#If I Could See The World (Through the Eyes of a Child)
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He Will Hope
Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader
Summary: Feyd is obsessed with his bride from the moment he sees her, but on their wedding night he finds out she might not feel the same. (Angst, but hopeful ending)
Warnings/Notes: Feyd POV, pre-smut and smutty-ish intentions (if that makes sense? idk, ignore me), instantly-in-love Feyd, unwanted marriage, baby(heir) talk, typos. Can absolutely be read alone, but also serves as something of a prequel to Do You Love? (same world, but big time skip), so I tried to kind of echo that with specific lines.
Words: 1500
Feyd-Rautha Masterlist
You’re so…beautiful. He didn’t expect a peace offering to be this perfect. Yes, he knew his bride would be a daughter of a Great House, but you are one of many sisters and Feyd did not imagine your father would send him the loveliest of his bunch.
It’s a loveliness that has you sticking out like a sore thumb on Giedi Prime. Hair and makeup and wedding dress styled in the traditions of your home world glue all eyes to you as you walk down the aisle, and he likes that there is so much attention on you. It makes his inability to cease staring more acceptable.
Harkonnens are not meant to be enthralled by their brides at first glance. Discouraged, even, from caring about their appearance at all. ‘Brides are meant for breeding,’ his uncle told him as a child, ‘It does not matter what they look like.’ But he was not told what to do or how to act in the event the bride makes his heart involuntarily skip a beat.
Maybe if your heart was reacting in the same manner navigating this new feeling would be less intimidating, but the tears streaming down your cheeks suggest that's far from the case. You can barely look at him and he’s not sure you would be able to speak if it was required of you, but thankfully, verbal agreements are not part of marriage ceremonies on Giedi Prime.
When he takes hold of your hand and slices your palm with his knife, you give no indication of pain. You are supposed to do the same to him but you seem nervous enough as it is, so he makes the three-inch long slash in his skin for you before pressing his palm against yours. The mixing of blood is a swearing of fidelity from husband to wife and wife to husband; a tradition and promise that wore down with time as concubines became more common. But he will not do that to you. You will be his one, his only, and if he can help it, he will be yours.
He barely detects the words declaring you married. They're dull and bubbly in his ears as if he's sunk under the surface of his bath water because he's too focused on your mouth. Your plush lips are pink and plump and glistening, and he wants them. So he takes them before he's told to do so.
You taste different than the Harkonnen women he’s had. There is salt from tears, but something distinctly you seeps through. It's sweeter. A bit intoxicating. The kind of taste that collars and leashes the unruliest of men, and he wants more. Much more. But there are too many eyes, some of which are full of relief at the match finally solidified while others are prying and suspicious. If he keeps his lips on yours too long, questions will begin to form from certain witnesses—Does he like her? Does he want her? Can she be used? Can she control him?—and the answer will be plainly obvious.
When he breaks the kiss, your eyelashes flutter with the gentle opening of your eyes and he knows then that nothing—no convincing from advisors, no threats from his uncle, no hatred on your end—could ever have him willing to detach himself and use you for the sake of an heir only to discard you later. You are his wife now, you will be the Baroness upon his uncle’s death, and he will protect you from anyone who values you for the sole purpose of providing a child.
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He sees that your assigned servants have quickly learned to manage your hair and clothing. By the time they deliver you to him, the pins have been removed from the twist on your head, letting the strands hang loose to frame your face, and you’ve been unstitched from that heavy gown to be dressed in night clothes from your home. He provided you with a nightgown, so he wonders if wearing the thin dress was your choice or your parents' idea to make you undeniably enticing, but either way, it’s effective.
What drapes over your body is nothing like the opaque blacks and straight lines of Harkonnen attire. It's intricate both in color and design; flowing fabric that shimmers when you make the slightest movements and, at the moment, does little to hide your shape and curves.
As you stand in front of him, patiently awaiting instructions, he can only stare at what’s on display. Pebbled nipples, a plane of smooth skin down to your navel, your slit and the folds between your legs—he wants it all. All of you. Now. Here. Wherever he can have you.
Rising from the chair where he’d been waiting, he dissolves the space between you. His arm snakes around your waist. His hand slides across your cheek to the back of your head. Lips slam into yours, chests meeting despite that sliver of fabric, and he tastes that taste again, instinctually feeling a need to lift his chin, bare his neck, and let you tighten that collar.
It takes you a few seconds but when your lips start to move, he kisses you harder, pulls you closer, weaves his fingers through your hair and lightly tugs. He guides you backward toward the bed, skin warming at the image of sliding the nightgown down your body. That warmth fans into pure fire and he can’t stop kissing you, can’t stop taking from you, collecting what little you’re willing to give him. Two of his fingers tuck themselves under one strap of the nightgown and begin to slip it down your shoulder.
But then he stops.
He stops because your lips freeze.
He stops because you're starting to shake under his fingertips.
He pulls back to look at you and it’s undeniable, so terribly undeniable, and he feels a bit ill. “You don’t want this,” he states.
You don’t answer; you just stare up at him with those doe eyes that he can now see are full of fear, and his heart squeezes. His gut tightens. He suddenly has the urge to throw things, break things, watch things shatter to pieces because you don’t want him. His own wife doesn’t want his touch and he does not like this—not at all—but you’re scared, and he doesn’t like that even more.
Sighing, he resets the strap on your shoulder, drops his hands from your body, and steps away.
“I'll leave you alone,” he says. But as he passes by you, you grab onto his wrist.
“We have to,” you rush out. “They'll know if we don't.”
He shakes his head. “They won't know anything that happens between us unless I allow it,” he tells you.
“B–But they expect an heir.”
“Yes. And eventually, we will have to produce one. That does not mean we have to share a bed tonight if that is not what you want, and it's clear that is not what you want,” he says a little too harshly. He isn’t trying to be snippy, none of this is your fault, but it hurts, and not in the way he enjoys.
You suck in a sharp breath as if preparing to argue, but then something shifts in your eyes. Instead, you say, “Where will you go?”
“The adjoining room,” he answers, nudging his head to the door on the opposite wall: the room for the concubines that he will never take. You turn to get a look.
“Oh,” you swallow. “O-Ok.”
He grants himself a few more moments to study you, to soak in your soft and delicate features and the swollen lips he cannot have before he walks away, leaving you behind for the bed he had no intention of ever sleeping in.
When he reaches the door, he glances over his shoulder to get one last look. You’re facing away from him, sitting on the mattress with your head low, your back arched forward and arms wrapped around your middle. You look small like that, slowly huddling into a ball, and he’d do anything to make it stop. Because you are his. His wife. His na-Baroness. He’s well aware he’ll fall for you in no time—it’s already begun—and he wants you to be happy with him.
But you're not. And that already threatens the predictability of your future together. These foreign feelings he has for you are not guaranteed to be requited; something he isn't sure how to accept, and yet he may not have a choice. He cannot force your affection. He cannot demand you grow to love him. All he can do is try and hope that one day, he will win you over.
So that is what he does.
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@avidreader73 @alwaysadreamingoptimist @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom @workof-a-rr-t
#feyd rautha x reader#feyd rautha x you#feyd rautha#dune part 2#austin butler#dune 2#dune#feyd rautha harkonnen
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Break The Curse {CL16}
500 Follower Special!!!
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Summary: Charles finally broke the Monaco Curse.
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A/N: we won't talk about the accident with HAAS and Red Bull
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Y/N's POV
The Monaco Grand Prix is not just a race; it's a spectacle, a testament to the daring and skill of the drivers who navigate its treacherous turns. To win here is to etch one's name into the very fabric of Formula 1 history. For Charles Leclerc, it was more than that—it was a homecoming, a chance to claim victory on the streets where he'd grown up.
As Y/N, I stood by his side, not just as a partner but as his anchor, the one who knew the boy behind the racer's mask. Charles and I met years ago, long before his ascent to Formula 1 glory. Our relationship has always been built on mutual respect and a deep understanding of the sacrifices required by his career. The journey we've taken together, from the karting circuits of Europe to the grand stages of Formula 1, has been one of unwavering support and shared dreams.
The significance of the Monaco Grand Prix to Charles is immense. Born and raised in the heart of Monaco, Charles grew up with the roar of engines echoing through the narrow streets of Monte Carlo. As a child, he watched the likes of Ayrton Senna and Michael Schumacher conquer the same circuit, dreaming that one day he would join their ranks. The Principality's streets are more than just a track to him; they're a canvas of childhood memories, a symbol of his aspirations, and a testament to his journey from a young boy with a dream to a man on the brink of making history.
For me, standing by his side through the highs and lows of his career, the Monaco Grand Prix represents the culmination of years of hard work, sacrifice, and relentless determination. Every practice session, every race, every moment of doubt and triumph has led to this point. The atmosphere in Monaco during the Grand Prix is unlike anything else—a blend of glamour, history, and raw racing spirit. The city transforms into a vibrant celebration of speed, with fans from around the world converging to witness the spectacle.
Race day in Monaco is unlike any other. The city transforms into a buzzing hive of activity, with fans, celebrities, and teams all converging on the iconic circuit. The sun rose over the Mediterranean, casting a golden glow on the historic streets that would soon echo with the roar of engines. The atmosphere was electric, a blend of anticipation, excitement, and a touch of glamour that only Monaco could provide.
As Charles and I prepared for the day, there was a shared sense of nervous excitement. We had our breakfast in the calm of our apartment, overlooking the serene waters of the harbor. Charles was unusually quiet, his focus already on the race ahead. I could see the determination in his eyes, a steely resolve that belied the nerves I knew he must be feeling.
We walked through the paddock hand-in-hand, the familiar sights and sounds providing a sense of comfort amidst the chaos. The smell of burning rubber and fuel, the hum of the generators, and the sight of the vibrant team colors against the backdrop of Monaco’s elegance—all of it was a reminder of the world we lived in, one that we both loved and respected.
The team’s hospitality suite was a hive of activity, with engineers and mechanics making final preparations. The air was thick with the scent of coffee and the murmur of last-minute strategy discussions. Charles’ race engineer approached, a clipboard in hand, ready to go over the race plan one last time. I gave Charles a reassuring squeeze before he was whisked away into a briefing.
While Charles was busy with the team, I found solace in small routines. I checked my phone for messages from family and friends, all wishing Charles the best of luck. Their support meant the world to us, and knowing they were watching gave me strength. I took a moment to breathe, steadying my nerves, reminding myself that we had prepared for this day meticulously.
The grid walk was next, and it felt like stepping into a different world. The grandstands were already filling up, fans waving flags and holding banners with Charles’ name. The celebrities mingled with team members, photographers capturing every moment. As Charles and I made our way to the grid, we were stopped by well-wishers, each adding to the growing sense of anticipation.
In the final moments before the race, Charles and I shared a private moment. We stood by the car, the Ferrari glistening in the sunlight, a powerful machine ready to conquer the streets. I looked into his eyes, seeing a mixture of focus and emotion. “You’ve got this,” I whispered, my voice steady despite the butterflies in my stomach. He nodded, a small, determined smile playing on his lips.
We shared a tender embrace, drawing strength from each other. It was a ritual we had developed over the years—a moment of connection that grounded us amidst the chaos. “For us,” he murmured, his voice filled with resolve. I nodded, unable to find the words to express the depth of my feelings.
As Charles donned his helmet and prepared to get into the car, I took my place in the garage, surrounded by the team. The energy was palpable, a current that ran through the crowd, the teams, and the drivers. The team’s radios crackled with final instructions, and the engines roared to life, a sound that sent a thrill through my veins.
The cars were lined up on the grid, the lights above them a countdown to the start of the race. I held my breath, my heart pounding in my chest. The world seemed to hold its breath with me, the seconds stretching into eternity. Then, in a burst of speed and sound, the race was on, and my role was to watch, to hope, and to hold my breath with every lap.
The energy of Monaco was unlike anything else, a blend of history, glamour, and pure racing spirit. The fans, the yachts in the harbor, the iconic streets—all of it came together to create an atmosphere that was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. As the cars surged forward, I could feel the weight of every moment, the tension a living thing that gripped the pit lane, the garage, and the city itself.
From my vantage point in the garage, I could see the focus in every move Charles made, the determination that set his jaw and the slight furrow of concentration between his brows. The laps ticked by, a countdown to a dream that hung in the balance. Through every twist and turn of the Circuit de Monaco, Charles held the lead, his red Ferrari a streak of defiance against the asphalt. The tension was a living thing, gripping the pit lane, the garage where I stood, and the city that held its breath.
As the five red lights illuminated and then extinguished, the roar of the engines was almost drowned out by the collective gasp of the crowd. Charles had a strong start, maintaining his lead into the first corner at Sainte Devote. His Ferrari darted forward, sleek and powerful, threading the needle through the tight streets of Monte Carlo.
The first few laps were crucial. Charles settled into a rhythm, his driving smooth yet aggressive, a perfect blend of precision and daring. The narrow streets of Monaco left no room for error, and I watched every lap with my heart in my throat, each twist and turn a testament to his skill.
By lap 10, the field began to spread out, with Charles extending his lead over the chasing pack. Behind him, a battle was brewing for the second position, the Red Bull and Mercedes cars jostling for supremacy. Charles’ race engineer, through the team radio, provided constant updates, his voice a steady anchor amidst the high-octane drama.
Pit stops in Monaco are critical. On lap 28, the team called Charles in for his first and only scheduled pit stop. The crew had practiced this maneuver countless times, but the pressure of the moment was palpable. Charles darted into the pit lane, the car lifted, tires changed, and in what seemed like an eternity but was merely 2.5 seconds, he was back on track. The pit stop was flawless, and Charles rejoined the race still in the lead, but now with fresher tires and a renewed determination.
By lap 40, tire management became a focal point. The asphalt of Monaco is unforgiving, and maintaining the delicate balance between speed and tire preservation was crucial. Charles communicated seamlessly with his race engineer, adjusting his driving style to conserve the tires while keeping a vigilant eye on his pursuers.
A pivotal moment came on lap 51. A crash further down the grid brought out the Safety Car, bunching up the field and erasing Charles’ hard-earned lead. The tension in the garage was palpable, a silent prayer that everything would hold together during the restart. As the Safety Car peeled off, Charles executed the perfect getaway, his reflexes sharp and his resolve unwavering.
The final laps were a masterclass in defensive driving. The pressure from behind intensified, the Red Bull car of his closest rival looming large in his mirrors. Each sector was a battle, every corner a test of nerve. Charles’ concentration was absolute, his lines perfect, his speed controlled.
Lap 70, the final lap. The crowd was on their feet, the tension reaching a fever pitch. Charles navigated the twists and turns with the precision of a surgeon, his focus unbreakable. The familiar sights of the Principality blurred past, the car a red streak against the backdrop of cheering fans and historic buildings.
As Charles approached the final corner, the realization began to dawn. The chequered flag waved, a symbol of triumph and validation. Charles crossed the finish line, his car the first to breach the line, the crowd’s roar a physical wave of sound and emotion.
The pit lane erupted in celebration. Engineers, mechanics, and team members cheered, their faces lit with joy and relief. I watched as Charles brought the car to a stop, his hands shaking with the adrenaline of victory. He climbed out, his face breaking into a smile that was pure and unadulterated joy.
The victory was his—the first Monégasque to win in Monaco in decades. As he stood on his car, fists raised in triumph, the enormity of the moment hit me. This was more than a race; it was a dream realized, a testament to years of hard work, sacrifice, and unwavering determination.
Charles made his way back to the team, his eyes searching the crowd until they found mine. The world seemed to slow as we embraced, a moment of pure, shared elation. "We did it," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.
The victory was not just his, but ours, a culmination of everything we had endured and achieved together. It was a moment that would be etched in our memories forever, a testament to the power of dreams, determination, and the unbreakable bond we shared.
As Charles crossed the finish line, the crowd erupted into a symphony of sound. The cheers, the applause, the deafening roar of the engines—all blended into a cacophony of celebration that echoed through the streets of Monaco. Every spectator, from the die-hard fans to the casual observers, seemed to rise to their feet in unison, their voices uniting in a chorus of triumph.
In the heart of the chaos, I stood rooted to the spot, my eyes fixed on the red Ferrari as it soared past the finish line. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a testament to the tension and anticipation that had gripped me throughout the race. And then, as Charles brought the car to a stop in the victory lane, a wave of relief washed over me, leaving behind an overwhelming sense of pride.
The stadium erupted into a deafening roar as Charles emerged from the cockpit, his helmet held aloft in one hand, his face a mask of exhaustion and exhilaration. I pushed through the crowd, my heart racing with each step, until finally, we stood face to face, our eyes locking in a moment of shared triumph.
We embraced fiercely, the weight of the moment enveloping us in a cocoon of pure, unadulterated happiness. I could feel Charles' heart racing against mine, his breath warm against my skin. "You did it," I whispered against his ear, my voice choked with emotion. Charles held me tightly, his body trembling with the sheer magnitude of what he had accomplished. "We did it," he replied, his voice a mixture of disbelief and pride.
In that moment, amidst the chaos and celebration, time seemed to stand still. We were two souls united by a dream, basking in the glow of a victory that transcended the boundaries of mere sport. The magnitude of Charles' achievement was palpable, a testament to his skill, determination, and unwavering belief in himself.
And then, as if on cue, our lips met in a tender kiss—a silent affirmation of the bond that had carried us through the highs and lows of racing life. It was a fleeting moment, but in that kiss, I felt a lifetime of love, support, and shared dreams. And as we pulled away, our eyes met once again, sparkling with unspoken promises of the future.
As we stood there, lost in each other's embrace, I knew that this was more than just a race victory. It was a triumph of the human spirit, a testament to the power of perseverance, resilience, and the unwavering belief in oneself. And as we looked out at the sea of cheering faces, I knew that this was just the beginning of a journey that would take us to even greater heights.
The podium ceremony was a crescendo of emotions, a culmination of months of preparation, strategy, and raw determination. As Charles ascended the steps to the podium, the crowd's roar intensified, a deafening symphony of cheers that echoed off the walls of Monaco's iconic buildings. Every step he took was imbued with significance, each stride bringing him closer to the pinnacle of success.
As he reached the top, the golden trophy gleaming in the sunlight, the atmosphere crackled with anticipation. The Monégasque flag fluttered proudly in the breeze, a symbol of Charles' heritage and the pride of his nation. The podium itself was a stage set for glory, bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun, a backdrop of azure skies and sparkling waters framing the momentous occasion.
The strains of the Monégasque national anthem filled the air, a melody that seemed to reverberate through the very soul of the principality. For Charles, standing atop the podium as the anthem played, it was a moment of profound significance—a validation of years of dedication, sacrifice, and unwavering belief in himself.
As the last notes of the anthem faded into the ether, the champagne bottles were uncorked, their effervescent contents spraying in wild arcs of froth and bubbles. Charles grinned as he joined in the jubilant ritual, the champagne cool against his skin, the taste of victory sweet on his lips.
From my vantage point below, I watched with a heart full of pride. The sight of Charles, standing tall and triumphant, was a testament to his resilience and tenacity. He had faced adversity with unwavering resolve, emerging stronger and more determined than ever before.
Amidst the flashing cameras and jubilant cheers, a single tear escaped my eye, catching the light as it traced a path down my cheek. It was a tear of overwhelming joy, a physical manifestation of the emotions swirling inside me. Despite the elation of the moment, there was a bittersweet quality to it—a recognition of the sacrifices and struggles that had led us to this point.
