hi! I'm dearhargrove and I love writing for shows and movies I love. At the moment especially for Supernatural but usually also for Stranger Things and 9-1-1 🥰 have a good time on my account 💓
summary aonung has been courting you, but you’re a little oblivious to the fact.
Pairing aonung x Metkayina!reader
wc 7.2k
a/n hi guys, if I haven’t done your request by now I’m probably just really not able to write it. I get writers block so bad. But feel free to send in different ones! I love your ideas and inspiration
The sky had deepened into a bruised plum color, the vast expanse above bleeding from the burning orange of an eclipse sunset into the cool, velvety indigo of true night. Around your thighs, the bioluminescence of the shore was beginning to wake up, greeting the darkness in tiny, flickering pulses of neon blue beneath the surface. The tide was low, revealing the skeleton of the reef—a labyrinth of coral and sandbars that usually lay hidden beneath the turquoise waves.
You shifted the weight of your woven basket, resting it firmly against the curve of your hip as you waded through the knee-deep water. The woven palm fronds dug slightly into your skin, damp and rough, but the weight was satisfying. It was a physical promise of the hours of creation ahead; a heavy basket meant a busy night at the loom, crushing shells for pigment and threading beads for the clan’s ceremonial sashes.
A few yards away, the soft splashing of water broke the rhythmic lapping of the tide. Lo’ak and Tsireya were lost in their own world, a bubble of laughter and shy touches that seemed impenetrable to the outside world. Lo’ak was submerged to his waist, his tail splashing playfully behind him as he ducked down, his movements unrefined but enthusiastic, to scoop up a handful of polished stones.
"For you," he mumbled, his ears flushing a dark violet as he offered them to her.
Tsireya giggled, the sound like the wind chimes her mother once strung around awa’atlu, and their heads leaned close together as he showed her his finds. It was a common sight now; since they’d started courting, Lo’ak had become a permanent fixture at Tsireya’s side. By extension, Aonung had stopped trying to drown him, or at the very least, had ceased his active antagonism. In fact, they moved with a comfortable, brotherly ease now—a mix of teasing and begrudging respect that made the evenings in Awa’atlu feel peaceful.
"Found another one!" you chirped, spotting a flash of cream-colored calcium beneath a sharp ledge of brain coral.
You bent over, your focus narrowing on the prize. It was distinct against the darker sand, a spiral of pure white that would grind down into a perfect, snowy paste for dye. As you leaned down, the water rippling around your waist, your thick curls tumbled forward. Gravity pulled the heavy, damp ringlets over your shoulders, obscuring your vision and sticking to your cheeks.
With a practiced, absent-minded flick of your wrist, you tossed the damp mass back over your shoulder. The beads braided into your hair—tiny pieces of shell and wood—clacked softly against one another, a musical accompaniment to your labor.
You didn't notice Aonung standing just a few feet away, his movements going perfectly still.
He had been pacing the perimeter of the sandbar, ostensibly keeping watch for akula or merely patrolling his territory, but in truth, he had been circling you. Now, he froze. He was watching the way the seawater droplets clung to your skin, shimmering like liquid crystals against your patterned teal skin. He watched the concentrated line of your brow, the tip of your tongue just barely poking out between your teeth in focus, and the way your eyes—wide and bright with genuine wonder—lit up as you pulled the small, fluted shell from the sand.
To the rest of the clan, you were a diligent worker, a kind soul. To him, in this quiet moment between day and night, you looked perfectly in your element—a pretty girl collecting pretty things, entirely unaware of how the starlight caught the curve of your collarbone.
Your head turned toward the figure looming a little ways away. Your eyes unexpectedly landed on Aonung, and a confused expression took over your features. He usually spent this time of day sharpening his spear or boasting with his friends by the fire. You wondered what he was doing here, standing so silently in the shallows, but deciding not to press, you simply waved at him.
Your inviting demeanor was one of his favorite things about you, though he would sooner die than admit it out loud. You never let anyone in the clan feel left out or less than. You were loyal to your people, a healer of spirits if not of bodies, always trying your hardest to make sure everyone was doing well.
"Look at the ridges on this, Aonung," you said, breaking the silence as you lifted the shell up toward him.
You took a step closer, water swirling around your thighs. Your eyes were wide, sparkling with that infectious excitement you only got when you found a new treasure for your art. "The symmetry is perfect. Eywa really was showing off when she made this one."
Aonung stared at the shell, forcing his eyes to focus on the calcium spiral rather than the water dripping from your curls, and gliding over your ceremonial tattoo. Then, against his will, his gaze drifted up to your face. He felt that familiar tight pull in his chest—a mixture of suffocating pride and a desperate, surging need to be the reason that look stayed on your face. He wanted to be the source of that wonder, not a dead piece of calcium.
"It is... adequate," he managed to say, his voice a bit deeper than usual, rough like gravel rolling in the surf.
He felt foolish the moment the words left his lips. Adequate? It was a beautiful find. But his defenses were high, a wall built of teenage bravado and the terrifying vulnerability of a first love. He didn't wait for you to respond. He turned abruptly and effortlessly dove, his powerful tail kicking up a spray of glowing foam that misted the air between you.
You simply hummed with a small tilt of your head, unbothered by his stoicism. You dropped the shell into your basket, the clack of it joining the others, and watched his figure disappear into the darkening water.
Unbeknownst to you, underneath the surface, Aonung was on a mission.
The water was cooler here, silent save for the rush of the current. His bioluminescent spots glowed brightly in the dim depths, marking his path like a constellation. He swam past the easy finds—the common cowries and the drift-wood that Lo’ak was content finding in the shallows for his little sister. That was child's play. That was easy.
Aonung wanted the deeper parts of the reef. He wanted the places where the current was often unpredictable, where the pressure built against his ears, but where the rewards were unparalleled. He kicked harder, propelling himself toward a jagged drop-off where the coral grew thick and ancient. He scanned the crevices, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, hunting. He needed something that spoke of effort. Something that said, I went where others could not, just for you.
When he surfaced minutes later, he didn't just walk over and drop his finds into your basket. He waited. He treaded water, watching you scan the shoreline, waiting until you were standing still with that contemplative look on your face. He watched the way you bit your lower lip as you decided where to step next, your tail swaying in the water behind you for balance.
Only then did he move. He walked right into your space, dripping wet, the rising heat of his body radiating through the cool evening air. He stopped mere inches from you, close enough that you had to crane your neck slightly to look him in the eye.
"The shallows only give you what the ocean is tired of holding," he said softly, his voice low and intimate.
He reached out, his large hand hovering over your basket. He placed a cluster of small shells onto the pile of your woven treasures. They were heavy, distinct—a deep, blood-red color, their surfaces smooth as glass but thick and sturdy. They looked like they could withstand a storm, or a thousand years of tides.
You gasped, your fingers immediately abandoning your own basket rim to ghost over them.
"Aonung... these are beautiful," you whispered, the breath leaving your lungs. You looked up at him through your lashes, eyes wide. "The color... I’ve never seen this shade before. I can use the pigment from the broken ones to dye my thread the color of the eclipse sun. How did you find so many?"
You smiled, your ears swiveling back in delight as you felt your heart thump at the gesture. The realization hit you suddenly—he was so close. His broad frame towered over you, blocking out the view of the distant village fires, encompassing your entire world in that moment. You could practically trace every line of his tattoo that streamed from where his brow met his nose, to the right side of his face.
Aonung felt a swell of triumph so potent it nearly made him dizzy. He noticed the way you looked at the shells—with reverence and joy—and he silently vowed to empty the entire ocean floor, to fight an akula with his bare hands, if it meant you’d keep looking at him with those wide, appreciative eyes.
"I know where the hidden pockets are," he said, clearing his throat and trying to sound nonchalant.
He crossed his arms over his chest, though his own heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. A smirk grew on his lips, that familiar teasing glint appearing in his eyes as he narrowed them. He did a dramatic look away toward the other couple, shrugging his shoulders. "Lo’ak and Tsireya are happy with the scraps. I thought you might want something... more."
You gasped, your ears swiveling back, and you slapped his bicep playfully. The muscle under your hand was hard as rock, and wet skin slick against your palm. A small giggle of shock fell past your lips.
"Do not be mean, Aonung," you chided, though there was no heat in it. "But... thank you. Thank you for being so helpful today."
You gave him a bright, blinding smile, one that crinkled the corners of your eyes, before happily going back to your searching. You adjusted the basket, treating his contribution like gold, and bent down again to inspect the sand closely.
Predictably, your curls fell forward again.
Aonung stood rooted to the spot. Once more, you huffed softly and flipped them back with that graceful, unconscious toss of your head. Aonung watched the movement, his hands twitching at his sides. His fingers curled into fists. He wanted so badly to reach out. He wanted to be the one to tuck those wayward curls behind your ear. He wanted to be the one to carry the basket that was clearly getting too heavy to rest on your hip. He wanted to do everything for you, and the intensity of the desire was terrifying.
"Hey! Y/N! Aonung! Check this out!"
The shout broke the spell. Lo’ak was waving his arms frantically from a tidal pool a twenty meters away. He was holding up a bright orange sea star, visibly dry— either a shed or it simply died before it could make it back to the water. "It’s huge!"
Aonung looked at Lo’ak, his jaw tightening. Then he looked back at you.
He saw you laugh at Lo’ak’s find, your attention shifting entirely to the forest boy. "That’s amazing, Lo’ak! It will make a great center for a chest piece!" you called, your voice light and affectionate.
A sudden, sharp spark of jealousy—not of Lo’ak as a rival, but of the attention you were giving the sea star—flared in Aonung’s chest. It burned hot and fast. A starfish? Anyone could find a starfish. A starfish was nothing.
