i'm sure it's been done 1000000x before but stripper!reader x John Wick would go so hard esp if you're not even a willing participant.
like maybe he's there to scope out the club (and maybe he ran into you at the museum earlier, and his interest was piqued the moment you started rambling about ursus arctos californicus and followed you to your second job. it's whatever), and your paths keep crossing. he's just the polite (weirdly so) older man in your bracket, always sitting in the shadows and drinking nothing but sparkling water. and that should be it.
but you can't stop staring at him. and that's quickly becoming a problem so you offer him a lap dance (because at the very least, if he's like every other man who pays for an hour of your time behind closed doors then you can give up on this confusing muddle of emotions whenever you feel his eyes on you), but it doesn't go as planned. instead of leaning back and grunting at you, he peels his jacket off, eyes politely averted, and slips it over your bare shoulders, unbothered by the glitter and the stench of secondhand smoke that clings to your skin, and now soaking into his expensive, Italian-cut suit.
he offers you lapsang souchong from a small thermos tucked inside his jacket, and seems content to just watch you drink tea and make idle conversation about your job, your boss, your life. Twilight Zone—he's never watched it, he confesses with his palms pointed skyward. you stumble just a little when the flashing neon lights catch the milk-white of his rough skin. he's a beautiful man—tall and lean and soft spoken—and sometimes you wish he'd just disappear because there's too much politeness inside of him, and it feels like battery acid on your skin. but you don't. don't ask him to leave. don't change shifts. you just tell him that's a travesty because sometimes you think you could listen to Rod Sterling talk about oddities for hours.
soul-soothing, you say, instead of what it really is: a mindless distraction from the feeling of unwanted hands on your skin—sticky with nicotine; leaving stains behind—but he looks at you—through you—like he knows what you refuse to say. brooding eyes fossicking through the lies you lay on the table until he chisels the truth from your glitter-stained head, cradling it like a precious gem as he nods, slow and measured, and tells you he'll watch it later on as he pours you another cup of tea. he always says drunk up when he does, but you swear that sometimes it sounds like he's saying i'll take care of it.
and it becomes a little bit of a gag, too, because he never, ever gets a proper lap dance despite paying for one each time. things come up—he has to leave only minutes after you walk through door, leaving behind food that he insists you eat, or comfortable clothes he makes sure you put on. ones he never accepts back, and that always fit you perfectly. or he just wastes his hour listening to you prattle on about whatever it is that has your attention that week, offering a small smile and a slow shake of his head when you try to give him more to make up for it. a little wink, too. a secretive this is just for us he keeps tucked inside the rucksack he carries, filled with homemade food, tea, and gifts you don't deserve. all crammed beside the bits and pieces you tell him about yourself. your life. your wants, dreams.
and it's weird. he's weird. a fifty-something widower who is much too good to be in a place like this, to spend time with a broken, sad little thing more than half his age. they'd write tragedies about this, you joke, flipping through an original print of The Idiot that you didn't believe he actually had. but he just shrugs, palms open, skyward, and says he's stopped believing in the desolate outcome of Russian romance a long time ago.
(he leaves his rare copy of The Idiot behind despite giving away a small fortune.)
but it's difficult to escape the fatalistic nature of your relationship. one built on debt and obligation—a transactional affair. services rendered. money deposited. and it doesn't surprise you much when the financial elephant in the room moves, shattering the illusion of choice when the man holding the end of your leash says he's sending you to Europe. a business partner thought you were a pretty little bird, and you're easier to giftwrap than a couple of Lamborghinis.
and it comes to a head when you catch him killing your boss—and maybe it's your fault for letting it slip that he's giving you away, but you thought you could trust him to keep that secret—and reflectively, you grab the gun lying on the floor, but he's just as unbothered by you shakily pointing it at him as is he by the gurgling man lying at his feet, staining the bottoms of his expensive leather loafers with blood. even calmly corrects your form, a little "hold it like this, honey," slipping out as he instructs you how to handle a gun to his own potential detriment. and the that's it, that's my good girl that follows when you obey his instruction is almost too much. so you run. and he follows—straight to the stage where your boss' men stand around, guns drawn, and try to take him down.
futilely, of course, and all you can do is stand there—wide-eyed—on stage as the gentle, polite man who refused every sly attempt of yours to seduce him takes down every man in the room until it's just the two of you remaining in a bloodsoaked room. neon lights slipping through the mess until it glints like the glitter they slathered over your skin. music blaring. smoke dissipating. if your feet didn't ache from the heels they picked for you, you might think it was a dream. a nightmare, maybe. except the monsters are the ones being slaughtered, and you can still taste the faint curl of smoke from the cup of pu'erh between your teeth. hear the buzz of his voice in your ear—i won't let them take you from me, honey.
and when he's finished, he sits at the end of the platform in the "throne," your leash held in his pale hand, and asks if you'd like to dance for him. only him.
(and he'll tuck you into bed later on that night after bathing you—refusing to let you lift a single finger as he gently scrubs the glitter from your skin, thumbs sliding over the indents in your wrist, the marks of your shackles the only remnants of the club that was burned to the ground, no survivors—the Twilight Zone theme playing softly in the background as he curls his lean body over yours, murmuring into your ear to sleep before leaning over to tuck your leash into the drawer of his bedside table.)
Hello! Idk if your requests are open but if they are could I request a Kratos x fem!reader where R is very soft hearted?? I had such a shitty day today bc i keep letting people get to my head and always end up crying about it omg, I’d love to see Kratos w someone like that, like just gentle and soft spoken.
Happy new year!! Much love to you
✿Dry Your Eyes✿
✿ Word Count: 7942 Read Time: 25-30Min
✿ Summary: Kratos loves his lady and hates to see her cry.