As Charles made his way down from the podium, the trophy held aloft in triumph, I hurried to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes sparkled with elation as he enveloped me in a tight embrace, the weight of the trophy a tangible reminder of his achievement.
In that moment, amidst the throng of well-wishers and flashing cameras, time seemed to stand still. We shared a silent exchange of smiles, our hearts overflowing with gratitude and joy. For Charles, this victory was more than just a race win—it was a testament to the power of perseverance, passion, and the unwavering support of those who believed in him. And as we stood together, basking in the glow of his triumph, I knew that this was a moment we would cherish for a lifetime.
The podium celebrations were a whirlwind of excitement and euphoria, but as the cheers began to fade and the adrenaline of victory ebbed away, a sense of calm descended over us. As Charles stepped down from the podium, the golden trophy cradled in his arms, I fell into step beside him, our fingers intertwined in a silent gesture of solidarity.
Away from the glare of the cameras and the cacophony of the crowd, we found a quiet corner of the paddock to steal a moment of respite. The air was filled with the scent of champagne and the hum of distant conversations, but here, in our own little oasis, there was a sense of tranquility—a moment of stillness amidst the chaos.
Charles set the trophy down on a nearby table, its gleaming surface reflecting the fading light of the setting sun. He turned to face me, his eyes alight with an intensity that took my breath away. "We did it," he said, his voice filled with emotion. "I couldn't have done it without you."
A tear glistened in the corner of his eye, and before I could stop myself, I reached out to wipe it away. "You did it, Charles," I whispered, my voice catching in my throat. "You made your dream a reality."
He pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly against his chest as he let the weight of his emotions wash over him. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mingling with the remnants of champagne and sweat. "I just wish my father and Jules could see me now," he murmured, his voice thick with sorrow. "I know they're watching from heaven, and I want to make them proud."
I pressed a gentle kiss to his tear-stained cheek, feeling the salt of his tears against my lips. "I'm sure they're looking down on you with so much pride, Charles," I said, my voice filled with conviction. "You've achieved something truly remarkable, and I know they're smiling down on you right now."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the paddock in a soft, golden light, Charles took my hand in his, his touch sending shivers down my spine. "This is just the beginning," he said, his voice tinged with determination. "There are more victories to come, more dreams to chase."
I nodded, feeling my heart swell with love and admiration for the man standing before me. "I'll be with you every step of the way," I promised, my voice filled with unwavering devotion.
And as we stood there, bathed in the glow of our success, I couldn't help but marvel at the depth of our connection. For Charles, this victory was just the start of a journey that would take him to even greater heights. And for me, it was a privilege to be by his side, sharing in his triumphs and supporting him through every challenge. In that moment, surrounded by the soft glow of the twilight and the warmth of Charles' love, I knew that there was nowhere else I'd rather be.
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CL16 Taglist: @esserenorris, @tallrock35, @yourbane, @lightdragonrayne, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @asparklysoul, @dhanihamidi
F1 Taglist: @hiireadstuff, @donteventry-itdude, @spookystitchery
#cl16 fluff#cl16 fic#cl16 x you#cl16 x reader#cl16 imagine#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc fanfic#charles lecrelc#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc smut#charles leclerc#charles lechair#charles leclerc x black!reader#charles leclerc x female reader#charles leclerc x female oc#charles leclerc x you#ferrari formula one#ferrari formula 1#ferrari#formula 1#formula one#formula one x reader#formula one x you#formula one x y/n#formula one x oc#formula one imagine#formula one fanfiction#formula one x black reader#formula 1 imagine#formula 1 fanfic
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hi lovely ! you asked for kny requests and i've just finished my kny volume 22 re-read, so thats perfect timing 💙
I was wondering if you could write something with Yoriichi — (tw for potential child loss)
Maybe a hurt/comfort fic where his pregnant wife actually survives the demon attack while he's away (but maybe she gets quite badly injured and their unborn child doesn't make it, if you want to add a little extra angst to it. If not then that's totally fine, this man deserves a happy ending after all 🥺)
Of course, you're the writer — feel free to take any creative direction you'd like or ignore this request if you're not comfortable with it. Have a lovely day/night! <3
Again, I'm beyond sorry you were forced to wait for this so long! But here you go honey, let me know what you think <3
Yoriichi saving his pregnant wife and unborn child just in time
Pairing: Yoriichi x pregnant!wife!reader
Word Count: 4,2k
Synopsis: You never expected to face a demon ever again, especially not when you are about to deliver your child while your beloved husband Yoriichi is in search for a midwife. Will you and your child be alright? Will your husband make it back on time?
Warnings: injury, horror, child birth, tortue, description of death, extreme angst to fluff, last part is not proofread
Notes: Since the first Yoriichi fic I wrote, I'm so deeply in love with his character that I adore writing him so much! Since this fic took a while, I would totally appreciate your support through liking, commenting and reblogging this fic - thank's a lot babes <3
He can’t get enough from simply looking at you. You with your head in the clouds, you with your hand mindlessly roaming around the soft grass underneath, the other one caressing your heavy pregnant belly, you when you give him those surprised eyes as soon as you notice his presence.
“Oh, I wasn’t aware that you’re already here”, you say in a small panicky voice.
You didn’t expect your beloved husband back this soon. If you would have known that he’ll be here by know you would have cleaned the whole house, made him something to eat and-
“I can only imagine what is going on inside your head again.”
His soft but at the same time rough hand touches your cheek gently, the loving gleam in his fuchsia eyes making you blush in an instant. All the voices in your head stop right in their track when he’s around.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni. Your savior, your best friend. And most importantly, your husband and father of your future child.
“How are you feeling, love? Did you enjoy your afternoon?”, he questions, eyes wandering down your body to your swollen belly.
It was hard leaving you alone in a state like this, but he wasn’t able to resist the urgent call from last night. He might be nothing but another simple man holding a sword, but it is his responsibility to save those who are in need. What else is he able to give to this world?
His hand lands on your belly, feels the tiniest kick of his unborn child against the palm of his hand. At least he was able to create a smaller version of you. Is it a boy, a girl maybe?
“I hope our child is a reflection of you”, he finally mutters into the silence, a small but somehow sad smile forming itself on his lips.
You suddenly forget how to breathe, glossy eyes fixated on his captivating sight. Oh, oh much you hate the stinging fact that your husband thinks so negatively about himself. Why can’t he see all the heroic things he has done so far, how respected he is in the demon slayer corps? Why can’t he see that every inch of his body is flawless? Out of instinct, you let your head rest against his broad chest, breathe in his strong scent. If you could only stay like this here forever, his hand resting against your body while the sun tickles your skin-
A violent moan escapes your lips when a sharp pain runs through your stomach. A kick. A really rough kick, to be exact.
“Are you alright, love? Did something hurt you? Is it the baby?”, your husband asks feverishly, his usual neutral face garbled by worry lines on his forehead.
“Just a kick”, you press out, still fighting to regain your composure.
“I will search for a mid-wife, (y/n).”
His words make your eyes widen in an instant, a wave of fear crushing down on you. Is it really time already? You look down at your swollen belly, so big that you aren’t even able to sit down properly anymore. This has to be the ninth month of your pregnancy.
Your heart sinks. The ninth month. If the books you’ve read are accurate, it really is time.
“I can’t do this, Yoriichi.”
Thick panic runs through your veins, forces your heart almost out of your chest. You aren’t ready to deliver a child, let alone to be a mother. All the things you haven’t read yet, the things you’ve probably never heard of…What if you mess it up? Until you met Yoriichi, all you were able to do was trying to survive. Your mother never had the chance to tell you about those things, isn’t here anymore to stay by your side.
You are…on your own.
“Look at me, (y/n). I will go out and search for a mid-wife and I’ll be back at sunset, you hear me? Just stay inside the house and nothing will happen. I promise to return as early as possible.”
Fuchsia eyes that radiate through your soul immediately. An angelic voice that calms down your tingling nerves with only four sentences. Strong arms that lift you off the ground and lead you back into the warmth of your home.
But know, it’s not the wooden cabin that feels like home. Your eyes wander to the neutral expression he wears on his face, only betrayed by a worried glow in his orbs. It’s him, your beloved husband.
“Are you feeling alright, love?”
You take a deep breath in, a deep breath out. Eyes focused exclusively on him until your mind finally silences. It’s just you and him. You and your beloved husband, the man you would trust with your life without battling an eyelid, the man who made you the person you are today.
“I do”, you breathe out.
Your heartbeat tames down as well as the kicks of your unborn baby, Yoriichi’s hands keeping you from falling over.
“Promise me to lock the doors and wait in bed until I return, (y/n).”
A seriousness you only know from him when he is forced to leave at night veils his calm eyes.
“But…you will be back before the sun sinks, right?”
He gifts you a small smile, hand caressing your cheek so gently that you almost forget about the worry lines decorating his face. The truth is that the next midwife lives miles away. Even if he gets to the village as soon as possible, the sun will be about to set when he returns. Yoriichi can’t help but clench his other hand into a fist next to your stomach. The sheer thought of not making it in time, that you’ll be defenceless.
“Don’t worry, love. Rest your eyes and be assured that I’ll return as soon as possible.”
But he cannot allow himself to fail you, to leave you alone in those oh so merciless nights. He will return, no matter what it costs.
He presses a soft kiss against your forehead before grabbing his sword tightly.
This. This is his fate, his family. You are his whole life.
And he’ll do everything to protect you.
-later that evening-
You are exhausted. Over the last few hours, your body was haunted by waves of pain coming and going like the seasons. Again, you dig your nail into the wooden floor, your heavy breaths hanging in the thick air. You definitely don’t need a midwife to tell you it’s time. Yes, your baby is on its way.
And your husband didn’t return yet.
Your glossy eyes dart towards the window, witness how the sky outside turns bright red in the down-going sun. Is Yoriichi alright? You know how cruel life can be. Maybe he met a person who needed to be saved on his way, maybe the midwife is too old to rush to your side in time.
“Rest your eyes and be assured that I’ll return as soon as possible.”
Those words. Even though he’s not yet by your side, you are able to feel his powerful presence around you, how he calms down your aching heart.
“Everything will turn out alright”, you mutter to yourself while caressing your tummy.
“Everything will be alight…”
You allow your lids to rest, body relaxing for the first time since your husband left. You will get through this, you will deliver your wonderful child tonight. A tiny bundle of joy, an image of its father. Is it a boy, a girl? As long as your child is healthy, you couldn’t care less.
Carefully, you curl up on your futon, snuggle yourself into the blanket that still holds his scent. Maybe you’ll be able to catch a few hours of sleep until he finally comes back. Sleep sure does sound very appealing at the moment.
But just when your breath begins to steady, a violent scratch forces you to sit straight up. It came from outside, without a doubt. Is it an animal, is it…
Your throat gets tight immediately, glossy eyes staring at the closed window in sheer horror. The trees bend back and forth peacefully in what looks like a tender night. But that scratch, it sounded exactly like claws digging into hard wood, sent shivers down your spine immediately. You know that sound all too well, experienced what it means to get slaughtered by a demon before. Just before your whole family died violently, this was exactly what you’ve heard.
Out of instinct, you bury yourself into the corner of the room, the blanket that holds Yoriichi’s scent still pressed against your now shivering body tightly. Please, let it be nothing but a wild animal, let your husband come back home soon. Maybe this is nothing but a nightmare and you’ll wake up any given minute-
A violent pain runs through your body so suddenly that a shriek escapes your lips. Suddenly all air escapes your lungs, the way your belly cramps making you see start. No, you know exactly what this means, that this is not the right time to deliver a baby. Isn’t there anything you can do to stop this? You still need to wait for your husband, the midwife, for this gut-turning feeling to vanish. Your breath gets stuck in your throat, sharp and fast breaths hanging in the thick atmosphere.
But it doesn’t stop there. As if this wasn’t enough already, you can only stare at the door that gets opened painfully slow, claws digging into the wooden frame.
Without any doubt, this is a demon.
You press your sweaty palm against your mouth, force yourself to stop screaming, to stop breathing.
“I know you’re here, human. You smell like a…woman.”
It’s like all life is drained from the dead shell of your body, widened orbs staring at the frightful creature that makes its way into your home. Get up, fight, defend yourself like you saw Yoriichi do countless times, use the knowledge you gained from him.
But you don’t move an inch, don’t dare to look away. For a brief moment, time seems to stand still. Out of all the nights you’ve spent together with your husband, this is the first away from him, the first without his protection. Is all of this a dream, a hallucination to test your nerves?
The second the monster’s deadly red orbs meet yours, you get hit by reality. No, this isn’t a dream.
This will be your death.
“I knew you were here, lady. Let me help you up, okay?”
“N-no. Please d-don’t”, you whimper under your breath.
Your coward of a body doesn’t even fight back when he lifts you off the ground with ease, his nails digging into your soft flesh.
“Oh, you’re expecting a baby, don’t you? Well, does this count as a double kill, then?”
Your baby getting killed? If that thing ends your life, it means your unborn child will never experience dawn, will never get to see the face of its father, will never take in his scent. Your glossy eyes widen in sheer horror, tears now streaming down your face like waterfalls when a single frown form on your forehead.
You couldn’t care less about your own life. After all, you were lucky that Yoriichi saved you back then, didn’t even deserve to survive when your whole family had to die before you. But that oh so innocent child that might have the eyes of its father, the blessing of your life right after your husband. That innocent life cannot be taken.
There is no way you will let this creature lay hands on it.
Your body reacts faster than your mind. With a surprisingly well-placed kick, you free yourself out of the monster’s casual grip. You need to get out of the house, out where you are able to find shelter, to run away. Your lungs feel like bursting any given minute, legs trembling underneath the weight of yourself and the unborn baby you still carry right under your heart. Even if it means you’ll die in vain, even if you won’t be able to see Yoriichi’s tender eyes ever again, you have to make sure your child is safe.
“I underestimated you, stupid woman. As it seems you didn’t give up on life yet”, the creature purrs what feels like right next to you.
A new nauseous wave of panic rises up your veins, makes you sprint even faster through the thick woods that surround your house. This has always been your favorite place to be. The calm trees waving back and forth in a soft breeze, your husband right by your side-
Your husband. Just the thought of never getting to see him again makes your heart ache. You didn’t even get the chance to thank him one last time, to let him know how much he truly means to you, that he’s way more than the man who saved your life back then.
He’s everything you ever wanted, everything you ever needed.
A sharp pain that radiates through your lower body sends you straight onto the ground immediately, figure cramping so violently that you can’t catch your breath. No, this is not the time labor, not when a demon is this close.
“Oh, there you are. Did you really think you can run away like that? You, a little human? You made me so man that I will kill you as painfully slow as possible.”
You try to lift your trembling figure off the ground, try to get back onto your feet, to sprint down the forest you know so well. But just when you’re about to get back onto your knees, a stinging pain in your right thigh paired with a contraction sends you straight back.
A violent scream escapes your lips.
Red. Everything around you is discoloured red. Is this your blood? Did this thing kill you already, are you going to die? Despite the way your guts start to turn when you follow the trail of blood, you can’t look away. And there it is indeed, a gaping hole in your leg, throbbing and bleeding.
All color that is left now drains from your face. With an injured leg, your chance to escape this demon’s claws is non-existent. Which means…
Your heart skips a beat, threatens to fail you any given second. What about your unborn child? A violent storm of anger and determination clouds your mind, makes all logical thoughts vanish into thin air.
“You can’t kill me”, you press out.
Since the day you first laid eyes on a demon, you accepted your own death. Your life is worthless anyway, compared to great warriors like your husband himself. But that oh so innocent child, that tiny life you were given to. You ball your hands into fists so tight your knuckles stand out white and lift your throbbing self off the ground. You cannot allow a demon to take the life of that unborn baby.
“I won’t allow you to touch me.”
You realize the stupidity of your words after they spill out of your mouth in rage. You, not allowing a demon to touch your puny figure? Another contraction makes your guts turn and vision almost go black.
As expected the frightful creature draws closer, its unpromising pair of razor-sharp teeth glittering in the dim moonlight. You never expected to see a demon this close again. Oh, how much you hoped you’d never find yourself in that situation again. But you have to get through this, have to make sure you will survive long enough for the mid wife to deliver your child to this world.
His child.
“I’m sorry Yoriichi. I never planned on leaving you alone like this”, you mumble to yourself, shaky lips tinted in salty tears.
“But this all I’m able to do.”
-Yoriichi’s POV-
Something seems off. Is it the way the trees bent back and forth in the soft breeze of the already set sun? Is it that distant smell that hangs in the air, the one that reminds him of fresh blood and lavender?
“We must make haste. I can sense that danger is ahead of us”, he speaks out with firm voice.
He promised you that he’ll be back before the sun goes down, that he will make it on time before demon are able to roam around freely. Are you feeling alright? Is the pain unbearable at this point? Do you still hold trust for him in your heart? His footsteps pick up instinctively, eyes set on the visibly stressed man behind him. In contrary to most people, Yoriichi doesn’t fear the night or the demons it brings. The only thing he fears at the moment is what you have to endure without your husband by your side.
With every he takes forward, the stinging smell of blood mixed with lavender becomes more urgent in his nose.
Lavender.
He always wondered how you did it. Even after washing, all your clothes kept that calming scent that surrounded you as if you were standing in a lavender bush. A smell so sweet that it caught his interest back then before he caught a glimpse of your fascinating orbs, a smell that always reminds him of home. Yoriichi’s home will always be where you are, where the sensation of lavender is the strongest.
Lavender, the stinging smell of blood that hangs in the air. His eyes widen when his mind starts to race. The smell, it radiates from the direction of your shared home, from the direction that usually fills him with excitement. Can it be…?
His heart starts racing uncontrollably while he dashes forward and draws his sword. Let it be nothing but coincidence, a cruel joke his thoughts play on him. But the stinging fragrance of lavender mixed with iron fills his heart with dread, makes his mind go numb. What if you got attacked by a demon, what if you are in great danger? All because he didn’t live up to his promise, because he didn’t make it on time. His eyes roam around the dark area, desperately searching for a sign.
And then his eyes find you.
Yoriichi’s heart stops.
There you lay, leaning against a nearby tree with a puddle of blood surrounding you, widened eyes starring straight into the face of a demon who hollers above you.
“No one is coming to save you, stupid girl.”
He doesn’t waste another second. With a swift motion of his sharp blade, Yoriichi beheads the demon on top of you while a toe-curling scream escapes your lips. Just one look at your sliced-up kimono reveals countless injuries, especially a gaping hole in your thigh. You hold onto your swollen belly for what looks like dear life, eyes still widened in nothing but shock.
“(y/n)”, he gently speaks out while letting himself fall down next to you.
You have to blink a few times. The demon, it was just about to dig its sharp teeth into your sensitive skin, to take the life of your unborn child in front of your eyes.
Maroon.
But those aren’t the deadly red orbs. No, those oh so gorgeous eyes look so familiar that your heart tames down in an instant. Could it really be, is it possible that it’s…him?
“Yoriichi.”
You breathe his name into the night like a prayer.
Maybe this is nothing but an illusion, a cruel trick your own brain plays on you.
