telemachus couldn’t resist any longer, and flicked up the cloth that concealed him. His hard cock stood up to attention, he wrapped his hand around himself and began to stroke barely even blinking not wanting to miss a single second of her. He tried desperately not to whine, or at least not to make any noise too loud to bring attention to himself. But as he got closer he found it impossible to stay quiet as he felt his orgasm aproch… “Ughh-” He whined,

Y/n gasped her head snapping fast in his direction making eye contact, her face red, her hands coming to conceal herself as best she could.

He considered just turning and bolting, she hadn’t seen him, she didn’t know it was him. But he feared just the sight she did see was enough for him to be discovered later. He forced his robe down trying to hide his still throbbing cock as he stepped into view. “I-I Forgive me… Y/n.” he pleaded,

“P-Prince Telemachus!” she gasped, “I- I’m sorry I-”

“Why are you apologizing?” He asked, “I- it was I who…” he trailed off as he came closer,

“What are you doing here, my prince?”

“I… I… I have no right to be here Y/n, I cannot justify what I’ve done. But you… you’re so beautiful, and I, I couldn’t help myself. I know it’s wrong but… could you forgive me?”

“You… You think I’m beautiful?” she blushed,

“Beyond the gods.” He nodded, “Y/n when I look at you, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, I know I shouldn’t have watched you, but I can’t hold back my feelings. In my mind… in my dreams I spend every night holding you in my arms and kissing your soft lips.” he explained, “Y/n I desire you beyond measure.”

She blushed hard and softly giggled, her hands moving behind her back allowing him to look, “I- I could never have imagined you’d have desired me.”

“Do… do you think, there is ever a chance you too might…” he trailed off again stepping closer,

Y/n giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders, her head tilting to the side invitingly, She happily rubbed her nose against his.

“O-Y/n…” Telemachus gasped as he all but fell into her, his arm wrapped around her waist his hand on her right hip, his other hand on the back of her head twisting his fingers into her wet hair. Bringing his lips to her own.

She happily kissed back tightening her hands around his neck and twisting her fingers into his hair as their kisses deepened.

He felt his cock throbbing between them growing more and more desperate with every kiss, but he knew he couldn’t hold back a single second. He pushed her down against the rocks,

Y/n’s back against the rocks, her hair falling into the water, with Telemachus settled between her thighs his clothes flicked up once more, the head of his cock pressing softly against her stomach as they pulled back from their kisses and took a gasp.

“Y/n… Please… Tell me you want this too?” He asked pressing small kisses to her neck,

“Yes, My Prince.” She cooed as she shifted her hips up moving her hand down to guide his cock down from her stomach to brush against her pussy lips,

He groaned and without hesitation thrust deep filling her in one stroke, “Ughhh! Y/n!” He moaned at the soft warmth of her pussy,

She threw her head back as she clenched around him, “Ahhh! Telemachus!” she moaned her hands settling on his stomach as his thrusts began.

“Ahhh… fuc-” He cursed getting faster and faster as he was close to the edge from his earlier touching, “Forgive me…I … I can’t Last-” he tried to speak but it was too late as the rush flooded through his body like a wave, curling his toes and making his eyes roll back. “Ughhhhhghhrrr…” he moaned animalistic, as his seed filled her.

Y/n gasped looking up at him, her body trembling from the sensation that now dripped out of her,

“Forgive me Y/n…” He gasped,

“There is no need to apologize,” she smiled up at him,

“I can hardly leave you like this,” he whispered against her neck, “My sweet girl,” He cooed his hand sliding down her body feeling her tremble below him, her body clenching and pulsing around his softened cock. He pulled out slowly and let his hand replace himself his fingers diving inside her, and his thumb gently brushing her clit,

She moaned pulling him down into a kiss, desperately squirming against him.

Telemachus sped his hand up, gliding in the moisture of her arousal that coated his fingers. Her moans fueled his every movement, Getting faster and faster.

Y/n broke their kiss and screamed as she threw her head back against the rocks, as she squirted down his hand and her body shook as she clenched around his fingers.

He moved his hand to slow and finally pulled away as he smiled smugly down at her.

“Th-Thank you, My prince.” she gasped,

“You have no need to thank me, Y/n.” He told her rubbing his nose on hers, “I have never felt so much pleasure before.”

“Me either.” she nodded,

“Humm… Would you… want to do so again?

“Very much Telemachus.” she nodded, “So long as you wish to…”

“Ohh. I wish too. Very very much.” he smirked,

“Perhaps tonight? Your chambers?” She suggested,

“Umm tonight, and every night to come, my sweet Y/n,” he whispered leaning down to kiss her once more.

[grayandthyme]

my ground gives out beneath you ;

masterlist

tommy miller x f!reader

synopsis: While gardening, you make the wrong move. Slipping through a door you had no right to be near in the first place. Tommy is mad. Really mad. He can't lose anyone else. Especially not you. warnings/tags: fluff, slight angst, sexual suggestions, showering together, implied sex, use of swearing, mentions/depictions of violence, self-deprication. no use of y/n. reader is lowkey kinda silly for going outside but oh well.. gardener!reader.

w/c 4.6k

You wiped the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, careful not to smear more dirt across your face—not that it mattered. You were already covered in the stuff: jeans caked to the knee, boots sunk half an inch in soil. Your fingers dug into the earth, turning old till with practiced motions, pressing it down again like it was muscle memory.

Jackson had its charm. Quiet. Steady. Safe enough that you’d stopped flinching at every shadow. And somehow, you’d found a purpose here. Strange little corner of peace in a world long laid to hell. Resident gardener. Crop overseer. The one who brought a pop of color to porches, or laid flowers at graves no one else could visit.

It wasn’t just a job.

It was something to do.

A way to keep your hands busy. A way to keep moving forward. You planted things. Grew things. Helped life come back in the smallest ways.

Then you went home. Washed the dirt from your skin. Letting the man you love gently scrub the rest from your back.

Sat close enough to him that neither of you have to speak. It’s loving silence. Pray and tell.

For the end of the world it was good.

Sometimes, too good.

Some days it felt almost normal.

But today wasn't one of those days.

Your eyes skimmed the seed packets laid out in rows—carefully labeled, sorted. One bag near-empty, light in your hand: tomato seeds, your favorite project of the season. You drummed your fingers along the edge of the garden box and stood, stretching the ache out of your spine.

"I'm gonna go grab the rest of the bags—you guys good in here?" you called over your shoulder.

A chorus of “Yeah!” and “Thank you!” followed you out, and you slipped through the wooden corridor of the greenhouse.

Outside, the sun had started its descent behind the mountains. Jackson glowed in that late golden hour—the kind of light that made it feel like nothing bad had ever happened here.

The smell of roasted meat from the Tipsy Bison floated on the breeze, kids screamed with laughter at the wooden playground, horses clopped along the gravel paths with saddlebags full of supplies.

You weaved through the garden plots—mounds of soil, rows of orange tree saplings, rusted shovels leaning like old men against fence posts.

Passing rows of sprouting herbs and markers scribbled with names that felt like promises.

Toward the farthest edge, just before the great wall of Jackson, you spotted the stash.

Stacks of seed bags. Feet high, months of scavenging and trading packed into burlap and plastic. A quiet kind of accomplishment.

You sifted through the bags, fingers brushing over worn burlap, each one so familiar that you could almost name the seed inside by scent alone—mint, coriander, marigold.

Blowing out a short breath through your nose, eyes flicking across the row. No tomato seeds in sight. That same low-grade frustration began to simmer, a small, annoyed huff escaping you.

Maybe hangry.

"The hell…" you muttered, dirt-smudged fingers raking through your hair, tugging strands away from your face.

Definitely hangry.

That’s when you saw them.

Just outside the gate. A few bags—stacked a bit haphazardly—barely ten feet away, resting against the outer fence. You could practically touch them. Tomato seeds among them, you were sure of it.

A metal door stood between you and them. Heavy, rusted, barred from the inside.

It’s not like anyone’s out there, you told yourself. The walls were manned.

Watched.

This spot was under a watchtower, practically inside the town. It wasn’t like you were heading out into the goddamn wasteland.

It was… what? Two minutes outside the line? Grab the bag, bring it inside. Close the door. Done.

You didn’t want to ask someone to fetch it for you.

That felt worse.

Weak.

Like asking meant you weren’t capable. That you were soft.

Cowardly.

Hell, Tommy had gotten you into Jackson in the first place. Pulled strings. Gotten people to vouch. And ever since, it felt like you owed something. Like every seed you planted was penance for a favor you didn’t know how to repay.

Your hands were already moving before you could talk yourself out of it. You unlatched the thick metal bar with a quiet grunt and slipped the door open just wide enough to slip through. The hinges creaked like they hadn’t been used in years.

Still, you stepped through.

The air outside was different. Feral.

Thick with the smell of pine and iron. Just past the threshold, nature had taken over—overgrown grass curled around your boots, vines crept up the base of the watchtower, and fallen branches tangled in forgotten fencing.

You’d said it before: this would be prime land for garden expansion. You’d even told Tommy. But no one ever followed up.

You navigated through the dirt and gravel with careful footing, the uneven earth crunching beneath your boots. Kneeling by the stack, you moved fast—hands brushing over the coarse burlap, the scent of earth and dried seed rising up to meet you.

"Gotcha," you muttered, fingers closing around the tomato seed bag and tugging it free from the pile. It was heavier than you remembered—forty, maybe forty-five pounds—but you managed to hike it against your hip, adjusting for balance.

The weight pressed into your side as you made your way back, sidestepping tangled roots and patches of wild grass. You moved slow, cautious, but confident. The door was just ahead, right where you left it. Still cracked open. Still safe.

See? Easy. No problem. You worried for nothing.

A snap.

Spoke too fucking soon. Not from beneath you. From the trees. Somewhere off to the right.

The seed bag dug into your side as you slowly turned your head. Not fast—fast would make noise. Fast would mean panic. And panic meant death.

You scanned the trees. The underbrush. The shadows stretching longer now that the sun had nearly dipped below the horizon.

You shifted your grip on the bag, inching one foot back toward the open door.

Then it screamed.

That god-awful, bone-splitting screech—somewhere between a person and a demon—ripped through the air.

From the treeline, it lunged.

Runner.

No time.

You dropped the bag, stumbling backward as the infected barreled toward you, all limbs and rage, its mouth gaping open with the promise of ruin. Its hands stretched, fingers curled like claws.

Its arms missed you by inches, but its momentum dragged you both down in a vicious spiral—crashing through the underbrush.

You tumbled, slamming through dirt and dead branches, pain flaring in your back and ribs. The runner snapped its jaws in blind rage, its limbs clawing at the earth beside you but never quite finding skin.

Slamming against the base of a tree, disoriented, vision split by branches. You kicked and swung out, again and again, keeping the thing’s flailing body at bay.

BANG.

The shot split the air. The runner seized, neck jerking. It dropped. Silent.

Breathing caught in your throat as you lay there, heart thundering. Then the sound of boots barreled down the hill—furious boots.

Tommy’s hands were on you before the world came back into focus. “What the hell were you thinkin’?” he snapped, grabbing you by your shoulders, shaking once—not rough, just enough to remind you you were alive.

“No bite,” you gasped. “Didn’t touch me, I swear—”

“I don’t give a shit what it touched. You shouldn’t’ve been out here alone.” His voice cracked halfway through, like it betrayed him. His jaw clenched, “You know better—Fuck—You know better.”

You blinked at him, eyes wide.

His were just as wide, and angry.

“I almost put a bullet through it too late,” he continued, quieter now, but heavier. “You realize what that would’ve done to me? What it would’ve meant if I saw that thing sink its teeth into you?”

That he had to kill you.

You stayed silent.

There was nothing to say.

Tommy looked away, like even meeting your eyes hurt. He ran a hand down his face and muttered, “Jesus… You’re not just some fuckin' girl. You’re part of me now. And I ain’t got the kind of heart left to bury another person I love.”

Another person.

He hauled you up—not gently—and slung your arm over his shoulder. His grip was tight. Protective.

“You want tomato seeds?” he practically growled, voice dark and clad with anger, “You ask.”

“I’ll bring the whole damn field if it keeps you behind the gate. But you don’t get to pull stunts like this."

You nodded, throat tight. The weight of what almost happened still ringing in your bones.

As he guided you back toward the wall, you could feel it in the tension of his body—he wasn’t just mad.

He was terrified.

. . .

You’d misread him.

He wasn’t just terrified—he was seething. The angriest you’ve ever seen him. Light vanished from dark, woodsy eyes.

Quiet, tight-lipped fury. The kind that didn’t need to be shouted to make your chest ache.

The walk back to town was heavy with it. No words. No looks. Just the clamp of his hand on the back of your jacket, guiding you forward like a soldier escorting someone who’d stepped out of line.

You hadn’t even gotten to finish your shift. No chance to wave off the other gardeners. The stares were the worst—dozens of eyes trailing after you, low whispers cutting the air. Concern. Pity. Fear. You weren’t the survivor today. You were the reckless one, the fragile one, the woman who nearly didn’t come back.

Tommy’s grip never loosened. Not once. Like if he did, you’d vanish into the ground or go running back out again.

By the time you reached the house, your heart was pounding with the quiet shame of it all.

He finally spoke, voice flat and firm, the words razor-sharp in their simplicity.

“Go get changed.”

And then he disappeared—into the hallway, into the silence, into himself.

Standing there in the entryway, mud drying on your boots, hands still trembling from the brush with death, and it hit you.

It felt like punishment. Maybe it was.

A few moments pass, and you finally make your way upstairs to the bathroom.

Each scrape, each bruise, each patch of gravel-burned skin lit up angry and raw against the parts of you that were still whole. It all stung now—the sting of adrenaline gone, leaving nothing behind but pain and consequence.

You sat on the edge of the tub, sockless feet pressed to the cold tile floor, your arms folded tightly across your chest like they could hold you together.

But they couldn’t.

The bathroom light buzzed above you, casting your reflection in the mirror like a ghost.

And then, finally—finally—you let go.

A breath broke.

Then a sob.

Then another. And another.

No gasping. No theatrics. Just that hollow kind of crying that seeps up from your ribs, thick and unrelenting, like grief had been waiting patiently behind your teeth.

It wasn’t about the fall. Not really. It wasn’t even about the runner.

It was the look on his face.

The way Tommy hadn’t spoken to you.

The usual cheery, kind, and soft eyes that nurtured you; there no longer.

It was knowing, deep down, that you scared him. And that scared you more than anything else. It was an accident.

Though, you tried to convince yourself it was an accident. That you didn't go through with it because you were tired of being Tommy's sheltered girl.

He's lost so much, how could you add to that?

You’re part of me now. And I ain’t got the kind of heart left to bury another person I love.

The sobs didn’t stop—they just changed. Softer now. Like something had cracked wide open inside of you and there was no stuffing it back in.

You slid from the edge of the tub, knees curling beneath you as your bare skin pressed against the cool, aged wood of the floor.

Arms braced out in front of you, hands shaking against the boards like they could hold up the weight of the world. Like they could hold you.

But they couldn’t.

Sometimes you just have to lay on the bathroom floor.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. Time blurred at the edges. Pain and shame blurring with it.

A knock.

Soft. Careful. Still heavy.

Tommy.

He didn’t say your name.

You didn’t answer right away—couldn’t—but you heard the way he shifted just outside the door. Boots scuffing against the floor. A sigh, quiet and worn.

“I ain’t gonna ask to come in,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges. “But you’re hurtin’. And I’d rather be in there hurtin’ with you than standin’ out here pretendin’ like I ain’t.”

Silence.

“I was mad,” he added, slower this time. “Still am. Don’t mean I don’t love you. Don’t mean I ain’t scared shitless at the thought of you not comin’ home.”

You swallowed hard, head still bowed. The words splintered something in you, but not in a way that hurt.

In a way that made you feel seen.

“C’mon in,” you whispered, voice wrecked.

The doorknob clicked. The door eased open.

Tommy stood in the frame, his expression unreadable—somewhere between fear and fury and a heartbreak he’d never admit to.

But he stepped inside without a word, sinking to his knees beside you, knees shifting, and cracking with the action.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmured, eyes glassy, but jaw tight. “And I can’t. You hear me?”

“…’m sorry…” you manage to gasp, the words catching and breaking in your throat like brittle glass. Each sob lurches out of you, wild and raw, dragging your chest tight. The tears keep falling—hot, carving burning paths down your cheeks.

The wood beneath you bites at your skin, goosebumps rising in waves. You feel stripped open, not of your clothes—but of everything.

Pride. Defenses. Sense. Though the entire thing was your fault.

Tommy doesn't speak right away.

His fingers twitch—tight, twitch, release—over and over, like he’s working through something bigger than he knows how to say.

Then, quiet and flat:

“Don’t apologize for survivin’.”

You blink up at him through the haze of your crying, eyes swollen, lashes wet.

“That’s what that was,” he continues, voice a little rougher now. “You didn’t go out there ‘cause you’re stupid. Or reckless. Or tryin’ to piss me off.” A bitter huff. “Though you damn well managed that last two.”

He pauses, jaw ticking. His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours. It hovers just over your shoulder, as if looking straight at you might shatter him, too.

“You went out there cause you thought you had to. ‘Cause no one ever taught you to let someone else help. You don't owe me anythin'." His voice softens, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“Well, I’m here now. I’m right here. And I ain’t lettin’ you bleed alone on a bathroom floor. Got it?”

You don’t answer.

But you nod.

And that’s enough.

Tommy shifts, lowers himself beside you, pulling you gently against his chest. You curl into him—still trembling, still raw—and he just holds you there, like he’s trying to put all your broken pieces back in place with nothing but his hands and the steadiness of his heartbeat.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You sink into him like soft wax against a flame—malleable, undone.

His arms encase you, dark and steady, holding you like a thing he refuses to let shatter.

You let your fingers roam in small, quiet passes—mapping the constellation of moles and sun-darkened spots that speckle his skin like old stories.

Scars like soft warnings, sunspots like prayers.

He feels real beneath your hands. Solid. Warm.

Your voice is barely more than breath.

“Tommy?” A pause. The weight of his name clings to your tongue, “…Is it a bad time to ask if you’ll… shower with me?”

For a moment, there’s just the sound of the house breathing around you. Wood creaking. Pipes humming. Your chest rising and falling where it rests against his.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes scanning your face—searching, measuring. Not for lust. Not even really for permission. But for intent. For what you need.

His voice is quiet. Rough, like gravel smoothed down by the years.

“Darlin’,” he says, “I’d carry you in there if you asked me to.”

"I'm a big girl, I can walk…" You jest, a small laugh slipping out from your crying demeanor.

His eyes are soft as they meet yours.

Thumb brushing across the back of your hand before he drifts to undo the buttons of his flannel.

There’s something hesitant in the movement, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop.

He doesn’t want to push you, doesn’t want to make you feel anything more than what you’re willing to give.

But you can’t stop the way your body moves towards him.

How your lips lift, barely brushing against his as you reach up to gently pull his shirt from his shoulders, your fingers trembling as you guide it down his chest.

His breath hitches, a low sound escaping him when your lips meet his neck, soft, fleeting. Like each soft kiss is an apology.

I'm sorry for being stupid.

There’s no hurry. No franticness.

Just the weight of everything you’ve been through, pressing in, and the need to feel something real.

Something that isn’t broken. You press your body against his, and he inhales, his hands coming up to your face, brushing your tears away, though you’re not sure when they started again.

Maybe his presence.

Pulling back for a moment, your breath shaky. You don’t say a word. But the look in his eyes tells you everything. It’s soft, but it’s fierce. Like he’s terrified of what’s been lost and what could slip away in an instant.

You kiss him then.

Slow, soft, desperate in its quiet way. Your hands slide over his chest, fingers slipping down the curve of his torso, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

He doesn’t stop you.

It’s not about sex. It’s about the quiet, desperate need to be together in this chaotic world. To remind each other that you’re both still here. That you’re alive.

When you finally break apart, you let the fabric fall between you both.

His shirt, your clothes—discarded in a pile against the old wooden floorboards.

His arms encircle around your waist, pulling you into the shower with him, close under the hot water. Feeling the weight of everything you didn’t say, everything you didn’t need to, pressing against you.

You kiss him again, this time deeper, pulling him closer, seeking solace in his warmth, in his scent, in the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"I'm sorry," you whisper again, the words barely rising above the hum of the water. They cling to your throat like thorns, fragile and raw. Trembling as your fingers curl into the warmth of his skin and water.

"I'm so fucking sorry," you repeat—choked, hoarse—like it’s not a sentence but a prayer. A desperate offering to something bigger than the both of you. Maybe to him. Maybe to the pieces of yourself that still believe you deserve to be held.

Tommy doesn’t say anything at first. Just rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, like he’s trying to breathe you in.

His hands move over your spine, slow and deliberate, anchoring you there like you might otherwise drift apart.

The warm drip of the water.

“You think I don’t know what that guilt feels like?” he says lowly, voice gravel-worn and edged with something close to ache. “I’ve carried it so long, I forgot what it feels like to walk without it.”

You keep your face pressed to his chest, lips parted but speechless. The silence says everything you can't.

He exhales, slow and tired. “I can't bury you. That ain't somethin' I can do… You go, and I go with it. There'll be nothin' left of me."

There’s no venom in it. Just truth.

Just the kind of pain that sounds like anger because love doesn’t always come out gentle.

“I ain't mad you went out there,” he continues. “I’m mad 'cause you didn’t think twice about what it'd do to me. About what I'd be without you.”

Your breath catches. He feels it.

“I ain't like the others, never have been,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “I don’t shut it down when I care about somebody. I feel it. I feel all of it.”

You look up then, blinking through the mist, your thumb brushing over the scar on his forehead.

“I didn’t want to be a burden—Okay? I.. I fucked up.”

Tommy’s jaw clenches. “You’re not a burden. You’re my girl. My woman—" He hesitates, a deep inhale, "And mine don’t die alone in the goddamn dirt.”

He says it like a vow.

"If you asked me to lay down n' die, I sure as hell probably fuckin' would…"

His words don't burn anymore.

You kiss him again—slow and firm and full of every word you can’t manage. And he lets you. Holds you like the world might split if he doesn’t.

Your fingers find his hair—thick, dark—and you curl them there, anchoring yourself in the strands like they’re the last solid thing in a world built on rot and ruin.