✿ Warnings: Fem Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Post Ragnarök, Fluffy, Kratos is Protective, Established Marriage
✿ Rating: PG-13
✿ Notes: Not Proofread
The cabin was quiet without him. Too quiet. The crackle of the hearth filled the silence, but even that felt thin, fragile, as if it too might snap under the weight pressing on her chest. She sat at the wooden table with the kettle in her lap, its jagged crack running deep across the side. Her fingers fumbled with twine, pitch, anything she could find, trying to piece it together like a wound she could stitch shut.
It was pointless. She knew it. But still, she tried.
The kettle had slipped from her hands that morning, shattering against the floor. It had been nothing, really, kettles break, things can be replaced. But it was the last straw in a day that had been determined to unravel her. The chores had fought her every step of the way: the wash-basin leaked, the goats scattered, the wood pile collapsed twice before she could stack it. Small troubles, one on top of another, until her patience wore thin and her chest was heavy.
So she had gone to the village. She told herself she’d find a new kettle, perhaps even take comfort in seeing faces other than her own reflected in the dishes she’d scrubbed spotless earlier. Instead, she had found only whispers and stares. Words that cut without meaning to, or worse, words meant to cut.
Her throat tightened at the memory. She had walked away quickly, head down, clutching her basket though it was empty. She had made it home before the tears came, hiding them in the hollow safety of the cabin walls. He wouldn’t be home until nightfall, she had thought. She had time to compose herself, to swallow this weakness down and bury it.
But still the tears had come.
Now, she sat with damp lashes and a trembling lip, scolding herself in whispers as she tried to mend the kettle.
“Big baby,” she muttered, voice thick. “Crying over a broken dish, tch, pathetic.”
Her hands shook as she pressed the pieces together, as though her own will might force them to hold. The kettle wobbled, the twine slipped, and it fell apart again in her lap. The sharp clatter of shards against the floor echoed through the cabin, louder than thunder.
She flinched, pressing her sleeve to her eyes before the tears could spill over again. “Stop it. Stop. It’s nothing.”
She pushed back from the table so quickly that the chair scraped harshly against the floor. The sound pierced the silence, but it didn’t matter. Her chest burned too hot, too tight to sit still. She began to pace the length of the cabin, arms wrapping around herself as if she could hold the pieces of her heart together the way she tried with the broken kettle.
Her breath hitched in her throat. She forced herself to breathe slowly, deep, like Kratos always told her when panic clawed its way too close, but the air came sharp and stuttering anyway.
The villagers’ words echoed louder in her mind than they ever had in the square. Their narrowed eyes. She hated herself for letting them matter. For letting strangers peel back her confidence like it was nothing more than paper. She had survived so much, endured so much, how could a handful of careless words cut deeper than any blade?
Her throat thickened again, tears prickling. She pressed her palms to her eyes, furious with herself. “Enough,” she hissed into the hollow of her hands. “You’re pathetic. Crying over nothing. Over strangers. He would hate if he saw you like this.”
She shook her head, pacing faster, trying to outrun the weight pressing down on her ribs. Shame coiled in her gut until she could hardly stand upright. She told herself she was undeserving of his love, of his protection, of the life they’d built. That he deserved someone stronger, someone unshaken by whispers in a marketplace.
And in that moment, she didn’t hear the heavy tread of boots in the snow. She didn’t hear the steady creak of the cabin door opening.
The door creaked open, and the cold breath of the evening swept into the cabin ahead of him. She startled, spinning toward the sound, her sleeve swiping hurriedly across her damp cheeks.
“Kratos!” Her voice rose too brightly, too quickly, forcing a cheerfulness that sounded brittle in the quiet. She turned from the hearth, smoothing her skirts as though nothing had happened. “You’re home earlier than I thought.”
He stood framed in the doorway, the great bulk of him filling it. A fresh-killed doe hung heavy over his shoulder, but he let it drop just outside before closing the door behind him. His eyes, sharp and dark, swept the room once. The broken kettle on the table. The uneven breath she tried to swallow. The false smile clinging to her lips.
He moved to her in three great strides, and her heart leapt into her throat.
“Show me,” he rumbled, voice low but commanding.
She blinked, forcing a laugh that trembled at the edges. “Show you? There’s nothing-”
“Do not lie.” His eyes narrowed, scanning her hands, her arms, the folds of her dress. He caught her wrists gently but firmly in his calloused hands and turned them over, as though expecting blood or glass buried in her skin.
“Kratos, I-”
“You broke the kettle.” His voice carried no accusation, only the heavy certainty of a man stating what he already knew. “I heard you. You have hurt yourself trying to repair it.” His thumb brushed across her palm, rough but careful. “Where?”
The scolding edge in his tone made her chest ache more than any wound could. He was not angry; he was afraid. She had seen that fear before, masked behind his sternness.
“I-I’m not hurt.” Her voice cracked despite herself. She lifted her chin, blinking back the last of the tears, hoping he couldn’t see how red her eyes were.
But of course, he could.
His towering frame bent closer, his shadow falling over her as his face drew level with hers. Even softened by worry, his features were carved from stone, but his eyes betrayed him, dark with an anxious gleam that pierced straight through her defenses.
“You must be more careful,” he said quietly, though the weight of his words felt like an embrace. “Do not take risks over such things. I would not have you harmed.”
Her lips trembled, and this time, she couldn’t hold his gaze. She looked down at their hands, small and trembling in his, his were broad and unyielding, yet gentle. Her throat tightened, not from shame now, but from the sheer force of love swelling in her chest.
He worried for her. Even when she tried to hide, even when she told herself she wasn’t worth worrying over, he always saw her.