“Words can’t express how sorry I am for arriving too late. I will never forgive myself for leaving you alone this long, for causing this to happen”, his oh so familiar voice blurts out.
Yoriichi’s usual so composed face twists in sheer agony, eyes filling with salty tears. All of this is his fault. He should have arrived sooner, he should have made hurry, he-
“We didn’t come this far to worry now. Please, help be delivering this child, let it all make sense”, you press out while grabbing his hand tightly.
It doesn’t matter that you’re severely injured, it doesn’t matter that your beloved husband took longer than expected to come back to you. All that matters now are you, him and your unborn child that waits to be delivered.
“Allow me to assist you.”
A foreign man suddenly speaks out with sweat dripping from his forehead in waterfalls. Just when another wave of nauseous pain hits you with full force, as if you got kicked into your stomach by a horse. You fail to breathe for a second, hands holding onto your husband for dear life.
“You are already close, it won’t be long now”, the man reassures you while gently opening your legs.
“You can do it, (y/n). After all the things you had to endure today, you will be able to get through this. With me by your side. I love you more than any words could ever say, darling.”
One more push.
One more wave of pain before your body goes numb, before you lose the ability to feel anything except for sweet nothingness.
Until a loud shriek finds its way to your ear.
A violent scream, almost frustrating. When you open your eyes again, you are greeted by a crying but alive bundle of joy, carefully wrapped into a white cloth and placed onto the arm of its father.
Those eyes.
“I prayed every night that he would have your eyes”, you whimper with tears running down your cheek uncontrollably.
You did it. You saved your beloved child who looks just like its father, you managed to somehow stay alive.
“She”, the midwife corrects you gently.
“She…”, you mumble with a small smile.
The last thing you see are the troubled maroon eyes of your husband before your world goes dark.
-the next day-
A foreign but still so familiar laughter fills the atmosphere around you with joy while you see nothing but black. When your stubborn lids finally open, you are greeted by the wooden ceiling you know so well. This is your home, without any doubt.
The home a demon invaded.
The home where you feared for your life while your husband rushed to the midwife in order to deliver your child.
Your child.
You get up way too quickly, glossy eyes darting around the room without a real aim. Is your baby okay? What happened after the delivery? All you can remember are those familiar maroon eyes that looked so much like the orbs of your beloved husband. Your husband…Where is Yoriichi?
“Don’t move too quickly, love. The doctor strictly forbids you to be in a haste”, his gentle voice speaks out next to you.
Just a few moments later, you get invited by the warmth of his arms swallowing you whole. Out of instinct, you let yourself fall against him, press your very own body into his despite the scorching pain that immediately takes over your whole self.
Right, you were attacked by a demon the night you gave birth. How did you manage to escape? Are your injuries critical.
But most important: How is your baby?
“Look what you have accomplished. A little wonder. Just like you, my love”, your husband murmurs, carefully lifting a little bundle off a blanket nearby.
Your heart nearly stops when you catch a glimpse of her. Those maroon eyes are the last thing you remember before everything goes black. With shaky hands, you start caressing her puffy cheek. This. This is what you fought for, what makes it all worth it in the end.
“She has your eyes”, you hush, tears now streaming down your face in waterfalls.
“And your hair”, Yoriichi replies with a soft smile towards you.
“(y/n), I promise I’ll do anything in my power to protect you and her from something like this. I promise I will stand by your side no matter what. And I hope that someday, you will be able to forgive me for not being there for you when you needed me the most.”
The second your husband’s voice cracks, you can’t hold onto yourself any longer. You wrap your arms around him and your daughter longingly, take in the scent who gave you strength that night.
“There is nothing to forgive and nothing to feel sorry about. You did your very best and that is all that matters. I love you, Yoriichi. And I have to thank you for saving both of us just in time.”
“You are my greatest treasure on earth”, he mumbles against your lips while giving you a passionate kiss.
What a plot twist, what a happy end after all. Yesterday you were sure your life is over, that you won’t live onto the next day. And now you’re lying in your house, holding your giggling daughter while pressing your heavy head against your husband’s broad chest.
“Well, I fear I will have to share this special place by now”, you comment while gazing at your perfect little daughter.
“This might be true, love.”
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Guardian Angel
Pairing:
MDI 18+
Warnings: Opium powder use, mentions of drinking, high Benedict, Benedict being an insecure cutie pie, fluffy fluff hehe
WordCount: 2.2k
A.N: Hello my loves! I'm sorry for my lack of posting, I've been sick and I've finally started work. I am still trying to find a schedule where I can post and have time for other things. For now, have some lovely Benny fluff while we all wait for part two of Season 3 to come out. I love you! <3 P.S. Thank you for 200 followers OMG I love you all so much.
Marrying Benedict Bridgerton was the easiest decision you have ever had to make. The two of you grew up alongside each other, the rumors of a proposal coming when you debuted, and the actual proposal occurring only two months into the season. It was an easy choice, a choice you were happy you made. He made you feel alive. He filled a part of your soul you did not know was missing before you met him. Even in the hardest times of your marriage.
Benedict, like many other men, has insecurities. He keeps them hidden well behind an air of confidence, but you know better. He never was jealous of Anthony, but rather scared that he would always be looked at as the lesser son. The spare. He just did not understand what you saw in him. He saw himself as a man without purpose, a man who could not provide the life you wanted. He believed you when you said that was not true, but there was always a little voice in the back of his mind that made him doubt himself.
You knew this well. He was less talented at hiding his feelings when he was a child and had shared many of them in your many late nights on the hills of Aubrey Hall. Though now, these insecurities only rear their ugly heads when Benedict has had a few too many to drink. Or, as is the case tonight, too much of the strange tea Colin buys him.
You get out of the carriage with your maid and footman, John, after he had come to get you claiming that Benedict had had far too much tea. A result of drunken carelessness by his younger brother. You rush up the front steps and into your townhouse, taking off your cloak before bouncing up the stairs toward his studio. You sigh as you walk in to find your bohemian husband on the floor of the studio with a canvas in front of him, smearing paint on it with his fingers without a care in the world. It would be an adorable sight if you were not worried out of your mind.
You walk to him and sit down next to him, watching as his glassy eyes sweep over the floor before meeting your own. "Ah! My love!" He exclaims, his demeanor immediately brightening as he drapes his paint-stained arms around your middle, his cheek resting against your shoulder. You hum, not bothering with the wet paint that stains the dark blue fabric of your gown as you wrap your arms around him. "I have been seeing visions, darling." He mumbles into your skin as you run your fingers through his curls.
"Have you now?" You murmur as you press a kiss to his forehead, making his lips turn up into a loopy smile. The most adorable sight you have seen in a while. "Mm. Colorful visions. I had to paint them as quick as I could, had to feel the smoothness of my oils on the canvas." He says, pulling back to look at you. You grin when his eyes focus on yours, one of his paint-covered hands coming to rest on your cheeks leaving a beautiful mess of blues and purples in its wake.
He studies your face for a moment longer before crawling, quite clumsily, over to a clear canvas. "Benedict?" You call softly, moving to sit next to him as you watch a beautiful image come to life on the canvas. It wasn't anything, but at the same time, there was something so divine about how he is painting.
After about an hour he stops, looking up at you with that darling crooked smile. "Look, Y/n. It is you. How I see you." He whispers, resting his head on your shoulder. You smile and look down at the mess of colors for a moment, believing that this canvas full of swirls might truly be how your husband looks at you in this state. "It is stunning, my love." You murmur, pressing a kiss to his brow before returning your attention to the painting. "Shall I explain it to you?" He slurs, his attention solely on you.
You hum and nod, returning your attention back to him. He smiles giddily, laying back and pulling you on top of him. "It is as if... I tried to capture a dream." He slurs, pressing his lips to your nose. "A whisper of our love, tangled in colors and chaos. This mess of lines and splashes, it is you and me, dancing through the storms and the sunbeams. It is...it is us." He stumbles, weaving paint-streaked fingers through your hair. Even in his most inebriated moments, he never ceases to take your breath away.
With a wavering smile and glassy eyes, he gestures to the canvas, his voice thick with emotion, "You see, my love, it is as if you are my guardian angel. This painting...it is not just colors. It is you. You are in every swirl, every splash...." He grins, watching your eyes shimmer with tears. "You are the light in the chaos, guiding me, saving me from myself. Each stroke is like your touch, soft but powerful, keeping me safe, lifting me higher. It is a tribute to you, my protector, my guiding star. My love, my guardian angel." He mumbles, and you break.
Tears begin rolling down your cheeks and you bury your face into his neck, making him laugh, his hands smearing paint up and down the back of your gown as he tries to comfort you. "You need not be saved from yourself, Benedict." You whisper after a moment, pulling back and wiping your eyes. "My God, if only you could see yourself as beautifully as I see you." You whisper, pulling him up into a sitting position. "Y/n... I have only ever needed saving from myself." He slurs, though even through his inebriation you can sense the deep sadness that lingers somewhere deep within his soul.
"You are the most remarkable man I have ever known, and I am utterly captivated by every part of you—your brilliance, your kindness, your passion. To me, you are perfect, even in your moments of doubt and struggle." You whisper, cupping his cheeks. "You are my world, and I am here to stand by you through every storm." You vow, brushing away the tears that have spilled down his cheeks with your thumbs.
"My Y/n." He whispers, pressing his forehead to yours as he sniffles. "My Benedict." You return, sitting on his lap as his arms encircle your waist. You shift his head into the crook of your neck and allow him to cry for a moment, rocking him side to side as he does. He rarely ever shows this kind of emotion. In a way it is comforting, to know that the man you married still feels just as intensely as he did when you were first wed. You press a kiss to his head and he nuzzles your neck.
You sit with him on the floor of his studio for about an hour, and when he finally calms down you help him to the master bedroom. He falls back on the bed without even a sound of protest, moving his arms so you can help him undress. You grin and bend down, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you unbutton his shirt. Once it is off, you move onto his trousers. Then, when he is completely bare, you tuck his already sleeping form into bed.
You walk into the closet, laying his paint-stained clothes out on the chair for the maids to collect in the morning before changing into a nightgown yourself. Once you are ready for bed, you crawl in next to your husband, combing your fingers through his hair and watching as he smiles in his sleep. You wish that he will remember every word of what you said in the morning, but the logical part of you knows that he will not. Even so, you shall keep saying the things you did tonight until he believes them. You close your eyes, falling into a slumber right next to him, your fingers still curled into his hair.
He wakes far before you do at the crack of dawn, a usual occurrence when he has overindulged. He groans, rubbing a hand over his aching forehead. He cannot remember getting into bed or the events that transpired before he did, though he remembers bits and pieces. The image of the deep blue gown you came home wearing, the way your hair fell around your shoulders when he ran his hands through it, the sparkle of tears in your eyes...
He sighs, sitting up and running a hand through his hair, his eyes immediately drifting over to your sleeping figure. He grins at the image before him. You look like an angel, sleeping on your stomach with your hair sprawled against your back and your lips parted ever so slightly. His grin only widens when you let out a soft sigh in your sleep, your eyebrows furrowing. He hums as he bends down, kissing down the notches of your spine.
You wake at the tingly feeling it sends through your body, grinning at the warmth that blooms in your chest. "Good morning." He murmurs from above you, brushing your hair out of your face just as you open your eyes. "Good morning." You whisper back, your hand coming up to rest over his. He looks heavenly, the morning light from the windows behind him making him look like a God. "You are positively beautiful in the morning, Ben." You hum as you stretch out, and he laughs. "No more beautiful than you, my heart." He returns, taking you into his arms and pulling you up to a sitting position.
You smile as he sits you in his lap, your arms settling loosely around his neck. "Do you remember anything about last night?" You murmur and he shakes his head, stroking your hair. "Just bits and pieces, I suppose." He hums, yawning as you press a kiss to his forehead. "You made a beautiful painting and then made me cry with your explanation." You smile and he laughs, brushing his nose against yours. "I am happy to know that my poetic tendencies do not fade when I am intoxicated." He grins and you giggle. "If anything they only grow stronger." You return, closing your eyes as the two of you lean on each other.
After a moment of comfortable silence, you decide to bring up the second part of last night. "You also expressed some insecurities, Ben. Like you always do." You whisper as you open your eyes. His eyes meet yours and he sighs, pulling back to rest his chin upon your head. "You need not worry about me, my love" He murmurs and you shake your head, pulling back and cupping your cheeks. "I do need to worry about you, Benedict. You are my husband. The man I am so hopelessly enamored with, the man I adore even when he is mumbling gibberish on the floor of his studio." You whisper.
He averts his gaze to your lap, playing with your fingers. "I said something foolish when I was intoxicated, Y/n. It is truly not worrisome. I do it often." He mumbles. "You said you needed saving from yourself, that is incredibly worrisome." You whisper and he sighs, looking up at you. "What if I am not enough?" He asks suddenly, and your eyes widen. "Whatever do you mean?" You breathe and he shrugs. "Just that. What if I am not enough, for you? What if you wake up one day and realize that I am a man with no purpose who creates silly paintings in his studio all day?" He asks.
"Benedict. You mustn't say that." You whisper, getting teary. When he begins to speak, you shake your head bringing him closer. "When I look at you, I see a man of incredible talent, passion, and depth. Your paintings are not silly; they are a reflection of your soul, a testament to your creativity and the beauty you see in the world. Each brushstroke is a piece of your heart, and I am in awe of the masterpieces you create. Every single one." You whisper, running your thumb along his cheekbone. He gives you a wobbly smile as he tries not to cry.
"But beyond your art, it is you—your kindness, your compassion, your strength, and your gentle spirit—that I cherish most. You give my life meaning and fill my days with joy and love. Your presence is a gift, and I am eternally grateful for every moment we share. I adore you more than any star in the sky. My love, you mustn't doubt that my love for you will never ebb." You continue and he smiles through tears as you pepper his face with kisses. You stay like that for a while, his forehead resting against your shoulder as you let him cry.
"It seems I married a woman who is just as poetic as I." He whispers after a long while, making you burst out in laughter. He pulls back with a crooked grin, peppering your face with kisses now. "My love, my light...." He whispers.
"How I adore you, my guardian angel." He murmurs.
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Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 18
Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.
Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.
And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?
Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude
Chapter word count: 8.3k
SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST
☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻
Chapter notes: Frankie tries to come to terms with the news. Jude encounters a person from her past. TRIGGER WARNING: Brief mentions of miscarriage and drugs.
Enjoy! 🖤
Chapter 17
In the silence of Benny’s apartment, Frankie is glued to the edge of the couch.
The exhaustion has drowned him, pulled him under the waves completely. The cacophony has diminished, his friends and family members thankfully long gone, and Frankie sits alone in the small lounge, in complete disarray from the impromptu party.
Empty plates and glasses litter all available surfaces, and the welcome home banner on the wall has partly fallen off, just hanging limply. The subdued quiet feels almost deafening after the noise of the excitement buzzing around him. His head thuds and his throat feels hoarse.
His thoughts race, colliding and overlapping like waves crashing against the shore. He can hear them, the roll and lick of the water, bounding and flowing over the rocks and sand. And for a while, he tries to focus on that, and not the world shifting beneath his feet leaving him unsteady and uncertain.
He leans forward, tossing his cap on the coffee table and runs a hand through his mussed curls. A shaky hand, his fingers are almost throbbing as he squeezes them into a fist.
He attempts to process everything that’s happened. The island, the rescue, the overwhelming flood of emotions from being forcely reunited with his family and friends - and now this. The stark revelation carelessly dumped in his lap that he’s a father.
He tries not to feel resentful, sympathy from somewhere inside of him resonates and tries to reason with him about Carla and the choices she must’ve considered. He tells himself it’s not her fault, that she was probably scared and clueless on what to do when she assumed like everyone else that he was dead on that flight, but it doesn’t help appease the situation.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but it does little to calm the storm of thoughts gathering on the horizon of his mind. How could he have a child he didn’t know about? The weight of realisation presses down on him and it suddenly feels hard to breathe.
Footsteps approach and Benny appears in the doorway, carrying two mugs of coffee. He plonks one on the table in front of Frankie in a blue mug with an MMA logo plastered over it, and sits down beside him.
“Listen man, I'm sorry. The whole party thing was a stupid idea-” Benny begins and Frankie shakes his head.
“It’s fine, Benny.” Frankie sighs.
“You sure? I mean, I didn’t think how hard it might be for you, you know?” Frankie nods, but doesn’t say anything.
“You look like you’ve been hit by a fuckin’ freight train.” Benny says, carefully, eyes peering at him over the rim of his mug.
“Feels like it.” He takes a sip of the coffee Benny’s made, hoping the warmth will ground him. Instead, it only amplifies the anxiety swirling in his chest.
He recognises the sensation all too well - the same gnawing, desperate feeling he used to have when he craved. It’s an itch, an itch that doesn't satiate no matter the amount of scratching and picking at the scab.
His mind spirals further, trying not to sink into that vortex. He remembers the lengths he used to go to, the lies he told, the relationships he shattered. He wonders if he’s even capable of being the father that his child needs.
The thought of cocaine resurfaces vividly. He can almost feel the sting in his nostrils, the rush of euphoria that follows. His heart pounds faster, thudding heavy in his ears, hands trembling further. It’s a visceral reminder of the darkest time in his life and it terrifies him. He hasn’t thought about this since… since the island.
The waves roll in his ears again and he tries to follow the steady stream of them.
The island had stripped him down to his barest self. Out there, amidst the endless blue and the harsh reality of survival, there had been no distractions, no temptations. It was just him and the relentless sea and the will to keep going with Jude by his side.
He had no choice but to confront his demons and smite them down because there was no escape, no substance to numb or quiet the unbidden thoughts.
He remembers the initial days on the island, the physical cravings he kept hidden from Jude. They were still strangers then, just starting to co-exist together, and he could still cloak himself away whilst his body yearned for that familiar taste of poison.
But the island, in its harsh and unforgiving way, had grounded him.
Now back home, that safety net of enforced sobriety is harshly relinquished. Here, in the land of plenty, the risk of relapse looms large and heavy on his shoulders and Frankie is all too aware of that. The knowledge that he could easily get his hands on drugs if he wanted to - if he really wanted to - is both a comfort and a fucking terror.
“So, Carla told you then?” Benny cuts through his thoughts.
Frankie nods, running his hand over his tired face. “When were you gonna tell me?”
“Didn’t think it was my place.”
“Not your place? C’mon, man. You let me walk into a fuckin’ bear trap!” Frankie snaps.
“She wanted to be the one to tell you, Fish. We all thought it was best coming from her.”
“Fuck…” Frankie sighs. “How do the fuck do I even be a father?”
What does he have to offer, anyway? He’s just a guy who has barely managed to survive, a guy who has struggled to find his place in the world. He doesn't have a stable career or a picture-perfect life to provide as examples. As these thoughts swirl in his mind, Frankie feels another wave of panic wash over him.
What if he isn't cut out for this? What if he can't protect his child from the harsh realities of the world? What if he ends up being a disappointment and a source of pain?
“Well, you start by meeting ‘em. Kids are resilient. They don’t need perfection - they just need consistency and shit.” Benny says flippantly, as he knows. “He’s not even a year-old. He won’t know that you’ve been gone.” He says it so casually and it pisses Frankie off even more. “You won’t screw it up.”
“I’ve already screwed it up. What the fuck do I tell Jude?”