A gentle tug, not out of desire but out of need.

Something quiet and aching.

Like you're trying to make sure he stays.

The kisses taper off, each one slower than the last, until your foreheads rest against each other and the only thing left between you is breath.

Steam swirls around your tangled forms, the water falling soft.

You're both still, tucked into each other beneath the muted warmth. Spaced out. Safe, for now.

And then your voice breaks the hush, small and hoarse: “How’d you know I was there? I thought you were out on patrol.”

Tommy exhales through his nose, his arm tightening slightly around your waist.

“I was,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “Checkin’ the perimeter like I usually do.”

He pauses.

“But then I saw one of the watch guys… leanin' over, squintin’ toward the south gate. Looked nervous.”

His jaw ticks. You can feel it against your temple.

“And I don’t know what it was—just somethin’ in my gut. Cold, sick feelin’. I ran. Didn’t even think. Just ran.”

His voice quiets, but it hardens too.

“Don’t ever make me feel that again.”

You swallow, guilt catching sharp in your throat.

Tommy shifts then, just enough to look at you. His hand comes up, thumb brushing a drop of water from your cheek.

“I know you’re strong. I know you’ve survived a helluva lot. But don’t you dare think you gotta prove it to me by gettin’ yourself killed.”

There’s no accusation in his voice, just a worn-out sorrow, like someone who’s lost too much and refuses to do it again. The silence returns, but it’s softer now. Heavy with feeling, but not drowning in it.

The water runs warm for a little while longer, soaking into your skin like ointment against old bruises.

Tommy doesn’t say much more after that. Doesn’t have to. His touch stays—steady, grounding.

You stay curled against him in the falling water until your fingers start to prune and the steam fades into the cold edges of reality.

Eventually, he murmurs, “We should get out. Water’s goin’ cold.”

You nod, not really wanting to move.

But he helps you, carefully untangling your limbs, stepping out first to grab two towels from the wall hook.

He tosses one over his shoulder before turning to wrap the other around you, gentler than you expect.

The fabric scratches your scraped knees, but you don’t flinch, it only stings a bit.

You dry off in silence.

His silhouette moving behind you as he runs a hand through his wet hair.

He’s quiet, but there’s still a charge in the air between you, something unspoken and taut—less like a rope about to snap, and more like one that just pulled someone back from the ledge.

He watches you in the mirror, eyes flicking to each fading bruise and open scrape across your shoulder and collarbone. “You got lucky,” he says, voice low, gruff.

“I know.”

There’s a beat where you think he might say more, maybe even get mad again. But instead, he moves in behind you, pressing a hand flat against your back.

“You hungry?”

Your eyes dip in the mirror, watching his hand round your hips, tough calloused fingers resting right below your bellybutton.

"I don't know," You exhale, eyes flicking back up to meet his face in the mirror, "You angry enough to not give me what I want?"

His eyes practically dilate—soft fingers once resting on your stomach, now curling into a deepened hold. Pushing your waist against him.

The angular feeling of his bare body pressing against the taut arched form of your hips against the granite.

His free hand comes up to brush some of the hair from behind your back, over your shoulder.

Soft kisses peppering shoulder blades. His lips trace up, the feeling of his facial hair tickling against vulnerable skin.

A gentle kiss to the lobe of your ear, and a whisper.

"This the second apology?”

. . .

You curl toward him instinctively, limbs tangling with his. One arm under your head, the other slung across his ribs. His hand settles between your shoulder blades, thumb grazing slow circles into your spine.

He smells like soap, saw dust and sun-warmed cotton. And for the first time in hours your chest doesn’t ache from holding it all in.

Minutes pass like that. The silence between you is full—but not heavy. Not yet.

Then, his voice, low and rough in the dark: “I heard the runner before I saw you. Screechin’ like it was already eatin’. Thought I was too damn late.”

You don’t say anything. You just press your forehead harder into his collarbone.

“I’ve seen what those things do to people. What they leave behind.” His voice cracks a little. He coughs, as if to clear it. “You don’t get to do that to me.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper.

“I know.” A pause. “But intent don’t mean shit when the ground gives out beneath you.”

You tighten your grip around him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur again, but he shushes you this time, mouth brushing your temple.

“Not tonight,” he says, voice softer. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You let yourself believe him.

Let your eyes fall shut to the rhythm of his breathing.

Let the warmth of him hold the pieces of you together while you rest.

Tomorrow will ask more of you both.

This isn't fixed.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Dogs: Christmas

Keira Walsh x Laura Feiersinger x Child!Reader

Lucy Bronze x Ona Batlle x Child!Reader

Summary: Christmas with Pup

Lucy scrubs a hand over her face, yawning as she forces her eyes not to slump closed.

Late nights and early mornings clearly didn't agree with her anymore as she watches you whizz around the room with too much energy for seven in the morning.

Keira's seemed to doze off in the armchair by the tree while Ona and Laura happily work around each other in the kitchen.

"Presents now, please?" You ask, skidding to a stop in front of Lucy, who's only just realised that your Baby Sibling has finished their bottle of milk and fallen asleep again in her arms.

Lucy yawns. "You know the rules. No presents until everyone is ready. Ona and Laura are still busy with breakfast."

"I get them!"

"No, wait, Pup-"

You're already gone though and Lucy groans, moving your Baby Sibling up and attempting to burp them.

"She has too much energy," Keira complains, voice thick with sleep.

"You're not the one that got woken up first."

Keira yawns. "That's because she knows that she's got to wait until her clock has certain numbers to come and wake me and Laura. Why do you think I taught her numbers so early? I keep telling you to do the same but-"

You come skidding in again, slip-sliding over the area of wooden flooring before you're safely on carpet again.

"Mami and Mama say nearly ready! Have little pigs in blankets for us!"

"That's-" Another yawn from Lucy "-Great, Pup. Why don't you go and separate all the gifts into piles. Can you remember how to spell everyone's names?"

Your little face falls and you shuffle anxiously on your feet. "I don't. Sorry, Mum. I forgot."

"That's alright," Keira says, sitting up and snagging a pen and pad from the table," I'll write them out and then you can match the spelling to the words you see, alright?"

"Okay!"

By the time Ona and Laura come in with a tray of pigs in blankets and other small snack food that had all been properly cooked last night, you've managed (with Keira's help) to make little piles of presents for everyone.

You sit happily in the centre of the floor with Narla and Coco.

"You aren't going to open your presents, Pup?" Laura asks.

"No, Mama. I wait."

"Pup made us all gifts," Ona says," I think she's waiting for us to open them."

It's Keira that gets to hers first. It's quite badly wrapped but that's because you and Pina ended up fighting over the wrapping paper and tape at the arts and crafts table during training.

"That's us!" You say, pointing at the little misshapen plastic charm things that hang off the bracelet. "Is you because you've got your pretty curls!"

"Oh, Pup...That's so thoughtful, sweetheart."

Lucy's misshapen charm of herself is meant to have sunglasses on her because you think she's cool while you'd painted Ona's with stripes because she's fast like a cheetah and Laura's charm's head was fat because it was meant to represent the helmet she wears when she takes you climbing.

"Alright," Lucy says, hands covering your eyes," Now it's time for big presents. One from me and your Mami and one from your Mummy and Mama, alright?"

You try to pry Lucy's hands from your eyes. "And then tea time? Want to try my new puppy mug."

Lucy laughs. "Yes. Big presents and then we'll go and make a big brew so you can try out your new puppy mug."

"You ready, Pup?" That's Keira now.

"I'm ready!"

"Now," Lucy says," This one is from me and Mami."

Her hands peel away and you blink your eyes into focus.

Ona is standing behind a massive box.

"It's for your room in London," She says," Lucy's going to drill these into the wall for you."

"Like the climbing gym Mama take me too!"

"Exactly like that," Ona laughs," A little rock climbing wall just for you in the house with Mum!"

"Wow!" You say, eyes wide and face beaming with happiness," Thank you, Mum! Thank you, Mami!"

Lucy ruffles your hair. "You'll be the best climber in the world in no time!"

Keira rolls her eyes. "You better make sure those panels are secure, Lucy, otherwise you'll be in major trouble."

Lucy grins. "I've got this, don't worry."

Keira's hands covers your eyes now and you sit up properly again.

"And this big present is from me and Mama," She says," You're going to have to be very still and very quiet, can you do that?"

"I can."

"Good girl. I knew you could."

There's silence for a long while and then someone - Ona, you think - gasps.

"Kie, you didn't..." Lucy says.

There's a bit of movement in front of you and something wet comes across your cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Pup," Laura says as Keira removes her hands from your eyes.

Mismatched eyes stare back at you, a little tongue poking out of a little mouth and a little tail thumping against Laura's body.

"Puppy!"

Keira laughs. "Yeah, Pup, your Christmas puppy."

"My Christmas puppy? Mine?"

"Of course," Laura says," A puppy just for Pup."

"Is...Is a boy puppy or a girl?"

"It's a girl, Pup."

"I..." You look between your parents. From Keira to Laura and then from Ona to Lucy. "I...My book please? My puppy book?"

"I'll get it," Lucy says, standing up with your Baby Sibling in her arms," This one needs to be put down for a nap anyway."

You go flipping through your dog encyclopaedia the moment you're given it, trying to match a page in your book to the puppy in front of you.

You find it eventually, turning the book around for the puppy to say.

"This you," You tell her and you're pretty sure her tail wags even harder. "You're from...Mummy, what this word?"

"Australia, Pup. We went to Australia for the World Cup, do you remember?"

You don't actually but you nod anyway, looking back to your puppy.

"You're from Aus-tra-lia so...So you're like Bluey! Bluey's from there."

Your puppy wages her tail super hard.

"So...I call you Bluey. Merry Christmas, Bluey!"

[wholoveseggs]

Hi, can I pretty please request an Elijah fic where he meets reader and she’s a major cat lady and loves her cats like they’re kids. So much so that she has no interest in having kids ever and when Elijah finds this out he realizes she’s the one because he doesn’t have to feel like he’s taking her future from her and all he has to do is put up with these balls of furry attitude forever but her cats fall in love with him and try to make biscuits on him and want to cuddle in between him n reader in bed and he just becomes a major cat dad. 🐱❤️

Fur-ever

{Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Elijah Mikaelson x Reader} Elijah Mikaelson: Original vampire, refined gentleman, luxurious cat tree.

♡♡ AHHHHH ANON, You know this is my dream life right???? Thank you for this beautiful request!!~ ♡♡

3k words - Warnings: NO SMUT, this fic features my EGG, extreme fluff, excessive amounts of fur, tooth rottenly sweet, I'm projecting so hard with this one (I want all of these cats), Elijah being a soft and devoted boyfriend, some kissing, feline-related cockblocking, mild wine-drinking && a powerful vampire completely surrendering to three tiny dictators that are more demanding that Klaus...

It was a Saturday afternoon, and your boyfriend Elijah was coming over for the first time.

You had spent the entire morning deep cleaning your apartment, scrubbing every surface, vacuuming every corner, and lint-rolling the couch at least six times… Only for it to be instantly reclaimed by a fresh layer of cat fur. An impossible battle, yet you still had to try.

Your three beloved tyrants had been watching your frantic efforts with varying degrees of amusement and disinterest.

Beans, your chunky black cat, had decided the freshly made bed was the perfect place to dramatically stretch out, shedding dark tufts of fur onto the crisp sheets. Egg, your large grey tabby, who was the ultimate diva, had taken great offense to the vacuum and was currently perched atop his cat tree, glaring down at you like an exiled prince plotting revenge. And then there was Cheddar, your troublemaking orange cat, who had spent the last half-hour knocking every decorative item off your shelves, as if personally testing your patience.

You picked up the last fallen object just as the buzzer rang.

Your heart did a little flip.

He's here.

Wiping your hands on your leggings, you took a deep breath and pressed the intercom. “Hey, come on up.”

The moment you headed towards the front door, three furry bodies rocketed into the hallway and began circling your feet, purring. You were so busy scooping up your kitties and shooing them back into the apartment that you didn't notice your boyfriend until he was standing in the doorway.

Elijah was dressed somewhat casually, in just a black button-down shirt, grey vest, and slacks. He was holding a bouquet of peonies and a bottle of wine. A small, happy smile spread across his lips.

He was gorgeous.

Your cheeks flushed with heat as you invited him in. He greeted you with a warm kiss to the cheek, his stubble lightly grazing your skin.

You were trying very hard not to seem flustered, but his proximity had other ideas. Elijah was so handsome and put together, with a body that made you want to melt into a puddle. You had seen it all when you stayed over at his place last week, and you were still trying not to think too hard about that.

You took the flowers from him. The scent of the soft pink petals was light and lovely. He had remembered that they were your favorite, and it made you feel oddly shy.

Elijah's brown eyes were twinkling. He was looking around the apartment with obvious interest, and your pulse was racing. You wanted him to like it, but there was a nagging fear in the back of your mind. You had only been dating for a month, but you were already certain he was the one. But would he still think that after seeing how much your cats had invaded your space?

The apartment was filled with knick-knacks, photos, and colorful decorations. Everything was soft and mismatched, a far cry from Elijah's sleek style. Would he think it was childish?

As soon as he stepped inside, your three cats became very interested. They stared up at him, unblinking.

"These are my babies. Beans, Cheddar, and Egg." You introduced them one by one.

Elijah crouched down to say hello. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." He said, his tone serious and business-like. It made you giggle, and you watched as he stretched out his hand for them to sniff.

To your surprise, Beans was the first to come forward. Your round black cat bumped his head against his palm and immediately began purring. Elijah grinned, clearly delighted, and moved to pet him. He arched his back into Elijahs hand and flopped down on the floor.

"I think he likes you."

"Good. I was hoping for a warm reception." Elijah said, looking up at you with a playful smile.

As soon as the attention wasn't on Beans, he jumped to his feet and sauntered off, but not before giving Elijah a quick swat with his tail.

Elijah chuckled and returned to his feet, and you showed him around. He complimented the paintings on the walls, admired the view of the park outside the windows, and your taste in décor. He was polite and attentive, asking you about each object and photograph and listening intently to your answers.

You were blushing again.

Later on, the two of you curled up on your sofa, wine was poured and a movie playing. Your head was resting against his shoulder, and Elijah had wrapped his arm around your waist. His cologne was light and woodsy, and the scent filled you with warmth.

As you talked and laughed, your cats slowly began to creep out from their hiding places. They were certainly intrigued by the handsome man occupying their living room, and soon all three of them were winding around your legs.

Elijah looked down, and you saw the fond smile he was trying to hide. You felt a small thrill go through you. All you wanted was for your babies and your boyfriend to get along, and so far it was going wonderfully.

Cheddar jumped onto the couch next to Elijah. She was purring, watching him intently, and you could tell what was coming. Sure enough, she reached out with one paw and began batting his thigh. Elijah chuckled and obliged, running his fingers over her head and stroking her back. Cheddar purred and rubbed herself against him, then climbed into his lap. She was a large, heavy cat, and the way she draped herself across his legs made you laugh.

Elijah didn't seem to mind, though. He stroked her fluffy orange fur, smiling. His fancy clothes already had a fine layer of cat hair clinging to them, but he didn't even seem to notice.

"I've always enjoyed the company of cats," he said, scratching under Cheddar's chin. She was purring and kneading his sleeve with her claws. "They are elegant, clever. Such perfect little predators,"

You giggled as Egg joined the party, hopping up onto the couch next to you and stretching across your lap. His huge, fluffy paws draped over your legs, and his long grey tail hung off the edge of the sofa. You leaned down to kiss the top of his head, and he purred, blinking slowly at you.

“They are so spoiled," you laughed, scratching him behind the ears. "Hardly predators, more like spoiled aristocrats,"

"Well then, it's an honor to be in your presence, your majesties." Elijah bowed his head, talking directly to your cats now.

You had boyfriends before, but none of them had ever quite understood this part of your life. They tolerated your cats, sure, but Elijah? He was actively letting them claim him, letting them make biscuits on his lap, and acting like it was a privilege. And as he stroked Cheddars’ fur, looking at her like she was the best thing in the world, you felt it hit you like a freight train.

Oh god. You were in love. Hopelessly, stupidly in love.

You were so busy admiring your boyfriend that you didn't realize Beans had slipped out from under the couch and was now on top of your bookshelf. Slowly pushing a vase towards the edge, he was watching it intently, his tail swishing behind him.

You glanced up, and a feeling of dread washed over you.

"Beans, no!"

Elijah turned and followed your gaze just as the vase tipped off the edge. In a sudden blur of movement, he was on the other side of the room, catching the vase in midair, just inches away from hitting the floor.

All three of your cats went rocketing out of the room, scrambling frantically, the sound of their nails clacking against the hardwood floors. You were laughing as Elijah placed the vase safely back on the shelf.

"Well, I'm glad to see the cats are comfortable enough around me not to put on any airs," he teased, sitting back down on the sofa and wrapping his arm around your waist.

"Thank you for saving my vase," you giggled, leaning into him. "I wish I had super-speed, so I can catch all the things they knock over."

He chuckled, squeezing your side. "No need. I'll be here to protect your things," he murmured.

A fluttery feeling went through your chest, and you were sure you were blushing. You smiled and snuggled up close, enjoying the way his chest felt under your hand, when suddenly you noticed his sleeve. There were three little holes where Cheddar had been kneading his claws into him.

"Oh my gosh, Elijah. I'm so sorry! You have a tear in your shirt, and you are completely covered in fur." You were mortified, but he just smiled and pulled you closer.

"Don't worry about it. It's a small price to pay for the privilege of their company…and yours,” he said softly.

The warm, tender look in his eyes had your heart racing.

You were so happy.

After a couple more glasses of wine, the two of you ended up on your bed. The cats were still lurking, but had retreated back to their hiding places, leaving you and Elijah to enjoy each other's company.

He was propped up on his elbow, and the two of you were talking and kissing. His other hand was tracing lazy circles on your hip.

"I'm so glad you like my cats," you said, stroking his cheek. "I know a lot of people don't want a crazy cat lady as a girlfriend,"

Elijah looked at you, his dark eyes warm and affectionate. "There's nothing crazy about loving your family," he said.

The way he said 'family' sent a wave of happiness through you. He wasn't just your boyfriend, and he wasn't just a cat lover. He was someone who understood your love for your babies and wanted to be a part of it.

Elijah leaned forward and kissed you. His lips were warm and soft, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, heat pooling low in your belly. He pulled your hips a little closer, his hands gently squeezing.

"Is this okay?" He murmured, his lips trailing down your neck.

"Yes." You whispered.

Things began to grow more heated. Elijah's lips were on your skin, and his fingers were tugging at the waistband of your leggings, when a loud demanding 'mrrow' broke the tension.

Elijah pulled away and the two of you looked over to see Egg sitting in the doorway. Glaring at Elijah. Then he sauntered into the room and jumped up onto the bed, weaving his way in-between the two of you. He settled in front of your faces, his tail swishing over Elijah's cheeks and neck multiple times as he got comfortable. Once he was laying down, he began licking his paws.

Elijah was smiling, and you tried not to giggle.

"I believe I've been dismissed." Elijah said.

"I think he's jealous." You leaned over and kissed Eggs forehead and he let out a little 'mrrp' of agreement.

"I had a cat that looked just like him when I was a boy," Elijah said, petting the big cat's head. "She was a lovely creature. Hunted all the mice that would have otherwise invaded our home,”

Elijah rarely spoke about his past, and you felt a swell of happiness. You could picture it: a young Elijah playing with a fluffy grey kitten. It was too adorable, and you wished you could have seen it.

"Rebekah and I would feed her table scraps. My parents didn't approve, but she was an excellent mouser and we had a soft spot for her," Elijah had a faraway look in his eye, and you scooted closer,  stroking his cheek.

"Perhaps her descendants live on," he nodded towards Egg, and the big cat yawned and stretched his paws out. "I would very much like to have a cat again," he said quietly.

"Then you'll have to come over and hang out with us whenever you want." You said, leaning over Egg and kissing Elijah softly.

When you broke apart, he had a serious look on his face. His hand cupped your cheek, and his thumb brushed lightly over your skin.

"I would like that. Very much." He whispered, his eyes never leaving yours.

You felt a tingle spread through your body. Elijah looked so beautiful in the warm lamplight, his eyes warm and gentle. He was still petting Egg, and the cat's big, fluffy tail was swishing slowly, content.

"I think it's safe to say he approves of you," you teased.

Elijah's grin was dazzling. "Good. Then my plan is working."

"Plan?" You raised an eyebrow, laughing.

"Well, a gentleman must impress his lover's family before anything serious can happen," he said, his eyes twinkling.

You giggled, nudging him playfully. “So that’s why you’ve been letting them climb all over you. Winning over the gatekeepers?”

Elijah hummed, scratching behind Egg's ear. “Indeed. A relationship is built on trust, and I intend to earn theirs as thoroughly as I earn yours.”

Your heart swelled, warmth unfurling in your chest. How was he real? How had you, of all people, ended up with a man so elegant, so put together, so Elijah…. and yet here he was, curled up in your mismatched bed, covered in cat hair, petting your beloved kitties like he belonged here?

Because he did belong here. And you knew in that moment that he was never going to leave.

A quiet creak of your door opening caught your attention, and you both turned to see Beans peering in. He had been spooked by the vase incident earlier and had spent the last hour hiding, but it looked like he was done sulking.

"Beanie boy, come say hi!" You cooed.

He was cautious, creeping slowly towards the bed, his yellow eyes wide. Egg didn't like being disturbed when he was laying down, and he let out a grumpy 'mrrp' before jumping off the bed and heading out the door. Beans paused, looking between his brother and the two of you before making up his mind and hopping up next to Elijah.

"Hello, little sir," Elijah greeted him warmly.

Beans was clearly interested in Elijah. He walked up the bed and sniffed him, his whiskers twitching, and then began climbing him like a tree.

"Ah, yes, of course," Elijah said as Beans clambered up his stomach, and then began kneading his chest. "It's quite alright. Please, make yourself comfortable."

He looked at you, and his expression was so amused, and fond, and tender that your heart ached.

Beans finally seemed content, and settled himself in a loaf position. He purred loudly, blinking up at you, and then closed his eyes.

"Now that I have a lap full of Beans, I don't think we can continue where we left off."

You laughed, cuddling up close. "That's alright, I'll let him have you for just a little bit longer."