She swallowed, willing her voice to steady. “The kettle, I dropped it this morning,” she admitted softly, unable to meet his eyes. “I didn’t expect it to be so heavy, even empty. It slipped, and-” she gestured helplessly toward the shards still resting on the table, “-it was my mistake.”
Kratos’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing, letting her speak.
“I thought I could replace it,” she continued quickly, hoping to push past the quiver in her voice. “I went to the village, but they had none. So I came back with nothing.” She forced a small laugh, brittle around the edges. “I suppose I let my frustration get the better of me. That’s all.”
Her fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve, desperate to keep her composure. “I just feel bad. It was the only way we could brew proper stews, and now-now we’ll have to find some other way to cook what you’ve brought home.”
At that, she dared to glance up at him, only to find his gaze fixed on her, steady and unreadable. She knew that look; it meant he was weighing her words, sifting through what she said and what she left unsaid.
His silence stretched for a long moment before he finally shook his head. “We have cooked without it before,” he said simply, his voice a low rumble that carried no judgment.
Her chest tightened. She wanted to believe the conversation would end there, that he would take her excuse and let it rest. But his eyes lingered on her damp lashes, on the faint tremble in her voice, and she knew he didn’t believe her. Not entirely.
Kratos’s hand lifted, large and warm, brushing briefly over her cheek. The calloused pad of his thumb caught the faint trace of a tear she had missed. His jaw tightened, though his voice stayed calm.
“This is not cause for such sorrow.”
Her lips parted, a protest rising, but no words came. She only looked at him, towering over her, whose stern voice disguised a heart too tender where she was concerned. He had seen through her once again.
Her silence stretched too long. She opened her mouth, closed it again. Her eyes darted toward the broken pot, then back to the floor.
Kratos’s jaw hardened. “You are holding something back.”
She shook her head quickly. “I told you, it was only the pot-”
“No.” His voice cut through hers, low and firm. “I know when you lie to me.”
Her heart lurched. “I’m not lying,” she insisted, though the words tasted weak even as they left her lips. “I just- Kratos, it isn’t worth bothering you with. I’ve already wasted enough of your time today-”
He leaned closer, his massive frame eclipsing hers, his voice tightening with quiet authority. “You are my wife. Nothing you carry is a burden I will not share.”
She flinched at the tenderness hidden in his words. But still she turned away, pressing her sleeve against her eyes again. “It’s childish. I’ll sound foolish. I don’t want to make this your problem-”
His hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist, pulling it from her face so she had to meet his gaze. His eyes burned steadily into hers. “Your problem is our problem.”
Her chest hitched, shame rising in her throat. “You’ll think I’m weak.”
“I have fought gods, monsters, kings.” His voice rumbled, steady and sure. “And yet you think I could be troubled by your tears?”
She bit her lip hard, fighting the wobble in her voice. “You don’t understand. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed. I can’t- I can’t tell you without feeling pathetic.”
His brows drew together, a frown heavy with both frustration and worry. “You think I would ever see you so?”
She didn’t answer. The silence hung between them like a blade.
Kratos let out a slow, restrained growl of exasperation. “Enough of this. Speak the truth. Do not deny me again.”
The command in his voice clashed against the gentleness in his eyes, and she trembled in the middle, torn between her shame and the unshakable certainty of his love.
She sighed, her shoulders sinking as the fight drained out of her. Her eyes slipped away from his, settling somewhere near his chest where she could feel his warmth without enduring the weight of his stare.
“Something did trouble me,” she admitted quietly. “While I was in the village.”
Kratos’s brow furrowed, but he stayed silent, waiting.
She shook her head quickly before he could press. “I don’t want to speak of it. Not now. It’s nothing, truly. I’m sure I’m just overreacting.” Her mouth twisted into a humorless little smile, brittle and aching. “You know how I get. Tears over little things. I’m a hopeless case.”
Kratos’s eyes narrowed, a deep rumble in his chest betraying his displeasure at her jest. “Do not mock yourself.”
But she forced the weak smile anyway, shaking her head. “It isn’t something I want to drag you into. Please, just understand that I’m fine. I only need time to calm myself before I can speak of it.” She finally dared to look up, eyes shining, though her smile trembled. “Tonight, I don’t want to think about it. Let’s have a peaceful meal instead, hm? Talk of lighter things.”
The silence stretched, his gaze weighing her words. She could almost hear the storm turning behind his dark eyes, the battle between his demand for truth and his respect for her will.
At last, he exhaled, a long, reluctant rumble. “Hmph.”
His hand slid from her wrist, but not before his thumb brushed once more over the back of her hand, a silent tether, a reminder that he was not letting go, not really.
“You may keep your silence for tonight,” he said, his voice low and stern. “But hear me, woman: I would shield you from all things that would harm you. All things.” His gaze bore into hers, fierce and unyielding. “Do not forget this.”
Her chest ached, but this time, not with shame. She nodded, the smallest of smiles breaking through as her hand lingered in his. “I know,” she whispered. “And that is why I love you.”
She cleared her throat, eager to catch the thread of a different subject. “And you? How was your hunt?” she asked, turning to gather the knives and board he would need to dress the deer. The change in her tone was deliberate, too bright, like sunlight forcing its way through clouds.
But she hadn’t taken more than two steps when his hand caught her arm, not harshly, but with the quiet strength that always rooted her in place. She looked back at him in surprise, only to find his face softened in a way that words could never capture.
Wordlessly, he pulled her to him.
Her breath hitched as she melted into his embrace. His arms, broad and unyielding, wrapped around her with the kind of safety no walls could provide. She pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart, and for the first time all day, she felt her own heartbeat slow, steadying to his rhythm.