He didn't say a word. He didn't acknowledge Lo'ak's shout. He just turned and dove again, slashing into the water with more force than necessary. He went deeper this time, past the red shells, past the coral ridge. He was determined to find something so magnificent, so rare, that you wouldn't be able to look at Lo'ak, or the stars, or anything else for the rest of the night.
You laughed softly at his sudden departure, shaking your head. "He is so competitive," you murmured to yourself, amused by his antics. To you, it was just boys being boys, trying to outdo one another in speed and skill.
As the time passed, the moon rose higher, casting a silver sheen over the water. Your basket grew heavier, forcing you to switch hips frequently. You shifted the weight of Aonung's growing pile of treasures—he had returned three more times, each time with something more impressive: a piece of obsidian glass, a pearl still inside the oyster, and a branch of coral that looked like frozen lightning.
Finally, Tsireya waded over to you, Lo'ak trailing behind her like a happy puppy.
"Your brother is in such a good mood today, isn't he?" you said, wiping the sand from your hands as you turned to Tsireya. You gestured to the waterline where Aonung was currently surfacing, holding something that glowed faintly purple in his hands. "It's so nice of him to help me collect materials. Usually, he says weaving is boring work."
Tsireya froze. She looked at the rare, aesthetic hoard in your basket—materials that would have taken days to find in the shallows. She looked at the blood-red shells that required a dangerous dive into the trench.
Then, she looked out at the water. She saw her brother, the future Olo'eyktan, usually so proud and aloof, practically vibrating with the hope that you would like his latest offering. He was looking at you with an expression so open, so full of longing, that it was almost painful to witness.
Finally, she looked back at your sweet, oblivious face. You were smiling, genuinely believing Aonung was just being a dutiful clan member.
Tsireya let out a long, slow sigh, shaking her head.
"Yes, Ma tsmuke," Tsireya murmured, a pitying smile on her lips as she patted your arm. "Extremely... 'nice.'"
The following week dissolved into a blur of turquoise water and sun-bleached moments, defined less by your daily chores and more by the sudden, omnipresent gravity of the chief’s son. It was as if he had developed a sixth sense for your whereabouts, appearing whenever you were just starting to feel relaxed.
He appeared at random, unpredictable hours, disrupting the rhythm of your day with the chaotic energy of a storm tide. If you were mending nets by the docks, his shadow would suddenly fall over your work, his hands "accidentally" brushing yours as he offered to help with a knot you perfectly understood how to tie. If you were having a quiet meal, he would drift by, dropping a fresh fruit onto your woven mat without a word, only a smirk that lingered long after he had walked away.
But it was the afternoons beneath the water that became his favorite hunting ground.
You were deep underwater, the sunlight filtering down in shimmering "god-rays" that danced across the sandy floor, riding ilus with the Sully children and Tsireya. Down here, the world was silent save for the muffled clicks of the sea life and the rhythmic beat of your own heart.
You were all gliding through a forest of giant sea fans, the Sullys struggling a bit with their breathing rhythms while Tsireya moved with the effortless grace of a creature born of the current. You were focused on your own mount, adjusting your grip on the neural bond, when a large, dark shadow swept over you.
Aonung appeared right beside you, his ilu banking sharply to match your speed. In the turquoise gloom, his bioluminescent dots glowed like a map of the stars. He caught your eye and flashed a wide, shit-eating grin that sent a jolt through your chest. He didn't say a word—he didn't have to. He simply raised a hand, signing one sharp, challenging word:
“Race?”
You didn't even wait to signal the others. You leaned flat against the ilu’s neck, and the two of you went full throttle.
The pressure of the water increased as you accelerated, the reef becoming a blur of neon streaks. You pushed through the resistance, your tail acting as a secondary rudder, feeling the raw power of the ocean rushing past your skin. You and Aonung were neck-and-neck, weaving through coral arches and tight rock formations, completely dusting your friends. By the time you looped around the massive sea-wall and tore back toward the shore, the rest of the group was nothing but distant, tiny specks in the blue.
As the water turned from deep indigo to the pale, sun-drenched teal of the shallows, you both breached the surface simultaneously.
You gasped for air, the transition from the silent depths to the crashing sound of the waves making your head spin for a moment. Aonung popped up just inches away. He was desperately trying to play it cool, smoothing his hair back with both hands, but he couldn't hide the heavy, ragged heave of his chest. The race had pushed him just as hard as it had pushed you.
In the heat of the moment, your eyes betrayed you.
Instead of looking at the horizon or checking on the others, your gaze drifted. It started at his soaked hair, which was plastered to his forehead, then traced the dark, intricate tattoos that marked his face as a future leader. Your eyes lingered on his broadening shoulders and the powerful swell of his chest, following the lines of his body down to his core. His abs were defined and tense from the exertion, partially obscured by a beautifully woven chest piece that slung around his shoulders—a piece you knew he’d spent time choosing.
Aonung went still. He caught you staring, the exhaustion in his eyes instantly replaced by a predatory, playful spark. His ears flickered once, twice, and then that arrogant, knowing grin returned.
“My eyes are up here, ma txe’lan,” he teased.
His voice was a low, honeyed rumble that cut through the sound of the surf. You felt the blood rush to your face instantly, your ears flattening in pure mortification as your eyes shot back up to meet his. He watched your panic with absolute delight, his smile growing wider as he realized exactly how much of an effect he was having on you.
You quickly regained your composure, holding your head high as you huffed at him, trying to summon every ounce of dignity you had left while your face still burned a vivid shade of violet.
“I was simply observing the weaving!” you shot back, splashing a handful of water toward him to distract from your blush. “I helped make that piece, y’know? I was checking to see if you’d managed to fray the edges already with your... recklessness.”
Aonung didn’t flinch at the water; he leaned into it, his grin only sharpening. He looked down at the woven leather and shell-work crossing his chest, then back at you, his eyes hooded and dark with mischief.
"Ah, so it was a professional inspection then?" he asked, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. He began to paddle his ilu closer, the creature’s wet skin squeaking against yours as he closed the gap. "Tell me, weaver, did the 'work' meet your standards? Or do you need to get closer to check the... structural integrity?"
He was so close now that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, a stark contrast to the cool ocean mist clinging to your shoulders. The playful arrogance in his posture was infuriating, mostly because it was working.
"The work is fine," you managed to say, though your voice lacked its usual bite. "The wearer, however, is being a nuisance."
"A nuisance?" Aonung laughed, the sound deep and genuine. He reached up, his large hand lingering near the strap of the chest piece, right over the fastening thrum of his heart. "And here I thought I was being helpful, giving you a chance to admire your handiwork in action. Most artists would be grateful for such a... fine canvas."
He flexed his shoulder slightly, making the shells on the strap clack together—the very shells he had dived into the deep reef to find for you just a week prior. It was a silent reminder of the effort he was putting in, a hidden thread of vulnerability beneath his teasing— and unbeknownst to you, he’d chosen that piece because he recognized your work.
Before you could think of a witty retort, the sound of chattering ilus and splashing water announced the arrival of the others.
"Finally!" Lo’ak’s voice boomed as he surfaced a few yards away, his expression a mix of annoyance and awe. "What was that? You guys took off like you had an akula on your tails!"
Tsireya pulled up beside him, her eyes darting between your flushed face and Aonung’s smug expression. She didn't miss the way her brother was lingering in your personal space, or the way your tail was twitching nervously beneath the surface. A knowing, slightly weary smile touched her lips.
"Aonung, stop pestering her," Tsireya chided gently, though there was a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. "She came out here to enjoy the water, not to be run ragged by your ego."
"I was merely testing her speed, sister," Aonung said, finally pulling his mount back a few inches, though he kept his gaze locked on yours. "And it seems she is almost as fast as I am. Almost."
He winked at you—a quick, daring movement that felt like a secret shared in front of everyone—before turning his ilu to join the group.
The afternoon that followed was shared between the both of you.
The sun, a bloated orb of fire, dipped toward the horizon, bleeding amber and gold into the turquoise waters of the reef. In the weavers' pavilion, the air was thick with the scent of dried sea grass, crushed minerals, and the faint, sweet aroma of the incense the elders burned to honor the Great Mother.
You sat nestled in your usual spot, your legs tucked beneath you. This was your sanctuary. While the others were out hunting or practicing with their spears, you found a different kind of power in the loom. There was a rhythm to it—a heartbeat in the clack-clack of the wood and the sliding of the shuttle.
You were surrounded by the elders of the clan, women whose hands were stained with dye and whose skin was etched with the deep, storied lines of many seasons. You loved their company; they didn't care about the petty dramas of the teenagers or the posturing of the hunters. They spoke of the ancestors, of the flow of Eywa, and today, they were particularly interested in your recent progress.
"Your thread is becoming stronger, little one," Ti’miria, the eldest among them, remarked as she peered over her spectacles made of polished translucent shell. "And your eye for color is improving."
You beamed, dipping a bundle of fibers into a bowl of fixative. "Thank you, Ti’miria. I’ve been trying a new technique for the binding." you watched a her eyes wandered to your material basket.
"You have been blessed by the tides, little one," Saeyla remarked, her voice like crinkling parchment. She gestured with a gnarled, dye-stained finger toward the cluster of deep, blood-red shells resting atop your fibers. "Those are not found by mere luck. They cling to the undersides of the jagged rocks where the currents are strong enough to rip a weak swimmer from the reef."
You flushed, reaching down to pick one up. It felt heavy and cool, its surface polished by the violence of the ocean. "I didn't find them," you said, your voice softening. "Aonung went to get them for me. He said the shallows were only for things the ocean was tired of holding."