"Hmm, and what about later?" He murmured.

Your lips brushed his, and you heard him inhale softly.

"Well, since you're winning over my babies so well, I'd say your chances are pretty good." You whispered.

Elijah grinned. "I'll take those odds."

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was warmth. It surrounded you, cocooned you. A solid comforting presence of a chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths.

It was Elijah.

You blinked slowly, your vision adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. Your boyfriend was still fast asleep beside you, which was a rare sight in itself. Elijah Mikaelson. The ever-composed, perpetually elegant, centuries-old vampire… was actually sleeping. His expression was completely relaxed, lips slightly parted, his thick lashes fanned against his cheekbones.

And he wasn’t alone.

All three of your cats had apparently decided that Elijah was now their personal mattress. You couldn't blame them, he was quite cuddly.

Beans was perched on his chest, sprawled out like a tiny, furry king claiming his throne. Cheddar had tucked herself under his arm, her fluffy tail curled around his wrist. And Egg? Egg had taken up residence on top of Elijah’s head, his massive paws draped over the vampire’s cheeks, his face buried in the crook of his neck.

Your heart melted.

Here was a man of nearly infinite power… Entirely at the mercy of your cats. It was the single most adorable thing you had ever seen.

And then, as if the moment wasn’t already perfect, he shifted in his sleep. His fingers twitched, and with practiced ease, he absently ran them through Beans’ fur, as if he had done it a thousand times before. Beans stretched, purring deeply, and settled more firmly on Elijah’s chest, as if to say yes, this will do.

You had to bite your lip to stop from giggling.

Carefully, you reached for your phone on the nightstand, angling the camera just right. There was no way you weren’t documenting this moment.

The soft click of the photo shutter made Elijah stir. His brows furrowed slightly, his lips parting as he exhaled a slow, sleepy breath. Then, slowly, those dark eyes fluttered open.

You watched as realization dawned. His eyes flicked down to Beans, then to Cheddar tucked into his side, then up to Egg, who had now begun kneading his hair, making it even more unkempt.

Elijah let out a quiet, utterly resigned sigh. “They appear to have mistaken me for furniture.” His voice was dry, but there was no real annoyance. Just fondness. Deep, undeniable fondness.

“Well, you are warm,” you reasoned.

Elijah hummed, still absently stroking Beans’ back. “And it seems warmth is all it takes to be accepted into your little kingdom.”

You smiled, settling closer, tucking yourself against his free side. “That, and a willingness to be used as a bed.”

Elijah’s lips twitched and his hand shifted from Beans to you, his fingers intertwining with your own. “I suppose there are worse fates.”

This was it. This was your life now. Soft mornings tangled up with Elijah, sleepy smiles, warm bodies pressed close, and the gentle purrs of your little found family surrounding you.

Elijah turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Good morning, my love,” he murmured against your skin.

And just like that, you knew. This was fur-ever.

♡♡ EGG ♡♡

[livelaughloveluffy]

be mine - a valentine's day special with the monster trio, ace, and law!!!

a/n: happy valentines day everyone!!! i figured since the only valentine i have in my life are all my lovely fictional men, i would write only the fluffiest of headcanons for you guys!!

nothing but fluff here 💗

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monkey d. luffy

-valentine's day morning you get woken up to luffy jumping on top of you, smothering you in kisses. he's so excited to give you the small presents he got for you (a hand-picked bouquet, a locket with his initials that nami helped him pick out, and of course, lots and lots of chocolate).

-while the captain isn't the biggest romantic in the world, he definitely had an idea of how he wanted to spend the day with you. and with some help from the crew, he was able to make it a reality. luffy excitedly led you towards nami's tangerine trees, where you spotted the cutest picnic overlooking the ocean. the two of you spend the day basking in the sun, feeding each other chocolate and other sweet treats, utterly intertwined with one another.

-quality time and physical touch are luffy's main love languages so he's expectedly clingy to you all day, not that you mind. endless cuddles are just a given. every once and a while you'll get lulled to sleep as luffy gently plays with your hair, leaving gentle but sloppy kisses on your collarbones.

roronoa zoro

-as much as he puts on the front of being a moody, uncaring guy, you know zoro has the softest place in his heart for you. but for valentines day, he at first treats it like just another day. no mention of it, almost as if he forgot.

-by early evening, it's hard to not get your feelings just a little bit hurt over the fact that zoro forgot valentines day. as you stand at the taffrail overlooking the vast ocean, you feel zoro's hand against the smalls of your back, his chin resting on your shoulder as he mumbles "c'mere... you really didn't think i forgot, did you?" as he leads you into the kitchen on the thousand sunny. opening the door to a candlelit dinner made up for two, and as your eyes well up in tears with shock, zoro places a gentle kiss on your cheek "happy valentines day"

-you couldn't help but swoon when you found out the swordsman had actually been taking private cooking lessons with sanji for months preparing for this surprise. the chef initially deemed the man to be utterly hopeless and offered to cook for the two of you, but zoro insisted he learned and did it himself.

black leg sanji

-it's literally no surprise at all that this man is a certified lover boy. you'll wake up to a room full of flowers, a love letter on your nightstand, and sanji hand-delivering his freshly made breakfast in bed for you.

-he makes the entire day about you and his devotion to you. you are utterly pampered. all meals eaten on the prettiest bedside tray, with a special place setting and flower decor. you have to practically beg the man to feed yourself, because he insisted that even lifting a spoon or fork was too much for you to do. he'll set up a candle-lit bubble bath for you in the evening and stay in the bathroom with you to massage your back and scrub your hair.

-and of course, sanji makes only the most extravagant dessert for you. you can tell the countless hours he spent in the kitchen, perfecting his recipe. and while he tries to stifle his yawns, you have to pull the hopless cook into bed with you. thanking him for everything he did, as you find your way into his arms, gentle brushing his bangs out of his face before you both eventually fall asleep together.

portgas d. ace

-ace is definitely the most casual out of all the boys about valentines day, however that doesn't mean its because of a lack of thought or effort into the day.

-the feeling of ace's large warm hand against your cheek as he leans in to give you a kiss on the forehead, the soft whisper of "happy valentines day, baby." reaches your ears. the two of you collectively agree that you'd both rather just spend the day cuddled up together. no view or restaurant would ever be more comfortable than ace's bare chest. his hand softly running up and down your back, occasionally tracing shapes and patterns into your skin.

-even though you mutually agreed to keep things casual, ace surprised you with the cutest gift he had been holding on to for you. a large bouquet of your favorite flowers, as well as a matching pair to his signature necklace and bracelet.

trafalgar water d. law

-like zoro, as much as law tries to downplay his affection for you, his sweet affection for you consistently shines through all his many actions.

-the captain of the heart pirates led you to believe that he was swamped with work on valentines day, and didn't have time for you, though he promised to celebrate over the weekend with you. so when you returned to your room to the largest bouquet of roses placed on your bed alongside your favorite candy, your heart skipped a beat. instead he had been busy planning a spa day for you. a warm bubble bath with flower petals scattered in it, handmade face masks, and of course, law, ready to pamper you.

-as the two of you are getting ready for bed, law hands you a thin notebook. it's only after reading it that you discover it's a long love letter he's been writing to you since the two of you had started dating. he'll try and brush off the gesture, his gruff voice interrupting your thanks with a grumbled "it's nothing..." as happy tears fall down your cheeks.

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tags ♡: @dindjarins1ut @chibinasuu @twiishaa @vamphoria @3v37773 @thepotatocatto @irethepotato @peachycat17 @dreamcastgirl99 @acesdiary @sanji-soup @lilypadmomentum @ermbehindyou @erose-0707 @suga-tofu @kcch-ns @hamhamhamtaro @adamsfanficstash @raddelusionaldive @sparkyvibes @certain-tragedies @roronoazoroswife @chillerkiller @teewon @sharycatx3 @phoehav @gracefulcargo51 @moonpri @thissaintjessi @sunshineagony

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[deunmiu-dessie]

(unedited)³ retired simon has nowhere to go, so you offer. { his pov } [ one, two, three]

she’s like a breath of fresh air. bright and cold. a gust so frigid that it sends goosebumps to shroud his skin. like the first fall of snow. was it december now? how long has it been since he’d left? how long has he wandered? adrift like a buoy at sea. but strangely stuck, straying in place. like some sort of ghost. trapped and terrified.

he thinks she’s naive. strange, even. like a child left outside without supervision. prone to being up to no good. she’s insistent in her little fiat car. her hands are covered in a pair of creme wool gloves. and when he looks close enough he notices that they’re fraying at the seam. worn. loved.

she says her name. it’s pretty, her name. it fits. she’s expectant, waiting for him to speak. give her something, anything he’s sure. she seems like a good girl. too good, too much for him, not enough for her. he hardly even knew her. but she wants to know you. she’s being nice. nothing more. simon. that’s what he tells her and it rolls off her tongue faultlessly. “well, we’re not strangers anymore, simon.” is what she says. he finds her amusing.

it’s her eyes. that’s what makes him slide into the passenger seat. they're wide. warm. nervous— despite her being the one to offer him a ride. it’s endearing, if not a bit entertaining. and the cold has already frozen his body. he can hardly feel his feet. but he deserves this. this life that he’s been subjected to.

she’s an anxious thing. her gloved hands drum lightly against the steering wheel. she’s shit at making small talk. and from the reflection of the car window, he can see the way she works her bottom lip into her mouth. he’s tempted to thumb it from within the wet heat. he doesn't.

“could be a killer.” she smiles. her eyes brighten. it’s small but he finds himself forgetting to breathe. in and out. in and out. she smells temptingly like honey and spices, all tangy and sweet. fuck. he holds his breath. “are you?” he doesn't respond. after all the killing. the blood that stains his hands. his skin. won't come off no matter how hard he scrubs. he’s a murderer. yes, i am. she’s too trusting. he wouldn't hurt her. never.

small. is how he would describe the apartment. small but homey. filled with greenery, color, and a tiny christmas tree. it’s tucked away. surrounded by lights at its base. it smells like chocolate, milk to be specific. but her as well. honeyed spices and dried fruits, tangy and sweet. the radio that he hears plays quietly. silent night in instrumental. his heart tightens in his chest.

he’s not sure how he ended up here. surrounded by her four walls. she suggests sweetly. eyes wide and sad at his destination. he declines. she isn't the type to take no for an answer. her brows are knitted. hands tightening. he’s enamored. he shouldn't stay. he should tuck and roll out the car while he has the chance. run. like he’s used to doing. too late the two pull in. she’s pleased with herself. he grins faintly beneath his mask. cute.

the couch is a bed. it pulls out into one anyway. she busies herself. shuffling to get sheets and a comforter. it’s a faded baby blue, printed with delicate flowers. and she looks proud. smiling at the cozy couch. her lips are coated in a sheen. from the lip balm she’d put on a second ago. and he adverts his eyes when she looks toward him. couldn't meet those wide eyes. sweet and nervous. he stares instead at the makeshift bed. she speaks. grins awkwardly.

“thank you.” he means it. it’s stiff. his voice hoarse from the cold but, he means it— no matter how gruff it comes out. her hands. no longer swathed by wool gloves, slide down denim-clad thighs. lips press. and her head nods. she says his name again, but scurries before he can reply, and maybe it’s for the best. he can barely speak.

click.

he shouldn't. but he finds himself amused. good girl. he was still a stranger after all. a strange man she has willingly invited into her home. he wondered briefly if she was right in the head. right to slow for him. to smile at him. she couldn't be. unsure. he can’t get comfortable. just lays there and listens to her faint voice. walls thin. voice muffled. but words clear. “die tonight.”— “…love you.” he ponders.

he doesn't remember a ring. friend? mom? boyfriend? his heart aches. he doesn't know her. he has no right to feel anything. she was nice, too good. he was the opposite, with nowhere to go. nothing to offer. why was he here? he should leave. but sleep weighs heavy on his eyes. bing crosby lulls him to sleep. he’d be gone before she woke.

i've always thought simon to have very choppy thoughts. and always being very in his head. very observant. so yeah. listened to christmas music making this! hehehe

[pathologicalreid]

hysteria | s.r.

in which the BAU is called into a case in rural Appalachia when bodies start showing up in an abandoned insane asylum

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (horror?) content warnings: hanging (staged suicide), enucleation, established relationship, ghosts, insane asylum, rope burn, premonition in dreams, death, pov switches, "the green ribbon", lobotomies, abduction, corporeal vs spirit form, CPR, hospitals, painkillers, first aid word count: 8.8k a/n: hey guys i am literally not one to beg for interaction but like if you could send an ask or gimme a reblog if you liked this it would probably make my day. this fic is just an excuse for me to tell ghost stories! and just like that, margotober is over. man, it sure would be a shame if i had something planned for november!

night one

“This is a joke, right?” You asked, eyeing the rest of the team as they observed the property before you. The dilapidated building that stood in front of you was previously completely abandoned, and now you weren’t entirely sure if the yellow police line was new or if the tattered plastic was a result of a crime of the past.

It looked like one of the haunted houses that Spencer would drag you to, one with a much too high budget that would leave you feeling like you needed to scrub cobwebs from your skin. You were waiting for the sheriff to make his way up the hill that the asylum was perched on, the BAU had made it up in SUVs, but the locals elected to hoof it.

Tugging the sleeves of your FBI jacket over your hands, you tapped your heel impatiently and observed the scenery. The fall foliage was in peak season, orange and red leaves fluttered in the wind, falling from the trees until they hit the ground. To the left was the town, small and hidden within a river valley, and to the right was a field of gravestones. Each life lost in the asylum whittled down to a number, hundreds of weathered rocks marked where a body was buried. Even after all of your years with the BAU, the sight still made you sick to your stomach.

The death count on this property had gone up by twelve recently, a group of college kids had found the first body hanging from the staircase, and it seemed like a semi-routine suicide until the local cops did a full sweep of the building and found eleven other bodies, each hanging in a different room.

It wasn’t until the medical examiner looked at them that they realized they were out of their depth, the oldest of the bodies had been dead before they were hung, which told you that hanging the bodies was the intention of the killer and he was beginning to perfect his M.O. Even more than that, the last two bodies had been enucleated post-mortem.

Being grateful for the method by which a person had their eyeballs destroyed wasn’t an emotion you felt frequently, and it was an odd thing to admit to yourself as you consciously blinked.

Over the curve of the hill, you watched as a couple of locals made their appearance, each of them equipped with a flashlight. The sun was beginning to set. Emily had made the executive decision that this case couldn’t wait until morning, so you took off in the middle of the day. Glancing over your shoulder, you found Spencer’s eyes and he gave you one of his patented half-smiles before you looked back at the foreboding building.

The structure had electrical issues, leading to lights flickering all over the crumbling brick walls. The flashes were starting to play tricks on your eyes because you would’ve sworn that you saw a woman in one of the windows, in a long white dress as she looked down at you and your team.

“You must be the BAU,” the sheriff greeted once he was close enough to your group, he waved before huffing impatiently. “Sheriff Shawn Greenbaum, this here is Deputy Conrad Perkins,” he introduced himself and the man with him. You studied them, trying to gauge information about them based on appearance alone.

Emily nodded, reaching her hand out for him to shake and introducing herself before making the rounds with the rest of the team. “Agents Simmons and Lewis are already at the station getting settled, but the rest of us are interested in getting in the building and taking a look around.”

Greenbaum placed both of his hands on his hips before clearing his throat, “That’s not a problem at all. We’ve got a lock up on those front doors to try and keep people out, we’re hoping it’ll put a halt on any more crime.”

Kicking mud off of your boot, you and JJ shared a dubious look. In your line of work, where there’s a will there’s a way—a padlock would do very little to help keep your killer out of the asylum. Even so, you all followed the sheriff as he produced a key from his belt, leading the way to the front doors. They were made of rotting wood. If someone really wanted to get past the lock, they could probably kick them in.

The smell hit you before you stepped foot inside the building, the stench of mildew wafting through the air made you crinkle your nose as you closely followed JJ into the building. A gentle touch to the small of your back told you that Spencer was behind you, each of you shuffling in single file behind the sheriff.

“The first body was found hanging over there,” the deputy, Perkins pointed straight ahead toward the winding staircase. You studied the peeling wallpaper and looked at the faded signs above the different hallways, barely able to make out the words tuberculosis and adolescent as you strolled through the main lobby.

Since they’d initially assumed it was a suicide, the body had been taken down, so even though you had twelve bodies to start your profile with, you didn’t have a fresh crime scene anywhere. In fact, you’d wager a guess and say there’s nothing fresh about this building.

Cringing as you walked over a pile of wet paper, you listened to Emily as she gave everyone jobs, “Reid and I will keep talking to the sheriff, Rossi and JJ, why don’t the two of you check out this wing here with the deputy, and Luke and Y/N can take the upstairs.”

You looked up and found Luke, following him to the staircase and ducking under the noose to go up the stairs, hesitant to use the handrail as you made your way to the second floor, knowing there was plenty of building for the two of you to explore. Pulling your flashlight from your belt for additional lighting, the sight in front of you was worse than what you had seen downstairs. “Watch your step,” you said absentmindedly, bypassing a bucket filled with what you sincerely hoped was water.

“When was this place built again?” Luke asked you, knowing you had done preliminary research with Spencer on the jet. He produced his own light, slipping his cell phone from his pocket and using the flashlight function.

You checked the ceiling, wondering where the beams were and if any bodies had been found in the hallways, “The 1860s,” you responded, keeping your voice soft so you didn’t disturb anything in the building—living or otherwise. You found yourself wanting to walk to the window you had seen that woman in earlier.

Alvez made a disgusted noise at something, and you refrained from looking back at it, knowing you likely didn’t want to know. “And what patients did they predominantly treat?”

Fiddling with the door handle, you nudged the door open with your knee, coughing at the puff of dust that met you on the other side. “They started with a little bit of everything. The elderly, children, adolescents, epileptics, TB patients,” you listed off. “We even found records of people accused of ‘excessive self-satisfaction,’” you continued, finding the window in question. The only thing you found was the same flickering sconce you had seen from the outside.

“Self-satisfaction?” Luke repeated the phrase curiously.

You tapped the sconce with the end of your flashlight, getting it to stop flickering before you clarified, “Masturbation.”

Expectedly, Luke chuckled lightly at your answer, “How exactly would one quantify excessive masturbation?”

Raising your eyebrows, you studied a strange mark on the cement floor, “I assure you; I have no clue.” You turned around, expecting to see Luke right in front of you. “Luke?” You called out his name, confused when you didn’t see him in your line of sight, you flashed your light around the room, wondering if he had found something. “Ah!” You yelped when a hand touched your shoulder, causing you to drop your flashlight.

Luke cackled from his place behind a bookshelf, “It’s gonna be a long case if you’re that tightly wound the entire time.”

You swatted at him with the sleeves of your jacket, “Asshole,” you muttered, taking the practical joke mostly in stride.

“Y/N?” Spencer called from the first floor. Your voice must have carried down the stairs, or they heard the flashlight fall to the ground.

Glaring at Luke, you shouted back, “I’m fine!” You crouched to pick up your flashlight, blowing dust off of it before you tightened your grip around it, “Grow up, Alvez.”

He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, so what did they do after they took in a little bit of everyone?”

You hummed, stepping back out into the hallway, and looking into what you assumed were offices—most of the patients would’ve lived on the first floor. “They started to focus on patients with mental disorders in the 1970s. Around the same time that medicine in psychiatry started to make advancements,” you kicked at a piece of cloth on the ground. “It closed down in the early nineties when people finally started acknowledging that things like lobotomies and electroshock are inhumane.”

Luke picked the next room, wiggling the doorknob before he used his shoulder to push the door open, “Woah.”

Stepping in behind him, you saw what he was looking at. Along the wall was a mural of sorts, a landscape that featured a caricature of the sun. Next to it, the words ‘let the sun shine in’ were scrawled in black paint.The colors were eerily vibrant for the age of the building, “Well that’s…” You let your voice trail off, looking at the size of the furniture in the room and ascertaining that it was likely designed as a treatment space for children.

“Do you hear that?” Luke asked, shining his flashlight around the room and looking for the source of the noise.

Fortunately, you weren’t that gullible, “Yeah, right.” You scoffed, turning back and seeing Spencer at the top of the staircase, “Hey,” you said, tilting your head to the side curiously.

He smiled at you softly, “Hey, it looks like it’s about to rain, so Emily’s having all of us head back to the precinct. We can look at the M.E. reports knowing what we know now about the crime scene.”

You nodded, looking into the room to find Luke, still shining his phone in every corner, “Luke, it’s probably just a rat or a tree branch tapping on the side of the building.”

Luke’s eyebrows were pinched together in concern, but he followed your footsteps into the hallway, falling to the back of the group as the three of you walked downstairs, meeting the rest of the team in front of the asylum.

“It’s kind of weird,” you said mostly to yourself, though you were entirely aware of the people who were surrounding you.

Spencer hummed curiously, making sure the sheriff wasn’t watching before he adjusted the collar of your jacket, “What’s weird?” He asked, mimicking the soft tone of your voice.

You looked back at the window where the light had started flickering again, “How all of these people were forced into the asylum by their loved ones, and now the word has an entirely different meaning.”

Holding your mug in both hands, you listened carefully to the crackling fire in the lobby of the hotel. Matt stood up from where he was sitting so that Spencer could sit next to you, and you absentmindedly slung your legs over his lap, thinking about the case. More specifically, you were thinking about the scene.

Spencer set a hand on your pajama-covered thigh, using his other hand to hold his book open as you listened to the other noises in the lobby. There was a storm going on outside, and a certain level of unease blanketed the team, leading to a convening in the hotel. Emily and Tara were going over case files, Matt and JJ were on the phone with their families, Rossi was playing Tetris on his phone, Luke was on the phone with someone, and you were just observing.

Eventually, Luke spoke up to everyone, “Hey guys, listen to this,” he said, holding his phone out and clicking the speakerphone button, “Okay, go ahead Garcia.”

Your eyebrows raised in amusement at the revelation that he was on the phone with Penelope, but you were still grateful to hear her voice coming through the speaker.

“I hope you’re all cozy by the fire because I have found a story about your crime scene that will chill you to your bones,” she prefaced, and you smiled slightly at her embellishments. “Catherine Pence was admitted to the Barnham Asylum for the Mentally Ill in 1978 at the age of 53. She lived a totally normal and insignificant life until she was 50 years old and her mother passed away, at which point, the people in Catherine’s life said she started to behave strangely.”