Her hands fisted in the fabric of his leather shoulder guard as she let herself lean into him fully, surrendering her weight into his. His chin lowered just enough that his beard brushed her hairline, rough yet tender in the way only he could be.
When she tilted her face up, he was already looking down at her, eyes dark but softened at the edges. The kiss that followed was unhurried, slow, deliberate, filled with the same gravity as the first they had ever shared. His lips pressed against hers as though the whole world had narrowed to just this moment.
She sighed into him, her smile blooming against his mouth. Her first real smile of the day.
Kratos’s expression barely changed when they parted, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed his satisfaction. He had succeeded in what he set out to do: to lift the shadow from her heart, even if just for now.
Kratos did not let go. His arms remained locked around her, the weight of his presence steady and immovable. For a long moment, he simply held her, his silence heavier than words.
When he finally moved, it wasn’t to release her, but to thread his hand through her hair, thick fingers combing gently from crown to nape. The motion was awkward, almost uncertain, as though he feared mishandling something so delicate, but it was steady, careful, and achingly tender.
A low grumble rumbled in his chest. “I do not like it,” he muttered. “Seeing you unhappy.”
She smiled against his chest, the sound of his voice vibrating through her cheek. “You’re sulking,” she teased softly. “Like a bear denied his supper.”
His only reply was another grumble, deeper this time, which made her laugh, a small, bright sound that pushed back the heaviness in her chest. She tipped her head back to look up at him, mischief sparking faintly in her eyes despite the redness around them.
“You’re a big, scary softy,” she whispered, her smile widening.
Kratos’s brow arched slightly, the closest he came to a glare when he wasn’t truly angry. “Soft,” he echoed, testing the word like it was a weapon unfit for his hand.
“Yes,” she answered, her grin playful, though her voice was warm. “Soft. And mine.”
His jaw worked, his expression unreadable, but the faintest flicker at the corner of his mouth betrayed him, a ghost of a smile hidden beneath his stoic mask. He huffed through his nose and tightened his embrace, pressing her closer against him. “Hmph. Then I am yours.”
And though he would not say it aloud, the truth sat heavy and certain in his heart: if being hers meant being soft, then so be it.
Once, in another life, he might have welcomed an audience. A younger Kratos had been proud, violent, and all too willing to prove his strength to anyone who dared watch. But those days were long gone. Now, in the quiet of the Wildwoods, he had no appetite for eyes upon him.
He was silently grateful for it tonight.
Atreus was far away, exploring the realms, chasing his own path. Mimir was not perched by the table in front of his book, running his mouth with endless commentary. Sigrún had spirited him away just yesterday, and though neither Kratos nor his wife would dare ask outright, both suspected the pair was off on some romantic venture of their own.
It left only the two of them here. Alone.
And with no one around to tease him for his softness, save, of course, for the woman in his arms, Kratos let himself indulge.
His head dipped lower, his beard brushing against her cheek as his mouth found hers again. The kiss was firm, insistent, and when she giggled against his lips, he chased the sound with another. And another. Until the laughter turned breathless, until her teasing dissolved into nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the steady strength of his embrace.
“Kratos!” she laughed, trying half-heartedly to push against his chest. “You’ll smother me.”
He grunted, unimpressed, and kissed her again, slow this time, deliberate, savoring the sweetness he would never admit aloud he craved every waking second.
Her hands curled against his shoulders, her smile blooming wide even as she pretended to scold him. “You are hopeless,” she murmured, eyes shining now not from tears but from joy.
“Mm,” he rumbled against her lips, the faintest curl of satisfaction ghosting across his face. “Perhaps.”
For a long moment, they simply held one another, breathing in the quiet that belonged only to them. Her fingers traced the edges of his tattoo, his hand rested broad against her back, and in the glow of the hearth, their eyes lingered, unhurried.
At last, Kratos broke the silence, his voice low and rough, as though he had to force the words through stone. “Earlier, you said you love me.” Her smile softened, patient. He dipped his head slightly, his dark eyes never leaving hers. “I love you very much, as well.”
The words came slowly, deliberately, heavy with all the weight of a man who was still learning the power of saying them aloud. Once, he had believed actions alone were enough, the protection of his sword, the roof over their heads, the game brought home to the hearth. But she had taught him otherwise. She, Atreus, even the friends who had come into his life despite his gruff exterior, they had shown him that words mattered too. That sometimes, a heart needed to hear what hands alone could not say.
She swooned at once, her smile breaking into something radiant as her hands lifted to cradle his face. “Oh, Kratos,” she whispered, before kissing him sweetly, tenderly, like she was sealing his words to her heart.
When she pulled back, her lips still brushed against his as she whispered, “I love you too.” Then, with a sly grin, she added, “More than you love me.”
Kratos’s brow arched, his only reply a grumble from deep in his chest, the kind that sounded like displeasure but hid the truth too poorly.
She giggled, knowing she’d struck him true, and kissed him again.
And though his face betrayed only mock annoyance, inside he was undone, swooning, though he would never dare call it that. She could tell, though, by the glimmer in his eyes.
Their quiet was broken by a sudden chorus of growls, yips, and excited scrabbling claws just outside the door. Both of them turned toward the sound.
She gasped. “The wolves!”
Kratos grunted, already knowing what had happened. He had dropped the doe just outside the cabin, and his loyal sled dogs- wolves, though she stubbornly insisted on calling them her “sweet pups”- had wasted no time in finding it.
She pressed her hands to her mouth, eyes wide with dismay. “Oh, Kratos, if they drag it to pieces right there, we’ll never get the front step clean again!” Her voice was full of flustered worry, though her smile betrayed her affection. “And there’ll be hardly anything left for us.”