A hush fell over the circle. It wasn't a cold silence, but one pregnant with meaning. Ti’miria exchanged a look with the woman beside her—a look that held the weight of a thousand seasons. They knew the pride of the Olo'eyktan’s son; they knew he didn't risk his life for "weaving supplies" unless his heart was already caught in the thread.
"Is that so?" She whispered, a secretive, knowing smile stretching her lips. "How very... helpful of him."
Before you could defend his honor or insist it was just a display of his typical arrogance, a shadow lengthened across the pavilion floor. The heavy, rhythmic footfalls were unmistakable.
Aonung strode in, looking entirely too large and too vibrantly alive for the quiet space. He wasn't carrying a spear or a net. Instead, he held a small, sturdy basket of his own. Without a word of greeting to the elders—though he gave them a respectful dip of his head—he dropped onto the mat directly beside you.
"Aonung!" you hissed, your eyes wide as you leaned toward him. "What are you doing here? This is a quiet space."
He didn't look at you. Instead, he began pulling out strips of dark, cured leather and a handful of small, iridescent shells that shimmered like oil on water. "My father says a leader must know the craft of his people," he grumbled, though his ears were twitching in a way that suggested he was lying through his teeth. "I have... things to make. I am joining you."
You stared at his basket. It wasn't filled with broken gear to mend. It was filled with beautiful, hand-picked treasures—small, delicate white shells, obsidian beads, and a strange, glowing blue seaglass.
"Since when do you weave, Aonung?" you whispered, your voice hushed so the elders wouldn't hear your teasing.
"Since I decided I wanted to," he snapped back, though there was no heat in it. He fumbled with the leather strips, his large, calloused fingers looking comically oversized as he tried to start a basic four-strand braid.
You watched him for a moment, your heart doing a strange little skip. He was being so deliberate, his brow furrowed in that same intense concentration you had seen when he was hunting. You assumed he was making a new grip for his knife or perhaps a decorative band for his ilu. You had no idea that every shell in his basket had been chosen because it reminded him of the way the light caught your eyes, or that the length of the kelp leather he was braiding was exactly the circumference of your neck.
The hour stretched on. The elders eventually stopped staring and went back to their own work, their low hum of gossip returning like the evening tide.
Aonung was struggling. A low, frustrated growl vibrated in his chest as the leather strips slipped from his grip for the third time.
"You're pulling much too hard," you murmured, reaching over without thinking.
Your fingers brushed his, and he went perfectly still. The heat of his skin was startling against yours. You gently took the leather from his hands, showing him how to keep the tension even. "If you pull too hard on the left, the whole braid will twist. You have to be patient, Aonung. You have to follow to the material."
You guided his hands with yours, your smaller fingers resting over his knuckles. For a moment, the world narrowed down to the sensation of his skin, the smell of salt and sun that followed him everywhere, and the rhythmic sound of his breathing.
He didn't look at the braid. He was looking at you. His gaze was heavy, focused on the way your hair fell over your shoulder, on the small patch of bioluminescence near your collarbone where this necklace would soon rest, on the way your lips moved as you explained the craft.
"Like this?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that made your stomach flip.
"Yes," you whispered, finally meeting his eyes. "Exactly like that."
You spent the rest of the evening in a state of quiet bliss. You discovered that Aonung was actually quite funny when he wasn't trying to be the toughest warrior in the village. He told you about the time he tried to ride a skimwing before he was ready and ended up face-first in a patch of stinging coral. He told you about the hidden caves behind the northern cliffs where the water turned a color so bright it looked like the sky.
And all the while, he worked. He meticulously wove the shells into the leather, his movements becoming more fluid under your guidance. He was creating a necklace—a piece of jewelry so intricate and beautiful it would have taken an expert weeks—but he was doing it in a single night, fueled by a desperate, silent need to give you something of his own making.
By the time the moon was high and the fireflies of the reef began their nightly dance, you were both finished. The pavilion was empty, the elders having slipped away long ago with knowing smiles.
"I should get back," you said, feeling a sudden, shy heaviness in your limbs. "My family will be wondering where I am."
"I will walk you," he said. It wasn't a suggestion.
He picked up your heavy basket, slinging it over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, while he tucked his own finished work into a hidden pouch at his waist.
The walk to your marui was slow. The village was quiet, the only sound the soft slap-slapof the water against the pilings and the distant call of a night-bird. Aonung walked close to you—so close your shoulders occasionally brushed.
When you reached the entrance to your home, he handed you your basket. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, softening the arrogance into something much more vulnerable.
"I enjoyed the weaving," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "Even if the elders are nosy."
You let out a soft giggle, your tail swaying behind you. "They just like to see you doing something that doesn't involve throwing a spear, Aonung."
You looked up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. You wanted to say more. You wanted to ask him why he had really come, why he had looked at you like that over the leather strips, but the words felt too big for your throat.
"Thank you for walking me," you said instead, giving him a shy, radiant smile. "And for the help today."
"Goodnight, Y/N," he whispered.
You turned to go inside, your mind racing, but just as you reached the curtain, you looked back. He was still standing there, a dark silhouette against the silver water, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. You waved a small, hesitant hand, and he nodded once before turning to melt into the shadows of the village.
As you stepped inside your marui and set your basket down, you felt a strange sense of completion. You didn't know yet that tomorrow, he would find you by the shore and press a cold, woven necklace into your hand—a gift of blue teardrop pearls, starlight and the talon of a reef bird to match his own, woven by the hands of a warrior who had finally found something worth holding onto more than his pride.
The golden hour in Awa’atlu was more than just a time of day; it was a transformation of the world. The Great Mother seemed to hold her breath as the sun, a bloated and magnificent orb of molten fire, dipped toward the horizon. It bled a palette of impossible colors—burning amber, bruised plum, and a liquid gold that turned the surface of the ocean into a shimmering mirror of fire.
The air was heavy and warm, carrying the sweet, intoxicating scent of the night-blooming flora from the shoreline and the sharp, clean tang of salt spray. It was the kind of evening that felt permanent, as if the universe had paused just to witness the transition from the frantic energy of the day to the bioluminescent peace of the night.
You were wading in the waist-deep water near the village docks, the cool, rhythmic lap of the tide a soothing balm against your skin. Today, you had finally unraveled your hair from its tight, intricate ceremonial braids. Without the weight of the beads and the structure of the weave, your hair felt immense—a thick, wild sea of curls that cascaded over your shoulders and floated atop the water like dark, silken kelp. You felt free, untethered, and entirely at peace.
Beside you, Tsireya was a picture of effortless grace. She was humming a soft, melodic tune—a song the Metkayina used to call the spirit of the water—as she moved through the shallows. In her hands, she held a woven basket of small, silvery fish. With practiced ease, she tossed them one by one to a group of young ilus that had gathered around you both.
The creatures were in a playful mood, their chattering clicks and whistles vibrating through the water. One particularly bold calf nudged its snout against your hip, nearly knocking you off balance. You laughed, the sound bright and clear in the evening air, as you reached down to stroke its smooth, rubbery skin.
"They are hungry tonight," you remarked, your fingers tracing the glowing patterns on the ilu's flank. "And very demanding."
Tsireya smiled, her eyes crinkling with warmth. "They know who has the best spirit, ma tsmuke. They can feel that you are at rest today."
But as the words left her lips, her gaze drifted past you, toward the pale curve of the shoreline. Her expression shifted—a mischievous, knowing glint entering her eyes that made your heart do a sudden, unprompted hop. "It seems we are not the only ones drawn to the water tonight," she murmured, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone.
You followed her gaze, squinting against the blinding gold of the setting sun. There, standing at the edge of the tide where the sand met the surf, was Aonung.
He looked different than he had in the weavers' pavilion or during the frantic races on the reef. Gone was the loud-mouthed warrior, replaced by someone who looked uncharacteristically hesitant. He was standing perfectly still, his hands tucked behind his back, his tail giving a sharp, rhythmic flick that betrayed his internal nerves. He was watching you—not with his usual smirk, but with an intensity that felt heavy, even from a distance.
He seemed to be contemplating his next move, caught in a moment of rare indecision. From where you stood, you couldn't see the sweat on his palms or the way his heart was hammering against his ribs, but you could see the way he looked at you. To Aonung, you were the center of the world. The golden light caught the curve of your neck, the wild tumble of your hair, and the way your woven top rested perfectly against your skin. You were a vision of everything he had been working toward for weeks.
Tsireya, never one to let her brother suffer in silence, cupped her hands around her mouth. "Aonung! Are you waiting for the tide to go out, or are you going to join us?"
The shout broke his trance. You saw him jump slightly, his ears pinning back in a flash of visible panic. He looked around as if hoping a rogue akula might appear to give him an excuse to leave, but when he realized he was trapped, he squared his shoulders. With a deep breath that expanded his broad chest, he began to wade out into the water.
His movements were slow, deliberate. As he drew closer, the water rippling around his strong legs, the playful chattering of the ilus seemed to fade into the background. There was a gravity to his approach that made the air feel thick.
"Tsireya," he said stiffly as he reached the two of you, offering his sister a curt nod. Then, his eyes locked onto yours, and the rest of the world simply ceased to exist for him. "Y/N."
Tsireya didn't miss the way his gaze lingered on your hair, or the way your own tail was twitching beneath the surface. She let out a soft, knowing giggle. "I believe the ilus by the marui’s are feeling neglected," she announced, already turning to swim away. "Do not be a bore, Aonung. Try to use your words."
She disappeared into the golden glare, leaving the two of you in a pocket of profound, charged silence. The water swirled between you, the rising heat of his body radiating through the cooling evening air.