Snapping his book closed, Spencer set the novel in your lap before pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, “Strangely, how?”

Penelope cleared her throat, “I’m glad you asked, Dr. Reid. She was convinced that her mother was still with her. In fact, she would frequently be confused when other people told her that they couldn’t see her mom. Eventually, she started showing other concerning symptoms, so her husband brought her to Barnham.”

You frowned, sharing a glance with JJ, who had hung up the phone, “What kinds of other symptoms?”

“The file I got my hands on specifically cites paranoid thoughts, but that’s not even the spookiest part,” she continued. “When the doctors did their first examination of Catherine, they decided that whatever she was dealing with wouldn’t be amenable to any sort of treatment. She was a very calm patient who periodically had conversations with her dead mother and voiced paranoid thoughts, but they put her in Block D.”

Block D was the section of the hospital set aside for patients in need of around-the-clock care, which seemed a bit extreme for Catherine.

There was a clicking on Penelope’s end of the call before she resumed, “Anyway, Block D had sixteen rooms and there was always some form of supervision, usually a nurse. All of the doors were locked and there were bars on the window, so it was impossible to get anywhere without someone noticing, or so you would think.”

You settled further into the couch cushions, and Spencer instinctively squeezed your thigh.

“On December 1st, 1978, when the nurse went into Catherine’s room with her breakfast tray, she found the room in absolute tatters. I mean, the bedding was shredded, there was broken glass, everything was scattered around the room, and Catherine was missing.” Penelope said, emphasizing the last word.

Luke, who had previously seemed bored by the story, leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees, “What happened to her?”

Penelope hummed, knowing she had sucked everyone into the story, “The search started immediately. You don’t just have someone escape an inescapable room and move on with your day. The windows, walls, and floor in Block D were completely intact and there was no sign of tampering with the door. No one could figure out how she got out, much less where she was.”

She didn’t wait for anyone to speak before she continued, “Catherine’s nurse said that she was unusually moody and had been for weeks. She completely stopped speaking and showed no reactions when people spoke to her and it was apparently very sudden, but that didn’t really provide any insight into where she could be. The staff searched the surrounding area thoroughly, but there were no leads. Eventually, they notified her relatives and the residents of the town in case she had somehow gotten out of the hospital.”

Then, on January 12th, 1979, a group of men that the asylum hired to do repair work on the second floor found that there was a door locked from the inside.” Garcia cleared her throat before resuming the story, “They also discovered an unpleasant smell emanating from the room, and when they finally got into the room, there was Catherine Pence.”

You wrinkled your nose in disgust, simply just imagining the smell of the room.

“Her clothes were removed and neatly folded next to her and her arms were crossed over her chest, one below the other,” Penelope continued. “Mysteriously, when her body was removed and taken to the morgue, there was a trace left on the concrete floor that corresponded exactly to the figure of Catherine. No matter how many times or what they’ve tried, they can’t get the mark out of the concrete.”

Your blood ran cold at the memory of the strange shape you’d seen in the asylum, “What?”

Penelope hummed, “The medical examiner considered hypothermia as a potential cause of death, but apparently that winter was unseasonably warm, so he settled on a heart attack.”

“Did they ever consider homicide?” Rossi asked, attempting to seem uninterested.

There was a chuckle on the other end of the call, “Yes, they did, but they never found anything else to support that theory. At that point, the room Catherine was found in hadn’t been opened since 1976 when it was used to contain patients with a contagious infectious disease. Since then, the room remained locked.” You could practically hear Penelope’s smile as she divulged the final detail, “Residents of the town say that, sometimes, you can hear cries for help coming from the building. There are even reports of Catherine’s ghost being seen in the window of the room where she died, she just stands there and stares out the window.”

Everyone sat around in silence for a moment before Luke grabbed the phone off of the coffee table, “Yeah, alright, thanks, Garcia.”

“Sleep well, my pretties,” she crooned through the phone before the call ended.

You felt heavy as if there had been a weight placed on your chest, and in an attempt to rectify it, you handed Spencer his book, “I’m headed to bed.”

He looked up at you curiously, eyes studying yours before he nodded, “Alright, I’ll be up in a little while,” he assured you.

Your body carried you to the hotel room, using the key to unlock the door and somehow making it to the bed even after your mind had completely turned itself off. You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you remembered waking up.

As you sat up in bed, you were having trouble holding your head up, finding that you couldn’t turn your neck to see if Spencer had made it to bed. More than that, the room was pitch black when the two of you usually leave the bathroom light on in hotels. Opening your mouth, no words came out.

Small puffs of air escaped your lips, but nothing else came out. You couldn’t move your hands to your neck—you couldn’t move at all. You wanted to call out for Spencer, and even though no sound came out of your mouth, you saw him before you.

Your eyes widened at his sudden appearance, suspiciously illuminated in the otherwise dark room.

Tantalizingly slowly, his hand reached out for you, touching the skin of your neck with his fingertips before pulling. It felt like he was pulling at a thread, and all you could do was watch as his hand came back with a piece of twine pinched between his fingers and your disembodied head fell to the floor.

You gasped for air, holding your hand to your chest and panting, unable to figure out how to get air into your lungs when you so desperately needed it. There were other hands on you, gently placed on your hip and upper back, the latter rubbing small circles as you choked on nothing but air.

“Hey,” Spencer whispered, continuing his ministrations on your back. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he comforted you, trying to get you to even out your breathing.

Carefully, his hand reached up to your neck, sweeping hair behind your shoulder, but as soon as you felt his hand on the side of your neck, you flinched away from him, nearly toppling off of the double bed.

He pulled you back as gently as he could, “Y/N,” he said, his voice stern this time as he turned to flick the lamp on. “What happened?”

You shook your head, appreciating how secure it felt to the rest of your body, before pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. “It was just a nightmare,” you answered, the sound of your own voice felt disconnected from your body.

“You don’t usually call out my name in your nightmares,” Spencer observed softly, trying to get you to open up more to him, “And you’ve definitely never pulled away from me like that.”

He was right, you had your general recurring nightmares—mostly work related—but you’ve never had anything like this before. You didn’t know how to explain it to him, because how would you explain to your rational, genius boyfriend that you thought you were seeing ghosts?

night two

You felt his eyes on you, Spencer’s big, brown eyes were boring right into yours as you looked at the foreboding structure in front of you. You weren’t even sure how long you’d been watching the stained-glass window, waiting for something to happen, waiting for the ghost to come back.

Sighing, you leaned back in the passenger seat of the car, thinking about the now-cold coffee that you had sitting in the cup holder and wondering if it would be worth the caffeine if it meant you had to pee in the woods at some point in the night.

“You should’ve stayed at the hotel tonight,” Spencer said, his eyes still focused on you.

You pursed your lips, watching the light flicker in the window, “We have a job to do.” That should’ve been enough for him, it had to be enough for you, knowing that at the end of the day, this was just a case and you’d be going home once you found whoever was doing this.

Finally turning his head, Spencer huffed in frustration as he faced the front door of the asylum. “I know you didn’t get back to sleep last night, so you have to be exhausted now,” he told you.

It was nearly midnight now, and you indeed hadn’t gone back to sleep after waking up at two in the morning, but you still agreed to a stakeout when Emily suggested it. Spencer called you out on it then, similarly to what he was doing now, and you were sure he had something to do with you being paired up together. If you ever found out he had voiced a concern about you to Emily, you were going to have issues.

The cool glow of the waning gibbous moon reflected off of the building, the effect only building the eerie feeling in your stomach, winding itself up like a ball of yarn.

With the morning came another body, and it became clear to Emily and the locals that the camera surveillance that had been set up along the perimeter wasn’t doing anything to bring you closer to closing the case. So, she had you and Spencer sitting in a car at the front entrance, each of you armed and on high alert, no matter what your boyfriend thought.

On the other side of the building, Luke and Tara were in another vehicle, keeping an eye on a back entrance that had the potential to be an access point for the UnSub.

Keeping an eye on your window, you squinted as if you could somehow summon Catherine Pence’s ghost. You wished you’d been paired up with Luke again, who at least had seen the mark on the floor, but instead, you had Spencer, who had meddled with your work out of concern for you.

You sighed, reminding yourself that he only did it out of concern for you, wondering how to approach the issue when an all-too-familiar figure appeared in that second-floor window, “Do you see that?” You blurted the question before you could even think about what you were saying.

Instinctively, Spencer placed a hand on his weapon while looking through the windshield of the car, “See what?”

You furrowed your brows, pointing as plainly as you possibly could to the second-floor window where you saw the woman, “On the second floor. Off to the right,” you said desperately, wanting him to see it, wanting him to believe you. “Don’t you see her?”

Spencer’s hand dropped as his gaze went from the building and back to you, “Honey.” You tried to ignore the emotion-filled tone that he gave you, flooding the pet name with an apt amount of concern.

Sitting back in the car seat, “Never mind, I didn’t—” you cut yourself off, “I just thought I saw something.” You tried to play it off, crossing your ankles one over the other and shifting in the seat, trying to keep your ass from going numb.

His eyes were still trained on you, and you tried to ignore him even as he locked the passenger door from the inside. The car remained absolutely silent until you heard a voice come in from the radio, “This is the Death Star calling for the Bat Mobile, over.”

You rolled your eyes at the sound of Luke’s voice, “Don’t call this car the Bat Mobile,” you told Spencer as he lifted the radio to his mouth.

“This is the Bat Mobile, we can hear you loud and clear Death Star, over,” Spencer responded, grinning at the way you groaned in response. The poltergeist of it all nearly forgotten for just a moment.

Placing your head in your hands in frustration as you waited for Luke’s response, Spencer reached over and smoothed your hair back, the gesture feeling oddly domestic for a stakeout. Maybe that was why Emily never paired the two of you together. “Yeah, we aren’t seeing anything out here, are you clear on your end?”

Spencer’s ministrations on your hair faltered for just a moment before he answered, “No, we haven’t seen anything.”

“Tara just got off the phone with Emily, they got the lab results back on those tools we found by the latest victim,” he informed you, “The blood on it was a match.”

You pressed your lips together in a thin line and shared a look with Spencer. Part of you was grateful to finally feel like you’d made some semblance of progress with the case, but the other part of you felt physically ill knowing that the latest victim had been enucleated using an orbitoclast. Her eyes and sockets were pulverized by a lobotomy pick, and it almost made you feel like you needed a word stronger than sadist.

“Did the medical examiner say the injuries matched the patterns of the other two enucleated victims?” Spencer asked into the radio, holding it close to his mouth as he spoke.

There was a pause before Luke responded, “Uh, kind of.”

You frowned, “What do you mean ‘kind of?’”

Another pause, “The M.E. concluded that the wound patterns are the same on the three latest victims, but the injuries on the most recent one were inflicted antemortem,” Luke explained.

Your eyes widened as the weight of Luke’s words joined the pit in your stomach, her eyes had been pulverized while she was still alive. The M.E.’s conclusion matched the one you had proposed when you saw the blood spatter this morning. You held your breath to stop a sound of disgust from escaping your lips, but you knew Spencer saw it on your face.

“Thanks for the update,” Spencer said, turning down the volume on the radio slightly before setting it on the dashboard.

Swallowing thickly, you placed both of your hands in your lap, studying them as if you’ve never seen them before, “Have you ever gotten the feeling that a case isn’t going to end well?”

You caught him while he was about to take a sip of his coffee, his movement paused for a moment before he took a swig anyway, setting the cup in the cup holder and nodding, “Yeah,” he answered, his voice raspy before he cleared his throat, “I have.”

Running your tongue over your molars, you raised your eyebrows at him in curiosity, “What usually happens?”

Spencer sighed, going back to facing the asylum before he held his hand out for you to take, you obliged, setting your intertwined fingers on the center console. “The case usually doesn’t end well,” he admitted.

“When are you going to tell me what your nightmare was about?” Spencer asked, squeezing your hand as he made conversation, trying to keep the two of you awake through the night.

Leaning your head back, you looked through the sunroof of the car, thrilled to see the sun beginning to rise over the tiny town. “I don’t think it really matters, it was just a bad dream,” you told him, clearly aware of why it mattered.

You even knew why it mattered to him. You’d never pushed him away like that before, but as soon as his hand had gone near your neck, you’d completely lost control of your body. “Look, I know I don’t believe in dream analysis—”

“Oh,” you scoffed, cutting him off. “Yes, you do,” you corrected him, “You do this all the time, you talk about dream analysis, and you claim that you don’t believe in it but then you actually get into it, and you admit that you just don’t like what Freud has to say about it. Then you’ll list everyone who has discredited him before you tell me ‘Jung still has his merits.’”

Spencer was quiet, and you immediately regretted your interjection.

Sighing, you wished you could melt into the passenger seat of the car, “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I don’t think that analyzing my dream right now will do any good, but I just… I’m sorry.”

He was still silent.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you turned your body as best you could in the vehicle, “Do you believe in the afterlife?”

That got his attention. Spencer turned his head to you, concern etched into his face, “Why are you asking me this?”

You couldn’t tell him. You’d break his heart if you told him that throughout the duration of this case, you’d developed a pit in your stomach and started having dreams about dying. “In my dream, it was like… like I was paralyzed, and I couldn’t move my head. I couldn’t speak or anything and when I thought about calling for you, you appeared.” You sniffled slightly, “You reached out for my neck and your hand came back with a piece of twine, and then my head fell to the ground—completely detached from my body.”

The lack of judgment in his expression was what finally triggered the first tear to fall from your eye, but you didn’t wipe it away. Spencer moved his hand and deftly wiped at your tears with his fingertips, cupping your face in his hands, “You’re not going to die.”

“Spence,” you said, your voice strained by emotion.

He shook his head gently, “Nope, not as long as I’m around. You’re not going to die on this case.”

Your chest ached as your eyes studied his, “Okay.”

“But,” he continued, “I want you to take a step back on this one. No more volunteering for stakeouts, no wandering to the second floor of the asylum, and no listening to any more of Penelope’s ghost stories.”

Nodding, you silently agreed to his conditions, holding out your pinky and waiting for him to present his. Interlocking your small fingers, you each kissed your hands, and you took a deep breath. “What do you think we’re looking at, Spence? Is it another witch hunt?”

Names and faces of people like Leland Duncan and James Heathridge flashed in your memory, but if there was an overlap there, you haven’t seen it.

You didn’t feel like the BAU had a very good track record in Appalachia, Shane Wyland and the still unnamed ‘Mountain Man’ were proof enough of that, but you hoped that Wyland was long dead by now, and these crimes were too organized for the Mountain Man.

“I don’t know, baby,” Spencer admitted, and you knew that it hurt him to say that to you, especially now.

Looking out the window, your eyes caught on Luke and Tara as they made their way over to your car. Spencer unlocked the doors as you hurriedly wiped beneath your eyes, trying to hide any evidence of your upset before reconvening with the team.

Luke waggled his eyebrows at the two of you, “Good morning, how was your night?”

Groaning, you stretched out your neck, “Ultimately uneventful,” you told him, knowing that if anything of real interest had happened, Luke and Tara would’ve been the first people you notified.

“Prentiss asked us if we’d do a quick sweep of the inside before heading back to the precinct,” Tara said, jutting her chin in the direction of the building.

You and Spencer shared a look, but now that you were grouped within your team, you felt comfortable enough to slip your hand in his as the four of you approached the building. Squeezing his hand, your eyes flickered up to the second-story window, and seeing nothing, you stepped into the building.

The smell hit you. The strong tang of blood mixed with that of isopropyl alcohol burned at your nostrils as Tara swore at the sight in front of all of you. A body hanging from the stairwell, eyes completely destroyed, and while the body was covered in blood, the floor was completely void of any red.

“She’s cleaning up,” you observed, stepping closer to Spencer and looking at the streak marks that a rag had made on the floor.

Luke raised his eyebrows, “She?” He asked, confused about the sudden change in pronouns while Tara immediately went to call Emily.

Spencer nodded, agreeing with you as the three of you watched the body turn in the glow of the sunrise, “A man wouldn’t care about the mess he’s leaving behind.”

This revelation left you more confused than anything, you had no idea how anyone could lift that much dead weight, night after night. “Oh,” you breathed, blood draining from your face as you looked up at Spencer and Luke. “We were watching the building all night,” you reminded them. “We never saw anyone enter, but we never saw them leave.”

night three

“Alright,” Emily started, fully equipped in her Kevlar, she looked around the entryway of the asylum, “Rossi and Tara will keep an eye out front in case anyone tries to make a run for it. Reid and JJ will take the tunnels beneath the west wing, Simmons and I will take the east wing, Alvez and Sheriff Greenbaum will head north, and Y/N and Deputy Perkins will stay here in the foyer in case anyone calls for backup.”

In the dark building, Spencer gave your hand a squeeze before everyone turned on their flashlights. “Let’s end this,” Rossi said, earning a hum of agreement as everyone split off into their respective directions.

You wished Emily had done you the kindness of letting you be paired with Spencer again, but twice in the span of a single case was seemingly too much to ask for. “You ever seen something like this?” Deputy Perkins asked you, shuffling his feet across the floor.

Shaking your head, your eyes focused on where the newest body had been found that morning. The body was cleared out and the cause of death was blunt force trauma, but once the realization that the killer had been in the building the entire time settled in, the team got to work on figuring out some of the logistics.

That was when the sheriff brought up the possibility of the killer using a long-abandoned tunnel system. The town had assumed they caved in years ago, but a bit of sleuthing had revealed that there were still a select number of tunnels for her to use.

As long as I stay in the foyer, you reminded yourself, no wandering.

The stench of isopropyl alcohol still floated through the air; it had likely sept into the porous flooring that had been underneath the body. You made note of the flickering lights in the surrounding area, making sure not to get any of them mixed up as you rested a hand on your firearm.

“Did you hear that?” Deputy Perkins asked you, looking up the stairs and shining his flashlight on them, trying to see if he could find anything in the eerie abyss of darkness.

Swallowing thickly, you shook your head in response, “No,” you told him, looking to the left and right of you, wondering if one of the pairs that had been sent off was returning. You hadn’t heard anything coming from the upstairs.

He hummed, taking a step closer to the staircase and setting off alarm bells in your head, “I’m sure I heard a shuffling coming from upstairs.” The pit in your stomach reformed as he planted a foot on the staircase and waved you over, “Come on, we should check it out.”

You hesitated, “We’re supposed to be here if someone needs backup,” you reminded him, nearly pleading with him not to abandon his post.

Perkins shrugged at you before taking another step. “I’m going to check it out, and there’s safety in numbers,” he countered before ascending the steps, making it to the first landing before your feet finally moved.

“Fuck,” you muttered as you followed him up the stairs, taking careful steps so that they didn’t creak beneath you. You reached the second-floor seconds after him, but you shone your flashlight around without any sign of him, beaming the light into the familiar room, “Deputy Perkins?”

You stepped into the room, placing a hand on your firearm as you tapped on the flickering sconce again and looked behind you. Your breathing hitched at the sight of the deputy in front of you, he was crumpled to the floor, his legs folded unnaturally, and there was a lobotomy pick that went straight through his head.

Next to him stood a woman, her clothes were tattered and stained with blood, and she came at you, shoving you to the ground and leaving your gun and flashlight scattered on the hardwood. The force of the impact knocked the wind out of you, and you got yourself out from under her while she frantically searched for a missing piece of the puzzle.

She’d used her pick to take out the deputy, leaving her with nothing to gouge your eyes out. You weren’t sure if you should feel grateful as you rolled over and grabbed the closest thing you could, wrapping your fingers around your flashlight and swinging it aimlessly against your attacker.

“No!” She screamed a high-pitched, blood-curdling sound rang out as you hit her on the side with your law enforcement issue flashlight. The object slipped out of your fingers as you sat up and tried to reorient yourself with your surroundings, you couldn’t see your gun, searching for it as she flung your flashlight back at you, the edge of it catching on your forehead as you fell back.

The UnSub straddled your waist, keeping a firm hold on your throat as she held the pick to your eye, having pulled it from the deputy’s head so that she could complete her ritual, “Don’t,” you gasped, “Think—” your voice broke off as vomit rose in your throat. “Think of the mess,” you told her. “You used all the rubbing alcohol,” you reminded her, pleading with her not to take your eyes.

She was seething, very nearly foaming at the mouth above you as instead of stabbing you with the pick, she used the butt of it to crack against your skull. “You took my friends!” She raged, referring to the people that she had murdered, she was collecting them to keep her company.

“No,” you wheezed, shaking your head even through the blinding pain, “I set them free,” you challenged her, resigning yourself to an untimely demise and crying out when she sat you up.

You tried to claw at her, a weak attempt at saving your own life that received a laugh from the UnSub, an almost childlike giggle. “You can be my friend,” she offered, grabbing an already prepared rope from the floor and looping it around your neck before she slung it around an exposed beam, creating a makeshift rig and pulling on it.

Immediately, your hands flew to your neck, trying to stop the rope from suffocating you completely, and it worked for a little while before your feet lifted off of the ground.

After that, you were gone, left standing off to the side as you watched your body hang from the ceiling while the UnSub who would always remain an UnSub to you watched, cackling as she did so. She cackled up until the moment JJ put a bullet in her brain, the sudden death of your attacker leaving your body to drop to the hardwood floor, the hit softened by Spencer and Emily as they caught.

Tossing the rope to the side, Spencer laid you out on the floor and ducked his head to your chest, listening for breathing sounds. He was listening for anything, any sign of life at all.

There was nothing, so he put his hands on your corporeal form’s chest and started CPR, pushing down on your chest in steady motions.

You knelt down to him, watching tears fall from his face as JJ did her best to keep your airway open and Emily frantically radioed for an ambulance, continuously repeating that Y/N is down.

Assuming your hand would go right through him, you placed a hand on Spencer’s back, surprised to find that he was still solid to you. In a sort of daze, you watched him as he tried to save your life, repeating the same three words over and over again, “Come on, baby.” The mantra continued, tears falling onto your shirt.

You felt like you were on fire as if your body was physically burning while you watched life-saving measures be performed on yourself, “Oh, Spencer,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry,” you said to no one but yourself, knowing that he couldn’t hear you.