“Hmph.” Kratos let out a low, reluctant sound and finally eased his arms from around her. “Stay.”
She chuckled softly at the command, but didn’t argue as he stepped outside.
The wolves yipped louder when he appeared, dancing around the deer with wagging tails and eager teeth. They had once pulled his sled through the endless snow of Fimbulwinter, but since Ragnarök had come and gone, and the deep ice receded, they had remained here as companions. Loyal. Fierce. His family, in their way.
Still, they were gluttons.
Kratos drove them back with a sharp command, then bent to drag the carcass around the cabin toward the wolf pen. The animals bounded after him, circling and whining with excitement. Inside the pen, he dropped the deer and, with practiced ease, drew his knife. The blade cut swiftly through flesh, and with a single fluid motion, he separated enough meat for two hearty meals. The rest he left for the wolves, who leapt upon the gift with unrestrained joy.
By the time he returned to the cabin, hands full with his portion, their chorus had shifted to happy growls and the messy sounds of a feast.
Inside, she had cleared the counter, laying out knives and bowls for him to work with. The fire in the hearth crackled, and the air already smelled faintly of herbs she had fetched to season their supper. She turned when he entered, smiling now with no trace of tears left in her eyes.
“Well,” she said brightly, brushing her hands together. “I suppose everyone will eat well tonight.”
Kratos set the venison on the counter with a solid thump. “Hmph. Everyone.”
His tone was gruff, but the corner of his mouth softened as she stepped closer, brushing her hand along his arm in quiet thanks.
She stepped close as he set to work, slipping her arms briefly around his middle and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. The brush of her lips left him still for half a breath, though his hands never faltered as he drew the knife through the hide with practiced ease.
“Thank you,” she murmured softly, her words brushing warm against his ear. “For always providing for us.”
His brow furrowed, but he did not turn. He only gave a low hum in his chest, the sound deep and quiet, accepting her gratitude in the way he always did when she always insisted on thanking him for what he felt was the bare minimum. He did not need words; the weight of his presence, the steady rhythm of his work, was answer enough.
Still, her smile lingered as she turned to the hearth, retrieved the iron spit that sat across the fire, and brought it back to the counter beside him. She took a bowl and prepared herbs and seasonings, crushing them together to later rub over the meat before roasting it. The smell of herbs soon filled the air, mingling with the rich scent of venison as Kratos worked behind her, the scrape of his knife on bone a steady, grounding sound.
For a while, neither spoke. It was a silence that had once been uncomfortable, but now, after years of learning each other, it was a silence full of peace. A silence that said more than words could.
She hummed softly under her breath as she skewered the ready meat beside her, her voice light again at last. The fire crackled, the wolves outside still gorged themselves happily, and within the little cabin, there was only warmth.
Kratos glanced at her then, just once, his stoic face betraying nothing to the world, yet in the dark of his eyes there was satisfaction. She had smiled, laughed, kissed him, teased him, and now she hummed while preparing their meal. Whatever shadows had touched her earlier, he had driven them back.
And that, to him, was victory enough.
Once the venison was skewered, she dusted it with the herbs she’d prepared earlier, salt, thyme, and a pinch of something sweet she’d dried from the summer past. Her hands moved tenderly, rubbing the seasonings deep into the meat until her fingertips carried the scent of it.
When she finished, Kratos took the spit from her hands with ease and lowered it into place over the fire. The iron creaked as it settled into the grooves, and the flames licked eagerly at the fresh offering.
She dragged a chair closer, the legs scraping across the wooden floor, and patted the seat with a little smile. “Sit,” she said warmly, echoing the same tone he often used with her.
He gave her a look, one brow raising ever so slightly, but did as she asked. The chair groaned beneath his weight, and he leaned forward, massive hands gripping the spit as he turned it with slow, practiced movements.
The firelight glowed across his face, softening the sharpness of his scarred features. The scent of roasting venison began to fill the cabin, rich and mouthwatering.
She settled beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed against his arm as she leaned forward on the table, her cheek resting in her hand. Her eyes softened, watching him spin the spit with the same care he gave to wielding a blade.
For a long while, the only sounds were the fire’s crackle, the hiss of fat dripping into the flames, and the steady rhythm of his hand turning the meat so it would not burn. And in that quiet, with the wolves content outside and the storm in her heart long passed, the cabin felt like the safest place in all the realms.
By the time the venison was cooked through, the cabin was filled with its rich, savory scent. Kratos lifted the spit from the fire, setting it across the board she had readied. Together they carved thick slices of meat, steam curling up into the rafters, and laid them onto wooden plates. She fetched the bread she had baked that morning, still soft within, and a small jar of preserved berries to sweeten the meal.
They sat side by side at the table, firelight flickering across the wood. For a while, they ate in companionable quiet, the kind of silence that had grown familiar and comforting between them.
It was she who broke it, as she always did. “You’ve a smudge of ash on your cheek,” she teased gently, pointing with her fork.
Kratos grunted without looking up. “It does not matter.”
She reached across the table to brush her thumb against his cheek, smudging away the ash. “There,” she said softly. “Perfect.” He hummed, gruff but satisfied, and returned to his food.
The conversation turned lighter as she told him a story about a squirrel that had nearly stolen their drying herbs, waving her hands in animated gestures, while he listened with a faint shake of his head. When she imitated the squirrel’s chattering, he gave a sound that might have been a chuckle, though he masked it with another bite of venison.
She gasped dramatically. “Was that a laugh, Kratos?”
“No.”
“It was,” she said triumphantly, her grin widening. “I heard it. Admit it!”