"You look..." Aonung started, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, deepening it to regain his composure. "Your hair. It is different."
"I took the braids out," you said, feeling a sudden, shy heat rise in your cheeks. You reached up to brush a damp curl from your face. "Do you like it?"
"I... yes. very much," he breathed, his eyes traveling over every feature of your face.
The moment felt fragile, like a piece of spun glass. Aonung took a half-step closer, his large frame towering over you, blocking out the sun and surrounding you in his shadow. He reached into the small pouch at his waist, his movements slow and reverent.
"I have been thinking," he began, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in your chest. "I have been courting you for a while now. It has been... a process. But I think I am finally ready to present you with this."
He held out his hand. Lying across his broad, calloused palm was the necklace he had labored over in the pavilion.
In the dying light of the sun, it was breathtaking. The green woven kelp-leather was vibrant and rich, a testament to the patience you had taught him. At the center hung the reef bird talon, polished until it gleamed like a piece of dark glass, a perfect mirror to the one he wore himself. But it was the additions that made your breath catch—trailing along the weave were small, blue teardrop pearls. They were the exact shade of the pearls you wore in your hair, shimmering with an iridescent light that spoke of the deep ocean.
"Aonung," you whispered, your fingers ghosting over the talon. "It’s beautiful. It’s perfect."
"I wanted it to be right," he said, his ears perking up at your praise. "I wanted it to match you. To show that I see you."
You were staring at the intricate knots, moved beyond words, but then his earlier phrasing finally clicked in your mind. You looked up at him, your brow furrowing in genuine, sweet confusion. "Wait... what did you just say?"
Aonung blinked, his confident posture wavering. "I said I wanted it to match you?"
"No, before that," you said, your head tilting to the side. "The part about... courting?"
Aonung’s ears did a slow, dramatic droop. His mouth fell open, and for a moment, he looked entirely lost. "Yes. Courting. The gifts? The rare shells from the trench? The racing every afternoon? The fact that I have sat through three weaver's circles just to be near you?"
You blinked back at him, your mind racing through the memories of the past weeks. To you, it had been a series of fun, increasingly close moments with a friend who was finally softening. "I thought you were just... being helpful? I thought we were becoming very, very good friends, Aonung."
Aonung looked like he wanted to throw himself into the surf. He groaned, a long, dramatic sound of exasperation, and threw his hands up in the air. "Very good friends? Y/N, that was courting. My presence at your side every waking hour for the past fourteen sun-cycles just to be very good friends?"
He paced a small, frustrated circle in the waist-deep water, his tail splashing the surface. "Did you think I was doing that for Lo'ak? You truly didn't know? After everything?"
The heat in your face was now a full, violet flush. Looking back at the intensity in his eyes, the way he always stood a little too close, the way he had essentially become your shadow—it was so blindingly obvious that you felt like a fool.
"Well... now that I think about it," you murmured, a sheepish, radiant smile spreading across your lips. "I guess it was a bit more than 'friendly' behavior."
Aonung stopped his pacing and looked at you, his frustration melting into a look of pure, helpless affection. ""I am courting a girl who is as blind as a cave-fish," he muttered to himself, though the corner of his mouth was twitching.
"I'm sorry!" you giggled, stepping into his space until your chests were nearly touching. "But I accept. The gift... and the suitor."
Aonung’s breath hitched. "I see you, Y/N"
"I see you, Aonung"
You took the necklace from his hand, the weight of it a physical promise. You moved closer, stepping up onto your tippy-toes in the swirling water to reach him. You wrapped your arms around his thick neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. Aonung didn't hesitate this time; his large arms surged around you, pulling you flush against his warm, damp skin. He held you with a strength that made you feel entirely safe, his heart hammering a frantic, joyous rhythm against your own.
In the distance, Tsireya watched from the sully Marui with lo’ak, her heart full as she saw the two of you silhouetted against the last sliver of the sun. It was done.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. "Will you help me put it on?"
Aonung’s hands were trembling as he took the leather cord. You turned around, lifting the heavy, curly mass of your hair to expose the nape of your neck. You felt the cool touch of the pearls against your skin, and then the feather-light, reverent brush of his fingers as he secured the clasp.
When you turned back to face him, the necklace sat perfectly against your collarbone, the blue pearls glowing in the twilight. Aonung reached out, his thumb grazing your jawline, his gaze darkening with a sudden, heavy intensity.
"Y/N," he breathed, his hand sliding into the curls at the back of your head to pull you closer.
You didn't wait for him to ask. You leaned in, closing the distance, and then his lips were on yours.
The kiss was everything the last few weeks had been—intense, sweet, and deep like the ocean. It tasted of salt and the warmth of the sun. Aonung groaned low in his throat, his other hand splaying across your back to hold you as if he’d never let go. You melted into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, the world around you dissolving into nothing but the feel of him and the pulse of the tide.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours. He was breathless, a triumphant, vulnerable smile on his face. "Now," he whispered. "Do you still think we are just 'very good friends'?"
You laughed, pulling him back down for another kiss. "No, maybe best friends."
Pairing: Jake Sully x Daughter!Reader (ft. Neytiri)
Warning: Descriptions of burns, smoke inhalation, near-death experiences and angst.
Summary: In the aftermath of the war against the Ash People, Jake’s daughter is rescued from the smoke-choked sea, clinging to life.
A/N I haven't edited this so there could be spelling or grammar mistakes!! Alsoo I've been reading a lot of jake x daughter!reader and couldn't resist the temptation of writing something 😭
The battle was over, the Ash People had retreated into the haze, but the cost was still being tallied. Jake’s lungs burned but his heart felt like it had been hollowed out with a serrated blade searching for his family, wich who has lost track on the middle of the fight.
"Neytiri!" he roared, his voice cracking. "Tuk! Lo’ak! Kiri!"
He had found his sons. He had found Neytiri. But you—his eldest daughter, the one who had been holding the flank near the volcanic vents—were missing.
Then, he saw it. A flash of pale blue against the dark, oily slick of the water.
An Ilu was bobbing rhythmically in the swells, its chirps weak and distressed. Slumped over its saddle, held on only by the strength of a dying tsaheylu, was a body.
"No," Jake whispered, the word a prayer and a curse. "No, no, no."
He dove. He didn't wait for Bob to touch the water before he leaped, splashing into the surf and swimming with desperate, splashing strokes.
When he reached the Ilu, the smell hit him first. It wasn't the salt of the ocean; it was the metallic, sickening scent of charred flesh and the acrid stench of volcanic soot.
"Baby girl" he choked out, reaching for you.
Your skin, usually the color of the deep reef, was mottled with angry, weeping burns across your shoulders and arms. Your breathing was a terrifying sound—a wet, shallow rattle. You had inhaled too much of the toxic fallout, your lungs struggling to filter the ash that settled like lead in your chest.
Your eyes flickered open when you felt his hands, your vision was glassy, unfocused. You just saw a shadow in the smoke.
"Dad?" you wheezed, and the sound of it broke him. A thick, grey cough escaped your lips, staining your chin with blood.
"Fuck." he murmured, his hands trembling as he unclipped your harness. He pulled your limp body against his chest, horrified by how hot your skin felt. "Stay with me. Please don't stop breathing."
He managed to get you onto Bob’s back, holding you upright against him. Every time the Ikran flapped its wings, you groaned, your head lolling against his shoulder. Jake didn't look back at the burning horizon. He flew straight for the Metkayina village, his mind a blurred chant of please, please, please.
-
The transition was a blur of shouting and cold water. Jake carried you through the village. He burst into the healer’s circle, nearly collapsing as he laid you on the cool, woven mats.
Ronal was already there, her hands stained with the juices of medicinal roots. She looked at your burned skin and the way your chest struggled to rise, and her expression hardened into one of grim focus.
"The ash is inside her." Ronal stated, pressing a hand to your throat. "She drowns on land."
Jake gripped your hand, his thumb brushing over a patch of unburned skin on your knuckles. He felt so small. He had fought off the RDA, he had tamed the Great Shadow, but he couldn't reach into your lungs and pull out the fire.
"Fix her," Jake pleaded, his voice tembling. "Ronal, please. I can't lose another one."
He watched as they began the agonizing process of cleaning the soot from your throat and applying the cooling salves to your burns. You cried out in your delirium—a high, pained sound—and Jake didn't flinch. He stayed, a silent sentinel in the dark, letting your pain wash over him, wishing he could take every ember and every breath of smoke into himself if it meant you could breathe clear again.
-
The air in the healing hut was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and the low, rhythmic chanting of the healers. Jake hadn't moved. He sat like a statue, his fingers interlaced with yours, watching the shallow, jagged rise of your chest.
The heavy flap of the entrance was thrown aside with such violence it nearly tore. Neytiri surged in, her bow still gripped in her hand, her face painted in the fierce, dry blood of her enemies. She looked like a goddess of war—until her eyes landed on the mat.
The transformation was instantaneous. The predatory tension snapped. Her bow clattered to the floor, forgotten, as she saw the charred skin and the way you struggled for air.
A sound escaped her then—a high-pitched scream of pure terror. The sound of a mother who had already stood over one grave and refused to stand over another.
"No! Mui'a!" she wailed, her voice echoing off the woven walls. She lunged forward and Jake stood, catching her by the shoulders before she could collapse over your fragile form.
"She is burning, Jake! The fire... the Ash People have taken her breath!" Neytiri’s eyes were wide, frantic, darting from your pale face to the healers. She began to hyperventilate, the grief of Neteyam’s loss rushing back to merge with this new horror.