Looking to your side, you saw her again. The spirit form of Catherine Pence was watching you die in real-time, and you took a shuddering breath as she knelt next to you, expecting her to impart some sort of spiritual wisdom onto you.

Instead, she placed one of her ethereal hands on the back of your head and slammed both of your forms together. The entire world went dark after that, but you could still hear everything going on, searing pain ran through your entire body, from a throbbing in your ankle to an ache in your ribs to a pulsing in your head, but there was no more pressure on your chest.

“Is she…?” You heard JJ’s voice first, and as badly as you wanted to open your eyes, you just couldn’t gather the strength to do so.

There was heavy breathing and a soft weight on your shoulder, two fingers pressed into the pulse point on your wrist, “She’s breathing. She’s alive,” Spencer answered, out of breath. “Oh, my angel.”

A low groan was the only thing you could muster up.

Spencer shushed you, keeping his head on your shoulder and his fingers on your wrist, “It’s okay, don’t try to talk,” he cooed. “You’re going to be okay, the paramedics are here,” he lifted his head then. “I just want to stay with her.”

aftermath

It was far too bright for you, and the low keening sound that you expelled from your throat was the only way you could think to express that feeling. Whoever was in the room with you understood, turning the brightness down for you, earning a hum of approval from you.

“Hey,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely audible as he tried to keep his voice as low as possible.

The universe was taking pity on you, you knew it because you couldn’t feel any pain, which either meant you had finally kicked it or the hospital you were in had given you painkillers.

Your eyes felt like they were stuck together, the way that they get when you wake up from a perfect nap, and it took a surprising amount of energy to part your lips, expelling a deep breath out of your mouth. The action led to a pinching pain in your chest, causing your breathing to hitch, “Ow.”

“Sorry,” Spencer said, though you couldn’t imagine what he was apologizing for. “Can you open your eyes? How are you feeling?”

A grunt was all he received in response, the single noise begging him to slow down. Your eyes opened just slightly, looking at him through slivers as he smiled softly at you. His eyes were red and there was a box of Kleenex on the table next to him, accompanied by his phone and a cup of water.

He sighed in relief once he noticed that your eyes were opening, “Hey,” he repeated, “You look good,” he lied to you.

You rolled your eyes at him and his smile only grew, “Hi,” you croaked, your throat swollen and dry as you tried to reorient yourself. You were in a hospital, but the view outside of your window was of a city, not the tiny town that you had just been in.

Noticing your confusion, Spencer reached out to adjust your nasal cannula, “They transported you to a hospital in a city. The local hospital just didn’t have the capacity to treat you,” he explained. “I’ve been with you,” he reassured you, “The entire time.”

“I’m sorry,” you rasped, but he waved you off instantly.

Spencer grabbed the Styrofoam water cup from your bedside table and held it to you, bending the straw so that you could get some water.

Noting his silence, you tilted your head to the side, ignoring the way your brain felt like it had been scrambled, “Are you okay?”

He pursed his lips while setting the cup back down, “I just remember thinking about how I promised you that you weren’t going to die.”

The antiseptic air made you cringe, your body becoming more and more conscious as time went on, “I wandered,” you reminded him, making sure he knew that you broke your promise first.

“That wasn’t your idea,” Spencer challenged, knowing you well enough to say that without having experienced it himself. His fingers nimbly adjusted the blanket on your hospital bed, “You followed the deputy upstairs, it wasn’t your choice.”

In your current state, Spencer wouldn’t let you take any of the responsibility for what had happened in the asylum and even though you knew the answer, you asked him anyway, “Is she dead?”

Nodding softly, he took your hand in his, “She’s dead, and someday I’ll let you know her name and read the rest of the case, but today is not that day.” He skimmed his thumb over your knuckles, each of them cracked and bloodied from your fight with the UnSub.

You sighed in relief, a single tear receding into your hairline as you closed your eyes again, “How long have I been sleeping?” You asked, squinting over at your patient care whiteboard.

“Two days,” Spencer answered gently, dragging his fingers up and down your forearm, “You were tired, and your body had a lot of healing to do. It still does,” he added the last part, not wanting you to claim being healed. “Everyone’s still here, waiting for you to be discharged,” he continued, “I should message Emily, actually.”

“And Penelope,” you added, knowing she’d rather hear it directly from him than through Emily.

Spencer chuckled lightly, a sound that was as curative as any medicine you could be given, “I’m sure she’ll be waiting for us at the tarmac in Quantico.”

A small smile sprouted on your face, “She’ll be the one landing the plane,” you laughed slightly, interrupted by a fit of coughing. You placed a hand on your chest and winced, inhaling sharply before trying to breathe through the pain.

“What do you need?” He asked you carefully, setting his phone back down after sending his texts.

You shook your head, “Nothin’, just you.”

It was an action that would’ve previously earned a few stares from the team, and at least one wolf whistle from Luke, you and Spencer slipping into the galley together and closing the curtain behind you. Now it was simply the easiest place for you to get some semblance of privacy as Spencer snipped at the old bandaged around your neck.

Your hair was secured atop your head, keeping it out of the ointment as Spencer used his fingertips to carefully cover the rope burn that had been left around your neck. “Does it hurt?” He asked, eyes focused on his canvas while coating the hollow of your throat.

Shaking your head minutely, you closed your eyes, “No,” you told him, a slight rasp still peeking through your tone.

He hummed in response, giving you a small smile as he went back to the tube, putting more ointment on his fingers, “Liar.”

Opening your eyes again, you looked up at him as your face warmed, “Only a little bit,” you altered your answer. At this point, the worst part about the burn was that the nurses recommended keeping it covered, and Spencer was taking his job as caretaker very seriously.

He checked his phone for something before going back to his prior actions, “I think it’s getting better,” he observed, furrowing his brows as he wiped excess ointment from his fingers.

You took his word for it, having been avoiding looking in a mirror at all costs. Seeing the bruises all over your body was more than enough for you. You flinched when someone else slipped into your oasis, Emily shut the curtain behind her, holding out a pack of non-adhesive Telfa pads for Spencer to use on your neck.

“Hey,” you said nervously, wondering if she had another purpose or if she was simply bringing you some first-aid.

Emily smiled nervously; her eyes studied the marks on your throat as Spencer covered them. You expected her to speak, but she just watched in complete silence.

Raising your eyebrows, you looked from her to Spencer, and back to her again. “You should see the other guy,” you joked, earning the slightest smile from the both of them.

“I just wanted to let you know that however much time you decide to take off, it’s yours,” she offered to you, watching as Spencer unwrapped another packet of gauze.

You hummed, “I’m really alright, Em,” you assured her, more than comfortable with the automatic six weeks that you were granted by the bureau. It was the standard set for all agents unless there was an extenuating circumstance that prevented them from returning to work.

Emily’s nervous smile returned, “It wasn’t a suggestion,” she informed you, letting you know that she was more or less forcing you to take the extended time off.

Peering at your boyfriend, you frowned, “You put her up to this.”

Spencer shook his head, “I didn’t. Stop moving so much,” he urged you, trying to stretch the number of Telfa pads he had before he had the chance to go to a pharmacy.

“He didn’t,” Emily iterated, “But he could’ve, and I still wouldn’t tell you,” she added. “We’ll talk more—both of you. For now, I don’t want to see you around the BAU for a while.”

You sighed when she left the galley, Spencer finished his last placement before stepping back. “How do I look?” You asked him, keeping your question mostly rhetorical.

His smile was so gentle that it cracked at your resolve, “Good.”

Looking up at him doubtfully, you leaned against the counter, “You’re a really bad liar.”

“Hey,” he said, carefully wrapping his arms around you and letting you rest the unmarred side of your head on his chest, “You look alive, and that’s good enough for me.”

[kotoku]

bath time with the touden party

content - bathing with the touden party / domestic fluff shenanigans / could be read as platonic or romantic 

pairings - laios touden x reader / chilchuck tims x reader / marcille donata x reader / senshi & reader / izutsumi & reader

warnings - not so family-friendly words

word count - 1.5k

✤✤✤✤

✢ When the idea of bathing together is first proposed, Laios is greatly flustered by the idea of being nakey with you

✢ However, it immediately becomes one of his favorite things to do with you, especially at the end of the day when all you want is relaxation and a good cleansing

✢ He’d love to help wash your back and the areas you can’t reach, gingerly scrubbing your skin to rid it of grime 

✢ He’d also like threading his fingers through your hair, spreading the shampoo and conditioner evenly while massaging your scalp

✢ You’d do the same for him, having him facing away from you in between your legs as you tenderly massage and even out the shampoo/conditioner

✢ He immediately melts into your touch, soaking deeper into the bubbles as he revels in your presence

✢ Laios is the type of man to cry when you do this, feeling so loved and cared for by you who takes the time to make sure he’s all clean

✢ Sometimes Laios might play around with you in the bath, splashing water or blowing soap in your direction

✢ He’d also do those hair/beard styles with the bubbles, making all kinds of goofy expressions at you (he’d especially try to mimic monsters)

✢ Laios might own a rubber ducky or two in a modern au, having it displayed on the corners of the bathtub

✢ You and Laios would rant to each other about anything, from gossip to fixations, it’s such a nice way to unwind

✢ When the two of you are finished bathing, he will offer to help dry your hair, using a towel and then a comb to untangle any knots

✢ If you have a skincare routine, Laios would love to take part in it, inquiring about the different products and what they’re for

✢ In the end, he smells like sage, an earthy yet slightly sweet scent

✤✤✤✤

✢ It would be hard to convince him to have a bath with you, but he’d crack eventually

✢ He’s keen on helping you scrub your back and wash your hair, thoroughly scrubbing and rinsing the suds off 

✢ Chilchuck is the type to dump a bucket of water over you to rinse the soap off…

✢ A small play fight might break out between the two of you due to his sarcastic and mean attitude, you know better though

✢ Trying to wash his hair would be a challenge for you, he wouldn’t let you touch it, persisting that he wash it himself

✢ When he has difficulty reaching his backside, however, he begrudgingly lets you help scrub him down

✢ The aroma of the bath salts and the steam from the water relax the both of you, Chilchuck sinking into your side subconsciously  

✢ The two of you take the time to chat a bit (about the other’s day, what to eat for dinner, etc.…), basking in the silence when the conversation goes dry

✢ After the two of you wash up, you ask him if he would like to comb out your hair, maybe even style it if he wants to

✢ With a roll of his eyes, he gently combs through your hair, being mindful of your ears and how hard he might tug 

✢ Depending on your hair length, he doesn’t mind braiding it or putting it up despite his complaints about there being a lot of hair/shedding

✢ If you have a skincare routine, Chilchuck would only take part in a bit of it, not fond of the texture that's on his face after applying multiple products

✢ He’ll ask questions here and there about the products, finding out their purpose and the ingredients used in making it

✢ If his daughters are into that sort of thing, he’ll ask you for your recommendations so he can gift it to them

✢ In the end, he smells like pine trees, an earthy and fresh scent 

✤✤✤✤

✢ When you ask Marcille if she wants to bathe with you she’s ecstatic !!

✢ She loves baths and rambles about how it's important for casting spells, etc… 

✢ She’ll jump at the opportunity to scrub your back for you, in fact, she wouldn’t mind scrubbing all of you, finding solace in taking care of your wellness 

✢ Marcille especially loves doing your hair, threading her fingers between your locks to make sure the shampoo/conditioner covers every strand

✢ She’ll throw in a little scalp massage, loving the feeling of you sinking into her 

✢ When you offer to do the same for her (scrubbing and doing her hair), she can feel her heart beating out of her chest

✢ She’s buzzing with energy before you start, eventually relaxing into your touch with a satisfied sigh 

✢ Marcille is definitely the type to use bath salts and herbs, teaching you about their benefits for the body and mind

✢ She would have a eucalyptus bundle hanging from the showerhead, further enhancing relaxation 

✢ When the two of you are finished washing up, she’d ask if you would want to dry her hair for her with a small flush on her cheeks, she wouldn’t mind if you decided to brush through it as well…

✢ She’s practically putty in your hands, melting into your tender touches with pink cheeks and a dopey smile 

✢ Of course, she’d return the favor by drying your hair as well, offering to comb through it if you want

✢ If you have a skincare routine, have no fear for Marcille also has one !! (definitely a skincare girly in modern times)

✢ She’ll inquire about the products you use while also showing you hers, the two of you would probably delve into a conversation about skin care products and cosmetics (your favorite brands, the brands you hate, etc.…)

✢ In the end, she smells like lavender and vanilla (sometimes she might smell a bit lemony/fruity), a soft and floral scent

✤✤✤✤

✢ …This guy doesn’t even take baths…

✢ You’d probably have to throw him in to get him to bathe

✢ You’d let him wash up on his own but insist that you wash his beard and hair so he isn’t half-assing it

✢ You take your time thoroughly scrubbing through his beard and hair, making sure all the dirt and grime come out (can’t risk him having fleas or something)

✢ Even though he grumbles in the beginning, he quiets down and relaxes in the water, his muscles easing from the tension

✢ When he’s finished washing up, you’ll help trim his beard or shave any stray hairs, ensuring that his hair and beard are well-kept

✢ You offer him some of your skincare products, but he usually declines, not really interested in it until you start listing the effects it has on the body

✢ Senshi only lets you put a little on him though, not liking the feeling of multiple products on his skin

✢ You’d probably rub in some beard oil as well so his beard doesn’t end up drying out and stuff

✢ In the end, he smells like coconut and vanilla, a sweet and creamy scent

✤✤✤✤

✢ …Have mercy…

✢ It might be a little hard to have Izutsumi let you bathe her, insisting that she can do it herself (plot twist, she needs help with the knots in her fur)

✢ So she begrudgingly lets you help her, giving you strict rules to not do anything weird which you assure her that you aren’t some kind of freak (stares at Laios**)

✢ You’d take your time carefully combing through her hair and fur, making sure not to miss any spots

✢ She’d hesitate before letting you rub shampoo/conditioner into her hair, gradually leaning into your touch with a small purr rumbling in her chest

✢ You’re mindful of her ears and tail, avoiding getting water or soap stuck in her eardrums and crossing the line by touching her tail

✢ Izutsumi wouldn’t really know how to help you with your own stuff, so you’d just have to wash your hair and scrub your back by yourself

✢ When the two of you are done, she lets you pat her dry with a grumble, whining about how you’re just like her old party members

✢ You’d sit her down and comb through everything again, making sure there’s no knots 

✢ If you have a skincare routine, she’s not really interested but would probably try a face mask with you

✢ She’d end up laughing at you, saying you look like an oni

✢ In the end, she smells like petrichor (rain), an earthy yet unique scent 

[ccwpidsblog]

White Dress, Black Cat 𖣁 | ONYAKOPON

Summary: They said she was a witch.

She said they were all damned. Onyakopon didn’t believe in hauntings until he heard his own voice tremble at the pulpit. Now every hymn echoes wrong, and she’s waiting for him by the well, knitting as if the world ain’t falling apart. He just wanted to serve God. Now they’re standing hand in hand, watching the damned burn.

Themes: Heavy Religious trauma/themes, family dysfunction, mentions of suicide, miscarriage, mental health struggles, tall blk female reader, plus-sized reader, preacherson!ony, implied supernatural violence, psychological horror, shy!ony, dark themes and atmosphere, small town prejudice, abandonment, slow burn, smut: virginity loss (mc and ony), soft sex/lovemaking, praise kinks, soft dom!ony

Part one | Part two | Part three

Word count: 10.2k

Authors Note: Well obviously I've been really into religious themes and southern gothic themes for some reason and with my religious background it's only fair I vent through my writing lol. This was meant to be a one-shot but yk how I get lol. Very different from the usual Ony fics hope you all enjoy and I don't disappoint 🥺💔

also wanted to thank @thecoochiefairy and @2neaky for unknowingly inspiring me!! I love black love and im happy to see it on tumblr again 🩷 please don't be shy send me an ask and support me on AO3

The night pressed in thick as syrup, and Onyakopon couldn't move.

He lay flat on his back on a threadbare cot in the shotgun house behind the old

sugarcane fields, sweat slicking his brow, heart hammering against ribs that had forgotten how to breathe. The air was too still. No crickets. No frogs. Not even the wind dared stir. Just that weight, heavier than a man, darker than sin, pinning him to the mattress with invisible hands.

Something's whispering in his ear.

He couldn’t understand the words, not exactly. But the voice, it was his father’s. And then not.

His body twitched. Eyes wide, still unable to blink. In the corner of the room, where the shadow refused to dissolve, something crouched. Watching. Waiting. Its eyes were coals, slow-burning.

“Get up,” he told himself. But his jaw wouldn’t work. His tongue felt thick. Roots of a tree growing wild inside his throat.

The thing in the corner inched forward. Crawling on elbows. Grinning too wide.

And then—

A scream tore from his chest. The kind that didn’t sound human.

He sat bolt upright, breath ragged, vision swimming. The shadow was gone. But the smell lingered like hot iron and smoke. Like burnt offerings. Outside, there was a loud crack of thunder as the sky began to pour. The world had moved on. But Onyakopon didn’t.

Not yet.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and stared down at the callouses in his palms.

The tremble in them betrayed him. That was the third one this week. And in every single one, there was always a shadow. Eyes like smoldering coals. A voice that wore his father’s face like a mask. No matter how many scriptures he recited before bed. No matter how often he sang himself hoarse in praise. It kept coming back. Stronger and stronger. And every time he woke, he felt like something had been peeled off of him in the night. Something soft. Something sacred.

He refused to speak on it. Refused to write it down. Didn’t dare let it live outside his own chest.

Not yet.

Not running. Not crying. Just sitting there heavy on his heart. Another crack of thunder rumbled the sky as heavy rain pelted on his family homes roof. He rose from his bed pulling his rosary off his night stand bringing it to his lips as he said a silent prayer.

Lord… have mercy on me. I been seein’ things. Eyes in the corner, whispers in the dark, faces that don’t belong to no man. I don’t know if it’s You, or the Devil, or somethin’ in between. But I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m tryin’.

Send me peace. Send me clarity. Send me somethin’ steady, somethin’ real. A light, Lord. Just a light to carry me through. Even if I don’t understand it yet.

As he said his Amens and laid back in his bed, Onyakopon had felt for the first time think that He wasn't listening.

By Sunday morning, the dreams still hadn’t left him. They clung to his shoulders like wet cotton.

But church folk didn’t care about dreams, especially not from a man like him. broad-shouldered and Bible-raised man, with a voice like honey on fire. The kind of voice that made pews sway and Deaconess Grant shout with both hands in the air.

Onyakopon stood at the front of the little white church he'd grown up in fingers wrapped around the wooden pulpit like every Sunday, his deep waves still damp from a basin rinse. Sunlight filtered in through stained glass panes, splashing color over the choir robes and sweating faces. The fans were flapping, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus but the heat was still wrapping necks like a noose.

“There's a leak in this old building... and my soul...” His voice filled the rafters, warm and booming.

Eyes closed. He let the song carry him. He tried to lose himself in it. But then

He saw it.

It wasn’t a flash. Not a trick of the light. It was there, really there, on the third pew from the front, sitting where Sister McGee always sat, legs crossed and grinning wide like it was proud to be seen. A thing with a stretched-out face and black gums, skin that shimmered like chicken grease thrown in water. Its eyes were hollow, but it always found him.

Mocking.

Ony’s throat caught on the next word.

“...This old building—keeps o' sinkin' and my... soul”

His voice had cracked like he was sixteen again singing for the congregation for the first time, he winced. Blinked. Shook his head.

Someone from the amen corner called out, calm and easy: “Take your time, brother.”

The thing was gone.

Just a trick of the heat, he told himself. Just his mind. The back doors of the church creaked open. Slow. Dust in the light. And there she was. Tall for a woman and wide-hipped, dark-skinned kissed by Gods given sun, like the earth after heavy rain, wearing a faded rose dress with puffed sleeves and lace at the hem. Her black cat trotted beside her like it belonged there. She held a woven basket over one arm and wore a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with dried lavender.

Every voice in the room caught in their throats.

Folks didn’t speak her name. Didn’t meet her eye. The bastard daughter of sin and prophecy. The daughter of a witch. But she just walked, quietly, deliberately, like the whole town wasn't against her and took her seat on the far back pew. Sitting there there like she always had a right to.

And while the choir tried to pick up the next verse, she began to knit. Small, neat stitches. Humming the melody under her breath in a voice soft as velvet.

Onyakopon stared too long.

He wasn't the only one.

Service ended with a shaky benediction and more side-eyes than hallelujahs.

Folks filed out quickly, muttering about the heat, about the hymnbook pages sticking together, about anything but the girl and her cat in the back pew. Onyakopon pretended to help fold chairs in the fellowship hall just long enough for everyone to disappear down the gravel road.

He stepped out the side door into the sunlight, breathing like he’d been underwater. But even outside, the church still felt-strange. Like it held its breath after she walked in.

She was still in the last pew. Alone now. Knitting the same deep thread with slow, sure hands. Her cat sat curled beside her like a guardian made of fur shadows. The rest of the sanctuary had emptied out like they feared catching something just by breathing her air.

Onyakopon stood at the door a moment, one boot scuffing the floor.

She didn’t look up. Just said, soft and almost teasing , delicate voice bouncing off the empty decaying walls.

“You feel it too.”

His spine stiffened as he straightens himself up, removing his cap from his head, deep

frown lines growing between his eyebrows.

"Ma'am?"

She tugged the thread once, looped it, pulled it through. Her fingers never paused.

“What don’t belong in the Lord’s house.”

His lips parted, but he said nothing.

Then she looked up. Wide, round, doll-like eyes — so dark they shimmered. She looked at him like a mirror. Like she saw every dream he tried to forget, every shadow that clung to the edges of his soul.

Onyakopon’s stomach twisted. A chill moved up his spine slow as molasses. He hadn’t told nobody about the thing that visited him in sleep or what he'd seen — not his mother, his father or brother. This was something just between him and God. He felt his fists clench, not in threat but in defense. That kind of knowing… it wasn’t natural.

He took a step in, boots creaking on the old wood. “You been watchin’ me?” he asked, voice low and rough like split wet oak.

“No,” she said, still sweet, still calm. “You came lookin’ for me. Even if you ain’t know it yet.

He frowned deeper, throat dry. “You don't know what you're talkin' about ma'am..”

“Mm.” She glanced down. “And yet, here you are, tryin' to defend yourself to a stranger who don't know what she talkin' bout."