He only grumbled into his plate, but she laughed harder, leaning against his arm as though she had won some great battle.
And so the evening passed, soft talk, small smiles, the fire’s warmth and the comfort of full bellies. Her tears were forgotten, her heart light again. And though Kratos’s face betrayed little, he carried a quiet, fierce contentment. For he had brought her back from sorrow, and in her laughter, he had found peace of his own.
The sun had barely crested the treeline when the steady thunk of an axe echoed through the small clearing that was their front yard. Kratos stood before the woodpile, bare-armed in the chill air, the muscles in his back and shoulders flexing with each swing. The axe bit deep into the logs, splitting them clean with the force of his strike. He bent, gathered the halves, and stacked them neatly bark side up, before setting another upon the block.
From the doorway, she leaned against the frame, wrapped in her shawl. Her eyes softened as she watched him work, steam curling faintly from her mug of morning tea.
For a moment, she only admired him in silence—the towering figure of her husband, the God of Hope, now simply a man at peace in the Wildwoods. The memory of yesterday’s tears felt far away, dulled by the safety she felt now.
He paused mid-swing when he sensed her gaze, head turning just enough to catch her in the corner of his eye.
“You should be warm,” he rumbled, lowering the axe and planting it in the block.
She smiled gently into her cup. “And you should rest once in a while. But I don’t see that happening either.”
He gave a low huff, somewhere between amusement and disapproval, and turned back to the wood. She stepped down from the doorway, crossing the dew-dusted earth until she reached him. Without a word, she set her tea aside, plucked one of the smaller pieces of wood from the pile, and set it on the block.
Kratos raised a brow at her in silent question.
She lifted her chin stubbornly. “You split. I’ll stack. Teamwork.”
His lips pressed into a line, but the faintest spark glinted in his eyes before he lifted the axe once more.
The next swing split the log neatly in two, and she scooped up the pieces with a smile, setting them on the stack. Side by side, in the crisp morning light, they worked together, quiet, steady, content.
They worked together in quiet rhythm. The pile grew, neat and orderly, each piece settled in its place with care. The air was crisp, the ground still damp with morning dew, but the labor kept them warm.
Yet Kratos’s thoughts were elsewhere.
Every swing of the axe carried with it the memory of her tear-streaked face, the tremble in her voice, the shame in her eyes as she tried to laugh it away. She had smiled for him since, teased him, kissed him, laughed at his grumbling, but it nagged at him. It was too deliberate, too much like she was burying what had cut her so deeply, pretending it had never happened, so that he would not press.
And though she thought it kindness to spare him her burdens, it troubled him more than any wound of his own ever could. He wanted, needed, to know. So that he might guard her from it. So that whatever shadow had found her yesterday could never again bring her to tears.
She bent to stack the last pieces onto the pile, brushing the wood dust from her hands with a satisfied sigh. “There. That should last us a good while.”
Kratos stood beside her, the axe resting against the block. His gaze lingered on her profile, softened in the morning light. After a long moment, he rumbled, “You are calm.”
She looked up at him, blinking, then tilted her head slightly. “Calm?”
“You said,” he continued, his voice low, steady, “that you wished to calm yourself. To have a quiet night. Before you told me what troubled you.” His eyes darkened, searching hers. “The night is past. You are calm.”
The air stilled between them, heavy with his meaning.
She stumbled over her breath, caught off guard by his words. “It was nothing,” she said quickly, too quickly. Her hands brushed invisible dust from her skirts, her eyes darting away. “Truly, Kratos. Not worth your worry.”
But as she spoke, the voices of the villagers crept back into her mind, sharper now in the silence of the morning. Their narrowed eyes. Their whispers. The way the words had clung to her, heavy as chains. She had almost forgotten, no, pushed it aside, under the weight of his embrace the night before, under the kisses that had chased her sorrow away. But now, called forth by his reminder, it all pressed back against her ribs, raw and bruising.
Her throat tightened. She tried to swallow it down. “I don’t want to think on it anymore. Please.”
Kratos set the axe aside, his broad shoulders squaring as he turned fully toward her. The morning light caught in his scar, in the hard set of his brow, but his voice when he spoke was low, gruff, almost pleading.
“You gave your word.”
She froze.
“You said you would tell me, when you were calm.” His gaze bore into hers, unyielding but not unkind. “Do not break your word with me.”
Her lips parted, but no excuse came. He stepped closer, towering, yet his eyes softened with something almost fragile.
“Let me share it,” he urged, the roughness of his tone carrying a weight more intimate than gentleness. “Whatever burden has made its home in your heart, it is mine, as well. Let me carry it.”
The plea hung heavy between them, spoken by a man who rarely begged for anything.
She sighed, shoulders slumping as though the fight had been pulled from her. “It’s nothing,” she whispered again, though even she knew how hollow it sounded. Her lips trembled into a rueful smile. “But, if you insist.”
Her eyes lifted to his, catching that steady, piercing gaze that always seemed to strip away her defenses. And though his mouth was set in its usual stern line, there was something soft in it, too. Something she teasingly called his puppy-dog eyes. He denied it, of course, but she could never resist them.
“Fine,” she breathed. “I’ll tell you. I suppose I can’t say no to that face of yours.”
Kratos said nothing, only waited, his hand settling warm and firm against hers, a silent vow that whatever words came would not break her.
She took a deep breath. “It was my first time in the village in so long. . . alone. Without you.” Her voice wavered, but his thumb pressed reassuringly against her knuckles, grounding her. “And the people, they looked at me. Not kindly. Not like they look at you.”