"We’ve got her. Ronal has her, she's helping her to breathe again." Jake grounded her, his voice a low, steady rumble as he pulled her into his chest. He held the back of her head, forcing her to hear his heartbeat. "She’s fighting, yawne. Our daughter is a warrior."
Neytiri let out a broken sob, her fingers digging into Jake’s arms as she finally slumped against him, her rage extinguished by a sea of tears. They stayed like that for a long time—two pillars of strength leaning on each other so they wouldn't fall while their child fought for life.
-
The fever broke at dawn. You felt a heaviness in your chest, but the fire was gone. Neytiri had been persuaded by Ronal to eat and check on Tuk, Lo'ak and Kiri.
Jake hadn't let go of your hand once. He sat on the edge of the mat, his large frame hunched over as he watched you breathe. Every inhale you took, though still a bit shaky, was a victory he celebrated in the quiet of his mind.
When you finally felt the world return, your throat felt like it had been scraped with hot sand and your skin stung with a biting heat.
"Dad?" you whispered, your voice sounding like crushed velvet from the smoke.
"I'm here" he said instantly, leaning in. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I swallowed a volcano" you managed to talk with a weak voice. Your gaze drifted to the heavy bandages wrapping your arms. "I lost my Ilu. I couldn't- I couldn't keep the line, Dad. I'm sorry."
Jake’s expression softened into something fierce and protective. He squeezed your hand—not the grip of a commander, but the anchor of a father.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly tone he only used when things truly mattered. "The line held because you stood your ground long enough for the reinforcements to arrive."
"Don't you ever apologize for surviving, you hear me? Your only job right now is to get better."
You looked up at him with tired eyes, seeing the lines of exhaustion and the traces of dried salt on his face. In the eyes of the clan, he was a legend, but here, he was just a man who had nearly lost his heart.
"Scared us pretty good there, you know?" Jake said, his voice thick with a watery laugh. "Don't ever do that again. That’s an order."
"I'll try" you managed, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips.
Jake leaned down, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to the top of your head. "Get some sleep, sweetheart, I'm right here."
He settled back into his seat as you closed your eyes; he let out a sigh finally looking like he could breathe again because you were breathing too.
TBH I REALLY DONT GET WHY PPL HATE JAKES DREADS SO MUCH??? Like he’s still FINE ASFFF with them. I do wish they let him have his hair down more rather then constantly having it pushed back tho. OTHER THAN THAT HES STILL DILF DADDY 😫😛
happy new year ❤️🩹 this is now the start of the fifth year of this account and I never thought I'd last this long 🙈 love everyone who supports or enjoys my stuff (and everyone who reads this too) and I hope we all reach our goals this new year and that it'll be great 🫶🏻
summary your day starts bad and gets worse. at least you have a supportive team and loving boyfriend.
word count 1890
a/n reader breaks her arm and ankle, reader has a horrible day, Buck is a cutie patootie, whump, hospitals, probably inaccuracy regarding the job, no explicit description of injuries
masterlist
You've been having a no good, very bad day so far and it's barely seven in the morning.
You should've technically been up since five – as usual. But your stupid alarm decided to not ring and leave you totally unaware and comfortably slumbering until almost seven thirty. Which doesn't sound too bad. Except it is.
Your shift starts at eight thirty. It takes you pretty much exactly twenty minutes to get to the station, so just about forty minutes for breakfast, shower (because you'd decided last night that a shower in the morning after your usual morning run sounded a lot better than one at night), hair and makeup. Given you never really wore much makeup other than mascara and some brow gel to work but still.
So here you are only a few minutes late, no breakfast, sour mood, tired but hey; at least freshly showered.
The rest of the team is already there, distributed all over the place. Usually you'd make an effort to greet everyone but today you're headed straight to the changing room to change out of your civvies and into the uniform.
Your bad luck doesn't get any better over the course of the shift. Quite the opposite, it just seems to get worse.
Just as you're taking your first sip of coffee the bells ring and with an annoyed groan you rush to get your gear and get into the truck with everyone else. The rest of the team seems in a rather good mood, Buck greeting you with a kiss and a smile and momentarily shooing away the gray cloud hovering above your head.
They're conversing about miscellaneous things and while you would usually join the lighthearted bickering you're tuning them out today, looking out of the window with furrowed brows and a headache brewing behind your eyes.
The day passes in a similar manner.
The calls aren't high stake ones, instead just a lot of small ones that seem to be mostly born out of dumb decisions. Which you usually don't mind – being able to help someone in distress still feels good, no matter how small the emergency is.
But today the civilians are getting on your last – nonexistent – nerve. Most of them are plain rude and ignorant, making derogatory comments that have you biting your tongue to do your best and remain professional.
It gets to a point where even deep breaths don't help anymore and just before lashing out at one particularly annoying and rude man Buck is by your side and gently taking your place, giving you a look that tells you to cool off.
With an irritated huff you stand and tensely walk off the side, feigning checking out whether someone else needed help.
Could today get any worse? You wonder as you get back in the truck, headache now full on pounding.
—
You suppose you could've expected that yes, today could get worse.
It's not even halfway through your shift when you arrive to a call at a high rise office building where one of the interns suffered some kind of stroke (the caller had been too upset to really describe what the hell was going on) on the thirteenth floor. And as your luck will have it the elevator is broken.
“No fucking way.” you breathe out in disbelief when the yellow ‘out of order’ note greets you and Eddie.
“Dios mío (my God),” Eddie curses, then sends you a suffering smile, “Guess we're getting our cardio in today after all, eh?” You just press your lips together and walk past him to start heaving the equipment up the flights of stairs.
Although you're trained for situations like this where you'd have to carry pounds upon pounds of heavy equipment and gear you're glad for every day you don't have to put it to use.
You kind of zone out while walking up the stairs and even when you arrive at the scene Eddie takes the lead as he's the paramedic.
Luckily it turns out that it wasn't a stroke and just an allergic reaction, so after Eddie administers the epipen the young intern doesn't take long to gain consciousness again and is simply rather embarrassed to see two firefighters leaning over her. She's young – twenty two at most you would guess. Her flustered apologies manage to placate your bad mood a little bit and with a reassuring, “You're good. Maybe start carrying an epipen on you though,” Eddie and you are back on your way downstairs.
“Bad day?” Eddie carefully asks, glancing at you as you stomp down the stairs with the passive aggressiveness you'd been exuding all day. “Horrible,” you correct.
He makes an empathetic hum, “Any reason? Buck do anything?” The assumption makes you chuckle a little and as you turn to look at him to reply, your boot slips and you're momentarily weightless as you fall – fly? – down the flight of stairs.
For a few seconds it's blissfully calm – there's no headache, no sore calves from all the stairs and your bad mood has evaporated to make space for a welcomed emptiness, eyes closed and ears picking up the muted sounds of Eddie calling out your name in shock.
Then it all fades into awareness and you wish the fall had just knocked you out because of course this would happen to you, today.
There's ringing in your ears and you can feel both your ankle and arm twisted in a way they're definitely not supposed to be able to twist into, the helmet you'd been carrying instead of wearing laying mockingly next to your head which you can feel throbbing dully.
“Shit! Hey,” Eddie calls your name before he's saying something into the radio, Cap’s voice barely registering in your ears. You're floating somewhere between being conscious and passing out, eyes focusing in on Eddie's worried expression.
“Come on, you know the drill. Stay awake, alright? Buck’s on his way up here, he'll freak out if you're passed out,” considering your boyfriend's tendency to be overprotective you easily get why Eddie would want to keep you talking, but well. You decide he'll just have to deal with it because wow, knocking out seems incredibly nice right now after the day you've had.
—
When you come to you're hit by the smell of disinfectant, sterile sheets and the depressing, but sadly familiar by now, atmosphere of a hospital. You roll your eyes in annoyance, a mental image of being stuck at home for recovery passing in front of your inner eye and making you want to lash out at whatever poor soul is in the room.
“Oh thank God,” you hear as you're working to open your eyes, the hand that's holding yours gripping tighter. Buck.
First you register that your left foot is in a cast up to the middle of your leg. Then you feel and see the cast around your left arm. Wow. You're never ever taking the stairs again. A faint dripping sound off to the side tells you the reason why you're feeling no pain.
“How are you feeling? Do you need water? Pain meds? I'll get a nurse—” You squeeze his hand and shake your head softly while trying to find your voice.
“Buck,” you eventually croak out, blinking a few times until you can focus your eyes on his face. He's hunched over the hospital bed, both hands clasped around yours and eyes wide and worried.
“Baby, you— you scared me.”
And Gosh, you know you did because his leg is going up and down quickly enough to generate electricity and the skin around his nail beds on his left hand is bloody and raw when you check.
“Stairs attacked me,” you muse, trying to lighten the mood after this spectacularly bad day. He chuckles and shakes his head, leg slowing. “How did it even happen? Knew you had a bad day, but. Did you feel dizzy before?” with a sigh you shake your head and thumb over his knuckles.
“No, no. I slipped when we were walking down. I was lost in my head and then all of a sudden I was airborne.” He exhales with a faint quirk of his lips and shakes his head.
“Your ankle is broken and so is your arm. Plus, scored yourself a concussion.”
His brows are furrowed and he's looking at you with an intensity that tells you he already has planned out how to make sure you're not without supervision while you're healing, and that he's also thought over every possibility of how he could've prevented this.
“Buck.”
His gaze clears up and his eyes flick from the side of your head (where you assume is a pretty bandage to attest your concussion) to your eyes. “I'm okay. This sucks, but I'm fine.”
He stares at you for another moment until his gaze softens and he sighs, tension easing from his shoulders. “I just. We were waiting for you guys to come back down and then all of a sudden Eddie says you fell and that you're bleeding and I—” he's looking at you with that look only he can manage; a mix of worry, fear and something close to yearning that makes your heart twist.