The black cat stretched from its place at her feet and wound around his leg, tail brushing his calf like a whisper. Onyakopon looked down, startled, as it rubbed against his dress shoes, purring deep like a hymn. He tensed, stepping forward, and his shadow stretched over her like a giant. Despite their size difference, he felt a sudden weight in the air. Her presence loomed, even sitting, somehow bigger than him. Ony was always the biggest man in any room — 6’7, broad and built like a pillar. But this woman, in a worn rose dress and knitted calm, made him feel small.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He swallowed.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice softer now, but no less honest.

She smiled just slightly. “You already know.”

“I don’t.” She hummed again, “Your dreams are becoming louder brother,” she murmured, threading her yarn again. “Woke the sky last night, Woke the dirt.”

He blinked, unsettled. He didn’t want know how to fight it. Didn’t know how to turn off the uncomfortable truth in her voice. Her fingers moved again. The yarn wound tighter. She added, without looking

It’s this town. Folks plant their evil here, water it, pray over it like it’s corn and wheat. And it grows.”

Ony’s jaw tensed. The cat flicked its tail once like punctuation. She tied off the thread, tucked the yarn into her basket like she was sealing something sacred or dangerous.

“When you start to see the truth,” she said, standing now, her basket in hand, “you’ll know where to find me.”

She lingered in the doorway, eyes on him like she already knew what he’d choose.

“May the Lord keep you, Onyakopon. Even when the ones close to you can’t.”

Then she vanished into the rain.

The church doors creaked as he stepped out, the rain had stopped sunlight dull and sour under a heavy sky. No birds singing. Just the wind dragging itself down the road like a dying hymn.

The woods swallowed her up quick, the church just a shadow behind her. Leaves brushed her shoulders, pine needles crunching beneath her bare feet. She didn’t look back once. Mama trotted at her side, tail high, silent as breath.

“He don’t even know what he is yet,” she whispered, mostly to herself, but also to the cat.

Mama meowed low, like a scoff.

“I know, I know. You don’t like him. Sayin’ I oughta let him stay lost.”

She paused by a fallen log, placing her basket on it carefully. Sat down, drawing her shawl tighter across her shoulders.

“But he’s dreamin’ the way I used to. That means somethin’. Ain’t many left who can see past the veil.”

Mama leapt up beside her, staring off into the trees like she was waiting for somethin, or someone.

The girl smiled faintly. “You always was overprotective.”

Mama blinked slow.

“I ain’t lettin’ him close, not yet. Just watchin’.”

She turned her eyes to the sky, where clouds pressed low and the wind smelled like storm.

“When he’s ready to see the truth,” she murmured, “he’ll know where to find me.”

Mama curled against her side, purring soft and wary.

And the forest, for now, held its breath.

Monday morning came like it always did — quiet, slow, and too bright.

The sky was washed pale like a bedsheet left too long in the sun, and the town lay still beneath it. No rain left, just the memory of it in puddles and soft mud tracks. Ony didn't dream at all last night, just darkness and cold.

Onyakopon stood by the porch steps, box of his mama’s peach pies tucked under one arm, the other gripping a thermos of chicory coffee. Caleb his older brother was already loading up the truck, hands moving fast and efficient, like always.

“Quit draggin’ your feet,” Caleb muttered. “These folks ain’t gonna wait forever.”

Ony grunted, climbing in beside him.

They rode through the back roads in silence for a while, gravel popping under the tires, air sticky with heat. Every house they passed had a porch, and every porch had eyes. Folks rocking slowly in creaking chairs, faces turned their way but not smiling. At the first stop, Miss Irene met them on her porch with a crooked grin and two dollars folded tight in her hand.

“Your mama’s a blessin’, she know that?” she said, voice thin as brittle paper. “Tell her I’m prayin’ for her.”

She didn’t look at Ony when she said it.

By the third house, he noticed it, the way people didn’t laugh the same. Didn’t talk the same. Brother Johnny Al who always joked with him just nodded and shut the screen door with a quick and nasty slam. He saw the elderly man peeking from the blinds as they drove away, he should have worn his glasses today because he swore his eyes flash completely dark.

Another one of their regulars wouldn't meet his eyes during prayer, just muttered “Amen” too fast and wiped sweat off his brow that wasn’t there.

The last stop was by the church, where Sister Myra handed Caleb her tithe and asked them to “keep an extra prayer for the sinful.” She smiled at his brother when she said it, but Ony felt it cut anyway when it dropped as she looked at him duly

By noon, Ony’s chest felt tight. Not like fear like being studied. Like his skin was a page someone was reading line by line. He wondered if this is his Jesus felt when they read his commandments though Caleb didn’t notice, or pretended not to. He was good at that.

Caleb was humming to himself on the drive back, fingers tapping the wheel in rhythm, until Ony finally spoke.

“Something’s off,” Ony said, quiet.

Caleb didn’t look at him when he responded, just snorted dismissively. “It’s Monday. That’s what’s off.”

“I’m serious.” Ony’s voice was low, almost unsure. “Like somethin’ shifted. Like the world ain’t sittin’ right on its bones no more.”

“Somethin’ off,” he said again, quieter now, letting the words hang in the cab.

His long legs stretched out in the passenger seat, feet braced like he was expecting a turn that never came.

Caleb finally glanced at him, just a flick of the eye, jaw tight. Then laughed, short and sharp.

“Boy, you feel off ‘cause you always by yourself, hidin’ in your own head like some daydreamin’ woman. You need to study more. With me and With Pa. Need to find you a wife. Get you right.”

“...A wife?”

The word stuck in Ony’s throat, and just like that she was there. Not in body but in that sudden, dangerous way dreams slide into daylight. She wasn’t doing anything grand just sitting on a porch, elbows on her knees, eyes half-lidded like she knew every secret he ever kept. Humming low. Thread slipping through her fingers like it had a mind of its own. Like he did.

Ony blinked slow, like the words took a second to land again he repeated "A wife.."

Caleb went on, voice firmer now. “You feel off ‘cause you always stuck in your damn head, day dreamin’. Walkin’ around like you waitin’ on signs and visions instead of doin’ what men do.”

Ony turned to him, slow. “And what’s that?”

“Work. Worship. Wife. Provide. That’s the order. That’s how Pa did it. That’s how I do it. You think I didn’t feel strange too before I married Leah? Thought the whole world was wrong. Now look, she carryin’ my child, and I sleep just fine.”

Ony shook his head, jaw tightening. “So you think I’m crazy ‘cause I ain’t found nobody to lay up under yet?”

“I think you lonely,” Caleb snapped. “And lonely men start believin’ in all kinds of foolishness.”

They pulled into the driveway and sat in silence, the weight of everything pressing down like the summer heat.

Caleb finally broke it, voice low and hard. “I think somethin’ needs to fix you. You been strange for weeks. Folks see it. You don’t even try no more—don’t talk, don’t help with the sermons, barely speak to Ma. And now you sittin’ here talkin’ like the sky’s fallin’.”

Ony turned his head to the window, jaw tight. “You don’t see what I see.”

“No, I don’t. And that’s the damn problem. You always talkin’ in riddles. Bein’ quiet ain’t the same as bein’ deep.” Caleb’s voice was sharp. “You need to come back to earth, Ony. You ain’t no damn prophet. You just lost.”

Ony’s voice was cold, clipped. “Maybe you’re the lost one if you think a woman and a baby in this rotting town gonna fix anything.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “So you disrespectin’ the Bible teachings, boy?”

Ony didn’t look at him. Just said quietly,

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return.”

Caleb turned to face him, brow furrowed. Ony finally met his brother’s eyes. “That don’t sound like disrespect,” Ony said, voice flat. “That sound like a man knows this world don’t owe him nothin’. Not comfort. Not clarity. Not no wife or baby to fix what’s broke inside.”

Ony opened the door and stepped out, boots hitting the dirt like punctuation. The screen door creaked faintly in the distance, wind brushing against the trees. Caleb stayed in the truck for a second longer, jaw flexing, breath shallow. Then he shoved the door open.

“You always pullin’ them verses like a blade,” Caleb snapped, rounding the truck

“Think that makes you more holy? Makes you a better God-fearing man than me?”

Ony didn’t answer, just walked slow toward the porch, hands in his pockets like nothing touched him. Caleb caught up fast, grabbing his arm. " I’m talkin’ to you.”

Ony yanked back. “And I heard you. You mad ‘cause I know what I’m talkin’ about, and it don’t line up with your little box of how a man supposed to be.”

Caleb shoved him then, not hard, but hard enough.

“You think knowin’ scripture make you better than me? You think starin’ off into space and spittin’ riddles make you more of a man?”

Ony pushed him back, this time with force.

“I think pretendin’ like a wife and a baby make the rot go away is a lie. I think that makes you the fool.”

They were close now, breath hot, shoulders squared. From the porch came a soft creak the screen door opening slow.

Their mother stepped down from the porch, robe tied tight at the waist, her expression unreadable — but her eyes sharp as ever. Leah hovered behind her, one hand on her stomach, eyes wide.

“That’s enough out here,” she said again, sterner now. “I don’t care who’s feelin’ what you don’t raise your voices like that on this land.”

Caleb’s chest was still heaving, fists balled at his sides, but he dropped his eyes. Ony, jaw locked, He looked at her, really looked at her and something in him softened.

“I’ll be back ‘fore supper,” he said quietly.

Then he leaned in, pressed a quick, reverent kiss to her forehead.

“Love you, Mama.”

She nodded, the way only a mother could like she saw through him but loved him anyway.

As Ony stepped off the porch, he brushed past Caleb, shoulder knocking into his brother’s like punctuation. Deliberate. Firm.

Caleb turned after him, lips parted like he had more to say, but whatever it was, he swallowed it.

Leah reached for his hand from the porch.

“Let him go,” she said gently.

“He don’t need to wander,” Caleb muttered. Their mother didn’t look at him when she answered.

“Maybe he do.”

Onyakopon walked with no aim, boots kicking up dust as the cicadas screamed louder than the thoughts in his head. The town stretched out around him, crooked and quiet all heatwaves and peeling paint and eyes he couldn’t see but felt. His hands were in his pockets, his jaw still clenched.

He didn’t know where he was going, Nowhere, really but it felt like somewhere

Like something was pulling.

The sun hung thick and low, dripping gold between the trees, and for a second everything felt too still like the world had paused to hear his steps. Then he saw it.

A black cat, perched on a crumbling stone fence just ahead. Its fur looked wet, almost shining. It didn’t move when he approached.

Just stared, eyes like glass marbles catching the light. He slowed and the cat didn’t blink, didn't flinch. Just waited.

Ony felt a chill crawl up his neck despite the heat.

“You lost?” he murmured, barely louder than the wind. The cat tilted its head, eyes squinting like his question offended it, then turned. Leaping down, slipping into the brush like it had somewhere to be and maybe, just maybe, he was supposed to follow. So, he'd stand there for a while listening, waiting - for what exactly? He wasn't so sure himself.

Staring at the place where the cat had vanished. His breath slowed, the tension in his shoulders settling into something heavier. He didn’t move, just listened to the buzz of the heat, the rustle of leaves.

Thinking about turning around. About going home. Sitting down with his family at dinner telling them he was ready to look for a wife, asking his father to mentor him. Mold him to be just like him and Caleb. About pretending he hadn’t felt something shift deep in his gut the second he saw that cat.

Maybe Caleb was right.

Maybe he was strange.

Maybe he was just lonely.

A sharp, irritated meow snapped him from the thought. There it was again — the black cat, now sitting neatly a few paces behind him, tail curled tight, ears pointing upward, eyes narrowed like it was waiting on a child dragging their feet. It meowed again, louder this time, then stood and turned. Walked ahead slowly, stopping every few feet like it was checking to see if he’d catch on. Ony swallowed. Then, without a word, he followed.

The cat cut through a thicket like it had somewhere to be, glancing back only once before Ony followed. Trees arched above him like ribs, the woods swallowing sound until all he heard was his breath and the soft thud of his boots on earth. It didn’t feel like he was walking anymore. More like being led. They came to a clearing a patch of light cracked open like an eye between the trees, and there she was. She sat on an old quilt, colors faded like memory, her back to him. Her clothes clung loose and thin in the heat nothing like what women wore outside the house. Nothing a preacher’s son had any business looking at. But he did.

She was knitting again. Hands moving fast, like she was trying to exorcise something with every twist of thread. Her dark coils slipped loose, brushing her cheeks as she muttered to herself, angry and fast. The cat trotted over to her and curled up like it had been expected.

Without looking up, she said, “Thought you didn’t like him, Mama.”

Ony took a careful step forward, brow furrowed. “Your mutt don’t like me?”

The girl turned sharp, like she’d been waiting on that line. Her hands froze mid-stitch, and her head snapped over one shoulder. That chubby, soft face from church? It scrunched up like a storm cloud now, eyes suddenly sharp cutting.

“Only mutt here is you.”

Even the cat hissed, low and warning, tail flicking once like a whip before settling back down beside her with a satisfied grunt.

Ony stiffened.

She wasn’t sweet like she was in the Lord’s house. Not quiet and warm like the girl humming behind the pews. Her energy was strange now. Bristled. Her lips were dry, chapped pink from too much sun, and her voice carried something jagged underneath it.

“You always follow stray things?” she asked, threading again quick and harsh like the yarn had done her wrong.

He didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t know how.

Didn’t know why his feet brought him here at all. “You was knittin’ in church,” he said finally, more to himself than her.

“I was.”

“You knittin’ now.”

“Got hands, don’t I?”

He squinted at her, frustrated and fascinated all at once. “You always talk like this?” She shrugged, didn’t look up. “Only when men ask me stupid things.”

Ony winced, rubbing the back of his neck. His boot scuffed at the dirt, slow and awkward. He didn’t have much practice with women, his world was made up of his mother, elder ladies at church, and Leah when she needed something fetched from the pantry.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he mumbled, voice low and careful.

The girl paused. Her fingers stilled against the needles, eyes flicking up to study him for the first time without all that steel in them.

“No need to apologize,” she said, gentler now. “The day hasn’t been the kindest to me.”

She yanked at her project something half-made and angry with color, thread coiled tight like it was holding its breath. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. If anything, I should be used to it by now.” She huffed, more to the yarn than to him, jaw clenching like there was more she wanted to say but didn’t trust the space between them enough yet.

Ony shifted his weight, thumb hooking in his belt loop. His voice came quiet, almost a whisper. “Day ain’t been kind to me neither.”

That made her pause again. Just long enough for the cat to flick its tail against her hip, like it was waiting too.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next, just patted the empty space beside her blanket, fingers brushing away twigs and grass. “Well… you can sit if you want. You look like you been walking without knowin’ where to land.”

Ony hesitated. His eyes flicked down, he hadn’t really looked before, not properly. But now the way the fabric clung to her arms, the soft rise of her chest as she breathed, the bare skin of her calves peeking beneath the hem, it struck him all at once.

It wasn’t scandalous in the way church folks used the word. But it was… intimate. Delicate. Dressed like that, back home, she’d be in her own bedroom or padding barefoot through the kitchen fetching tea for her mother. Not out here in the woods with a stranger.

His throat worked as he swallowed. “You sure?”

She gave a half-smile without looking at him. “I wouldn’t’ve asked if I wasn’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again, cheeks burning as he eased himself down beside her careful to leave a respectful distance, hands resting flat against his thighs like he was trying not to touch anything at all. The cat stretched between them like it was measuring the space.

They sat in silence.

Not the kind that crawled under your skin like Sunday tension or lingered like unsaid prayers, but something softer. Still. Ony sat with his hands folded, shoulders loose for once. The weight he always carried in his spine, the pressure to square his chest, to be something righteous and loud — eased without permission.

The girl kept knitting. Her fingers moved fast, urgent almost, like she was working through a thought with each loop and pull. The cat yawned, curling into a perfect comma between them.

Then, without looking at him, she said it low:

“Your head’s loud again. Makin’ the wind brush by a lil too fast. Gettin chilly. ”

Ony blinked, brows pulling together.

“Just breathe,” she added.

He did. And it wasn’t a deep breath or a proud one, but something real. It slid out of him slow, quiet. A breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

The wind slowed. The trees settled.

So did he.

The silence between them didn’t ache like it did at home. It stretched warm, quiet—not something to fix, just something to feel. Ony let his eyes drift to her hands, how fast they moved, like they had somewhere to be.

“You always knit this fast?” he asked, voice low.

She gave a soft shrug, not looking up. “Only when I’m tryin’ not to cuss or cry. It helps. Pullin’ somethin’ ugly outta me and making it useful.”

Ony nodded slowly, watching the rhythm of her fingers. The thread danced between her knuckles like it knew a secret language.

“You… think you could show me how?”

That made her pause. She looked at him for a beat, then down at her lap, like she was weighing it. Finally, she held up a half-finished square of fabric — dark, tight with frustration.

“You sure?” she asked. “Most men too proud to sit still with something this soft.”

“I’m not most men,” Ony murmured, not meeting her eyes.

She smiled, not wide but real, and shifted a little to the side. " I’ll show you.”

He shifted closer, slow like the earth might split if he moved too fast. She handed him the needles, warm from her fingers, and the yarn, coarse but strangely comforting.

“Keep your hands steady,” she said, voice softer now. “Let it pass through like water. Don’t grab it so tight.”

Ony tried, fumbling at first. She reached over, guiding his fingers without making a big deal out of it. Her hands were smaller than his, but surer—she shaped him like she did the thread, gentle but firm. “You’re teachin’ me to do women’s work,” he muttered, half teasing.

She snorted. “I’m teachin’ you to keep your mind from rot. Don’t matter what shape the work come in.”

That made him smile without thinking.

“You always talk like that?” he asked. he asked, glancing at her from beneath his lashes. “Like you halfway know what God whisperin’ before He even say it?” She didn’t answer right away. Just tilted her head, lips twitching like she was deciding how much to give away.

“You asked me that before,” she said finally.

He blinked. “Did I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Well…” He scratched the back of his neck. “You talk like my granny, but you don’t look eighty-six.”

That made her laugh—real and full, spilling out of her like light. She leaned back a little, grinning at him. “Your granny must’ve been sharp.”

“She was,” Ony said, quiet now, surprised at the warmth threading through his chest. He let the silence sit between them again, but it didn’t feel empty — it felt close. And when their eyes met for just a second too long, something shifted.

Not loud. Not sudden. Just… true.

Then nip.

“Agh—damn!” Ony yelped, jerking slightly as Mama, the cat, sunk her teeth gently into his thigh like she’d had enough of the moment.

The girl rolled her eyes. “Mama don’t like when people get too comfortable.”

“She got good timing,” Ony muttered, rubbing his leg and glaring at the cat, who looked smug and settled right back down beside her. “Guess she figured you needed some grounding.”

They both laughed, the weightlifting again, but not gone. Just resting for now. Ony glanced down at the cat, still lounging like she owned the blanket and the girl both. He reached out a slow hand—Mama narrowed her eyes but didn’t move.

“How long you had her?” he asked, voice lower now, thoughtful.

The girl’s fingers slowed around the yarn. “Seven years,” she said, quiet.

He looked up. “That long?”

“She showed up a few hours after my mama passed.” Her voice was steady, but there was something buried in it—like a scar covered by a silk scarf. “Just… appeared on the porch. Sat right at the door like she was waitin’. Like she knew.”

Ony said nothing, only watched her face.

“I like to think she is my mama. In some way,” she went on, threading the needle through the yarn faster now. “Mama always said she’d come back as a black cat. Said it’d suit her. Misunderstood. Proud. Particular. Protective.”

Her lips curved faintly. “And she was all three.” Mama let out a slow purr, as if in agreement.

“I believe that,” Ony murmured.

She looked over at him, brows lifted slightly.

“Why?”

He shrugged, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Just feels true. Like the way certain songs make you cry even if you don’t understand the words.”

She smiled at that, soft, almost grateful.

“You always talk like that?” she teased.

He grinned. “Guess we even now.”

Their laughter faded into the breeze, the knitting needles tapping steady again. Somewhere in all of it, Ony realized — he hadn’t thought about the tightness in his chest for minutes now. Minutes that felt like something more than time.

The wind shifted, sharp and sudden, cutting through the thick afternoon air like a knife dipped in river water. It brushed against Ony’s arms and made the fine hairs on his skin rise. But it wasn’t the cold that made him stiffen.

It was the girl.

She froze. Fingers gone still, the thread limp in her lap. Her body locked up like a porch swing caught mid-sway. Even Mama, curled smug and sleepy just moments ago, lifted her head, ears flicking forward, eyes narrowed at something just beyond the trees.

“You alright?” Ony asked, leaning a little closer, voice hushed like he didn’t want to disturb whatever had just walked through them. She didn’t answer right away. Just blinked like she was trying to remember how. Then nodded slowly, though it didn’t quite reach her shoulders.

“Sometimes the wind don’t come to cool,” she murmured, barely audible. “Sometimes it’s just passin’ through, carryin’ somethin’ behind it.” Ony glanced around, suddenly more aware of how quiet it had gotten. No birds. No rustle of leaves. Just wind and the low hum of something beneath it.

“What’s it carryin’?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know yet. But Mama felt it too.”

The cat was on her feet now, tail low, pressed against the girl's side like she might need to bolt — or block. “You should get home soon,” the girl said gently, but her eyes didn’t meet his. They were somewhere else. “Sun’s not as strong as it looks.”

Ony didn’t move.

“I’ll walk you,” he offered, his voice surer than he felt.

But she just gave a tiny smile, one that didn’t match the new edge in the air. “I’ve walked through worse.”

They stood at the edge of the clearing now, where the trees swallowed the sun in long shadows. Ony hadn’t realized how far they’d wandered — or maybe how far she’d led him. The cat weaved between their ankles, brushing its side against Ony’s boot one last time before settling back by her feet.

He took a step back, not wanting to go, but knowing the air had changed again. “You gon’ tell me your name?”

She paused, gathering up her needles and thread. The question hung in the air like smoke before she finally spoke, voice light but low, like a secret.

“You already know it.”

“I don’t.”

She looked up, lips curving into something half-playful, half-knowing. “Well, that’s what makes it fun.”

He gave her a look, amused and a little flustered. “Alright then… I’m Onyakopon.”