Her eyes dropped, shame prickling hot behind them. “After Ragnarök, you became something to them. The God of Hope. The one who gave them peace, who rebuilt what was broken with Freya and Mimir. You are worshipped now, beloved.” Her throat caught, and she forced the words through. “But me? They saw only weakness. Softness. They gossiped, whispered cruel things. That a god who saved the realms had settled for a mortal, for someone like me. That I wasn’t worthy.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
“I shouldn’t have listened. Nobody said it to my face, but I heard enough. And hurt me deeper than I expected.” She shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “I know it’s foolish, Kratos. I know I’m overreacting. But in that moment, I believed them. I felt so small, unfit to be at your side.”
Her confession spilled into the morning air, fragile and raw. She bit her lip, bracing for his silence, her heart pounding as though he might agree with the villagers’ cruel whispers.
“Come.” The single word rumbled from his chest like a command to the earth itself. Before she could respond, Kratos slid the axe into the holster across his back and turned toward the path that led down to the village.
Her brows shot up. “Kratos-!”
He did not answer. Instead, he reached for her gathering basket, the same one she used to fetch herbs or carry the few things they could not make or harvest themselves at shops. He held it out to her, his face set, his jaw tight.
Her cheeks flushed hot. “You can’t mean to-no, Kratos, you can’t just march me down there-” She hurried after him as his long strides carried him toward the edge of the clearing, the basket pressed into her hands whether she wanted it or not.
The very thought made her stomach knot. The last thing she wanted was to look like a foolish girl who had run home crying to her husband about the meanies in the marketplace. She imagined him storming into the square, demanding names, shaming them into silence with the sheer weight of his presence. The image was mortifying.
“Please,” she begged, catching his arm as they walked. “Don’t be angry. Don’t- don’t do anything rash.”
Kratos slowed only enough to glance down at her, his face carved in stoic lines. “We require a new kettle for the hearth.”
She blinked at him, caught off guard. “That’s all?”
His silence was answer enough.
But as they continued down the path, his broad hand brushed briefly against hers, a quiet tether, reminding her that whatever else this errand became, he would not allow her to face it alone.
The market was alive with chatter and color when they entered, stalls crowded with goods, the air thick with the scents of bread, smoked fish fresh from the Lake of Nine, and wool dyed in bright hues. Yet as soon as Kratos’s heavy tread touched the cobblestones, the mood shifted.
Heads turned. Conversations hushed. Then, as if a tide had shifted, people began to approach.
“God of Hope,” a farmer greeted, bowing slightly as he offered a carved wooden charm.
“Your strength keeps us safe,” another murmured, holding out a bundle of furs.
Kratos shook his head at each, refusing every gift. Not with sharpness, not with disdain, but with the blunt weight of truth. “I need none of this,” he said, his voice deep and even.
When a mother stepped forward, three children huddled close at her side, she extended a warm loaf of bread, wrapped in cloth. “Please,” she said softly, her eyes bright with gratitude. “It is fresh, baked this morning.”
Kratos glanced at the loaf, then at the small faces peeking out from behind her skirts. His voice softened just enough for her to hear. “Feed your children. I require nothing from your earnings.”
The woman’s eyes brimmed with tears, her hand pressed over her heart. She bowed, and her children, giggling shyly, did the same.
And so it went, every offer turned away, every rejection somehow met with brighter smiles. Whispers of admiration rippled through the square. They saw in him what they had begun to believe in: a god not greedy, not cruel, but steadfast.
Beside him, she walked quietly, keeping pace with his stride. Kratos noted the silence, unlike her usual warmth and chatter, and the way her gaze darted away from those around them. The villagers hardly spared her a glance, their focus fixed solely on him. She shrank inward, her hands tightening around the basket, her shoulders bent against the weight of being invisible.
Kratos’s brow furrowed. He said nothing, but his eyes flicked toward her once, then again, the muscle in his jaw tightening.
This silence of hers troubled him more than any words could.
Kratos’s steps slowed before a stall lined with cast-iron pans and kettles, their blackened surfaces gleaming faintly in the sun. He stopped, towering before the modest shop, and spoke in his steady way:
“We require a replacement for our broken hearth kettle.”
The shopkeeper, a stout man with a ruddy face, nearly stumbled over himself as he hurried forward. “Of course, my lord! Of course, anything you wish.” His hands swept wide over the display. “Dutch ovens, stew pots, kettles of every size, take whichever suits you best.”
Kratos did not move. Instead, he turned, his gaze settling on her. “You will choose.”
Her eyes widened faintly, but when she looked up at him, she found no hint of jest. Only quiet certainty, as though the decision had always belonged to her.
She stepped closer, fingertips brushing the heavy handles as she inspected them one by one. She mumbled softly to herself, about the weight, the depth, the balance of each, her voice barely above a whisper.
Kratos watched. Not just with patience, but with a steady, unshaken admiration. The kind that made it clear he would stand there all day if she needed. The kind that spoke more loudly than any declaration.
The shopkeeper, eager to please, tried to interject now and then, only to falter when he noticed where Kratos’s attention lay. The God of Hope wasn’t watching the goods. He was watching her.
One by one, bystanders began to notice too. Curious glances turned, then lingered. Whispers hushed as they followed Kratos’s gaze to the woman at his side. The mortal wife they had overlooked only moments ago.
Graceful in her concentration, she finally settled on a kettle, lifting it by its handle to test the weight. She turned to the shopkeeper, her tone polite but sure. “This one. How much do you ask for it?”
The man’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He seemed dazed, as though the question itself had startled him. “For you, my lady,” He bowed deeply. “There is no cost. Please, accept it.”
The crowd stirred with approving murmurs, but Kratos’s eyes never left her. He said nothing, but the weight of his presence at her side, the calm certainty of his choice to let her voice be heard, had already reshaped the air around them.