Frankie's mind races through countless scenarios, each one more terrifying than the last. He imagines sitting Jude down, trying to find the right words to tell her about the baby, only to see the look of shock and betrayal on her face. He imagines her storming out, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his fears.
In another scenario, he imagines Jude's initial reaction being one of anger and disbelief, followed by a painful silence as she processes the news and breaks down at the recall of her own loss on the island. He imagines her accusing him of betraying her trust, of choosing the baby she’ll never accept over their relationship. Jude listens to his confession with a cold detachment, her eyes filled with a mixture of pity and scorn.
He imagines her telling him that she can't be with someone who has betrayed her so deeply, who has kept such a monumental secret from her. He imagines her leaving him, leaving their relationship in ruins.
And then, in the scenario he fears the most, she scoops him up in her arms and tells him everything will be alright, and that they can do this together.
“Tell her the truth.” Benny cuts in.
Frankie snorts into his coffee cup.
“She’ll want to help you. Be a cool step-mom or something.”
“You don’t fuckin’ get it.” Frankie says, standing. He paces for a few moments. “On the island… Jude and I, we… we lost a baby. She had a miscarriage.”
He can hear it, the sounds of Jude’s sobs ringing in his ears. The sound of the water lapping over her bloodied thighs as he waded with her cradled in his arms into the cleansing ocean.
He stroked her hair, his own eyes brimming with tears. “I know, I know… it’s okay, you’re okay.” He repeated over and over his voice trembling. “Está bien, hermosa. Estás bien.” (It’s okay, beautiful you’re okay.)
Hours turned into days as Frankie watched helplessly as Jude was doubled over in pain, mirroring his own emotional agony tearing through him, and crying and sleeping through it as best as she could.
The flashback shifts to the aftermath. Jude was asleep, her face tear-streaked. Frankie had walked down to the beach, the weight of their unexpected loss heavy on his shoulders. He looked out at the endless ocean, the waves crashing against the shore. He envisioned walking through the water.
Just keep walking, keep going, don’t stop...
But he couldn’t, he couldn’t leave her. He couldn’t let her face that anguish alone. It would be cruel to lose them both. And Frankie wasn’t cruel. He was weak, but never cruel. He couldn’t be selfish anymore. He had to go on for her. To keep himself on the straight and narrow and strong.
He had to do it all for her.
“Shit, man.” Benny says, wiping his chin. “I’m sorry. That’s heavy.”
“We didn’t even know. There was so much fuckin’ blood…” Frankie says, his eyes watering. “There was nothing we could do. And now finding out that I have a-a kid? I’ve had one all this time when I’ve told her I don’t… fuck. It’s just fucked.”
“It is fucked. And I’m sorry, Fish. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like. You got fuckin’ shit on out there, man.”
“You don’t know the half of it, hermano.” (Brother.)
“But you got a second shot here.”
“Benny,” Frankie says, his voice barely above a whisper.
“The kid, he’s fucking great. Really cute and-”
“BENNY!” Frankie yells, and he throws his coffee mug across the lounge, shattering on impact against the wall.
“What the fuck, man?” Benny growls.
“Jesus…” Frankie groans. “I need you to just stop talking. Just fuckin’ stop.” Frankie bites as he marches past him and out the front door.
Two weeks pass and it’s a long two weeks that feels more and more isolating as the time wears on. Frankie’s days blur together as he works to reassemble the shattered pieces of his old life.
His first stop was the barber. Sitting in the chair, he watched the shaggy, salt-encrusted locks fall away, revealing a face he barely recognised. He caught sight of the faint scars running the length of his neck in the mirror which his hair had hid from him for so long that he had seemingly forgotten about them, until the smell of aviation fuel filled his nostrils when he glanced at them in the mirror.
He looked around at the salon floor in horror as he felt the cold ocean water rising up to his neck as the barber carried on snipping away, whilst Frankie started to drown and scream for help.
He came to a few seconds after, and shook the infecting thoughts away as he glanced at his manic expression regarding him back in the mirror.
A shaved and shaped beard and his curls tamed to an acceptable length, he adjusted his trusty cap back on his head and headed over to his appointment with his doctor. He followed up from the hospital in Cape Town and had a second round of blood tests that confirmed he did indeed have Dengue Fever on the island, but had recovered well.
He was vaccinated for tetanus, given some more dietary advice and advised to have some counselling, which he declined profusely before heading over to the bank.
He stood in line, feeling strangely out of place in the bustling environment. When his turn came, he spoke in a quiet voice to sort out his account, payments and other financial matters. Which then proceeded into having a long drawn out argument with the cashier about his money and access to it, and having to file paperwork to reverse his death certificate, which was an unusual thing for someone clearly living having to do.
The cause of death on his certificate was marked as unknown; missing presumed dead, which was an unsettling thought that swelled around in his gut like the choppy seas.
Days later and at the bank again, Frankie was taken into a side area with an account manager, and whilst they tracked down his account and missing money, his thoughts wandered back to Jude, never straying too far from her at all.
He made the decision then, under the bright fluorescent lights of the bank that hurt his eyes a little. He wasn’t ready to tell Jude about the baby yet. He wasn’t even ready to see the baby himself. The thought of facing reality, of explaining everything when he still didn’t really understand it himself, was too much to bear right now. He had a list of tasks that he had to see through.
His mind couldn’t cope with straying away from that list.
After the bank, he walked through the streets of Pensacola. The familiar sights felt alien. He stopped at a small coffee shop, sipping a cup of black coffee which seemed to be the only staple in his diet lately. He knew he should eat more, but his stomach had been constantly churning ever since the news.
He sat and stared out the window. People passed by, oblivious to his inner turmoil. The sense of their normalcy made him feel bitter and was jarring. He felt like an outsider peeping in at his own life.
The days turned, and every day he and Jude spoke on the phone. Texting at random intervals, a long conversation telling each other about their day and all the intricacies within it.The pining and longing in their voices prevalent and a constant reminder of their pain and suffering at being apart. He told her everything, everything he did, how he was getting on with the list.
Everything except the baby, and he felt fucking awful keeping it from her.
And the calls kept coming from the press too. Unknown numbers sent to ignore, lengthy voicemails about opportunities to tell his story. His phone was blowing up the more the days went on.
“They called again. They wanna talk to you.” Benny says, relaying the messages when he gets in. They’d gotten Benny’s number too. “A few chat shows have requested to have you on them. You’re a fuckin’ celebrity.” Benny remarks.
“Like who?” Frankie enquires non-committal.
“Jimmy Kimmel, Ellen. That guy that ain’t funny, but thinks he is-”
“Conan.”
“Yeah. They all want an exclusive interview with you and Jude to hear what happened.”
“Well, I don’t even know if I wanna do it.” Frankie sighs, with sleepy, disinterested eyes.
“They’ll probably offer some good money. You could do that with that, get yourself a place again?” Benny murmurs, flicking through channels as Frankie flops down on the couch next to him.
“I’m cramping your style, huh?”
“No, man. I told you, mi casa, su casa,” Benny smiles. (My house is your house)
Frankie nods, though the reassurance feels thin. He knows he has a long way to go, more boxes to check off his list and sorting a place of his own is definitely on there. But for now he focuses on reclaiming the parts of himself that have been lost to the island, to the addiction, to the overwhelming guilt.
In his quiet moments, he thinks about Jude, hoping she’s finding her own ways to heal. He knows he can’t avoid the truth forever, but for now he takes solace in the small victories, each one a step towards the man he wants to be for her.
“You thought about getting back to work?”
“Yeah. I’ll go see Dustin soon. He might have some work for Lazarus Rising. I need a fuckin’ shower.” Frankie stands up.
“Eddie called too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Said you should stop by the centre. I think you should, too.” Benny encourages. “Might be good for you to talk to someone.”
The memories of his time in rehab are still fresh in his mind - the group therapy sessions, the one-on-one counselling coffee sessions with Eddie, the endless introspection. It had been a necessary step in his journey towards recovery, a journey he had thought was behind him. But now, faced with the prospect of returning, he feels a familiar sense of resistance building within him.
He knows talking to his sponsor could provide some much-needed guidance and support. But the thought of stepping foot back into the rehab centre, of facing his demons head-on, fills him with a sense of dread.
Frankie nods lazily and heads into the bathroom, sealing himself inside and lets the water drown him.
Back in New York, Jude follows a similar pattern in slowly rebuilding her life over the same two week period.
She gets her hair cut, chopping off more than she actually wants to, but after a year of sun and sea water damage, the hairdresser advises it’s best to go as short as she’s comfortable with, opting for a shoulder length bob. When she runs her hands through the choppy style, she’s amazed that it doesn’t feel like straw anymore. It’s almost like magic.
Her father buys her a car and helps her go to the bank to access her accounts and her photography business she’d had before shit went down in the plane crash. She wants to buy a new camera, but her mom has kept her trusty old Nikon, and all of her personal effects such as clothes, jewellery, photographs in the spare room at their house when she’d moved in following the split from Nate.
“I couldn’t bear to throw any of it out,” her mom explained as they both blubbed, holding each other tightly. “I just knew in my heart you’d come home one day. And you did, baby.”
Jude buys a new, up to date iPhone model and e-mails a load of her old clients, getting back in contact again ready to get back into some work. Life has to continue, right?
And the phone rings, each day, talking with Frankie and digesting the day. Figuring out when they’ll see each other again because she misses him more than anything. It also rings incessantly with unknown numbers and voicemails being left about telling their story to the whole world. In the end she stops answering, only swiping across the screen when it’s Frankie’s name on the caller ID.
Jude goes for an eye test and checks in with her dentist to get a polish and a check-up. She goes back to the doctor to check on her overall health too. She isn’t putting on the weight quickly as advised, but slow steps are needed in that department.
Although her lack of appetite worries her mom as she pushes away barely eaten plates full of food that her mom loads up for her. It’ll take a while to return to normal.
Jude's nightmares have become increasingly frequent in the weeks too, since they’d returned from the island. The trauma of their ordeal seems to weigh heavily on her, manifesting itself in the form of vivid, terrifying dreams that leave her shaken and exhausted. No matter how hard she tries to shake them off, they linger like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over her days and nights without Frankie there to calm her.
Jude’s walking down the block after her dentist appointment; the smells and sounds of her old neighbourhood haunts in New York City returning to her gradually as the days merge. She clocks the garbage truck loading up the bags from the sidewalk, the smells of the fried onions from the hotdog vendor as she passes it.
A lexicon of indistinct chatter ebbs and flows around her, the background noise to simple life that she’s missed out on for what feels like so long.
She thinks about the airport when they landed at JFK - how all attention was on them - on her, and it makes her skin prickle up in her sweater uncomfortably. All those eyes staring, casting assumptions, asking questions; she feels a little nauseous when she thinks too deeply about it.
Unsure how Frankie can muster the strength to seemingly ignore it, how he can switch off and not retaliate. Here, as she passes through the people of New York, the unassuming vox-populi and looks at their faces that aren’t looking back at hers, her invisibility suddenly feels daunting.
A sea of people seem to swell and surge past her - cars honking, people shouting and the constant hum of city life droning heavy in her ears. It’s so vastly different from the island, where silence was the constant companion.
Jude tries to steady her breathing, but her heart pounds in her chest. The crowds pass from all sides, making her feel trapped, unable to escape. Every direction she looks, there are more people, more noise, more chaos. Panic rises in her throat and she fumbles for her phone, her fingers slipping as she scrolls for Frankie’s name.
“Please pick up, please pick up…” she whispers to herself, feeling the edges of her vision blur with tears. She feels ridiculous, embarrassed even. A former shadow of herself.
“Hey, hermosa.”
Hearing his voice is like flipping a switch. The chaos around her seems to instantly dim, the noise fading into the background like waves receding. She always prided herself on her independence, she travelled the world by herself taking photographs and seeking adventure, and now in the familiarity of her own home city she’s rendered paralysed in fear.
“Hey you,” she gasps.
“Are you alright? You sound outta breath?” Frankie smiles down the phone.
“Yeah… no, I’m fine. I’m fine. Just out and about. Getting shit done.” She reassures, and his chuckle down the phone soothes her frayed nerves and she can finally muster the strength to walk again.
She closes her eyes and tries to push away the self-doubt that threatens to consume her. She’s faced worse than this - survived a damn plane crash, endured the harsh realities of life on a deserted island. She can handle a little bit of city noise.
“Just needed to hear your voice.” She smiles.
“I know the feeling,” he husks down the phone. “How’s the Big Apple treating you today?”
“A little overwhelming, but then again when isn’t it? How’s your day been?”
“All the fun and exciting stuff of getting my life back on track.” He snorts.
“Sounds exhausting,” she says, genuinely interested as the noise fades out around her. “Any progress on the job front?”
“Actually yeah, I was thinking of calling up my old boss. Maybe see if there’s anything he’s got for a man who's back from the dead.”
Jude chuckles. “Well, that's a great idea. As long as he doesn't send you to Madagascar again.”
“Yeah. Been there, done that.” Frankie chuckles. “And I think… I-I should probably check in with my sponsor too.”
Jude pauses, her heart clenching at the mention of his sponsor. She knows how hard Frankie has fought against his addiction, and she worries about him facing those demons again now that they’re back in the real world.
"You still there?"
“Yeah... Yeah. That sounds like a really good idea,” she says softly.
As she listens to him talk about his day, she can’t help but think about what life will be like for him now. The island had been a brutal, relentless test of their survival skills, but in some ways, it had also been a sanctuary from the temptations and pressures of the real world.
Now, Frankie would have to face his addiction head-on, surrounded by all the triggers and stresses that had led him down that path in the first place.
She considers the strength it will take for him to stay clean, to rebuild his life from the ground up. And she worries about how she can support him through it, knowing that her own struggles are far from over.
“Frankie,” she says quietly, “I’m proud of you. For everything. And I’ll be here for you, no matter what.”
Hearing her say that she’s proud of him makes Frankie's heart sink. Her words of praise are a sharp reminder of his deceit. The guilt gnaws at him, making it hard to accept her praise. He can’t do this. Not to her. The words are almost there, on the tip of his tongue…
“I fuckin’ love you, hermosa.”
She smiles and he can hear it. “I love you, too. We’ll figure it out, all of it.”
They talk for a while longer, the conversation flowing easily as they share stories and plans. By the time they hang up, Jude feels a little more grounded, a little more herself.
The city is still loud and overwhelming, but with Frankie’s voice in her ear and his support behind her, she knows she can face whatever comes next.
She’s still swimming in confused and muddled thoughts when she steps off the subway and up into the quieter suburbs of her neighbourhood, when someone swerves into her.
She looks up to be met with a sickeningly familiar face.
“Holy shit!” Nate exclaims aghast.
Jude immediately flusters, running her hands through her hair as she regards her ex-fiancé staring back at her like he’s seeing a frail ghost.
Without hesitating he clings onto her, engulfing her inside his arms, and the stench of his cologne is all too familiar and poisonous as she breathes it in.
“Fuck, look at you!” He regards her, still hanging onto her arms and staring right at her as she’s rooted speechless to the spot. Those eyes of his staring right back at her, with an astounded twitch of his lips beaming into the grin he always wore.
It still cuts deep, even after all this time. Since being back she hadn’t thought a lot of him, but knew that maybe at some point his name would crop up in conversation; they had friends in the same circles.
But here he is, on the damn sidewalk with her in the middle of the city that houses eight point three million, giving way to some weirdly fucked up fate or kismet. The isolation on the island had given her ample time to reflect, to heal - or so she thought.
“Nate.” She greets timidly, running out of breath, and it feels like his tightening grip on her arms won’t ever let her go.
“Oh my God, Jude. Shit... I can’t believe it! I saw on the news that you’d come home. I tried to call you, but... your number just rings off. Fuck! I thought you were dead!”
He holds her tight in his arms again, his arms crushing her against him and it leaves her jangled.
“No. Still alive...” She shakes her head slowly in disbelief, regarding him and remembering him all over again. His hair is shorter, but his face and his eyes remain the absolute same.
His bewildered vortex for a mouth slowly morphs into an astonished, wide grin at her, and she can’t help but smile back at his goofiness as though it’s infecting her motor functions and facial muscles.
He finally lets go of her arms. “Jesus... I can’t believe it, you’re really here. Where are you at, you staying at your mom’s?” He enquires, staring into her and not looking away.
Being the centre of Nate’s attention was something she craved once, now it feels off. Strange and unsettling. She feels like she might throw up.
She nods. “Yeah, I uh, need to find a new place, you know?”
“Yeah, shit.” He nods contemplating it all. “They rented it out not long after… your old place. Some weird old lady with a load of plants lives there now.”
All she can do is nod sympathetically.
“Wow. Look at you. You’re really here.” He says in wonderment.
His plague of a smile is creaking across his face and making it burn brightly at her. Laying down the foundations for certain destruction, making her remember all those swampy feels she once had for him. Back in a time when life wasn’t complicated; before the survival and the horror of the island.
“H-how are you?” She asks, cringing almost.
“Same old,” he snorts.
Same old… yeah, I bet you are.
“I mean, I... I was beside myself when I found out what happened to your flight. I was calling and calling your cell but getting no answer. Your mom called me, told me what had happened. They didn't find anybody alive.” He zones out a bit as he speaks. “I couldn’t believe it. I was devastated, you know, because of how things were left between us?”
Their eyes meet, and a jolt of shock ripples through her body. Nate’s expression mirrors her own - surprise, confusion, and something else. Regret, maybe? It's hard to tell.
He steps towards her, tentatively, as if he isn't sure she’s entirely real.
Jude bites down on the insides of her cheeks as she listens to him speak with a genuine sombre look about his traitorous, slick features. He’s the last person she expected to see, and the one person she hoped never to encounter again.
Nate had been the love of her life until she discovered his final betrayal. The memories of finding out about his cheating comes flooding back, the pain as raw as if it had happened yesterday. Jude had left to escape him, to escape the memories, and to find herself again. And we all know how that panned out…
But now, here he is, standing just a few feet away, looking as if he hasn't aged a day. Like the last year of her hardships and struggles are brushed off so carelessly, because he could never understand what it was like.
“I went to your funeral,” he says, now staring at something on the pavement only he can see. “I read a poem.”
“You did?” She enquires frowning with confusion. Nate read a poem?
“Yeah, never thought I’d have to do that,” he looks at her again. “You cut your hair. It suits you, you look really pretty.”
“What poem was it?” She asks, ignoring the compliment and feeling her heart accelerate.
He shrugs. “I don’t know, just one I found on Google. Sounded nice when I read it, you know?”
Yeah. Says it all.
“But fuck, you’re back!” Nate exclaims. “How are you doing, are you feeling alright?”
How had she been? The question seems absurd. She’s been through hell and back, both emotionally and physically. But standing here now, looking at him, she realises that despite everything, she’s survived. She’s stronger than she’s ever given herself credit for.
Jude adjusts her purse on her shoulder that suddenly feels like it's weighted with heavy boulders.
“I’m back,” she says “and I’m okay, I think... It’s strange.”
“Well, let’s hang out, let’s talk. I mean, I missed the fuck out of you. You hungry, we can grab some food and catch up? Tell me your stories?” He throws his thumb over his shoulder eagerly. “Let’s go to our place.”