“I know,” she said softly, the smile not leaving her face. He blinked, surprised, then chuckled. “’Course you do.”

Their hands met then — a shake at first, but it lingered. Her hand was soft but firm, warmer than the wind that had just passed.

They didn’t speak as they held it. Just let it stretch, like maybe neither of them was quite ready to leave. Then her fingers curled, just slightly. “Be mindful,” she said, voice almost too quiet for the air. “Of what you carry. Of whom you follow. Everything that feels wrong right now. It's not all in your head.”

Ony’s brows drew together. He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but she was already turning away, Mama trotting ahead like she knew the way. He stood there watching, rooted in place, as the girl moved between the trees, slipping into them like smoke. Her nightgown caught the last bit of light, white and fluttering like wings.

Then she was gone.

Like something holy. Or something beautifully haunting.

By the time Ony reached the porch, the sun was kissing the edge of the horizon, everything soaked in that strange amber glow that made shadows long and soft. His boots thudded against the wooden steps, and the familiar creak under the third board welcomed him home like it always did. Inside, the house was warm and humming with domestic rhythm. Dishes clinked softly, the smell of stewed okra and baked bread thick in the air. His mother stood at the head of the table, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, humming a hymn under her breath as she laid out silverware. Leah was beside her, placing the cornbread down with careful hands over a dishcloth.

They both looked up when he stepped in.

His mother’s eyes lingered. “Told you I’d be back before supper,” Ony said, brushing a hand over his neck, suddenly conscious of how the wind still clung to his shirt, like he’d brought the outside in with him.

"Mm make sure you wash them hands before sittin' at my table." She didn’t say more and went back to setting forks.

Leah’s eyes flickered between the two brothers as Caleb appeared from the back hall, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Ony tensed instinctively, but Caleb didn’t say anything just stared at him for a second too long. The air in the room wasn’t hostile. But it wasn’t settled either. Ony felt it swirl around him, curious and careful, like everyone was waiting for something to crack.

He moved toward the sink to wash his hands, nodding toward his mother as he passed. “Smells good in here, Ma.”

She nodded again, this time more gently, then glanced toward Caleb like she was measuring something unsaid between them.

No one asked where he’d gone.

And he didn’t offer it.

But as he dried his hands and found his usual seat, he thought of her—bare feet in the grass, humming low, thread dancing between her fingers like it had a mind of its own.

The clink of forks against ceramic was the loudest sound at the table. Ma had made stew, rich and spiced, but it tasted like sawdust in Onyakopon’s mouth.

“Had a little heat between you two earlier,” Pa said without looking up, spoon cutting through his bowl. “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.”

Ony didn’t look at Caleb, though he felt the verse land like a stone between them. Psalm 1:33, yeah — but it had the weight of Cain and Abel behind it, and they all knew it.

Caleb just scoffed under his breath.

“Yesterday’s service ended early,” Caleb said casually, like a man mentioning the weather. “Soon as that girl came 'long Whole congregation cleared out like they caught the plague.

Ma sneered without missing a beat. “Never met such an unlady-like woman. Wandering about with a devil’s pet, whisperin’ to trees like they whisper back. But Lord knows she can stitch. Shame every thread feel like a curse.”

Ony’s grip tightened around his spoon. He stared down into his stew, letting the broth steam up his face like fog. He didn’t say anything — not about her hands, not about her voice, not about the way she said his name like she’d always known it.

Ony felt a strange ache twist inside him at her words, a pull toward the woman Ma so openly despised. He kept his jaw tight, the silence settling even heavier around the table.

Leah shifted uneasily, but no one else spoke. The candle flickered low, and the weight of unspoken things hung thick between them.

“Boy,” Pa said suddenly, voice firm. “You best get out your head. A man’s got no business sittin’ at his father’s table starin’ off into the dark.”

Ony blinked slowly, but didn’t answer.

“You think you grown? Then act like it. Ain’t no room in this house for cloudy minds and foolish obsessions. You wanna be a man, be one. Handle your kin. Get your head on straight. Get your spirit right.”

Still, Ony didn’t speak — not to him. His eyes stayed low, locked on the chipped edge of his plate. Then, like something creeping up from his chest without permission, his voice slid out low, almost like it didn’t belong to him

“What makes her a bad person for lovin’ trees a lil bit?”

The room froze.

Ma’s hand stilled halfway to her cup. Leah’s fork clinked quietly against her plate. Caleb leaned back slow in his chair, face unreadable. Pa narrowed his eyes. “What you just say?”

“I just mean…” Ony muttered, spearing a piece of fried okra with his fork, “she’s a woman with a pet cat? That knits.” He shrugged like it was nothing, then stuffed the food in his mouth, chewing slow, like he hadn’t just cracked the air in two.

Ma’s eyes narrowed. “That thing ain’t no pet. Strays like that don’t belong in the house of the Lord — or round decent folk like the ones in our community.”

Caleb scoffed under his breath, reaching for his cup. “Ain’t about the cat. It’s the way she carries herself. Like she knowin’ things she ain’t supposed to.”

“That woman ain’t right, Ony,” Pa said, voice low and warning. “Mark my words. Ain’t no good ever come from women who walk like they float and talk like they pray to the moon.”

Ony didn’t respond. Just kept chewing, like maybe the weight of the room couldn’t touch him if he didn’t let it. But his ears were hot, and his throat ached in a way that food couldn’t soothe.

Leah, quiet all this time, finally spoke, voice soft as usual. “She knitted my apron. The one with the sunflowers. It’s… pretty.”

Ma turned sharply. “And you best not wear it again. We don’t know what spirits she stitched into that thread.”

Ony’s silverware scraped the plate a little too loud when he's told up.

“I’ll go wash up,” he mumbled, though his plate wasn’t empty. “Y’all keep on eatin’. Thank you for the dinner mama"

He didn’t wait for permission. Just turned and walked toward the back, the screen door creaking open as he stepped onto the porch, letting the night air slap him clean.

Behind him, the candle flickered.

The back porch creaked under his weight, old wood sighing like it remembered too much. No one came out here anymore — not since Granny passed. Her wicker chair still sat in the corner, covered in a thin film of dust and memories. Ony didn’t sit there. He chose the steps instead, letting the night press in close, heavy and still.

Crickets sang. The wind tugged gently at the trees, and for the first time all day, nobody asked him to be anything. He let his shoulders drop. Let his jaw unclench.

Then came the sound — soft, slow, deliberate.

The screen door moaned open behind him.

He didn’t turn, not at first, until he heard the light step on the porch — and then a bottle clink. He glanced over his shoulder.

Leah stood there, caught like a deer in her round belly stretching the front of her dress. In one hand, a dusty wine bottle; in the other, just shame.

“It won’t hurt the baby,” she said quickly, blinking like she might cry or laugh or both.

Ony raised his eyebrows and looked back out at the dark yard. “I get why you need it,” he said flatly. “Dealin’ with this family’ll make you wanna drink holy water straight from the font.”

That earned him a quiet laugh — small and bitter.

Leah walked over and sat beside him with a sigh, the bottle tucked between her knees. “I ain’t drinkin’ for real. Just wanted to hold it. Make it feel like I had a choice, even if I don’t.”

Ony hummed, a low sound in his throat.

“You and me both.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the air between them not tense, just… lived in.

“You ever think ‘bout just leavin’?” she asked, voice soft, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of trees.

“All the time.”

She nodded like she expected that. “Caleb says I should be grateful. That I’m safe here. That the Lord provided. But safe don’t feel like freedom, does it?”

Ony didn’t answer.

Not out loud and the silence stretched on the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. Just two people watching the dark, pretending the quiet didn’t know all their secrets.

Leah leaned back on her hands, her fingers curling around the edge of the step. “That girl from service yesterday…” she started, voice light but lined with something sharper, “she the reason you were gone all afternoon?”

Ony didn’t look at her. Just let the question hang there in the air between them, weightless and heavy all at once.

Leah smiled to herself, not unkind. “She’s... different. Not like folks around here.”

“She’s just a girl,” Ony said finally, though it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to him.

“A girl with a black cat and a stare like she’s already seen how the world ends,” Leah murmured, like she was thinking more than speaking. “She got the whole town feelin’ itchy and lookin’ for salt.”

Ony gave a faint snort. “You 'fraid of her too?”

“No,” Leah said simply. “But I think you are.”

That made him look at her. Really look.

She met his eyes, steady, too old for her years. “Not ‘cause she’s strange. But ‘cause she see somethin’ in you been tryin’ to bury.”

Ony didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. His throat felt tight.

“She’s not evil. You’re right bout that part. Just a girl with a heavy hurt, a cat, and a different sense of faith. This town… it’s so close-minded, full of fear. The moment someone different comes along, folks scream ‘Satan’ or worse.”

“We used to be friends,” she said after a pause, like weighing whether to share too much. “Before her pa got caught up in some things. Before he disappeared. She was always so strange. Picking up bugs, talking to the ground, like she’d been here a thousand years instead of thirteen.”

She laughed, a soft, distant sound. “I used to joke she was a grandma reincarnated.”

Ony huffed out a soft laugh but then her smile faded, shadowed by memories. “When her daddy vanished, she was… calm. Like the universe does things for a reason. Said everything done in the dark will come to light.”

Her eyes darkened further. “Her mother got real sick after that. Took her own life.” She flicked squeeze the dusty wine bottle, then leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Your daddy… I think he’s got

something to do with it all.”

Ony’s heart tightened. "How so?"

“She told me once, before her dad disappeared, he was there. And minutes after he left, her mother… she was found splattered all over her bed.” She made a finger-gun motion, sharp and cutting through the heavy air.

Silence fell again, heavy and still.

Then Leah sniffled — barely — and blinked fast. Her voice wavered, thinner now. “You know… she’s the one who told me I was pregnant before I even knew? I really hope this conversation stays between us.”

She paused, swallowing thickly. “Couple months back, when I was real sick and you and Caleb were out runnin’ errands… she came by. Her and that damn cat. I hadn’t seen her since we were fifteen. Daddy forbid me from ever seein’ her again. Said she was a witch. Imagine my shock when she showed up at my doorstep eleven years later — all grown, and God help me, even more beautiful than when we were kids.”

She let out a shaky breath and laughed weakly, rubbing her stomach.

“She put her hands on my belly like she already knew me. Told me I’d be the most wonderful mother. Like she saw it, clear as day.” Her voice cracked. “Knitted me a little hat… and an apron to fit my belly. Softest thing I ever touched. But then she said somethin’ strange. Told me this wasn’t the place to raise a child. Said I should leave.”

Leah’s eyes lifted to his, wet but steady now.

Leah stayed quiet for a moment, her shoulders hunched and small despite the swell of her belly. The bottle hung loosely in her grip, the wine sloshing quietly like it too was listening.

Then, almost like an afterthought—but heavier than anything she’d said before—she murmured, “Something’s eatin’ your Ma, your Pa… even Caleb. They ain’t the same no more, Ony. I can feel it in my bones.”

She stood carefully, steadying herself with the porch railing. Her eyes met his one last time.

“You take care of yourself, Onyakopon. Don’t let ‘em make you blind to what’s right in front of you.”

She handed him the wine bottle, fingers lingering for a moment on his, then let go. Her silhouette disappeared into the dark hallway behind her, door creaking shut behind her like a breath held too long.

The next morning, Ony woke to a scream that didn’t belong to him for once.

It came from the guest room.

Leah had miscarried.

The house felt like it was holding its breath, heavy and suffocating. Caleb paced the worn floorboards, muttering under his breath, his footsteps sharp and uneven. Leah sat still in the corner, her eyes hollow, the light that had shone there just the night before completely gone.

Onyakopon watched them both, the weight of silence pressing down on him. His Ma and Pa were nowhere to be found — the house was emptier than usual, shadows gathering in every corner like unwelcome guests.

Caleb’s voice cracked as he whispered to no one in particular, “This ain’t right… none of it.”

Leah’s fingers trembled in her lap, her breath shallow, as if the air itself had turned to stone.

Onyakopon stepped closer to Leah, voice low but steady.

“I’m sorry, Leah. For everything.”

She gave a weak nod, eyes shimmering with tears but empty of hope. "You got time Ony. Leave before it touches you too"

Caleb’s pacing stopped abruptly, his shoulders stiffening like a coil about to snap. He glared at Ony, voice rough and sudden.

The house felt like it was holding its breath, thick with tension that clung to the walls like humidity before a storm. Caleb paced the floor in crooked lines, muttering beneath his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Leah sat on the edge of the couch like her soul had drained out in her sleep, her eyes puffy and distant. She hadn’t spoken more than a whisper since the scream.

Onyakopon stood in the doorway, watching. His parents were nowhere in sight. The house was too still. Wrong.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to start a fire,” Ony said gently, “but you need to sit, Caleb. You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

Caleb’s steps stopped abruptly. He turned slow, like a puppet pulled too tight on its strings.

“Oh, now you care?” he said, voice dry and full of heat. “Now you got concern?”

Ony blinked. “I’ve always cared.”

“No, you don’t. You stand around lookin’ like you see through everybody, like none of this is real to you. Like we’re fools for tryin’ to build a damn life here.”

Ony’s jaw tightened. “That ain’t fair.”

“Oh, but it’s true,” Caleb spat. “You think I forgot what you said a while back? ‘A wife and baby won’t fix nothin’? You said that. You looked me dead in the eye and said that. Like all this… like Leah—”

His voice cracked. “—like the baby didn’t matter.”

Ony’s voice was low. “I never said they didn’t matter. I said it won’t fix what’s wrong with this place. This town. You know that better than anyone, Caleb.”

“No. What I know is, you mocked me. You sat at that table with your silence and your damn half-smiles and judged me. You think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t—”

Caleb stepped forward, eyes wide, glassy, something off inside them now. “You don’t? Say it with your tongue then. Look me in the face and tell me I’m not a fool for wantin’ more.”

Leah stirred, voice soft. “Caleb—”

“Don’t,” Caleb snapped without looking at her.

Ony held his ground. “You ain’t a fool, Caleb. But you’re acting like one now. You’re hurt, and I get it. But don’t come at me like I put that pain in you.”

“You put the doubt in me!” Caleb roared.

“You were the voice in the back of my head every damn day since she told me she was pregnant. And now look! Gone. Just like everything else in this cursed house.”

There was a beat — the kind of silence that comes before something breaks.

Then Caleb lunged.

The scuffle was quick but violent — desperation making up for lack of form. Ony tried to hold him off, but Caleb fought like he wanted to draw blood, like if he hurt someone else maybe the ache inside him would let up.

Leah shouted, trying to reach them, tears running down her face. “Stop it! Stop!”

Ony finally shoved Caleb back, hard enough to knock him into the wall. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Caleb’s chest heaved. His eyes were wrong not just angry, but dark, as if something else had stepped into him. Something watching through his face.

“You mocked me,” he said again, quieter now. “You cursed me with your mouth. You always did.”

Ony stepped back, heart pounding. “I ain’t cursed you. This place did.”

Leah stood between them, shaking, one hand stretched out like she was trying to keep them both from falling off a cliff.

“Please, Ony,” she whispered. “Just go."

He didn’t want to. He wanted to fix it — to fix him. But he saw the look in her eyes. That pleading. That fear.

So he turned and walked out the front door.

And behind him, the house groaned.

The air outside slapped his skin like cold judgment. Onyakopon didn’t know when his feet hit the porch or when the front gate swung open — he only remembered the crunch of gravel under his boots and the warm sting of blood trailing down from his eyebrow. His lip was split, throbbing with each breath. The fight with Caleb replayed in flashes behind his eyes, quick and jagged like broken glass.

He kept running.

Not because he was afraid of Caleb, but because he was afraid of what he saw in Caleb.

The sky above had gone dull and gray, not quite evening but no longer day. Birds had gone quiet. The cicadas, too. All that remained was the pounding in his ears and the sharp inhale-exhale of lungs trying to keep up.

He didn’t even realize where he was until his knees buckled beneath him, and he hit the soft grass with a grunt. Hands splayed wide, he pressed his back to the earth, letting the air wrap around him. He was in the clearing.

The tall reeds swayed around him like ghosts with no mouths, whispering only through movement. And the sky above looked... too wide. Too still.

He lay there, panting. Sweat mixed with blood. His chest rose and fell like he’d outrun death itself.

And maybe he had.

Or maybe he’d run straight into it.

His chest rose and fell like a storm settling into silence. The sky above blurred, hazy from tears he didn’t know he’d let fall. Grass pressed cool and damp against the back of his neck. His lip stung, and his brow pulsed where Caleb’s fist had landed. Blood still crusted warm at the corner of his mouth.

He closed his eyes. Just for a second.

When he opened them—

She was there.

Standing over him like a painting left out in the rain. Skirt brushing the wild grass, curls coiled like shadows catching sunlight, eyes so ancient and wide they swallowed the sky behind her. Her face was soft, full of moonlight and mourning. The kind of beautiful that didn’t beg to be noticed — it just was, like wind or thunder. There was dirt on her hem, leaves tangled in her sleeves like she’d risen straight from the woods, or maybe the earth itself. Her cat, that little ghost pressed against her ankles, then padded forward, tail flicking, and nipped at Ony’s fingers with a quiet warning.

He flinched and blinked like he might still be dreaming.

“You,” he whispered.

“I always come when the house sends you away,” she said simply.

She knelt beside him, hand grazing the grass just beside his temple, never touching just near enough to feel the air between them hum.

“You’re hurt again, physically this time”

“Didn’t come here on purpose.”

“I know,” she said. “But your blood always finds its way back to me.”

The cat settled between them, purring low, eyes unblinking like it knew all the secrets neither of them could say. Onyakopon studied her — the way her presence dulled the pain just by existing, the way her eyes never flickered with fear. He wanted to say something. Apologize for the world. Ask how she knew so much. Ask how she still smiled like hope hadn’t died with the rest of this town’s soul.

Instead, he asked, “You always show up like this?”

She shrugged, curls bouncing lightly.

“Maybe I’m your guardian angel,” she said, and for a second, he thought she might mean it.

Then, her voice dropped to something softer, sadder.

“Or maybe I just know what it’s like to get pushed out by people who pretend they love you.”

She stood again without a word, brushing dirt from her skirt like it was nothing new, like she’d done this a hundred times before. The cat circled his shoulder once, then darted ahead into the trees.

“You comin’?” she asked over her shoulder, already turning.

Onyakopon hesitated. He should’ve gone back home. Should’ve checked on Leah. Should’ve tried, one more time, to reach the brother that looked at him like a stranger now.

But instead, he pushed himself off the ground, every bruise and scrape a sharp reminder of what waiting there would cost.

He followed her.

They moved through the woods like ghosts her steps barely stirring the leaves, him limping just behind. The path wasn’t marked, but she never second-guessed her turns. Like the forest knew her. Or she knew it.

A weather-worn cottage appeared just beyond a thick grove of oaks, roof sagging under moss and time. Wind chimes made of bones and rusted spoons tinkled faintly from the porch. A line of herbs dried beneath the windows, and a narrow chimney puffed with gentle smoke.

“Don’t mind the mess,” she murmured, holding the door open.

Inside, it smelled of lavender, ash, and something green not rot, not decay, but age. Lived-in. Safe.

He stepped in, and the warmth hit him like a balm. The fire crackled. The cat disappeared somewhere deeper in the house. She gestured toward an old kitchen chair.

“Sit.”

He obeyed.

She moved through the space like she belonged in every shadow of it. Wet a cloth, brought over an old metal tin, crouched before him like he was something precious.

She wiped his lip first, gentle, patient. Then his brow.

“You bruise easy,” she said, voice nearly teasing.

“You always nurse people back to life in the woods?”

“Just you.”

He didn’t ask why. He just watched her, close now the fine lines in her expression, the way she focused like this mattered, like he mattered. Her touch was warm, but her eyes. . . her eyes were still carrying something ancient.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

She didn’t respond right away. Just dabbed at the last of the blood, then looked up at him, expression unreadable.

“Next time,” she said softly, “don’t wait ‘til the world breaks your face to come find me again. Too handsome for all these and bruises."

Her fingers lingered on his chin, gentle, almost tender. He caught the faint scent of lavender and honey on her skin and felt heat rise in his cheeks. His eyes flickered down to his lap, suddenly shy under her steady gaze.

For a long moment, they just stayed like that close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s breath, the unspoken words hanging in the air. The cat nipped playfully at his fingers, breaking the spell, but even then, her smile held a softness that made his heart tighten.

"You hungry?"

He smiled softly meeting her eyes again, " I could eat."

She chuckled, the sound light and unexpected in the heavy silence. “Good. I don’t do fancy, but I can fix you something real.”

She stood and moved toward the small kitchen, the cat padding behind her like a loyal shadow. Ony followed slowly, still feeling the strange comfort of her presence like the world had shifted just enough to let a little light in.

[bingbongsupremacy]

The Soldier's Baby Pt. 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Sized fem!reader

Series Warning: Y/N use, swearing, mentions of sexual assault (Not graphic just mentioned a few times) & the word rape (No one raped reader, there was just confusion on what happened), fatphobia, trauma, abuse, insecurities, guy being creepy.

Pt. 3 Summary: Things are slowly starting to develop between you and Bucky. Will you get to live happily ever after? Or is this crush all in your head?

After Captain America TWS, Not cannon to movies just some things from the movies mentioned.

*Not Proof Read*

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 AU Version (What if you told Bucky while you were both in HYDRA)

□□□□□□□

The golden light filters through the trees, warming the bench beneath you and Bucky as Daisy runs circles nearby, her laughter ringing like wind chimes through the gentle hush of the park. A park brake is definitely what she needed after being in a store for hours.

Bucky sits close—his arm draped across the back of the bench, not touching you, but close enough that his presence is like a pulse at your back. You can feel the tension in the space between you, warm and steady, but unspoken. Not uncomfortable. Just... present.

“She’s a good kid,” he murmurs, watching Daisy fondly, something wistful shadowing his expression.

You smile at your daughter, who is currently making her stuffed bunny "hop" across the grass. “She’s everything,” you whisper. “and so much more.”

He hums softly in agreement.

His voice is warm, but your heart skips at the softness in it—the way it feels like he sees you, really sees you. You glance over, and he’s already looking at you.

“She's just like Rebecca, it's scary.” he adds, quieter now.

You blink, turning to face him more fully. “Your sister, right?”