“You couldn't have done anything to prevent this, Evan. And given our job I could've been hurt a lot worse, okay? It's just some broken bones.”
He wants to argue but he makes the smart decision not to, nodding and sighing instead.
—
You're discharged a day later when they decide your concussion doesn't need more monitoring. However your anticipation of getting out is cut short when they put you in a wheelchair because you're unable to use crutches with one broken arm.
Buck is looking at you with empathy when the nurse wheels you out to where he is waiting, greeting you with a kiss to your head and exchanging a few words with the nurse before she leaves you alone with him.
“You still look sexy, even in a wheelchair.” is the first thing he says to you, grinning cockily. If you could, you'd have smacked him for that comment.
Before driving home he makes a stop at the station where everyone seems to be expecting you. They had visited while you were in the hospital, but nevertheless it's nice to see them in a familiar environment again.
“There she is!” Eddie announces with a smile, giving you a careful hug when he reaches you. Buck chuckles behind you and you fight the urge to huff and sulk over your vulnerable and helpless situation.
The noon is spent with some delicious lunch from Bobby, teasing remarks from the team and Bucks constant worried hovering nearby. He'd carried you up the stairs and settled you into your usual seat at the dining table, pressing kisses to your head, cheeks and knuckles too many times for you to keep track of.
“He was worried sick,” Hen tells you later that day, sitting on the couch with you. You're both turned towards the kitchen, where Buck is helping Bobby do the dishes and is excitedly talking about something.
“I guessed that.” you sigh and she smiles knowingly.
“Had to assure him every few minutes that you've survived a lot worse than a broken leg,” she muses and you nod with a soft laugh.
The afternoon passes unfortunately quickly and soon you're back home, Buck settling you into bed after he'd helped you with the difficult task of showering.
“Comfy?” you nod and he's bustling around the room for a minute longer until he's slipping under the covers with you, his arm slinging over your waist and his head snuggled into the crook of your neck.
You let your hand disappear beneath his t-shirt and scratch his back, murmuring little random facts and stories that you'd heard or researched while in the hospital into his hair, feeling him gradually relax and stop holding back from cuddling in fear of hurting you.
It works the same as a bedtime story does for Chris when you're babysitting him; he's out like a light in less than five minutes.
“Goodnight,” you whisper, kissing his birthmark before drifting off yourself.
eddie diaz x reader where the reader cant stop starring and touching his biceps😂 (im obsessed with that cpr scene on 9x06🤭)
summary as the request says, reader is pretty much starstruck by her super handsome and strong boyfriend Eddie who's clueless about the effect he has on her :P
tags fem!reader, reader is also a firefighter with the 118, probably inaccuracy regarding the actual job lol
word count 1409
a/n sooo, I got back into my 9-1-1 obsession lol! been rewatching and catching up on season 8 and 9 and wow... Buck and Eddie somehow both got even hotter wth. expect some more fics when I have the time heh
masterlist
He knows what he's doing, you're pretty sure. Or, he doesn't and unintentionally looks that good. You're not sure which of the options would be more dangerous for your sanity. Because if you have to come up with a new excuse for your flustered state after seeing Eddie walking around in short sleeves you will one hundred percent go crazy.
It's a pleasantly warm day, the sun is out and the sky is clear but there's a nice, fresh breeze. It'd be the perfect weather to go and relax outside, maybe even get some gardening done (it had admittedly been a few weeks since you wanted to start redoing the garden). But both you and Eddie are stuck on a twenty four hour shift.
Given, you'd never complain about coming into work when it was more just hanging out with your friends who by now were more family than anything else.
Nevertheless, today is a relatively quiet day. Though - for obvious reasons - neither of the team had said the cursed ‘q’ word yet. After Cap had made lunch Eddie and you lounged on the couch, enjoying the peace before the bells would inevitably ring again.
He's propped up on the arm of the couch, head leaned in his hand and eyes focused on his phone as he scrolls through either Instagram or tiktok (you're pretty sure he's still trying to figure out how to work either app, at least it looks like it with how he's clumsily navigating the scrolling and occasional sending of a video). He's manspreading (if anyone were to ask you he's probably the only man who could do that and not give you the ick), relaxed and totally unaware of how hot he's looking.
You're sitting next to him, eyes on the tv that's playing some random show but attention solely on your boyfriend. Especially on the way the sleeves of the navy LAFD shirt he's wearing are stretched around his biceps, soft cotton just barely holding steady.
“amor (love),” and your eyes are on him in a second. “Hm?”
“How do I do this? Why did Buck send me a request?” There's a soft furrow between his brows and you can't help the huff of amusement when he turns his phone to show that Buck had sent a follow request. “He wants to follow you. Just click ‘accept’,” he looks at you blankly for a moment and then sighs before turning his phone screen back and presumably clicking on the ‘accept’ button.
And then his attention is back on his phone. Which, today, you won't accept. He's been teasing you with his bulging biceps, tanned skin and perfectly groomed mustache all day - and no, you don't care that he doesn't even realize it and is just doing his job.
“Eddie,” he hums but doesn't turn to you.
“Eddie,” you repeat. He just hums again, shifting to click something on his phone. Huffing softly you snag his phone, “Edmundo.”
Now his attention is fully on you, too-pretty-brown eyes on you with a confused expression. You shrug innocently and pocket his phone, “You didn't reply.”
He doesn't even glance at the way his phone disappears in your pocket, now fully focused on you. He sits up straighter and crosses his arms over his chest, muscles twitching with the movement and your mouth runs dry. Oh, he knows exactly what that does to you.
“You've been spacey all day. Staring into nothing, flinching when someone calls your name. Qué pasó (what happened)?” His voice is soft like it is when he's worried. Or when he's smug.
“Nothing.” If you were to admit that he's been a huge distraction and that that's the reason you weren't focused most of the time today, he would never let it go again. So, a little emergency white lie will have to do.
“I'm just tired. Couldn't focus. Luckily the calls were simple.”
The slightest tick upwards of his brow tells you all you need to know. He sees right through you.
“Mhm, sure. You know… you forget that I'm very aware of my surroundings. Hell, we all need to be for this job. So.. I've seen you stare and ogle me all day,” he looks smug, reaching out and grabbing your hips to tug you from your end of the couch closer to him.
“I wasn't staring—” he tsks, grinning cockily, fingers tapping on your hipbones. “Come on now. Even Buck noticed.”
You don't even want to know about whatever conversation followed that, sighing instead. “Your sleeves are too short.” He raises his brows, looking down at said sleeves before looking back at you.
“You're wearing the same shirt. We're all wearing the same shirt. You can't only complain about me. Doesn't work like that.” And really, you love him to heaven and back but he's too cocky and you swear you'll punish him one way or another for it if he doesn't stop.
“It's not like I don't enjoy you staring,” he muses and reaches up to thumb over your cheek before dropping his hand again. “But I'd like to know why. You're usually pretty good at separating the personal stuff from calls.”
Giving in you lean back on the couch and stretch your legs across his lap, his hands immediately going to touch and feel and lovingly massage along your calves.
“You don't even realize how hot you are. Your biceps, Eddie. That's what's distracting me. That and the tattoo and your tan and your mustache and your stupidly pretty face.” You huff out. He chuckles and shakes his head, “Seriously? That's what's got you off your game?”
“Don't laugh.”
He does still look thoroughly amused and you know his ego just quadrupled in size but he nods and holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, sorry, sorry. I'll stop. It's a very serious issue that my biceps is distracting you from work, Firefighter.” he says in a mock serious voice, pretending to scold you.
A complaint is on the tip of your tongue when he speaks again, “On a serious note, though. How do you think I feel? Got my girl out there with me, looking so beautiful while she's saving lives and being a hero. Has my head spinning every damn time.” His voice drops to something husky and suddenly all teasing is forgotten.
He stops massaging your legs and runs his hands up until they're on your thighs, “And then I get to take you home, see you taking care of my son and treat him like he's your own.” You open and close your mouth to say something, but you don't know what. He chuckles, “You don't even realize how I'm always looking.”
And you're now realizing that maybe he's right and you don't notice when he's looking at you. Which sounds insane, because you're usually quite focused on him.
“Mi sol (my sun),” he murmurs adoringly in that low, husky tone that seems to naturally appear when he's speaking in his mother tongue, and as usual it makes you swallow drily and wait for whatever else he has to say.
“Speaking of,” a grin builds on his face and he flexes his arm as he reaches out to hold your chin between his thumb and index finger, “I'm taking you home tonight. After the shift. Chris misses you and is, quote, ‘tired of my burnt food’.”
It takes you one second to burst into laughter, fully aware of Eddie's unbelievable talent at destroying every single thing he tried to make in the kitchen and Christopher's dislike of it. Which is why you loved coming over and preparing some real food, or just being there while Buck cooked.
“I've missed Chris. I desperately need some cuddles from the little guy,” although he's not as little anymore as when you met Eddie he's still a baby in your eyes – with his messy curls and mannerisms that have similarity to a puppy.
Eddie's eyes are shining, probably a mix of adoration for his son and love for you. Which sometimes still feels surreal to know that this man loves you and would move mountains for you.