Our place…
She shakes her head, hearing heavy fuzzing inside her ears. It’s all too surreal to see him, standing before her in all of his vapid, self-centred glory. But despite it all, that familiarity about him is somewhat oddly comforting amongst the frazzled angst that has been swamping her as of late.
She feels a surge of conflicting emotions. Anger, hurt, longing, and an overwhelming sense of confusion. Part of her wants to turn and run, to avoid the confrontation and the inevitable reopening of old wounds.
But another part of her, the part that had spent countless nights on that island replaying their relationship over and over, knows she needs some closure.
“Come on, we need to catch up,” Nate says, taking her hand and making the decision for her, pulling her along.
And before she knows it, a stream of time has whooshed by her, similar to when you’re drunk and blackout and there are gaps in your memory. How did I get here? Why am I here?
She’s now sat opposite him again, with a hot chocolate that isn;t hot at all, plonked in front of her in the same café they used to frequent together.
Nate tries his best to look collected as he sits back, and he watches her eyes avoid his deliberate yearning expression. Yet, the apologetic glance he throws her way assures him that Jude has read him like a book - a cheap paperback with no pictures.
But does he even realise that the situation cuts her open like razors slicing into skin? That the mere notion of them even sitting here like this, painfully far from each other despite their close proximity, squeezed into this little brown and beige booth, rips her to shreds over and over?
A shadow passes over Nate’s face. "Jude, I know I hurt you. More than words can say. I've had a lot of time to think about what I did, and I'm so sorry. If I could take it back, I would."
And the lacerations keep coming.
She looks at him, searching his eyes for any sign of deceit. But all she sees is sincerity. And yet, the wounds feel too fresh, the betrayal too deep.
“I didn’t - I couldn’t be with anyone else after that, you know? I just kept thinking about you, and it hurt so much.” Nate explains.
“Nate-”
She tries to talk again but the words don’t come, nothing. A lumpy block, swelling full of dismay and regret and that uncomfortable itch blooming all over her skin like being clad in a sweater your Nana knits with that prickly wool.
“I couldn’t sleep thinking you were dead. It was just weird knowing I’d never see you again, you know?” He continues to load up his gun and take aim at her, pelting bullets into her body and watching her die.
He watches as her fingers encircle the rim of her mug, moving in the same direction of the ever slowing clock on the back wall behind her; her head down and avoiding his burning gaze.
Staring at the chocolaty contents of her mug with clumps of whipped cream bobbing on the surface like sour milk, as if her very life depends on it.
“I didn’t think I would ever see anyone again.” She admits quietly.
“Even me?” He asks as her head rises slowly to look at him.
She nods and he smiles, killing her all over again.
It was true, she did think she wouldn’t ever see him again as she spent time on the island. Sitting on her regular spot on the sun-bleached rocks, staring out at the endless expanse of the ocean. The waves crashed rhythmically against the shore, a constant reminder of the passage of time. It was her fourth month on the island with Frankie, and solitude had become both her enemy and her companion.
The days blurred together, but the nights were the hardest. In the quiet darkness, whilst Frankie lightly snored beside her, her mind wandered back to Nate on occasion, and the memories she tried so hard to bury surfaced with brutal clarity.
One particular night stood out in her memory, as vivid as if it were happening again. She had been lying in the makeshift shelter she and Frankie had built, the air heavy with the scent of salt and damp sand. Unable to sleep, she found herself reliving the moment she discovered Nate’s first betrayal.
Jude had come home early from a work trip away, excited to surprise him with tickets to their favourite band's concert. But as she walked into their apartment, she noticed the unusual silence. No music, no TV, just a quiet that felt out of place. She called out his name, but there was no answer. Her heart began to race as she moved towards the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and through the gap, she saw them - Nate and another woman, tangled in each other’s arms.
The shock hit her like a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs. Jude stumbled back, unable to process the scene before her. Her vision blurred with tears, and she felt as if the ground had been ripped out from under her.
The nights after the discovery had been a blur of crying, screaming, and asking herself why. Why hadn’t she seen the signs? Why hadn’t he told her he was unhappy?
Why wasn’t she enough?
She had replayed every conversation, every interaction, looking for clues she might have missed. Nate had knelt in front of her, tears streaming down his face, begging for forgiveness. He had told her it was a mistake, that it would never happen again, that he loved her more than anything. His words were a band-aid to her wounded heart, and despite her better judgement, Jude let him talk her round. He was good at that, saying the things she wanted to hear. She loved him deeply, and the thought of losing him was unbearable. So, she stayed.
But the betrayal didn’t end there. Months later, she found herself in a similar situation - this time, a text message from another woman. The hurt was just as sharp, the betrayal just as deep. Again, Nate had begged for forgiveness, made promises he couldn’t keep. And again, she stayed. Each time, she hoped it would be different, that he would change, that their love would be enough.
Until it wasn’t anymore.
The betrayals had left a deep scar, one that her time on the island was supposed to heal. But healing wasn’t linear. There were days when she felt stronger, more in control. And then there were nights like that on the island, when the grief felt as fresh as the day she found out.
She remembered throwing the concert tickets into the trash, the plans they had made crumbling like ash in her hands, and all sense of control and the person she was began feeling more and more distant.
“I just wanted you to come back to me so badly.” Nate says. “You’re so strong.”
Jude shakes her head. “No, I’m not really. I just... survived there. I know that if it wasn’t for Frankie-”
“Frankie, the other survivor?”
“Yeah, the other survivor.” Although he’s so much more than that. He isn’t just a survivor, he’s a fighter. “Without him, I wouldn’t be here now, that much I do know.”
Nate smiles softly. “You're stronger than you think.”
He echoes Frankie’s words and she feels it sear through her bone marrow.
It’s like those words spilling out of his mouth, those omissions about concern for her are being pulled languidly from him like colourful, silk scarves from a crummy kids magician’s trick. She’ll pull and pull all the words she wants to hear him say - that she would have given her right arm for him to say to her once - and the length will get longer and longer until they’re in a heap on the floor beside her ready to kick under the table out of the way, much like he used to do with her feelings.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this...” Jude says, clasping her hands around her hot chocolate, which is still tepid much to her dismay. A whole year and nothing has changed in this world.
“Because you want to, maybe?” Nate suggests, sitting forward. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you. I really can’t. But I wish more than anything I was there for you, to have taken care of you.”
“I had... Frankie.”
Without Frankie, she would be dead, she knows that. She feels it and it’s visceral. On the island, Jude had found solace in the simplicity of survival - building shelter, finding food, and keeping a fire going. Those tasks had given her purpose, a way to focus her mind away from the pain.
But even in the busy throes of survival, memories of Nate slipped in under the cracks, uninvited and unwelcome. And she knew she would have been dead without Frankie. Frankie, with his untamed beard and kind eyes, who had been stranded on the island with her. He had been her rock, her lifeline, her only connection to sanity. When she was too weak to gather food, he had brought her fish. When she was too despondent to talk, he simply sat silently beside her.
He had listened when she needed to talk, and given her space when she needed to be alone. Frankie had sat beside her, his arm around her shoulders, offering silent support. He didn’t try to fix her; he simply stayed, letting her know she wasn’t alone. He loved her unconditionally, without reason or excuse.
Nate reaches for her hand and she doesn't flinch away. She feels it as he strokes over her knuckles and watches as his thumb does that soft glide over the peaks of them. His fingers clasp around hers and hold on as she stares down at them unable to register the feeling fully. Just aware it’s happening and she’s allowing it to.
She looks up and can see Frankie’s face instead of Nate’s and she snatches her hand back from him.
“I really missed you,” Nate says to her with those drilling eyes that swirl and lure her in like a Siren song.
There’s a moment shared between them, a silence that lingers and yet isn’t uncomfortable or awkward in its entirety. It’s full of nostalgia, full of that sepia wonderment and awe of when the times between them were good. The times when she was naïve and unassuming, and completely and irrevocably in love with this man to the point that she couldn’t breathe without the fibres of her lungs tearing and suffocating her.
The feeling akin to those times she found him in bed tangled up with other women too, and the stabbing pain that she felt then registers once more inside her heart, and she remembers all the reasons why he’s no good for her.
All the reasons why she walked away, and all those reasons why she got on that damned plane and crash landed in the middle of the ocean and ultimately fell in love with another man.
Nate’s phone buzzes on the table beside them and Jude watches his eyes glance at it and then his face changes. That small smirk slips out of his mouth like a cobra.
All snakes have two faces, the curious one you see testing the air with it’s forked tongue, and then the one right before they attack and sink their fangs into your leg. Nate’s fangs are out as he picks up the phone and his busy thumbs tap on the screen.
“Who’s that?” Jude feels herself asking casually as she sips her hot chocolate. Déjà vu playing on a sickening loop like she asked all those times before.
“Just a friend,” he says with that smirk still on his lips as he continues to stare into the screen.
“Right.” She says, knowing full well it’s more than just a friend. They were never just his friends. Nate doesn’t simply just have friends. All of his friends he’s inserted his dick into at some point.
As hurt and as angry as she had been with Nate all those times previous, watching him now Jude feels some sort of sympathy blooming for him. He will always be this - flighty, non-committal. Worried that if he let himself belong to just one person that he would miss out on something, something spectacular.
The irony is, he had something spectacular, and he let it go.
Suffering through the same repetitive status-quo as a chronic commitment-phobe, he will never have what Jude has with Frankie; he’ll never feel that same sense of relief or blissful peace as she does when swamped inside of Frankie’s strong arms. Able to shut out the noise of the world until there’s nothing else except for his skin on hers and his fingertips dipping into her soul to calm it.
She pities Nate now, pities the man who she once thought hung the moon. But yet this man right here was placed into her life to break her heart, she understands that now. She had to go through the pain and misery and self-loathing to carry on this journey; to take those steps onto that doomed flight, the wheels set in motion to bring her to something else utterly spectacular.
To endure through the heartache, the struggle, the life-altering fight for survival to be with the man who she was supposed to be with.
Everything happens for a reason.
“Now you’re back, maybe we could try again, slowly...” Nate suggests, and it takes Jude a moment to register he’s now addressing her.
She feels sick, his words slowly sinking into her body infecting her, even though she wills them not to. She shakes her head breathing in deeply, breathing in that sweet clarity once more.
What the hell are you doing here?!
“You loved me right? We were good together.” Nate sways.
“I did, Nate.” Jude nods, “until you broke my heart. I was already dead before I washed up on that island, because of you.” She snaps to him, staring him right in his eyes that frown at her words.
He breathes out slowly after the short, venomous outburst as she quickly surveys the damage around the room. Honesty always cuts deep like a knife and she now knows it, probably so does half the café. Luckily no-one seems to have given a damned thought to them and their grey cloud swirling.
“Don’t say that. I’ve changed, we can work it out.” And in his simple little mind, he truly believes that they can - she sees it on his face that still contains that slick smile that can tempt her into the water, luring her to her death.
Watching evilly as she drowns and pleads for him to save her, but he won’t. He’ll simply watch as the waves take Jude under and fill her lungs with water. He will be the death of her and she isn’t willing to die anymore. Not when she has something else entirely to live for.
“It’s true. I can’t forget what you did, but I can forgive you. If anything this experience has taught me that life is too fucking short to hold grudges, Nate.”
He looks hopeful, a glimmer growing inside of his eyes. Nate knows this is the end, but he fights for it like an obedient soldier brainwashed into thinking that glory will prevail. And she’s not entirely sure why.
“You’ll never change, it took me a while to figure that out. But I moved on. I healed. I found someone else, someone who really loves me.”
“Who?” Nate questions her, perplexed.
She shakes her head like he can’t be serious. He knows who. She stands suddenly, feeling like enough time has been wasted already and it all clicks into place. It’s him, it’s always been him - Frankie. And she’s a fool to deny herself from him, to deny him from her.
The decision had been mutual. They both understood the importance of re-establishing their individual identities before forging ahead together. Frankie had gone back to Florida to reconnect with family and tie up loose ends, while Jude returned to the city to reclaim her career and identity.
But the separation is harder than she’d anticipated. Every night, she finds herself staring out at the city, unable to sleep without him, thinking of the island - of Frankie. She misses his calming presence, his reassuring touch, and the way he can make her laugh even in the darkest moments.
They had shared so much - surviving against all odds, leaning on each other for strength and comfort. Their bond was unbreakable. They had faced death together, survived the harshest conditions, and found solace in each other. Now, being apart feels like a step backward and a pointless one at that.
They can recover from this ordeal together; they’re a united front - a team. The two of them against that island, against the world and conquering it together. She can’t be apart from him for a moment longer and they’re both fools to think otherwise.
“You and I, Nate? We were done long, long ago. There’s nothing else to say except I wish you well.”
Yeah, no hate, no evil insults because after all, the poor sap really does live in cloud cuckoo land thinking everything will have a rosy ending, when in reality Jude can just see that he’s a terrified man cowering in the corner, scared to give someone his heart.
“Where are you going?” Nate asks her, placing his phone down on the table and turning in his seat.
“I need to go.” Jude says with clarity.
“Well, give me your number, let’s spend some time together, yeah?” Nate suggests in his last ditch attempt at clinging on.
Jude shakes her head defiantly. “Goodbye Nate.”
Outside, she calls Frankie’s number again and when his voice greets her on the other end, she instantly feels giddy.
Jude feels a weight lift off her shoulders, replaced by a sense of clarity and resolve.
“Come back to the city, Frankie. We can sort out our lives, but we don’t have to do it apart.” She smiles.
“I’ll be there the day after tomorrow,” he says without hesitation. “Just got something to wrap up here.”
They can do this. They’re a partnership. There’s nothing they can’t overcome together. This is different to what she had with Nate - no secrets, no lies.
“I love you, Frankie.” Jude says, breathing down the phone.
“I love you, too.” Frankie replies, as he stands outside Carla’s house and braces himself to knock on the door.
To be continued...
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Yan-Poll #14
[Mermay Special Part 4
Warning: Yandere, Violence, Mention of Blood/Claws/Getting hurt/Someone else getting mauled and hurt, Chase Scene]
"No. NO!"
Your friend's voice boomed through the room. Strangely, the water didn't stop the sound from ringing out clearly and sharply, your ears feeling like they were exploding. There was little resemblance to the kind and sweet friend you knew. Their body contorted, their eyes bulging, fingers growing rigid, and their fangs snapping at the water before them. They were changing into a monster you only knew from horror movies, but worse was knowing you were the cause.
The queen gasped, just as much in shock as you were, but she regained her composure quickly when your friend charged at her, letting out their anger on her rather than you. She slipped by him, their claws ripping the skin on her arms cleanly like a scalpel, but she didn't deter. She grabbed your body by your arms, yanking you up and forward through the door.
"Swim!" she screamed as she used her body to barricade the door that she had shut closed immediately after exiting. You could see that she struggled as something or someone was thrown into the door repeatedly, trying to break out. "Don't look back! Just swim down the hallway and when you see the portal go right through it! Don't waste time here!"
There was a faint sense of desperation in the way she urged you, and you knew she couldn't hold your friend back much longer. Your head hurt, your body felt unfamiliar, and the screams of your friend told you to surrender, but when the queen gave you one last pleading look, you got yourself together and moved forward, leaving her behind. You could only pray your friend wouldn't do anything to his own mother and that she'd hold them back long enough for you to go.
You swam and swam, slamming into walls as you kept losing control over your own tail, clumsily, stupidly, feeling like a child. "[Name]!" you heard your friend yell behind you, and you jumped in surprise; they sounded so close. It scared you, they scared you. Everything about this world and chase was scary, and all you could do was keep your eyes forward like the queen told you and swim.
Finally, the portal appeared in the room before you, a sense of relief washing over you as you gathered your strength and caught yourself from hitting the walls again, the goal so close. It was almost too good to be true, and when a torrent moved you forward, followed by the sound of a massive body slamming into the corner behind you, you knew you were screwed.
Letting out a pitiful squeak, you picked up the pace, your friend suddenly right behind you. "Stay!" they begged, but it sounded like a demand. "Don't go back there! You're supposed to be here with me! What did that witch tell you?! Oh, I'll kill her if you leave! She'll be dead because of you! Don't go! Please, don't go!"
The chaos of their voice all around you didn't stop you from going forward. They were nuts, completely out of their mind. Nothing in this world could make you stay, and you reached out your hand towards the portal's light when...
Suddenly, you were yanked back.
You screamed as sharp claws dug into you, keeping themselves anchored inside your tail and tearing it apart. This time, you had to look back.
"Stay with me. I love you," your friend begged, bubbles rising from their eyes like tears. They had changed back into their normal self, beautiful, although you knew better now. It was all a facade. You shook your head, throat tight with fear and adrenaline. Their expression changed instantly, darker and more deadly, but your eyes were torn from your friend despite them reaching up, seemingly trying to attack you again.
With a heavy thud, the queen slammed a stone down on your friends head. They gurgled before sinking to the ground. "Go!" the queen yelled, her beautiful face ripped apart by claws, blood mixing into the water all around her.
You didn't make her repeat herself, the portal welcoming you with a waft of wind and the sounds of birds chirping.
»»———————— ♡ ————————««
You rubbed your palm along the muscle in your thigh, feeling the strange, burning sensation that had recently started acting up. You didn't know why, but sometimes, when you looked into a mirror or took a shower, it appeared. It was pretty annoying, but the doctors told you to just let it come and go as there were no signs as to what caused it.
But ever since your family decided to take a trip to the beach, this sensation had been acting up constantly. At this point, it was making your stomach churn, anxiety flooding your senses for some unknown reason. You tried brushing it off, listening to your mom and sister talk instead, but it was hard to ignore.
"Are mermaids real?" your sister asked, and your mom chuckled, turning around in the passenger seat to wink at you to tell you to keep up the charade. "They are so real. And they capture little kids and keep them locked up underwater so they can eat them."
Your sister squealed before giggling her adorable laugh. What a stupid story, you thought. Mermaids don't exist.
Finally, at the beach, your family set up the towels before running off to get food and dip into the water. But for some reason, you couldn't help but let time pass you by as you stared out into the ocean, strangely captivated by the waves. You jumped, eyes widening when you thought you saw a head pop out far, far beyond where everyone was swimming, sharp eyes fixating on you, but it was gone with the next wave. Your thigh burned, and this time, it hurt so much you could barely keep standing. You considered cooling down in the water, but the pain only intensified.
Your sister ran up to you not long after you took a seat in the sand, wanting to take you swimming with her. You refused, citing that you were hurt and needed to rest.
"But the mermaid told me to bring you to them..." she mumbled, wrecking her little head about what to do now.
"Who?" you asked, and she shot you a bright beam.
"The mermaid! They aren't mean at all like Mom said! They said we could come to their underwater palace with them! I want to, can we? Pleaseeeee!"
As the pain throbbed in your thigh, you watched as your sister jogged back into the water, arms flailing when she was suddenly pulled under. One second she was there, the next she was gone, and in her place, a strangely familiar face lurked out of the water, beautiful, ethereal. But the eyes of the stranger were weird, dark and mysterious. Driven by an unknown feeling that ran a shiver down your spine.
"Your turn." The stranger lifted a hand out of the water, webs between their fingers, inviting you in, and your leg hurt even more.
"I waited long enough for you to return, my spouse."
Was there ever really a choice for you?