“Yeah. Brooklyn, 30s. She was the toughest out of all of us. Always called me out on my crap,” he says with a small chuckle. “I miss her.”

Your heart tightens at the weight in his voice. You don’t know everything about his past, but you know enough. And he’s starting to open that door now. You've heard bits and pieces. Rumors and stories. But only he can tell you the truth.

“What was it like?” you ask gently. “Growing up back then?”

He leans back, eyes focused somewhere far away. “Busy. Loud. People looked out for each other. You could hear the radio through every window. There were corner stores, stoops, neighborhood kids always out. It was home. A lot simpler in some ways. We didn’t have much money, but we made it work. I ran errands, fixed up bikes, helped out the neighbors. And Steve—well, he was always in trouble. Too many opinions and too few pounds to back 'em up.” He chuckles slightly.

“I used to think I had to look out for him,” he adds, eyes crinkling fondly. “But honestly, Steve didn’t need anyone to fight his battles for him. He just needed someone to drag him out of them after.”

You both smile, the memory settling into a companionable quiet. But the silence doesn’t last long. There’s a shift in his breathing, a heaviness to the pause that follows. You glance over at him. His eyes are distant again, but this time, there’s something harder behind them.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you give him that silence, letting him settle into the memory.

“I enlisted,” he says, voice lower. “Got sent out before Steve did. I was captured in enemy territory. Hydra got ahold of me.” His jaw clenches slightly. “Experimented on me. Brainwashed me. Made me their weapon.”

You go still, your hand curling in your lap. “Bucky...”

His eyes are distant. “Every time I’d start to remember who I was, they’d wipe it. Like scrubbing out a chalkboard. Over and over again.”

You don’t speak. You just reach out slowly and place your hand on top of his where it rests on his knee. His fingers twitch beneath yours, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re not there anymore,” you say, your voice soft but certain. “They don’t get to define you.”

He looks at you then, like he’s been underwater and your voice just pulled him up. His eyes meet yours—stormy blue, filled with something aching and real—and it’s like something settles in him.

“I’ve been free for a while,” he murmurs. “But I didn’t feel it… not really… until recently.”

“Until Daisy?” you ask with a soft smile, memories of his love for the little girl flashing in your mind.

His lips tug up, but his gaze is still locked on yours. “Until you.”

Your breath stutters. His words hit you low in the belly, heat blooming behind your ribs.

Neither of you says anything for a beat. The tension pulls tight, a magnetic thread stretched between you.

Your heart is pounding. You’re aware of the way his thigh is brushing yours, the way his fingers curl slightly where yours still rest on top of his.

Bucky’s eyes drop to your mouth for just a second. When he looks back at you, there’s no hiding what’s in them.

Desire. Fear. Hope.

He leans in slightly. Just enough that you feel his breath, warm and shallow. His eyes flick between your lips and your eyes, gauging—waiting.

Your lips part instinctively, and your heart hammers so hard you’re sure he must hear it. The world fades. There’s only him. The way he smells. The soft flutter in your belly. The need you try not to admit.

His other hand presses tenderly against your cheek. His finger hooks under your chin, slightly pulling it towards him.

Then...

“Mommy!”

You both jolt slightly, the spell snapping but not quite shattering. Bucky drops his hand from your cheek. You immediately miss the warmth.

Daisy is bounding toward you, stuffed bunny under one arm, little legs stomping through the grass.

You lean back just a little, cheeks warming. Bucky’s eyes are still on you, his lips parted like he’s caught between a breath and a moment. But his gaze doesn’t fall. Doesn’t waver.

Instead, his hand brushes yours again—deliberate. His fingers squeeze, gently. And though he doesn’t speak, his eyes tell you everything.

Later, they promise.

Not yet.

But soon.

And when Daisy launches herself into your lap, giggling and asking if bunny can have dinner too, you laugh—but your heart is still thudding from everything you didn’t say.

And everything you know, you will.

-----

Daisy’s little fingers hold out a dandelion proudly. “Mama, look! It’s a the flower!”

You blink, exhaling shakily as you pull back slightly from Bucky. Your lips are still tingling from how close he was—how much you wanted that kiss.

“Wow,” you breathe, voice wobbling just a little as you smile down at her. “That’s a beautiful flower, baby.”

She climbs up onto the bench and wriggles into your side, her hair bouncing as she makes herself comfortable between you and Bucky. It breaks the moment—pulls your bodies apart—but not your connection. Bucky’s eyes don’t leave you, not even when Daisy leans against his arm.

There’s something in his gaze that is steady and full of tension.

You feel it.

The air between you is thick, charged. And even as Daisy starts talking about butterflies and cookies and the toys she got today, your heart is still thudding with what almost happened. Bucky listens to her—nods, smiles, hums along—but you can tell he’s not entirely hearing her either. His eyes flick to you again. Just a glance. Then another.

Your knees brush together. You don't move away. Neither does he.

When Daisy scrambles down a few minutes later to pick clovers at the edge of the path, Bucky finally exhales. You hear it. Feel it.

“That was close,” he murmurs, his voice dipping into something deeper.

Your head turns toward him, slowly. “Yeah. It was.”

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s full. Warm. And buzzing.

“I wanted to kiss you,” he says again, like he just needs to say it out loud. “I still do.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Me too.” This feels like a dream.

He looks down, his metal fingers lightly drumming against the bench. “I don’t wanna rush you. I know things are still… fragile. With everything. With you and Daisy. But I need you to know—this isn’t just a moment to me.”

Your throat is tight. “It’s not just a moment to me either.”

He reaches for your hand then—your left one—his metal fingers curling over your knuckles so gently it makes your eyes sting. It’s such a strange contrast: soft affection from something that was built for war. But it feels like him. Steady. Sure.

“She’s the most important thing in your world,” he says, nodding toward Daisy. “I know that. And I don’t ever want to come into your life unless I can make it better. Safer. Happier.”

“You already have,” you whisper.

Bucky lifts his eyes again, and they’re so full of warmth it knocks the air from your lungs. He leans in—slow again, careful—and this time, nothing stops him.

His lips brush yours softly.

It’s not rushed. Not hard or desperate. Just gentle. Steady. Like a promise with a hint of passion.

Your hand finds his shoulder as your eyes flutter closed. His other hand rises to your cheek, holding you like you’re something precious.

And you kiss him back.

When you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours. You’re both smiling—quietly, shyly—but you’re still so close, you could kiss again if you wanted. And you do.

But this time, he doesn’t rush. He brushes his thumb over your cheekbone, and you breathe him in like he’s something sacred.

At your feet, Daisy hums to herself as she plucks wildflowers, completely unaware of how her world just shifted.

And maybe yours too.

---Later in the Future (All of these next parts are from the future)---

You wake up to tiny feet pattering across the floor and the sound of an excited voice squealing, “It’s my birthday!”

You barely have time to sit up before Daisy launches herself onto the bed, her hair wild from sleep and her grin practically taking up her whole face. She crawls into your lap, bouncing with barely contained energy, and you laugh as you wrap your arms around her.

“Happy birthday, peanut,” Bucky says from beside you, still sleep-rough, but smiling in that soft, melted way he always does when he looks at her.

The two of you moved to Bucky's room a few months after officially beginning dating, leaving Daisy your old room. She loved it, all the space and free range to decorate it however she wanted. Right now, that means lots of fairies and unicorns.

She throws her arms around him next, squishing her face into his chest. “I’m four now!” she declares proudly.

“Four?” Bucky pulls back like he’s shocked. “No way. You were three just yesterday.”

Daisy gasps. “That’s ‘cause I grew last night.”

“Ohhh,” he says seriously, nodding. “That explains it.”

The morning starts with pancakes — heart-shaped, a little messy, made with too much whipped cream and sprinkles because Daisy insisted. You sit at the kitchen counter, watching as Bucky flips the batter with one arm while balancing Daisy on his hip. She’s humming the happy birthday song to herself, completely off-key and adorable.

After breakfast, there are presents. Bucky lets Daisy rip open the colorful paper as dramatically as possible, and you swear you’ve never seen her eyes light up like they do when she sees the little red tricycle you picked out together.

She gasps and hugs Bucky first, then turns to hug you. “Best birthday ever!”

Later, you head outside to the shared yard behind the compound. Natasha and Sam show up, bringing extra balloons and snacks, and a little cake that looks suspiciously homemade. Steve swings by with a wrapped book that he claims is “age appropriate,” though it turns out to be about heroic raccoons saving a forest.

There’s laughter. Games. Daisy runs around with cake on her face, chasing bubbles with a group of kids from the compound. You catch Bucky watching her with that same soft look he always gets now — the one that says he still can’t believe this is his life. That she’s his daughter.

That you are his everything.

When the sun starts to dip low in the sky, painting the yard in golden hues, you’re sitting on a picnic blanket with Bucky. Daisy is curled up between the two of you, tired and sugar-crashed, but still glowing.

“She had a good day,” you say softly, brushing her curls from her face.

“She always has good days,” Bucky replies, just as quiet. “But today was special.”

Your hand finds his. It’s instinct now — familiar and easy, the way your lives have become stitched together.

He leans over and kisses your temple. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “For giving me this.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, watching as Daisy snores softly between you. “We gave it to each other.”

And as the stars begin to blink above you, your little girl safe in your arms, Bucky’s hand warm in yours, you realize this—this exact moment—is what forever looks like.

-----

The sun is beginning to set, casting long golden rays over the quiet garden tucked behind the little restaurant Bucky took you to. It’s the kind of light that makes everything feel softer — glowing petals, fireflies just starting to flicker, the warmth of early summer clinging to your skin like a memory you won’t want to let go of.

The evening’s been perfect so far — slow, full of laughter and familiar touches, the kind of rhythm only two people who know each other’s hearts inside and out can fall into.

Bucky’s hand has been in yours most of the night.

Things have changed a lot since the day you two met nearly 2 years ago. You've become a family. You trust Bucky. You feel safe. And Daisy's grown so much.

Bucky hasn’t been able to stop looking at you — not during dinner, not during dessert, and definitely not now, as the two of you walk together through the garden path just behind the little cottage-style bistro. You pause at a wooden archway wrapped in ivy and flowers, stopping to admire the way the lanterns hanging from the trees flicker gently like stars.

You turn to say something. Something soft, something grateful. That’s when you notice he’s not beside you anymore.

He’s a few steps back.

And he’s kneeling.

Your breath catches.

He looks up at you with that steady, quiet expression of his — full of emotion but never loud about it. His eyes shimmer a little in the golden light, and you can already feel tears forming in your own.

“Hey,” he says gently, like this is just another one of your conversations, even though your heart is pounding in your ears.

You can’t speak. You cover your mouth with your hand, just staring down at him.

“I’ve had this ring for a while,” he admits, his voice low and a little rough. “Kept waitin’ for the perfect time. But I realized…” He smiles, small and sure. “Every moment with you is perfect. So I figured now’s just as good as any.”

You laugh wetly, heart flipping over and over in your chest. You can't believe what's going on. You've dreamed of this. Life forever with Bucky, with your kid. Now it's going to happen.

He opens the little velvet box — inside is a ring that’s so clearly you. Elegant, simple, beautiful. Thoughtful. Like everything he’s ever done.

“I love you,” he says. “I’ve loved you every day, even before I knew what it meant to build a life again. You gave me a home when I didn’t think I deserved one. You gave me your trust. You gave me Daisy.”

Your heart crumbles at that.

He looks up at you like there’s no one else in the world. “And I wanna keep doing life with you. Every messy, wonderful second of it. So…” He takes a breath, his thumb brushing over the ring. “Will you marry me?”

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes,” you whisper, and then again, louder, your voice thick with emotion. “Yes. Yes, Bucky.”

He stands, slipping the ring onto your finger, his hands a little shaky with nerves and joy. And then his arms are around you and you’re laughing, crying, kissing him like you’ll never stop.

The applause from somewhere off to the side surprises you — you look over and see Daisy clapping wildly, standing beside the waiter who helped Bucky pull this off.

You giggle as Bucky kisses your forehead. “You had her in on it?”

He grins. “She helped me pick the ring.”

Of course she did.

You look down at your hand, at the way the ring catches the golden light — and at the man who put it there. The man who chose you, and never stopped choosing you.

And for the first time, your forever doesn’t feel scary.

It feels like home.

-----

The day starts soft.

Sunlight filters through the curtains in your shared bedroom, the golden kind that only shows up when everything feels right. There’s a breeze in the air, birdsong somewhere distant, and the smell of fresh coffee drifting in from the kitchen.

But none of that compares to the butterflies in your stomach.

Today, you’re marrying Bucky Barnes.

You’re marrying the man who held your daughter like she was a miracle the first time she called him daddy.

You’re marrying the man who sat beside you during sleepless nights and sweet mornings and all the quiet in between.

You're marrying the man who protected you.

You’re marrying your best friend.

The compound’s courtyard has been transformed — soft white lights strung across the trees, delicate flowers blooming in clusters. Sam and Steve helped put the chairs together. Natasha, impossibly smug, got her hands on the perfect champagne and managed the whole event like she was born to. She knew this was going to happen.

You’re tucked away in one of the side rooms, dress carefully laid out, makeup soft and understated. Daisy sits at your feet, giggling as she twirls in her own little white dress, clutching her basket of flower petals.

“Mama,” she whispers excitedly, “You look like a princess.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “And you, baby? You’re the most magical part of this day.”

When it’s time, you walk down the aisle with Daisy just ahead of you, petals fluttering behind her like fairy wings. Every eye is on you, but you only see one face.

Bucky stands at the end, heart in his eyes, wearing a dark suit that somehow makes him look even more breathtaking than usual. His hands are clasped in front of him, but you can tell — he’s nervous. Not about marrying you, no. Just... overwhelmed. Like he can’t believe this is real.

Like he can’t believe you’re real.

You take his hand when you reach him. It’s warm. Solid. The tremble in it mirrors your own.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you breathe, and he grins — boyish and bright, like he’s back in Brooklyn in 1942 and everything is possible again.

The vows are simple. Honest. Yours speak of healing, of trust, of building a future from pieces of the past. His speak of second chances and the family he never dreamed he’d have, but found in you and Daisy.

When the officiant says, You may kiss the bride, Bucky leans in slowly, reverently, like you’re something holy. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as his lips press against yours — soft and deep

Applause breaks out. Daisy throws the rest of her petals in the air and shouts, “Mommy and daddy are married!”

You both laugh, breaking the kiss, forehead resting against his. “We did it,” you whisper.

“We did,” Bucky replies. “God, I love you.”

And later, under fairy lights and soft music, with Daisy fast asleep in a little flower-strewn chair nearby, Bucky pulls you close for your first dance.

You’re wrapped in his arms. The world fades. It’s just the two of you. The girl who gave him hope, the man who gave you safety, and a future that stretches endlessly ahead — built on late-night stories, morning pancakes, and the kind of love that can weather anything.

You're his wife.

He's your husband.

You wouldn't change anything.

--------

It happens on a quiet morning.

The kind of quiet that only settles over the Avengers compound after a week of missions and long nights, when everyone is finally getting a moment to breathe. You’re in the bathroom with the door cracked open as Daisy hums from the living room, playing with her puzzles.

You’re not expecting anything. Not really. You and Bucky have been trying for a baby — quietly, gently, like you’ve done everything else in this relationship — but the months have passed, and with each negative test, you’d slowly lowered your expectations.

But this one… this one is different.

You stare at the test in your hand, heart racing so hard you can barely hear anything over the pounding in your ears. Two lines.

Two lines.

You blink, once, twice, gripping the edge of the bathroom sink. It feels surreal. Like your mind hasn’t caught up with your body yet. You sink onto the edge of the tub, the test still in your hand, and let out a quiet, shaky laugh.

You’re pregnant.

You press a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound, not wanting Daisy to hear yet. She’s still so small, still waking up each morning with bedhead and her favorite stuffed duck in tow — but she’s also the best thing that’s ever happened to you. And now… now, you’re going to have another child. A baby that you and Bucky made together. On purpose. With love.

It takes a few more minutes to gather yourself. You hide the test in your sweater sleeve, calling softly for Daisy and pulling her into your lap on the couch while you try to think of how to tell Bucky. He’s due back soon — he went on a short recon mission with Sam and Steve the night before. Should be home before lunch.

You spend the next hour pacing the living space, heart fluttering, fingers fiddling with a tiny onesie you'd secretly bought months ago. Just in case. It’s soft and simple, with little moons printed on the front — and it’s perfect.

You hear the hum of the quinjet before you see it. Daisy rushes to the window, squealing, “Daddy’s home!”

You can barely breathe.

He walks in wearing that worn navy long-sleeve shirt you love, his metal arm catching the light, hair pulled back loosely. As soon as he sees you, something softens in his expression.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, stepping close and pressing a kiss to your temple. “Miss me?”

You nod, eyes wide, and then grab the onesie from where you’d tucked it behind a pillow. You hand it to him without a word, your hands shaking just a little.

Bucky frowns at first, confused, until he looks down and sees the little moons. Then his eyes dart to yours, searching, cautious — like he doesn’t want to get his hopes up unless you confirm it out loud.

You nod, barely whispering, “I took a test. It’s positive.”

He stares at you for a moment, completely still. And then he breathes out your name like it’s the only word he’s ever known. His eyes begin to shine.

“You’re serious?” he asks quietly.

You nod again, a little teary, a little stunned. “I… I didn’t think it would actually happen. I thought maybe it just wasn’t in the cards after everything… after everything we’ve been through. But—Bucky, we’re gonna have a baby.”

And that’s all it takes. He’s got his arms around you in a second, one hand in your hair, the other on the small of your back. His chest is warm, solid, and grounding. You melt into it, tears slipping out freely now. Happy tears, full of disbelief and joy and hope.

Bucky leans back just enough to look into your eyes. “You’re giving me another chance to be a dad,” he says softly, reverently. “You already gave me the best gift in the world with Daisy, and now this…”

Your heart thuds hard. “You’re the best dad. Daisy adores you. And this baby’s going to be so lucky.”

He cups your cheeks, brushing away a tear with his thumb. “They’ve already got the best mom.”

Later that night, once Daisy is tucked into bed and you’re curled up together on the couch, Bucky rests his head against your belly, even though you're not far along enough to show. He gently places his metal hand over your stomach, eyes closing as he speaks in the softest voice you’ve ever heard from him.

“Hey, little one,” he whispers. “It’s your dad. I know you’re still growing, but… we already love you so much. You’ve got a big sister who’s gonna teach you everything — like how to sneak cookies, and what blanket is the coziest, and how to draw superheroes that look like stick bugs.”

You giggle quietly, your fingers brushing through his hair.

“I’m not perfect,” he murmurs, “but I’m gonna try my best. I promise I’ll protect you. And your mama. Always.”

Tears slip down your cheeks again — how does he always know just what to say?

You rest your hand over his, soaking in the moment, the quiet, the warmth of this little family you’ve built together.

You never thought life would lead you here, to a home filled with love and second chances.

But now that you’re here, you can’t imagine anything better.

------

The months pass in a blur of belly rubs, baby kicks, and so many bowls of fruit that Bucky jokingly starts calling you his “peach.”

He’s attentive in a way that sometimes makes you want to cry — not from hormones, but from love.

When your back starts hurting in the second trimester, he figures out how to adjust the couch cushions just right to support you. When you start struggling to sleep, he stays up with you, even at 3 a.m., holding your hand and rubbing circles on your stomach until you both finally doze off. He never misses a doctor’s appointment, always holding your hand during ultrasounds like he’s watching a miracle unfold.

And he is. Because to him, this is a miracle — you are the miracle. He doesn’t say it every day, but he shows it. In the way he makes your tea just the way you like it, how he quietly learns all the ingredients in your prenatal vitamins, how he memorizes breathing techniques from the birthing classes and practices them with you without ever making a joke.

Daisy is glued to your side too — always talking to your belly, always saying “Hi, baby!” in her sweet little voice. She even draws pictures of what she thinks the baby will look like: usually a stick figure with wild hair and hearts for eyes.

But Bucky — he’s your constant. Your center. He kisses your stomach every night before bed, whispering little things to the baby about how much they’re loved. And when your feet swell, he gently massages them with his strong hands and a tenderness that makes you fall in love with him all over again.

Then the day comes.

It’s early, the sun barely rising over the horizon, when the contractions wake you. This time, there’s no panic. No fear. You wake Bucky with a soft nudge and a shaky whisper.

“It’s time.”

He’s on his feet immediately, but not frantic. Just ready. His voice is steady, his hands gentle as he helps you dress, grabs the hospital bag, and alerts the medical team on-site at the compound.

You kiss Daisy’s forehead while she sleeps, knowing Steve and Nat will take good care of her.

And then you’re off.

The hospital is bright and clean, nothing like the chaos of your last birth. This time, you have monitors, nurses, soft lighting. You have a bed, a room with a view, a team ready to help — and Bucky, right there, holding your hand through every single moment.

He never leaves your side. Not once. He coaches your breathing, rubs your back, kisses your temple when the contractions hit hard. At one point, when the pain sharpens, he cups your face and whispers, “You’re not alone this time. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

And you believe him.

Hours later, when your baby finally enters the world with a cry that makes your chest break open, Bucky is crying too. You’re both crying. Because it’s not just a baby — it’s a second chance. It’s proof that healing is real, that love can grow out of pain and become something beautiful.

The nurse gently places the baby on your chest, and you let out a sob as you cradle your child — small, warm, perfect.

Bucky is leaning over you, brushing your hair back with trembling fingers, his hand cupping the baby’s back like they’re the most fragile treasure he’s ever held.

You look up at him, eyes glassy, heart full.

“We did it,” you whisper.

He smiles through his tears and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You did it. You’re amazing.”

Later, when the baby is swaddled and sleeping, and the room is dim and quiet, Bucky leans over and kisses your lips softly. Then he presses another kiss to the top of your head.

“You should’ve had this the first time,” he murmurs. “Safe and peacefuk. You deserved it.”

You nod, your voice catching. “I have it now. With you.”

He sits beside you on the bed, one hand holding yours, the other resting on your newborn’s chest.

And in that quiet, sacred space-with your baby breathing softly, with love surrounding you, you know that this time, everything is exactly as it should be.

This time you're not scared your baby will be taken from you. You know Bucky would never let that happen.

Bucky's here, and he's never letting you go.

-----

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 AU Version (What if you told Bucky while you were both in HYDRA)