“If you spend the night I'll let you stare at my biceps some more.” he wiggles his eyebrows and grins playfully, pouting when you huff and lightly slap his arm in retaliation.
i happen to LOVE Sam’s little stutter. The repetitive words & actions make a character and give them personality. Sam was never an overly confident character like Dean and plus, Sam’s and SUPER SMART. His brain is racing with thousands of thoughts, theories, memories, lore that he cant keep up with it sometimes. In fact, I live Dean dearly, but Jared acting in it makes the show feel more real and relatable. Sam’s the scared little brother and deans the confident older brother. That’s how I see it anyway.
summary While Sam is at a witnesses’ house to figure out the current case you're stuck in a car with Dean. Which turns out to be much more fun than you first thought.
word count 1363
a/n another request my best friend had :) hope I did this right. figured dean would end up being a softie with the right person heh
masterlist
“Dean. Turn that off,” you repeat with a groan, head dropping back onto the nonexistent head rest of Baby's comfortable leather seat.
“No. Do you even know good music?” he refuses, cockily turning the volume up with a self satisfied grin. You give him your best bitch face as the rock music plays which in turn just makes him grin wider at you and play an invisible drumset.
“Dean—” he ignores you, saying something about ‘a good part’ and singing along to the lyrics of the song you'd heard probably every day since starting to hunt with him and Sam.
When the song fades out he gives in and turns the volume down and chuckles, “You know the rule, sweetheart. Driver picks the music—” You wave your hand and nod, “I know, I know. Shut up.”
He laughs in his usual manner, head slightly dropping forward and green eyes sparkling, making something in your chest twist.
“I don't get how you don't like my music. It's genius.” He concedes, looking out of the car and habitually analyzing your surroundings. “It's not that I don't like it. But you have like ten cassette tapes you switch between every time you drive. Even Baby has got to be tired of it by now.”
He pretends to be hurt by that and makes an ‘ouch’ before easily grinning again. “Baby understands me. She doesn't mind,” he pats the steering wheel but ultimately switches from his music to the radio. “There. You're lucky I like you.”
You guess you should've answered with something sarcastic and keep up the usual banter between you and him, but instead you muse an agreement with a voice way too soft to fit into your and Dean's usual back and forth.
He catches onto it and stops for a moment, just looking at you.
The song on the radio station switches to something slow and soft that you absently recognize but can't put a name to. “That's the type of song old people dance to, doll. I don't get people who like it.” Dean huffs as if the song personally offends him.
You chuckle, “Sounds like you're just jealous you have no one to dance to slow music with.”
He laughs and shakes his head, licking his lips before shrugging lightly, “Not true ‘cause I got you. And you certainly love old people music.”
You sense the way he tries to turn the statement into a dig at you, but it doesn't work and instead leaves you and him looking at each other with a softness that you'd never dared to acknowledge before.
“You do. Got me, I mean.” you shrug to appear like the way he's looking at you doesn't make your insides turn into a bunch of butterflies.
The always-there-furrow between his brows softens for a fraction of a moment and he swallows with a sharp nod. Because Dean Winchester doesn't do feelings or chickflick moments and especially not more than one night stands. Dean Winchester remains stoic and cocky and listens to too loud music, wears leather jackets and drinks too much whiskey.
And though he wants others to see him in just that light, you know he's much more complicated than that. You've seen almost all of him, the good he doesn't think he has and the bad he very much hates about himself.
And it makes you realize, right here next to him in his beloved Impala, that you don't just think of him as a friend. You're in love with him, irrevocably so.
The moment between you and him breaks when Sam opens the squeaking door of the car and starts sharing what he found out about the case from the witness. You're not listening although you should be, mind lingering on the moment with Dean.
Later that night you're curled up in one of the armchairs in the bunker, browsing through one of the books Sam had added onto the to-be-read stack, an old leather bound notebook at your side to write down relevant information that could help with your case.
You're pretty sure Sam had left for a run about half an hour ago and Dean is probably somewhere around with a beer, leaving you in comfortable silence that's only disrupted by the soft crackling of your favorite scented candle burning.
“You look awfully cozy over there.” You perk up with a little glare because why was he sneaking up on you like that? There's the familiar smirk on Dean's face, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets and red flannel replaced with a softened gray henley.
“I told you I hate when you sneak up on me, Dean.” He shrugs and approaches until he's almost right in front of you. “It's too much fun to stop.”
You try and kick at him but he's already anticipating it and dodges with ease, grin softening. “C’mon. Wanted to show you something.”
He seems sheepish and a little bashful, which makes you curious and all warm on the inside. Laying aside the book and your notes you take his offered hand and trail behind him, trying not to focus too much on the roughness of his palm that's holding yours with a firm gentleness that just screams Dean.
“Figured I have to prove I do have someone to dance with.” he murmurs as you reach the kitchen, aka the only room where the old radio had enough signal to work. A slow song is playing at a comfortably quiet volume and you realize why he brought you here.
“You know how it works, don't you sweetheart?” he asks, hand finding its place on your waist and the other holding your hand. In stunned silence you manage a nod and put your free hand on his shoulder.
He's awkward at first; swaying with you in a slow dance that contradicts his usually rough demeanor. But he's trying and he's doing you this favor because he knows you well enough to remember that you like soft and slow like this between the brutality of hunting and it's making you turn into a puddle of admiration for him.
“I can get behind why old people like this.”
You chuckle a little, misstepping just enough to end up right in his space, his hand holding you steady. “Woah, I gotcha, doll.” he comments under his breath. He always does; always has your back and always steadies you. You figure that's why you couldn't help but fall for him.
“Thank you. This was nice.” You concede as the song ends and you stop swaying, though his hands settle nicely on your hips and yours find their place on his broad shoulders, the worn fabric of his shirt comforting under your palms.
“I hate that I gotta agree,” he grumbles, voice low.
The silence that follows is comfortable but nevertheless charged with the tension between you both that has been simmering for years. He's the one to cup your chin in his hand, tilting your head back. “I'm no good for you.”
It's his way of telling you to stay away because he can't, that he'll ruin you the way he's convinced he does everything else. And you just can't have that — can't have him thinking he should push you away for your own sake. So, you do the only rational thing and kiss him.
It's electric and so different to other guys you'd kissed because he leans in and holds you so tenderly but with an underlying rough-around-the-edges only he can make look good.
When he pulls away to let you breathe he remains close enough for his nose to brush yours, eyes focused on yours. “God, I love you.” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. One of your hands finds his and curls around his fingers, firm, “Never thought you'd admit that.”
He snorts lightly and shakes his head, “You're infuriating.”
summary When Mark calls and tells you to take the kids and leave town, you don't question it. But with kids there's always something getting in between, and now you're in the middle of Volcheks plan. (Based on Countdown S1 E09)
word count 2140
a/n this is a request from my lovely best friend :P hope yall enjoy it as much as she did cuz I tried my best! sorry for being MIA for like a year 😭 gonna try being more active again depending on how this does
masterlist
You're in the middle of packing your six year old son's bag for his soccer game when Mark calls. Busy with making sure everything is packed you sigh and pick up the call, leaning against the kitchen island and watching Liam try and tie his soccer shoes, “Yeah?”
Mark sounds stressed and you can mentally see him running his fingers through his hair multiple times, “Baby? Where are you? Where's the kids?”
You frown softly and straighten up, “We're still at home, just about to leave for Liam's game. Why? What's up?”
You can faintly hear his team in the back, all sounding stressed and in a hurry, putting you on edge paired with your husband's almost frantic demeanor when he's usually calm — no matter the situation.
“There's— No, just. Take the kids and get outta town for today and tomorrow, alright? Visit your parents, or something.”
Your frown deepens and you huff softly, “Mark? What's going on?”
He sighs heavily in the way that you only hear after a shift that stretched too long, when he finally comes in the early morning hours and collapses into bed with you. “Just do it. Please, sweetheart.”
His voice cracks faintly and you swallow, nodding although he can't see. “Okay, yeah— okay. I'll take them and visit my parents. Are you going to come too? You're worrying me.”
You show your son a thumbs up when he proudly jumps off the couch after successfully tying his shoes, scrambling to get his little backpack in excitement that only a kid could have.
“Don't worry. I'll be fine, you know I'll be. But I need you and the kids safe for now.” He sounds so stressed and you desperately want to just speed to his office and ask him what the hell is going on. Instead you nod again, “Can I leave tonight? Liam has his first soccer game and he's been excited all week—”
Mark interrupts you, strained, “No. Leave now. I'm serious.”
There's an urgent ‘mama’ from the hallway and you sigh, “Call me as soon as you can. Please. And whatever you do, be careful.” There's a shout from his side of the phone and all he says before hanging up is, “I gotta go. Do as I say, alright?” It's a tone you haven't heard before, somewhere between urgent and scared, a mixture you wouldn't expect from your hardened and unmoving husband.
He hangs up before you can say more.
“Liam?” You call, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth at having to break his little heart and tell him he's going to miss his first game.
He comes bounding into the kitchen, smiling and hair flopping over his forehead in a way that tells you he didn't brush it like you asked him to.
“We need to talk about something,” his smile drops a little bit and so does your heart. You crouch down and let him move to stand between your knees, fiddling with a loose thread on your knitted sweater.
“I just talked to Dad,” you begin, smoothing his hair back out of his eyes. He perks up, “Dad called? What did he say, mama?”
Cupping his small cheek you smile softly, “We're gonna go and visit your grandparents, honey. Dad's gonna come tomorrow. We'll have a little vacation.”
Liam tilts his head adorably similar to a puppy, “After my game?”
Sighing you shake your head, “I'm sorry, love. We have to go right now. You can play the next game, okay?” Liam frowns and drops his hands to his sides, balling them into little fists, “No, mama. You promised that we all go to my game today.”
“I know I did. But it's important that we leave now.” You can visibly see the anger on his face, small face tinting red and brows furrowing together as his green eyes that are so similar his father's move from his shoes to you.