(Reasoning and discussions welcome! ♥)
#Yan-Poll#mermay#mermay 2024#mermay 2023#yandere talk#yandere#yandere imagines#yandere headcanons#yandere scenarios#yandere fanfiction#yandere writing#yandere stories#yandere oneshots#yandere oneshot#yandere drabble#yandere x reader#yandere x darling#Yandere TW
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RE headcanons again!
PART 2
This time I will add what animals I associate them with. Again I'll write a lot about some and just a little about others to supplement the last part.
Sherry Birkin
— It's hard to say what her favorite color is. She probably doesn't prefer any particular color, she likes dim palettes.
— I'm inclined to think that Sherry could have been Wesker's goddaughter. Birkins could have introduced him to her, and since Wesker has known William since childhood, he trusts him.
— She obviously attended NEST because Annette gave her a G-related pendant. Sherry probably had some instructions for emergency situations in which to use it, but kept it a secret. Chief Irons knew about the secret of the pendant, probably from William himself, because he was bribing Irons. And Wesker also knew about the pendant, it's in his first report.
— I recently rewatched all the clips of Sherry in re6 and noticed how reluctant she is to talk about Wesker every time the topic comes up. She never says anything bad about him, avoiding talking about him. I think that as a child, Wesker treated her well or seemed like a good person, but when she found out who he really was, she was deeply disappointed. She cherishes fond memories of this man, but keeps it a secret, because she will surely be convicted.
— Sherry calls Jake "Jake Wesker" instead of "Muller," even though she knows Wesker had nothing to do with his upbringing. Did she downplay the significance of Jake's mom? No, I would look at it this way. This is further proof that "Wesker" is not a negative word to her. She secretly treats him better than others treat him, so she called Jake by his last name with pride.
— In that moment when the runaway Jake and Sherry were changing clothes, they had a conflict. But I think Sherry was angry not only because Jake's words hurt the memory of her father, but also because they hurt the memory of Jake's father.
— Sherry was in government custody from 1998 to 2009. She was in custody mainly because of Wesker (file "A Deal with the United States" from re6). The government believed that Wesker needed a sample of the G-virus, but it was obvious that he had already gotten it through his own means. Perhaps this is a hint that there is some sort of connection between them after all. He could be her godfather who would want to return what was connected to him, or he wants to using her as research into how viruses are able to enter into symbiosis with humans. Sherry mattered to him in some way, and everyone knew it, including Sherry herself.
— I think she's in love with Jake, but because of little contact with other people and the outside world, is too shy to admit it.
— She has a deep respect for Chris and Claire, and considers the latter as close as if she were her second mother.
— The animal in which I see Sherry is a weasel.
Chris Redfield
— I think his eyes are gray. Gray eyes in real life can appear a different color depending on the lighting. In different photos with different lighting, they can turn brown, blue, even green. So I like to think that the confusion about Chris's eye color came about because of his gray eyes, which are just unlucky.
— For some reason, Chris doesn't like to show his young photos. Perhaps he is embarrassed by the fact that he used to be thinner and "weaker". Perhaps it makes him feel insecure. Or maybe he doesn't like his rebellious nature from the past.
— He's a golden retriever puppy.
Ada Wong
— Ada doesn't use perfume while she's on a mission so she doesn't reveal herself.
— She is black cat.
Wesker
— He hates ties. Maybe he was forced to wear them at some point.
— Wesker gives a fake name in non-serious situations like tailoring or meeting with the hairdresser so people won't be embarrassed or try to suck up to him. His name is more influential than himself, and it's a thing he doesn't like to abuse.
— Perhaps one day he wondered if he should have glasses with an interface.
— His totem animal is a possum. He's so good at playing dead.
— There is a stereotypical opinion of him based only on the outward image he builds for others. Few people delve into the lore or what is behind his fake "cool" image. So many people are susceptible to the halo effect, this is a cognitive bias where a person has a prejudice against someone based on their appearance or certain actions. People subject to this cognitive bias do not look at this person with a broad view, slipping into prejudice. This is why many are convinced that Wesker can't be bottom, and aggressively lash out at those who think otherwise. I, on the other hand, believe that Wesker is flexible in this regard, which is maximally not obvious. Wesker to me is "that" character from the teen shows, who builds himself up to be cool, but at night cries from loneliness or is very vulnerable. He's bottom, but that doesn't degrade his ego, it doesn't make him weak, because "bottom" he's only with those who "worthy" of him.
— Speaking of worthiness, I believe that Wesker is unwilling to use his powers all the time by thinking of other people as unworthy. Only Chris is worthy to stand up to that power.
— Wesker keeps Chris's dog tag.
Jill Valentine
— Jill's favorite color is sky blue, as it was the color she chose for her uniform in S.T.A.R.S. and continued to wear throughout her life. Every outfit Jill wore on any mission had shades of blue in it. It is definitely a color that she appreciates very much.
— Jill is definitely not the best cook, she can hardly cook anything better than scrambled eggs. She share this skill with Chris, who isn't very good in the kitchen either.
— Chris is her best and closest friend, her partner. They mean a lot to each other, but it's always platonic.
— Jill's orientation is bi. She probably liked Carlos, but I won't deny that there could have been a close dynamic between her and some woman too. Jill, like Chris, doesn't have much time for a personal life, so she didn't go into much detail about her preferences, nor did she have an love affair.
— She didn't like Wesker even before the betrayal. Maybe she realized before anyone else that there was something wrong with the guy, so she figured out his betrayal before Chris did, who resisted the information. She is perceptive and able to see through people.
— Her totem animal is a manul.
— In the days of S.T.A.R.S., she was the one who woke Chris, sleeping at his desk, just before Wesker or Chief Irons came in. She would cover her lazy (in those days) friend from trouble, getting the brightest and most genuine smile from him. Wesker knew of their machinations, but turned a blind eye to this childishness.
— She tries not to think of the time she spent under Wesker's control. Her dislike for him has only gotten stronger because of it. Of the horrible things about those years was not only violence, but also being with Wesker and Excella. Excella's flirting with Wesker was repulsive to Jill. She hated every moment of it.
— After 2009 her hair was permanently white, because of this she dyes it back to its original brown color so that nothing reminds her of those days.
#resident evil#rebhfun#chris redfield#albert wesker#jill valentine#sherry birkin#resident evil headcanons#ada wong
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Kirk Hammett with a breeding kink. And when he succeeds in getting his lady pregnant, he gets extra horny and needs to fuck her all the time about it, especially as her belly gets bigger and bigger with his baby.
Kirk totally has a breeding kink, u cant change my mind
So sorry if it’s kinda short !! :(
Kirk and I had always shared a deep, passionate connection, but that night took it to another level.
We were in his apartment, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. The air was thick with lust, and every touch, every kiss, sent electric shivers down my spine.
“I can’t wait to fill you up,” Kirk murmured against my ear, his voice husky and filled with desire. I felt a rush of heat flood my body at his words.
Kirk had always been vocal about his breeding kink, but hearing him say it in such a raw, intimate moment was different. It stirred something deep within me.
His hands roamed over my body, his touch both tender and possessive. As he kissed me deeply, I could feel the intensity of his need. “You’re going to take all of me, every last drop,” he whispered, his lips brushing against my neck.
The words sent a wave of arousal through me, and I clung to him, needing him as much as he needed me.
Kirk’s eyes burned with a primal desire, and I found myself melting under his gaze.
When he finally entered me, it felt like the world stopped. Each thrust was harsh, filled with purpose, as he whispered filthy promises about filling me with his cum.
“I’m going to breed you, fill you up so good,” he groaned, his hands gripping my hips tightly. The raw passion in his voice sent me over the edge, and I lost myself in the overwhelming pleasure.
After we finished, we lay there, a tangle of sweaty, satisfied limbs.
Kirk kissed my forehead tenderly, and I couldn’t help but smile, feeling more connected to him than ever.
A month later, I stood in the bathroom, staring at the positive pregnancy test in my hand. My heart raced with a mix of excitement and nervousness.
I knew how much Kirk wanted this, and part of me had secretly hoped for it too.
“Kirk,” I called out, my voice trembling slightly. He appeared in the doorway, concern flashing across his face until he saw the test in my hand.
“Is that…?” he trailed off, his eyes widening in realization.
“I’m pregnant,” I confirmed, my voice barely a whisper. A wide grin spread across his face, and he pulled me into a tight embrace.
“We’re having a baby,” he murmured against my hair, his voice filled with wonder and joy. “I’m so happy, holy shit...”
As my pregnancy progressed, I noticed a change in Kirk. He was more attentive, more loving, but there was also a new intensity in his desire. He couldn’t seem to get enough of my growing body.
One evening, as I stood in front of the mirror, admiring the slight swell of my belly, Kirk came up behind me. His hands slid over my growing curves, his touch sending a shiver down my spine.
“You look so beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with arousal. “Seeing you pregnant with our child turns me on so much.”
I blushed, feeling a surge of desire at his words. Kirk’s hands roamed over my belly, then higher to my swollen breasts. “I can’t help it,” he admitted, his breath hot against my ear. “I just want you so bad.”
Before I could respond, he turned me around, his lips capturing mine in a deep, hungry kiss. He guided me to the bed, his touch gentle yet insistent.
As he made love to me, his hands caressed my growing belly, and he whispered how much he loved seeing me like this, how much he wanted to fill me up again and again.
Each time we were together, his desire for my pregnant body seemed to grow stronger. He loved the way my belly swelled, the way my breasts grew fuller, it’s like he couldn’t get enough of me. His hands were always on me, his lips worshiping every new curve.
One night, as we lay in bed after yet another intense session of lovemaking, Kirk rested his hand on my belly, feeling the slight movements of our baby. “I can’t believe we made this,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “You’re so beautiful, carrying our child.”
His words made my heart swell with love and desire. “I love you,” I whispered, my hand covering his.
“I love you too,” he replied, leaning down to kiss me softly. “And I love our baby.”
And as I felt our baby move inside me, I knew that we were building something beautiful together, a family built on love, passion, and unbreakable bonds.
#kirk hammett x reader smut#kirk hammett x you#kirk hammett fluff#kirk hammett x reader#kirk hammett imagines#kirk hammett smut#reqs open#request#metallica#smut#fanfic#smutshot#fanfiction#metallica x reader#metallica fluff#metallica smut#metallica imagines#metallica fanfiction#oneshot#mustainegf
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i can't focus with you standing in the corner like a fucking halloween decoration is so Roy coded I love it
Now which Roy is this CEO’s kid? I feel like that could really inform how Skeletor reacts to them
I would probably say some sort of semi-mix of kendall and shiv?
My reasoning is because you're the only child your dad has, you've grown up in your father's shadow for so long it became a security blanket to you- slipping from the watching eye of nanny after nanny when they brought you to visit your father at work so you can poke youre face through the window of his office during important meetings and conference calls and dream that one day you'll be sitting at the head of that big table, casting your own shadow over everybody seated before you.
But you're still a woman, afterall. And this big beast of a business built by your father had been run by men for men, even as they post pictures with their smiling employees for diversity and welcoming in a new era of "acceptance".
You did internships and business studies and got your degree with every intention of someday taking over from your father- with every gray hair and wrinkle he gained over the years and praise given to you as you found your own place within the company but all surface level- any sort of conversation of what will come next was placated with a well meaning chuckle and a "let's slow down, yeah? Still plenty of ground to cover right now" and a new task for you to scurry off with.
Please this group of investors.
Eat this company.
Go do this interview for me.
Attend this gala.
Have dinner with this man, he'll be taking over his father's company one day.
Every single one done with poise and perfection from years of practice.
It was enough to make you scream into your coat in a rented out meeting room with nobody else to hear.
And well, if that big brooding jackass in the skull mask happened to hear from the other side of the door, he had the courtesy not to say anything when the woman who signed his paychecks walks out with tear-stained eyes and trembling hands when you ask what the fuck he thinks he's looking at.
In the beginning, simon definitely resents you. You're some spoiled nepo baby who thinks the deserves the world on a platter just because daddy says so. He's a man who has quite literally crawled himself out of hell itself until his fingers bled and now he has to babysit you?
If the pay wasn't such a pretty penny he'd go back to being a butcher.
But then he sees your little tics.
The nervous twitching. The deep inhale as your father's praise but paired with a forced smile. There are times in the day where your eyes just. glaze over. the brief glimpses into the traumatic childhood of a lonely little girl with a revolving doors of nannies and stepmothers who never stayed long enough to braid your hair or teach you the type of men to stay away from- all slowly fed to him in bitesized pieces in little jokes told over the sandwiches you scarf down on your lunchbreak.
He begins to realize there's more to you than he thinks.
#security guard!simon#ask#asks#teehee#two people severely fucked up in different ways!!! oh the contrast of class struggle my friends#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you
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Every Rose Has Its Thorns - Part Forty-Four
pairing: Ricky Olson x ofc x Chris 'Motionless' Cerulli
warnings/tropes: slow burn, soulmates, strangers to enemies to lovers, betrayal, angst, fluff, smut, language, online bullying, panic attacks, stalking, mental health issues, conspiracy theories.
summary: In a world where soulmates inexplicably receive a tattoo that will match that of their soulmate the moment they turn eighteen years old, being famous and covered in very visible tattoos can make finding your true soulmate a questionable fate. For everyone involved.
author’s note: Unbeta'd as usual, enjoy!
To read from the beginning, check out the Masterlist Here!
tags: @faceless-mirror @missduffsblog @tamtam-elizabeth @witchyweeb34 @tearfallpixie
@wild-child-7747 @shilohrosechicken @lacktoesandtoddlerants @blackveilomens @valiantroeagleangel
@bngurngheart @dominuslunae @collapsedglasshouses @embracethereaper42 @emmmm127
@sunsshinesunny @spicywhenspeaking
If you would like to be added to this tag list please see THIS FORM
Their drive to their next destination was just as full of laughter, this time less about their day, and more devoted to Ricky surrounding his argument that he couldn’t possibly be vegan anything, thank you very much. He ate far too much meat, it just wouldn’t work. That was about the time that Talia decided that if they were going to be testing her tonight, it was about time she could try to test them just a little bit too, and she was going to. That was where the remark came from next, she was sure.
“Well, Rick, if you aren’t vegan anything, how could Chris possible get to enjoy eating you then.”
Looking out the window so calmly with a little knowing smile as her tattoo flared, whether the origin was Chris, or Ricky, who could say. The silence in the car, aside the traffic they were driving through, was telling as far as she was concerned, she very much had their attention dying down from the laughter and the jokes.
“We both know Spookie wants to swallow something.”
She only glanced over to Ricky then when she heard the choked sound in the back seat.. Giggling slightly, Chris having not expected that.. Obviously. Perfect. If she thought she was able to catch both of them out, however, she seemed to have to think again with the mischievous look in Ricky’s eyes as he pulled up to a set of lights. As he focused on her at that moment, the smirk on his lips,
“Oh, Sweetheart, I don’t think he’s the only one that wants to swallow, desperately.”
Damn you, Richard Olson. Mostly because as she felt her tattoo tingle again, she knew they likely both felt it too. Talia could only console herself that it had also flared up before, but it didn’t change the fact that it had given her away, just as it did them. She longed for the days when the only tip off to give herself away was the state of her face. With how warm her skin felt, she felt like she might as well be lit up like a damn Christmas tree. Bright and ruby red, she didn’t have a doubt about it. Though, with Chris sitting behind her, and Ricky had to pull his eyes back into the road as they started driving away, she had some reprieve from them looking right at her.
They didn’t have much further to go after Talia tried to tease them, Ricky was sure she was probably a bit grateful for that, or miserable as she didn’t have a lot of time to calm down. Either way, Ricky was pulling the car into a small little park with other vehicles.
“No, way, really Ricky?”
That was what he got from Chris in the back seat when he saw where they were, and Rick just grinned wide,
“Why not, trust me, just trust me.”
Ricky climbed out of his seat and got out of the car, walking around the front quickly to get to Talia’s door so he could help her out. Yes, yes he was aware she could get out of a car just fine on her own, but now he would admit, he wanted to see her reaction. That was what was going to seal the deal whether this place was going to be a good idea.
Mini-Golf.
She did a double take, her eyes going a little wide before she looked at him, a bit quizzical.
“You aren’t friends with me on my socials, and I made them private after Grace’s live, how have you been stalking my accounts…”
Smiling a little.. Before then, they both said at the same time, him confirming her guess,
“Ava.”
He had been attempting to try and figure out something fun to do, and he wanted it to be fun, not just sit around boring, so, of course, he wanted it to be special to them as people. They could do hang out, other days normally, but there was something about a first date you just wanted to remember… and with Talia, Ricky had so much to make up for.
“I asked her for help, however I didn’t want her to just tell me where to go. I just wanted her to give me a guide, so, she sent me to your personal Insta, and this, this, was what I came up with.”
Ricky sighed as he glanced towards the building behind her, it was an indoor mini-golf course, admittedly specifically designed to play at night. Black Light Mini-Golf, his hope was it was exciting, and different enough that she wouldn’t be triggered, and still enjoyable for her. As he turned back to Talia now,
“I know you used to love it, and I know your family ruined it for you. You deserve to have fun memories again, Sweetheart, but if you say the word, I’ve already looked it up, there is a movie in the park event tonight that is going to start soon. I have some blankets, we can all snuggle up and have a fine time.”
He didn’t want to pressure her into playing. Ricky had seen the way she talked about the wonderful memories she used to have about mini-golf, how she’d played with her grandmother before she passed, and then how after she did her family had just destroyed everything about it. Every chance they got, it had turned into a mockery, and they’d turned into something, pathetic, and cruel towards her. Ricky thought it was about time it became fun for her again.
Holding his breath as she looked into his eyes, Ricky for the life of him couldn’t tell how she felt about his choice. Whether she was upset, about to scream and cry, or whether she was overjoyed, she just was looking at him for a long moment. As much as he wanted her to be happy, really, what he wanted was her to be safe, and okay. If what made her happy the most was for them to leave this very moment and never come back here, he’d do it, in a heart beat. He’d fucked up enough already with her, he didn’t want to keep going,
“Talia, I-”
Next thing he knew, she was stepping closer to him, and pressing her lips gently to his cheek, with the softest whisper,
“It’s perfect, thank you, Ricky.”
As she leaned back then, she had this shy smile on her lips, and he could just tell she was biting the inside of her lip. It made him want to reach up and pull her lip from her teeth and kiss her properly, not some kiss on the cheek, but he swallowed, as much as he wanted to, he didn’t. He knew that he’d only get all kind of distracted if he did, and the whole rest of their night would be derailed. As much as he was sure that Chris probably wouldn’t mind the detour either, at all, Ricky meant it, what he said, Talia deserved those fun memories again.
“Alright, Sweetheart, come on then, let’s go get our putt putt on.”
Ricky reached to take her hand, smiled to her before glancing to Chris, raising an eyebrow, grinning as he got the picture when he took her other hand in his so they could all head into the building together. Once they were inside, Ricky paid, already calling ahead and making sure it would be fine if they just turned up and didn’t need to book. Seemed, as long as they weren’t a massive party, and they didn’t have to provide catering of any kind, they were free to roam. Sure enough, they headed out to the course.
Talia absolutely lit up at everything in the course, giggling like crazy as they played through the different holes in the course. It was such a silly little thing, and she couldn’t explain why she felt so giddy right then, but she did. It wasn’t just that she was here, but who she was with. That were having a completely wonderful time, she, was having a completely wonderful time. From the deranged looking clown under the black lights, to the freaky looking dinosaurs, and then there was the iconic windmill that you couldn’t forget.
Just because they were inside, didn’t mean you could forget the windmill, it was always electric powered anyway. Not to mention, the black light effect made the colours blur like streaks of neon paint in the air as the turbines blades spun even more dizzying. As she stood at her ball, biting her lip, she felt hands curl around her hips, causing her to shiver, especially with the way she’d semi hiked up the skirt of her dress. She didn’t know who it was at first until he was leaning against her back, leaning close and whispering low against her ear,
“Be sure not to miss, JellyBean.”
She didn’t mean to, but the low timber of his voice had a roughness to it, and in the semi-darkness, even with all the bright colours around, it had just the most distinct effect. The tiniest moan slipped out from her at the sound of Chris’ voice.
“Spookie.”
She could feel the way his lips curled into a smile against the shell of her ear, and she had to bite her lip a little more to stop herself to make any more of a sound. Soon as she did though, she felt another hand on her, fingers gripping her chin firmly, directing her to look at Ricky, his thumb gently prying her lip from her teeth.
“Now, now, Sweetheart, none of that, or we can’t be held responsible for what we’ll do, and the date isn’t over yet. You wouldn’t want to disappoint us by ruining our fun, now, would you?”
Whimpering as she shook her head. No, no, she didn’t want to disappoint them, at all.
Her score on the windmill hole was an utter disaster. Utter. Disaster.
Ricky better be driving them directly home, all Chris could think about was getting home, home, and his hands on both of them. Seeing the way that Ricky was with Talia, was the hottest fucking thing in the damn world, if he was honest. If he wasn’t going to get his mouth, hands, anything involved with at least one of them tonight, he was going to need some serious alone time because damn. His only other option was going to be an ice-cold shower and really, and he had to deal with that enough on tour, thank you. Hell no.
It was safe to say that when Ricky pulled over at another food truck to the side of the road, Chris groaned,
“I’m going to kill you, Olson..”
Ricky just smirked over his shoulder,
“We are almost home, don’t you want dessert?”
Before Chris could even reply though, Rick was already climbing out of the car, and Chris huffed, he was going to be impossible, but he supposed it was only fair. They’d had something for Chris, dinner, something for Talia, mini-golf, dessert could be for Ricky, how could he complain? Ice-Cream sundaes.. And yes, there were vegan options. Rick had thought of everything. Chris got the Banana choc brownie vegan sundae.. And he’d admit it, it was good.. But it wasn’t until he was walking back to the car, sucking on a spoonful of sundae that he heard a groan from Ricky… and glanced over at him.
He had a dumb founded look on his face, staring at Talia… the moment he looked at her, it wasn’t hard to tell why.
Fuck. She was getting them back for all their teasing tonight, and then some. Talia had gotten a strawberry ice-cream sundae… She had gotten a strawberry ice-cream sundae, and it had real strawberries on it, which she was staring Ricky down as she wrapped her lips around the plump fruit, biting into it slowly. Chris felt the groan that came from his best friend and soul mate.
“Fuck.. Can we go home, now, Rick?”
If that question wasn’t rhetorical, he was going to kill him, hear that, kill him.
“Get in the car.”
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
#motionless in white#miw#ricky olson#ricky olson fanfiction#original female character#soulmates#fanfiction#miw band#soulmate au#ricky olson fanfic#chris motionless#chris cerulli#chris cerulli fanfic#fic: every rose has its thorns
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"One day when I was a young boy on holiday in Uberwald, I was walking along the bank of a stream when I saw a mother otter with her cubs. A very endearing sight, I'm sure you will agree, and even as I watched, the mother otter dived into the water and came up with a plump salmon, which she subdued and dragged onto a half-submerged log. As she ate it, while of course it was still alive, the body split and I remember to this day the sweet pinkness of its roes as they spilled out, much to the delight of the baby otters who scrambled over themselves to feed on the delicacy. One of nature's wonders, gentlemen: mother and children dining upon mother and children. And that's when I first learned about evil. It is built into the very nature of the universe. Every world spins in pain. If there is any kind of supreme being, I told myself, it is up to all of us to become his moral superior."
--Lord Vetinari, Unseen Academicals by Terry Pratchett
#discworld#gnu terry pratchett#lord vetinari#havelock vetinari#discworld quotes#i love that philosophy and feel it in my gut and bones:#''if there is a higher power then it's our prerogative to be better than it''#like that quote from nation about the gods letting you down and how kneeling to them would be bowing to murderers and bullies#or the whole theme of small gods where the higher power needs to learn to care about the people he demands worship from#pratchett often returns to this theme of ''what do you do when your god(s) fail you?''#and having once felt like my god absolutely failed me - although i didn't have the words to see it like that at the time - that resonates#i've said before that that was such a revelation: those were the words of my last unanswered prayer#i have many intellectual reasons now to be an atheist but at the core it's...#if the universe is chaos then it cannot be cruel. there is no one who could have saved you but didn't for their own opaque reasons#if there is no god then no god failed me or left me drowning in despair for a whole year#small gods helped me conceptualize that in ways that defy words and literally changed my life and perspective for the better#anyway. this quote is magnificent. ''mother and child feasting upon mother and child''#and it makes so much of vetinari's character make so much sense#he looked at the world through cynical and bitter eyes but instead of becoming a nihilist who manipulated the cruel world for his own gain#he said ''we can and must be better than this''#(this is why i feel like kaz brekker - under inej's influence - should grow up to be like havelock vetinari)#(the one who clenches his fist and fucking *fixes* this goddamned place)
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finally learning emotional intelligence as an adult in my 30s feels like playing with goddamn tinker toys while i watch other people my age building these beautiful emotional ecosystems out of hand carved mahogany. but the alternative is to continue being glib and dismissive of every emotion i experience for the rest of my life so 👍 pass me that green rod i guess. and do you see any more hubs
#at some point last fall i visited my parents and was telling them about my plants#i had just bought a nerve plant aka fittonia#i got her because nerve plants are famous for wilting dramatically when their water conditions aren't just right#i thought it was interesting and funny and maybe a good way to keep an eye on my plant area. catch any moisture problems early#bit of a canary in a coal mine idea you know#anyway i told my parents about this plant#and they kind of laughed and rolled their eyes about this plant being so dramatic#and I said no. you see. i like a plant that communicates its needs#and i swear to God#i could See the thought passing through their eyes for the first time#that that might be a good thing#oh i think I'm gonna scream actually#DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY YEARS I SUFFERED CRIPPLING PERIOD CRAMPS EVERY GODDAMN MONTH AND NEVER TOLD ANYONE#by the way. nerve plants are fine after you water them. once you fix the problem they perk right back up again#my parents did their best. and frankly i think there's someone to be said that they raised an autistic child without traumatizing me#my depression and shit didn't appear until high school when i had to start interacting with the wider more complex world in earnest#and didn't have the tools for it#but my childhood of being given art supplies and left to my own devices was pretty chill#but i do wish unhappiness and discomfort hadn't been. like. something to be avoided or fixed immediately so no one had to talk about it#anyway. the birdcage is a good movie
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Neuvillette pines for you.
Furina learns to avoid him simply so she doesn't have to hear about whatever thing you've done lately that Neuvillette is obsessed with.
The ache is so deep in his soul it almost hurts.
The rain comes in a downpour sometimes. To match the wetness on his cheeks. Though sometimes he can't tell if it's the rain or his tears on his face.
You find him like this one evening. An umbrella tucked under your arm as you find the Chief Justice on the shore, head bowed and completely soaked.
"Monsieur Neuvillette?" you ask softly, coming up behind him. Your umbrella is just big enough to protect him from the rain. "Are you alright?"
He turns to you with shock on his face, tears still running down his face. A thousand thoughts race through his head, everything from did you see him crying to why in the world are you out in the rain?
A soft, gentle hand touches his cheek. It takes him a moment to realize it's your hand, the softest thing he's felt. Instinctively, he wants to lean into the touch. So he does.
"Are you crying?" your voice is soft, concerned, without the barest hint of judgement he so easily passes on to the players of his court.
The umbrella is shoved into the crook of his arm, and another hand reaches up to join the other. You cup both of his cheeks, though he has to bend slightly to allow you to do so, which he does so easily.
"There," you murmur, brushing your thumbs under his eyes. Your smile is so soft, even softer than your touch. "You have beautiful eyes, Monsieur Neuvillette. I hate to see you so sad."
The rain stops suddenly, as though someone has turned off a switch in the sky itself. His cheeks are dry and the sky is clear, and before he can say a word, you're looking up at it instead of him, still smiling.
"The rain stopped." You sound so happy about it, he almost feels bad for making it rain. You press the umbrella further against his hand.
Your touch feels warm. Inviting, and soft. Everything about you feels soft to him.
"Keep it for next time, okay? I'd hate to stumble upon you wandering through the rain again. You could catch a cold!"
He clears his throat softly, trying to figure out words. He's pretty sure words didn't exist before you started talking to him, and now he's floundering over them like a child.
"Allow me to walk you home," he finally manages, as though he didn't stumble over words for the first time in his life.
You smile, and link your arm through his own when he offers it. The sky above you two hasn't been this clear and blue in ages.
Perhaps, after he finishes walking you home, he can figure out how to finally ask you to dinner.
But who knows, really. After all, if he cries again, will you touch him as softly as before?
There's only one way to find out.
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There was a boy walking towards the invading army.
There was a civilian child walking towards the invading army from the infinite realms lead by their tyrannical ruler. The Justice League tried to stop force their way through, save the boy.
Instead of that, however, they were blocked by multiple ghosts, all hellbent on not leaving them alone. Superman tried to get close to the kid? Piles upon piles of ghosts knocked him back. Wonder Woman? The same thing happened.
The thing was, that wasn't even the ground army who did it. But the ones in the sky.
So the kid was walking towards an entire army by himself. One hellbent on taking over Earth and have no qualms about ending the short life of a human boy.
Instead of watching a child die, a life they failed to save. Something else happened.
The army parted for him.
Just as Moses parted the Red Sea, the same happened with the ghosts. They made a clear-cut line for him to walk straight towards their king with no obstacle, even clearing the way of anything that could pose as one.
Again, the Justice League tried to go down to drag the boy away, only to again be denied by the ghosts flying through the sky. Only to stop chasing as soon as they retreated a certain distance.
The ghosts stood still, and only moved as they got close, unlike their previous acts of causing havoc and mayhem. So, the Justice League, as much as they didn't want too, stood still and watched.
The boy stood at a stop before the king, painfully tiny in comparison to the massive ghostly tyrant standing before him with his arms crossed.
"Yo, dad." The boy said, and the Justice League froze in shock.
===
"Yo, dad." Danny lifted a hand up in greeting, before dropping that hand to rub at his neck. "Funny seeing you here, I guess."
"Phantom..." Pariah Dark's voice was soft yet booming and seemed to echo throughout the battlefield. "We meet once again on the field of battle, come to challenge me again, little one? Without your armor, no less?" Pariah tilted his head to the side slightly, questioning.
"Oh that? Yea that got destroyed ages ago," Danny shrugged, as if not having it didn't bother him at all. "Parents couldn't exactly, you know, finish it. Plus, they had other things to work on, so they just decided to scrap the thing altogether." He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged again. "So, yea..."
Pariah looked the boy over, his eyes hardening and he clicked his tongue at what he saw.
"You come here, not with armor," Pariah began, strength in his voice and a fire (literally) in his eyes. "Nor a weapon, or a shield, and no allies of any kind-"
"Well those guys are there" Danny pointed behind him, straight at the Justice League.
"-Walk up to a hostile force with no gauge of their strength." But Pariah just barreled on as if the Justice League were an afterthought. "And face their leader and do not expect to come to harm!?" The Ghost King scowled, and the Justice League tensed.
But just tilted his head slightly. "Well, are you going to harm me?" He asked.
Pariah Dark blinked, then whispered. "I could, child. I could kill you." He put a strong emphasis on the word kill.
"You could," Danny nodded. "But are you going to hurt me?"
The Ghost King remained silent, but his gaze intensified.
Danny shrugged, this time with a smile. "See? You wouldn't hurt me so it's fine. Ya big softie."
Pariah's scowl intensified. "I am not soft, child."
"Oh really?" Danny leaned forward and his smile took on a more playful edge. "Then what's you're reason for visiting Earth, hmmmm?"
"To wage war and fight against this world's mightiest heroes." The Ghost King answered quickly.
"Annnnnnnd?"
The king remained silent for a moment and Danny stepped forwards before he face planted onto concrete. "C'mon, dad. Tell me the other reason you came here." Danny crossed his arms, mimicking the Ghost King's pose.
They stared each other in the eyes for a moment, before Pariah looked off the side with green dusting his cheeks. "You have not visited in 50 years, son..." He whispered, but everyone heard it.
"Hah! Knew you missed me!" Danny said shamelessly with a satisfied and smug smile.
"And your father forced me out of the realms because I upset him." Small embers started igniting themselves on the tips of the king's hair.
Silence echoed over the battlefield, before Danny burst out laughing. Pariah Dark's hair fully exploded into green fire as he reached a hand to cover his face. "Of course, alongside the shameless and cheekiness, you get Clockwork's sense of humor as well..."
The Ghost King, at least this very moment, seemed more and more like a tired dad than some fearsome, tyrannical Ghost King.
#dc x dp#dp x dc#dpxdc#dp x dc crossover#dcxdp#dc x dp crossover#pariah dark#dp dark ages#dp darkages#darkages#ghost prince danny
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𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈:
| 1 | Gojo wanted to make you a mommy more than anything in the world... and he was fucking determined.
| 2 | You couldn't even begin to fathom the feeling of Gojo's blindfold shielding you from existence, his hand tracing up your spine and you knew he wasn't going to make this easy for you.
warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, fem!reader...
| 1 | breeding kink, husband!gojo, positions (doggy style, missionary, over his shoulders), many creampies, dirty talk, praising, begging, slight fingering, body worship, p in v intercourse (obvi), rough sex, feral!gojo, talks of having his children, petnames (mama, babe) lord i have sinned cuz this downright filthy...
| 2 | blindfolded reader, bondage, doggy style, fingering, p in v intercourse, dirty talk, teasing, cockdrunk!reader, rough sex, praising, pet names (baby, sweetheart, princess, good girl), mentions of riding and switching positions.
a/n:
| 1 | i was posessed writing this one, i swear- wc: 600ish.
| 2 | i think i'll make this thirst a staple, think we need to see more of reader wearing his blindfold... wc: 600ish.
v-day list | m.list
thirst count: 2
divider credit: @hitobaby & @firefly-graphics
| 1 |
“So good for me… yeah that’s it, mama.” Gojo praised, patting the side of your leg with oomph as you whimpered out his name. He had your legs high in the air, over the mounds of his broad shoulders and you could barely see straight, the entirety of your brain mush as he drilled into you– his cock ramming up against your cervix every time he managed a deep thrust.
Which was every time, mind you.
Gojo had you in so many positions already; doggy had by far been the best for you, your moans muffled by the sheets you were thrown against and you arched your back through every thrust. It was heaven sent, you felt as his hands groped at your thighs, your waist, your ass. But he was indecisive– that fucker, and he wanted to see your face as he shot his third load into you so he flipped you over. His other two had dripped out of you and he cursed under his breath when he noticed, his fingers trying to plug it back up into you.
“Fuck…! –got my dick in a chokehold babe...” He groaned out, his voice breaking at the end of it and you tilted your head back into the feather of the pillows beneath you. He was being absolutely ruthless with you and you couldn’t help but clench around him every time he plunged into you roughly– it made him feral, his bright eyes wide with desire.
“Your body’s so fucking perfect–” He breathed out as your hips started to meet with his own, his eyes rolling back slightly and his love laced words slipped off his tongue with ease. Your breasts bounced prettily on your chest and your back had arched back up towards him, your tummy poking out slightly– which fed his urges. “Need you carrying my kid… Gotta see how sexy you’d look– how fucking gorgeous…”
Your mind short circuited, practically screaming out for him to breed you because, holy fuck that’s all you ever wanted in your lifetime– a kid, his kid. You wanted nothing more than to carry his child, a bond so strong no one would ever threaten to break it and you cried out in ecstasy as he glided his tongue against yours. He swallowed your pleads, rutting into you with pure purpose now and all you wanted him to do was fill you up– again and again and–
“God yes– you wanna have my children, hm…?” Gojo teased in between thrusts, your body trembling as your orgasm crept up your spine. “Can’t get it out of your head huh, with your pussy squeezing me like a vice– shit…! I’ll make you a mama if you ask nicely.”
“Please, Satoru..! Need it–” You babbled, too worked up to care about anything else– you needed his cum painting your cervix white, nothing could sway you out of this now as you yearned out his name over and over.
“That’s right, beg for it.”
And you did, with utmost obedience. Your vision became fuzzy, tiny bursts of color surrounding it as you felt your release harrowing through your body. Gojo’s thrusts faltered, stalled within you and a deep groan filled your ear as he pressed down onto you– trying to bury himself inside of you as he came. He held you against him with his moans panting out against your neck as he lazily rolled his hips into you, fucking his cum as deep as it could go.
“T-Think I’ll stay inside you for a while..wouldn’t want this batch dripping out of you too.” He muttered into your skin as he caught his breath, planting kisses down towards your collarbone. A broad hand laid against your tummy as you reveled in his touch, relaxing into the feeling of being close and full– so full still it made you shiver with anticipation because…
“Think she’ll take after her momma?”
| 2 |
You wished you had the dexterity of his six eyes; you couldn’t see shit through his blindfold as you zeroed in on the shifting behind you against the bed.
Gojo had you pinned, your wrists tied delicately together as your as tilted up against his pelvis. His hands ran down your thighs, spreading them apart with a simple motion and you could already feel the cold air against your exposed cunt. It wasn’t the best position for you– you wanted to see Gojo, you longed for his beauty inside and out. But at the same time, this thrilled you immensely.
The thought of his blindfold holding you hostage and maybe one of his old ones tied against your wrist – you couldn’t tell – but it was intoxicating to say the least. That he’d go to the lengths of letting you wear it, letting you wear something so sacred to him, to the abundance of his entirety. At that moment, you felt his fingers swipe through your arousal and you whined out in frustration.
“Patience, baby. Don’t gotta wait too long– I got you.” Gojo hummed, plunging two fingers in simultaneously and you keened into it. “Arch some more for me– let me see that pretty pussy, hm?”
And you did the best you could, fucking yourself back on his fingers in the process; you were pleased with yourself when you heard his breath hitch behind you. And the precious sound of his clothes shuffling around his knees. God, you were so drunk for his cock– your entire cunt was dripping for it, messing the sides of your thighs.
You whined out again, not realizing how close he was to you. You jumped slightly at the sound of his voice against the shell of your ear. “You’re not very patient. Here, this feel better?” Gojo pressed the crown of his cock against your entrance and a sharp gasp fell from your lips, mixing with his own groan. “Ah– Of course it does... Ass up, sweetheart.”
His hands gripped the sides of your waist, positioning himself at just the right angle to fuck into you. Gojo didn’t give you a chance to breathe, to even slide yourself wider on the bed to take him– he just fucking sunk right in with no remorse and hoped you wouldn’t break underneath him. As he stretched you out, you couldn’t help but moan out his name and clench around him as he bottomed out.