“No. I exercised so much! I want to go to my game.” You sigh and rub your temples because you understand. He's been basically counting down the days to today, his first ever soccer game, and now all of a sudden he's not allowed to go — for no apparent reason, too.
You spend the next twenty minutes trying to not have this escalate into a big tantrum, only for you to give in when his big eyes well up with tears and he sniffles out that he ‘trained extra hard to impress mom and dad’.
You guess an extra hour or two of leaving later like Mark asked you to won't hurt.
—
So, here you are, Ruby in your arms while you watch Liam run around with his team, already scoring his second goal of the night and you couldn't be prouder.
Then it all goes to shit. There's the distant – but not distant enough – sound of gunshots and people screaming before the soccer place erupts into chaos and parents rush to get their kids and leave.
Holding Ruby tightly pressed to your chest you run straight for your son, who's looking around like a deer caught in headlights, soccer ball still in front of him. “Mommy?” he calls out before locating your approaching form and running towards you.
“Let's go!” you yell over the chaos, holding his hand tightly as you run towards where you parked the car. “What's happening? Mom? I'm scared,” Liam whimpers, making your heart clench and try to calm him down while trying not to freak out yourself.
Ruby babbles something into your chest, little arms snug around your neck as she tries making sense of a situation that's way too much for a two year old to comprehend.
There's a shift in the air when you cross through the town to the car park and then your son is ripping his hand from yours and running off to— Mark. He's standing with his gun out next to a large white truck, staring at something across that you can't make out.
“Daddy!” Mark's head snaps around and his whole being seems to soften and then strain all at once as he catches his son and hoists him onto his hip. When he sees you standing there, Ruby on your hip and probably looking a frazzled and scared mess, his face hardens and he hurries over.
“I told you to leave,” he snaps, free hand moving to your back to hurriedly guide you away from whatever chaos is going on. “I couldn't, it was Liam's first game—”
He shuts you up with a quick glare, “If I tell you to go it has a reason, sweetheart.” The pet name is passive aggressive and if it was any other situation you'd be arguing back, but damn, he's right. You knew he likely had some dangerous reason as to why you'd need to leave, but how were you supposed to know this would happen right where you were?
“What's even going on? What are you doing here?”
He ignores you in favor of surveying the area, stance protective and ready to fight if necessary. Admittedly that's all you could focus on right now, his piercing green eyes scanning the surroundings before guiding you in front of him, his hand pressing just above your tailbone.
And the cherry on top of how incredibly good he looks is just how protectively he's holding your son, your baby, to his chest with one muscular arm, the other arm around you.
When you reach the car he buckles the kids in, then guides you into the driver's seat and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Go home, pack whatever we need for the night and get out of LA. I'll be right there. Don't do anything else, got it?”
You nod but catch his wrist in your hand, frowning, “Mark, what the hell is going on? Can't you come with us now? The kids are freaking out and I have no clue what to tell them.”
He takes your hand off his wrist and holds it in his, kissing your knuckles. “I'm sorry but I need to stay here right now. Team needs me.” The argument dies on your tongue when you catch the concerned glint in his eyes, the hidden emotions on his face telling you that he's sorry, that he'd much prefer being there to protect his family, his wife and kids, but that he can't — not when there's seemingly lives on the line.
Sighing heavily you cup his cheek and nod, making sure to keep your voice quiet to say, “Come home to me, okay? Can't do this without you.” He softens and when he steps back to close the car door there's hesitance in his movements. Nevertheless he shuts your car door and nods to you before he's rushing off, hand pressed to his ear to likely communicate with his team.
“Where's Daddy?” Ruby's small voice breaks the silence in the car as you speed through and out of the city and you catch her chewing on her thumb in the rear view mirror. “Daddy's coming home tonight, he has to help his friends out for now.”
She just nods, looking dubious in a way that mirrored your own worry.
At home you pack an overnight bag for the kids, Mark and yourself, ready to haul out of town like he told you to. Liam and Ruby are watching cartoons on the TV in the living room, sensing your anxiousness and focusing more on your rushed movements than the TV.
By six p.m. they're both buckled into their booster seats with their favorite plushies and a juice box each. Just as you're getting in the car, Mark's old truck (that you long gave up on trying to get him to sell and get a new one) pulls into the driveway.
You round your car, arms crossed over your chest and frown having yet to leave your face.
When Mark sees you, something heavy lifts off his shoulders and he steps the few feet over to you, brushing loose strands of hair out of your face. He sees your worry and anxiety, your pretty face twisted by the mix of emotions you're feeling.
“‘m sorry for today, baby. Wasn't planned.” he murmurs and cups your cheek before sliding his hand to hold your chin between his thumb and index finger.
Your arms drop from your chest and settle on his arms, “I noticed.”
He exhales through his nose in amusement and leans in to bury his face in your hair, closing his eyes momentarily and letting his hands roam across your shoulders, back and down to encircle your hips.
You melt into his embrace, hugging him and feeling the familiar fabric of his worn leather jacket beneath your cheek. “Don't do that again.” you know it's not fair to ask that of him when he's only doing his job but you can't help it. Days like these where you're awfully close to turning into a single mom always make you resent his occupation a little more.
Mark pulls back to take in your face, your sweater that's slipping off your shoulder, the jeans that he knows are your favorite because they're ‘worn in perfectly’ and most importantly your eyes, the ones you now share with your daughter.
“I love you so damn much, doll. You're a fuckin’ saint for putting up with me.” He settles on saying, voice low as if he's telling a secret, lips quirked up in a lazy smirk that has you resisting to bite your lip.
“I know. Should be getting a damn reward for that.” You muse, already anticipating his hands wandering to your behind and the smirk that replaces his soft expression. “Pretty sure I reward you plenty. Could show you tonight if you need me to jog your memory—”
You slap his chest and laugh, shaking your head, “Shut up and get the kids inside while I unpack the bags.”
He mock salutes and let's go of you, saying, “Yes, ma'am.”
—
That evening you're curled up on the couch with him, Liam deeply asleep in his dad's lap and Ruby snuggled between you and him, also sleeping while holding onto your thumb.
This is the way it's supposed to be, he can't help but think, looking down at you and then the two beautiful kids you'd given him over the past six years. He takes your hand in his, kissing the ring he'd put there (and that he's damn proud of — especially whenever he sees other women enviously staring at the diamond — because you deserve no less than the best, in his opinion).
Dean’s got some girl laughing on the bed of his motel room when his phone buzzes across the nightstand. He almost ignores it—except your name lights up the screen. And Dean Winchester doesn’t ignore you.
“Excuse me,” he mutters, grabbing the phone and stepping out into the hall. “Hey. What’s up?”
What greets him isn’t your usual steady voice. It’s slurred, high-pitched, and overrun with the sound of music and rowdy laughter in the background.
“Deeaaaan,” you drag out his name like it’s the funniest word you’ve ever said.
Dean’s stomach knots instantly. “Where are you?”
“At a barrr,” you announce proudly, then hiccup. “Made friends with a guy who bought me tequila. Bad idea. Real bad idea. Tequila tastes like—like burning.”
Dean’s already marching down the hall, keys in hand, ignoring the muffled call of the woman he left behind in his room. “Send me the address. Right now.”
There’s a pause, then the rustling sound of you fumbling with your phone. “Oh, don’t be mad,” you slur. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
His chest tightens, jaw locking. He forces his tone calm, firm. “Sweetheart, I’m not mad. Just… text me the name of the place, okay? I’ll come get you.”
You giggle. “You sound bossy. Kinda hot.”
Dean swears under his breath, yanking open the motel door and sliding into the Impala. “Just hang tight. Don’t go anywhere with anyone. Promise me.”
“Promise,” you say, voice soft, almost sing-song.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulls up outside the neon-splashed bar you named. The parking lot is crowded, the thump of bass rattling the windows, but it doesn’t take him long to find you. You’re sitting on a stool just inside, swaying to the music, hair mussed, your smile dazed.
Dean shoulders through the crowd, hand settling around your waist before anyone else can think about trying. “Time to go, trouble.”
You light up the second you see him. “You came!”
“Course I did.” His voice is gruff, but his grip on you is steady, protective, as he helps you down from the stool. “Let’s get you outta here.”
You stumble into his side, clutching his shirt. “You smell nice. Better than tequila.”
Dean huffs a laugh, guiding you toward the exit. “That’s a low bar, sweetheart.”
The cool night air hits, and you lean against the Impala while he opens the passenger door for you. “You ditched your date for me, didn’t you?” you murmur, eyes narrowing like you’ve uncovered a grand secret.
Dean stiffens for a half-second, then shrugs, casual. “She wasn’t important.”
You grin, cheeks flushed, lips glossy under the parking lot lights. “And I am?”
He meets your gaze, steady and sure, before leaning closer to buckle you in himself. “Yeah. You are.”
Your breath catches, the flirty smirk faltering into something softer. For a heartbeat, it feels like the world shrinks to just the two of you—the rumble of the engine, his face inches from yours, the way his green eyes hold you in place.
Then Dean clears his throat, shutting your door and circling around to the driver’s side. The drive back is quiet, except for you humming nonsense and Dean glancing over at you every other mile, jaw tight but lips curved just slightly.
When he finally gets you into the motel room, you’re half-asleep on his shoulder. He eases you onto the bed, tugging the blanket over you. But when he tries to move away, your hand catches his wrist.
“Stay,” you whisper, eyes heavy but searching his.
Dean hesitates only a second before kicking off his boots and sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Alright. I’ll stay.”
Your smile is lazy, drowsy. “Knew you’d come.”
Dean watches you drift off, his hand lingering over yours, and admits softly to the quiet room: “Always.”
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