“That’s it, princess. Go on, take my cock.” He huffed out, thrusting into you roughly and you laxed from the pleasure that coursed through your pussy as his cock dragged deliciously against the warmth of your walls. He filled you up so nicely in this position and it took everything in him to not just manhandle you– to not just straight up hold you against him and rut into you.
You could hear nothing but his harsh pants and the wet squelching of your cunt being abused and it fucking turned you on more than it should’ve– his blindfold brought so much more of your other senses that it nearly drove you wild each time his hips snapped into you. His hands roamed each and every crevice of your skin as he leaned over you, pressing his chest flush with your back.
“Such a good girl… sucks you can’t see me, huh? Betcha reallly want to.” Gojo panted in your ear, kissing behind it with a quiet groan overtaking him when you inadvertently squeezed around him– his voice just caught you so off guard, your senses totally obscured and you couldn’t help it.
“Next time, we can switch– you’ll ride me while I’m tied up, yeah? I’ll even close my eyes for you, level the playing field a bit…”
#𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒'𝓈 𝓋𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈 ꨄ#𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚜 ☾#jjk x y/n#jjk x you#jjk x reader#jjk x fem!reader#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen x female reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#jujutsu kaisen x y/n#jujutsu kaisen smut#gojo jjk#gojo x reader#gojo x you#gojo x y/n#gojo x f!reader#gojo x female reader#gojo satoru x y/n#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x you#gojo smut#gojo satoru smut#satoru gojo smut#gojo satoru#gojo jujutsu kaisen#fem reader#𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚠 ✰
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starved | [miguel o'hara x reader]
❛ pairing | new papi!miguel x new mami!reader
❛ type | oneshot: explicit content
❛ summary | peter says he's sex-starved. he isn't. he's just... adjusting to less time with his wife.
❛ tags | breastfeeding miguel, lactation kink, slight pregnancy kink, touch starved, pissy miguel, spanish is not translated, mention of violence, some cursing, f!reader.
❛ sy’s notes | written as per poll request! thank you everyone who voted.
Miguel likes to work.
Or, he thinks he likes to work.
The fate of the multiverse and all that boring ass bullshit. Peter has heard it all, twice, thrice over. What he knows is what he sees. What he sees is an overworked man running through anomaly files, sending out orders, and not spending time where it really mattered.
“Is that who I think it is?” Peter’s annoying ass house slippers flapped over the ground by Miguel’s feet. Peter’s hands rubbed together, sparking little bursts of heat between his palms. “It is! Mireya!”
Mireya, the newest addition to his small family. She was nestled comfortably in the crook of one of Miguel’s muscular arms as if it were the safest place in the entire world, suckling on what was left of a bottle of breastmilk. Miguel turned to place the empty bottle down on his desk. Peter followed, peeping over Miguel’s arm at her. Despite Miguel’s reservations, her bright brown eyes bored Peter with interest. She cooed at him. “Can I hold her? Let me hold her, it’ll be great! Aw look, she has curls.”
“My daughter isn’t your doll.”
“Look how pretty, she’s just like her mami. All sunshine and dimples and--,” Peter reached forward, easing his scrawny hands under her plush little arms and picking her up. Miguel’s hands fell onto his hips, shifting weight from one foot to the other, glancing down at his feet expectantly. “You know, for a new dad, you’re grumpier than usual.”
“Peter.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he bobbed back and forth, spinning in a circle. She giggled the kind of laugh that was all sugar, making Peter grin even harder. “I mean, wasn’t Mireya your idea? Are you-- y’know?”
“Y’know?”
“Sex starved,” Peter whispered like it was a great, terrible secret. As if in this vast space of silence, someone might catch his words and convict him because of them. Miguel’s half-lidded eyes slid against one another, held for a second, then spread open in an annoyed flick. He fluttered his gloved fingers at Peter to hand Mireya over.
“I’m just saying if you need a night alo--”
“I don’t. I’m not sex-starved.”
He waved him off. His eyes fell on his daughter, boring back up at him with those beautiful eyes he had waited so long to see. He shifted his weight from one leg to another, lulling her back into her late-night slumber, cradled against his chest.
Sex starved, he said. What a shocking joke.
His room was no place for a child. It was perpetually dark, dimmed for his sensitive eyes. So, at the end of the day, Miguel had your room to return to. A real home, one with more than a ratty run-down chair and a lifetime of regrets. A home that he couldn't make alone. Miguel pressed past the bedroom door where he found you overcome by sleep. Just like Mireya in his arms.
He turned his gaze down to Mireya once more, her soft and squishy body a vision of peace. Tiny fists balled up over her belly as she slept in her soft velvet onesie. The whole world in his hands: the start of a happy little family. Only right now, it didn’t feel so happy. Those were the cycles, the push and pull of life.
Tonight would prove to be another silent night with his thoughts. His chest swelled with a rush of air, bunching up his shoulders as he moved to the adjoining room to set Mireya into her warm crib. Torn from his warmth, her palms stretched out, ready to wail. Miguel placed his hand along the wooden rail, his stomach flopping into throbbing anxiety in his stomach. She could wake you up.
"Shh," he set his finger in her tiny palm. Mireya’s small hands rested listlessly around her head. The wail never came.
“Mi vida,” your sleepy voice fell over his ears, a gentle caress. He longed to hear it from your lips again. “Is she already asleep?”
“Sí--” he glanced over his shoulder, catching just a sight of one of his favourite little slips. Dusty rose with delicate lace details. He studied the edge of the gown, flowing over your thick thighs as you walked. Shock.
“You look beautiful." You looked down at your soft belly, a mincing smile pulling at your lips. He knew you were nervous, the way your hands obscured your plush belly. Mesmerized, his finger fell away from Mireya's soft grip. Peter's words echoed in his mind, a deep annoyance. It made his skin crawl, this growing annoyance in the acknowledgment that he had no sex in weeks, months. He took a step forward.
“I hope she doesn’t sleep through the night. My breasts are full,” Your fingers skimmed the taut skin. The glint of your wedding band invited him forward as if… you should be his tonight. You were his wife-- and though he didn't expect you to give him relief, he missed you. Miguel dipped his head, stroking the sore muscles of his neck.
Are you, y'know, sex-starved?
“When does she ever..." he couldn't help from saying. He grazed his fingertips over the swollen skin of your breasts, glancing from the skin to your deep, shy eyes. His breath thinned, realizing that you were disengaging, too scared to look him in the eye.
“She does, Miggy,” you breathed. His jaw worked, annoyed. “Lately. You’d know if you came home at night.”
If it was lately, he had no knowledge of it. Every lab screen he pulled up, every status report from Lyla, and every silent night in the lab, obsessing over how his little girl was doing-- he missed it. He should be coming in more often, crossing the threshold of work to family life. His hand cupped the underside of your breast. You winced, embarrassment working on your face. You pushed his hand away, likely feeling exposed by his touch on your tender skin.
“Does it hurt?” He leaned down, mingling his smoky, musky scent with your delicate one. He leaned in to place a soft, open-mouthed kiss along your neck, the warm pulse of your skin against his plump lips.
“Miggy, you’ll wake her up.”
Your fingers laced in his before you pulled him out of the room with a click of the door. He settled his hand on the middle of the door, sliding his hand up your waist, the soft fabric crinkling over the movement. He glimpsed a look at your soft panties cupping your round ass. “Miggy, I… I can’t. I’m tired.”
Of course, you were tired-- He underestimated how much work you took on in her care. He willed the wisps of his desire to snuff out. The distant flicker of hope followed promptly after. Maybe, one day, you would want him again. It wasn't today.
“Ya veo,” he suppressed his frustrated growl, wrinkling his forehead. “Another time.”
It wasn't the next day. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.
The anomaly whirled along a cobblestone street, exploding in a cloud of dust and stone. Its many black dipped hands flickered, dulling into little more than a negligible tremor of their limbs. Everyone else noticed the complacency that came with loss of consciousness. Miguel did not.
Miguel sauntered forward, dragged it by its muddy boots out from the crumbly remnants of the wall, and whirled it into another. It wasn't moving. It was done, tired, exhausted. He didn't care, his large hand encompassing its tendril hair and smashing it over the dusty floor. A violent crack, crack, crack of its head scratched his inert need to destroy something, anything, anyone. It fell from his hands with a slump. Miguel spat a bit of blood to the side, his cheek chewed raw under the tension of the moment.
“You need to take Peter up on that offer.”
Miguel stretched his neck one way. Then the other.
“We’ve been over this,” Miguel grumbled, hiking the pummeled body over his shoulder. It gushed blood, streaming into a diluted pink with the downpour of rain. A simple contusion, Miguel said. It was just a contusion. And a concussion. Maybe a gash or two. It would heal if the thing woke up. “I don’t need help.”
“You thrashed it, whatever it was,” Jess said pointedly. Miguel’s finger ran across his watch. The air was stale without an acknowledgment of Miguel’s churning temper, growing into a churning tempest by the passing minute. He stared long and hard through his mask. She drew out the silence as she waited for his response.
“It’s a contusion.”
The portal whirled to life before them in a slurry of vivid color, an unforgiving abyss. Jess slumped her bike with weight on one thigh, hand on her belly. The longer Miguel stared at her, so full and pregnant, the more he was reminded of you. He pinched the bridge of his nose. There was no use-- he saw visages of you everywhere he looked.
“Doesn’t look like any head contusion I’ve seen,” Gwen slid into the portal. His lip curled, annoyed by the obvious objection to what he was saying. If they would let it go-- he could go on about his life, wait for this obsession with his sex life to abate. Wait for you to come back to him.
“You can’t keep taking out your—“
“I am not sex-starved!”
“Convincing.” Jess sped into the portal.
Miguel soothed the stress out of his forehead, opening and closing his palm, a current of energy coursing through his palms. They picked— and they picked— and they picked at him. At some point, he was bound to explode. He only hoped you wouldn't be in his way when it happened. He whipped the anomaly through the portal and followed after.
On the other side of the portal, there was Peter— again. Cooing with his hands on his daughter— again. His dark mask faded away, his suit wicking water off his frame. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he located you beside Jess and Gwen. You nudged its crumpled body with your shoe. He didn’t often feel ashamed of his actions. Usually, they were necessary. Something was wrong, your face pinched and curled in disgust. He felt the string of your disapproval pulling through his arms, a slight, incriminating tremor flickering through his finger. He willed it away.
“What did you do to this poor thing?” you turned to Jess, a click-click-click off your tongue. He’d hardly call it poor. “It’s overkill.”
“Girl, ask your husband,” Jess folded her arms, reclining on her bike.
“Mi Miggy?” you went to him. You leaned over, pecking his cheek with a terribly insulting kiss, tickling his jawline. He swallowed. Blinked. Then frowned and brushed off your fingers, finding the care misplaced. You could care for an anomaly but didn't care to ask him how he felt. What he needed. Your voice wilted that sunshine quality, dropping almost to a whisper. “¿Qué te pasa, Miggy?”
“Nothing.”
“Miguel--"
“I said nothing!” He knelt down, grasping its ankle and dragging it down the long, drab hall that stored a variety of anomalies. A line of blood soaked the floor, swerving after his rumbling steps. You took a step forward, snatching his wrist between your fingers. He whirled around, a tremble on his lips firmed out into an unforgiving glare. You let up the pressure on his wrist, allowing him to spin his hand free. “Déjame en paz! There is nothing shocking wrong!”
Mireya cried. So did you.
The admittance that Peter was right wasn’t one that Miguel was about to make openly.
Although he showed up that night, as you informally requested, the night proceeded awkwardly. There was no talk over dinner, not as he watched you feed his little girl, swaying by the window of the enormous city below. As you gazed into the sea of twinkling lights, Miguel came up behind you. His palms encompassed your slight shoulders, moist against your exposed shoulders. His naked chest grazed your back.
"Are you going to apologize?"
Why should he have to? If anyone listened to what he was saying-- he wouldn't be in this mess. Still, Miguel steeled his face. He placed a mincing kiss on the top of your head. His voice thinned out, barely a feather on his lips.
"I snapped."
"You did a lot more than that. You scared her."
You let him sit with his regret until you fell asleep. He debated returning to the lab or his room to try again tomorrow. But he knew his wife. You were attentive to everything that he did. You might take it as a sign of his disinterest. After minutes turned to hours, he breached the door and slid into your bed when he was sure you were asleep.
When his eyes coursed over your figure, he realized all he missed. It was too long since he felt the warmth of a real kiss. Not the brief pecks on his lips as he rushed out the door to help Jess or Gwen or any other number of spiders demanding his attention. He missed the warmth in your eyes, the way they turn into crescents with a happy smile or jaunty laugh. He longed for that sensation of your fingers combing through his hair, taking your time and curling his fluffy hair behind his ear, eyes trained on his alone in a sea of spiders. That… sensation of being the only one that you wanted.
Mireya was that for you now. He longed for it every time he came into the room, seeing you sway with his child in your arms, cradled against your breast, feeding her into a restful sleep. What he thought was a mere seed of jealousy turned out to be a terrible beast, tendrils of resentment that you can’t see what he needs. He needs you. And it isn’t his beautiful Mireya’s fault, no. It’s his.
Instead, he lay there with his palm wretched around his cock, soaked in the artificial lubricant, throbbing into his hand. He remembered his words that night. A begrudging -- Mami, give me a baby-- and how well you took him. Your body seemed to know what he wanted, swelling with his child after a few weeks. He buckled into his palm, cranking around the base and swirling up to his leaking tip, bubbling with his need. He circled his finger over the head, swiping the fluid away.
“What are you thinking about?”
Miguel paused, sweat crept down his thick throat over his broad chest. He shuddered under the weight of your silken words. His hand coiled around his cock in one more jerk, somehow accepting that he had been caught.
“Are you thinking about me? Or is there someone else?”
"Someone else?" he breathed. His lips dropped into a frown, agitation simmering to a boil. It cooled when you looked at him-- but really looked at him. The bed shifted under your weight, ruffling pillows aside. You hoisted your legs over his body, pushing his cock against your soft vulva and his stomach, breasts pushing into his face. So close that Miguel inhaled the uniquely sweet smell of your milk obscured by thin lace.
“Why would I have anyone else?” he asked, his chest distantly aching. His gaze tracked from one breast to the other. He stole a glimpse at your face, stricken with shyness. The slight pout of your lips, eyes refusing contact. “Do you even want me?”
Undoubtedly yes.
“You don’t come to see me. You don't fuck me. You don't even--"
"You're always tired."
"But you could wake me.”
“Could I? To deny me again?” It hadn’t meant to come out so passive-aggressive, but with the natural inflections in his voice, he knew you could read him like a book.
“Oh, papi," not that soft voice. He might hope again. "I always want you.“
Hmpf. Debatable.
“Even when you’re jerking off in my bed. Or couch.” You slid your pink tongue along your lower lip, guiding your body against his. The wet draw of your juices over his dick drew his sharp scarlet eyes to the sight, knocking your stiff clit with his dick. For a moment, his words failed. He should have known you would watch him.
“Is that why you're so... angry? Because of me?" He made a small noise, barely a huff. You drew his hands to your full breasts, obscured by a thin layer of fabric. This time, he smothered a groan in his chest. How pathetic, he thought, to be moaning from something as simple as your firm breasts back in his hands. What was he-- twelve? "Have I been neglecting you, Miguel O’Hara?”
“Yes-- you've neglected me,” he murmured, dragging the lace underneath each breast, knocked together by the straps of the fabric. He melded your breasts again between his hands, massaging the sore skin. His thumps flickered over your nipples, stiffening them into peaks. With a small pinch to your breasts, milk dribbled over his fingertips.
"I won't do it again," he wondered if you missed his touch by the full, grateful hum of your lips, your palms disappearing into his dark hair. You coursed along his dick again, eliciting another piteous noise of longing from his throat. "I promise."
“Hm," was the only agreement. "What a mess,” he teased, not bothering to look at you. It had the desired effect, your shoulders shyly bunching up, the cute pout of your lips, warmth in your cheeks, quivering eyes. He loved it when you looked so fucking shy, so vulnerable, and all for him. "You're leaking all over my hand."
“I’m-- sorry,” you flushed, “It… happens.”
“Mhm, you're full,” Miguel flicked his pink tongue along your stiff, fat nipple, drawing it into his mouth with a suckle. Sweet milk soothed his tongue. He hungrily drank it up, shifting his other hand back to angle his cock at the entrance of your core. A hand left his thick locks and jerked to his broad shoulder, stabilizing your hips down to sink onto him. Blood welled to the surface with your claws scratching piteously along his sunkissed skin. With a bit of resistance, he slid perfectly into your body, just like he always did. A satisfied sigh escaped his lips against your breast. It was somehow different-- the tug and stretch of his cock-- as he fucked the mother of his child. Maybe it was all in his head. “Shock, you’re gorgeous on my dick.”
“Miggy--”
He shifted to the other breast, his hands nearly stapled on your hips, encouraging you to do the work. Your warm milk slid into his mouth, down his starved throat. The pleasure of knowing he was draining you of your milk was tempered with the ever-present fact that soon, you’d have his spunk in your belly again. Your hips flushed, drawing around in quick circles, flushed with his pelvis. Small waves of pleasure grew in your belly. Your stiff clit glided against his skin, again, and again with the undulations of his hips. You felt pinned between his mouth and dick, restricted in movement, but all his, devoured by his need.
“Come here, mi hermosura,” Miguel released your breast from those lush lips, sliding his tongue along his lips to catch the remnants of your sweet milk. He slid down along the pillows, flushing your chest to his, and propped his legs slightly for a better angle. His muscular arms wound around your back, cock pumping into you with renewed vigor. He knocked against your cervix in this position, holding you fast and tight in his arms. You nestled against his sweaty chest, accepting his thrusts so well.
“Miggy-- I’m not-- on anything.”
“You're breastfeeding, close enough,” he mused in your ear as though it were a joke.
You might have argued with him if you weren’t so blinded by that fantastic juddering of his hips. As it were, pleasure rocked all thoughts of birth control out of your mind. Miggy, an ever-present lover, groaned as he held out through your orgasm milking and soaking his swollen dick in your cum. Not a moment later, Miguel forced a long stroke of his dick inside your cunt, reaching his climax buried deep in your tremoring walls. You squeezed him tight, milking him dry of his orgasm until it all faded into fuzzy pleasure. You sighed as his arms loosened, warm and full of Miguel after so long. His soft dick slipped free, cum oozing onto his thighs, but he couldn’t be bothered to deal with the mess.
He set a kiss on the top of your head, then your forehead, and eventually snatched your lips in a warm kiss. You could taste the sweetness of your milk on his tongue and flushed. Your head dropped down on his chest, listening for the gentle whining of your daughter. It was silent but for the intermingling of your heaving breaths.
After all the issues: the disappointment, the fighting with Peter and Jess, Miguel couldn’t help but chuckle. All it took was jerking off in your bed. He should have known-- you never did like to be left out on his fun. You were always a jealous lover, even at the threat of his own hand.
“Hm? Why are you laughing?”
“Peter said I was sex-starved."
“Well," you glistened a smile, kissing along his jaw. He huffed. "He wasn't wrong."
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