She smiled, warm and gracious, but her heart tightened all the same. The kindness shown her now, it was only because Kratos stood beside her. Yesterday, alone, there had been none.
Still, she would not let that truth sour the moment.
Shaking her head gently, she cradled the kettle against her side. “No,” she said softly. “You must take payment. Your work is worth more than nothing, and your family must eat. Besides, Kratos is spoiled enough as is.”
The shopkeeper blinked, his mouth parting in surprise. “My lady-”
She was already digging through her coin purse, slender fingers finding the worn leather pouch at her belt. She counted quickly, then pressed several silver coins into the man’s palm, more than the kettle’s worth. “For the kettle,” she said, her smile kind but firm. “And for your kindness.”
The shopkeeper stared, wide-eyed, his hand closing slowly around the coins. His lips trembled into a grateful bow. “You honor me.”
Around them, the crowd stirred again, but this time, the whispers were not about the God of Hope. They were about her. About the mortal woman who had insisted on fairness, who had spoken not with power but with gentleness, and given more than was asked.
Kratos’s dark eyes never left her as she tucked her purse away, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across her face. His jaw tightened, but not with anger, with something else. Pride.
And though he said nothing, the weight of his silence was as loud as any declaration: This is my wife. This is the woman I chose. And she is worth more than any of you dare whisper otherwise.
Kratos lifted the heavy kettle as though it were nothing more than a feather, tucking it against his side before turning from the stall. His wife fell into step beside him, her basket swaying lightly from her arm.
“Is there anything else we require?” he asked, his voice low, practical.
She tapped her chin in thought, then smiled. “Atreus’s paints. The last time he was home, I noticed his supply was running low. If the village has any, I’d like to surprise him with more. He’ll be pleased to have them waiting.”
Kratos stilled for a heartbeat. Her words, simple as they were, warmed his chest like a fire catching in dry wood. His son, her dearest friend save for himself, he thought, was never far from his mind, but hearing her speak with such kindness toward the boy stirred something deep in him.
A hum rose from his chest, low and approving. He nodded once. “Good.”
But before they moved on, he paused. His hand shifted from the kettle to her arm, steady and sure, guiding her gently to face him. Without a word, he bent, lowering his broad frame until his lips brushed hers in a deliberate kiss.
It was not hurried, nor hidden in the safety of their cabin walls. It was unshaken, deliberate, and undeniable.
Gasps rippled softly through the onlookers. For Kratos, who preferred privacy above all things, to show such affection here, openly, was no small gesture.
Half the reason was as plain as the fire in his chest: he adored her. Always.
The other half was quieter, sharpened with intent. A modest act of dominance. A reminder to the watching eyes that this woman was his choice. That their whispered doubts had no ground, their scorn no weight. That the God of Hope cherished her, without shame, without hesitation.
When he pulled back, her smile was radiant, her cheeks warmed pink. She blinked up at him with stars in her eyes, and for all the crowd around them, she looked as though she stood alone with him in the world.
Kratos straightened, the kettle still cradled in one arm as though it were nothing, and turned once more to the market path.
“Come,” he rumbled, as though nothing had happened. “We will find the paints.”
But inside, his heart burned with quiet triumph. Pride swelled in Kratos’s chest, unbidden and undeniable, as he looked upon her now. That radiant light in her eyes, the shine that had first undone him, that still left him unsteady even now, had returned.
He had been uncomfortable, yes. To kiss her before strangers, to bare his tenderness where others could see, such things were not for him. Not anymore. But the sight of her crystal-clear gaze, the joy brimming in her expression, was reward enough. More than enough.
The memory of her red, glossy eyes, her cheeks wet with tears, tried to surface. The way she had trembled in his arms only the night before, weighed down by whispers and shadows. The image stung, sharp and unwelcome. But it paled against the face before him now, her smile warm, her eyes bright as sunlight on fresh snow.
The contrast was stark. Yesterday’s sorrow, today’s glow. And it warmed him more deeply than the fire of battle, more fiercely than any victory in war.
This laughter, her peace, her light, was the triumph he held dearest.
He shifted the kettle in his arm, towering and impassive once more to any onlooker. But within, his heart burned quietly with something greater than pride.
he may be older but that sure af dont mean he's decrepit.
now yk man's fit af, aint never seen no adventurer (still in the biz) let themself go.
despite his age, his healthy habits means bro's probably healthier than you. he can literally still jump onto high tree branches with sheer leg strength.
weird fact but relevant
considering the monster checklist, you just KNOW he's seen his fair share of the world
bro could literally take down just about anything, puh lease, and nothings quite so reassuring as knowing that
he'd accompany you when you're going to the mines, not to be a manly protector or nun, just to be there as company, yoba knows how lonely it gets.
he's got that vibe to him, the one that's like DILF bordering on sexy martial GILF and i aint one to deny my urges 🥴
he would literally find any of your bs endearing cos he's just like that.
he'd recount the 'good ol days' while bigging himself up (and gil calls cap when he hears any bs)
gil would deffo become the teasing sibling and tell you all about the dumb shit he did when they were younger.
marlon, seemingly nonchalant, would bicker with his old friend when he thinks you cant hear.
being with marlon would consist of a whole lot of nagging, he'd complain whenever you overwork yourself (which was almost everyday) and would start to watch from the patio whenever you farm, sit on the bench when you fish and accompany you to the mines.
only if you're okay with it
he'd take your company over gils any day, no offence to him.
he'd feel a bit awkward to be seen with you in the day time at first, knowing he's quite a bit older than you are
it would take ages of reassuring him to even get him to feel less like a cradle robber
especially considering you'd been the one to vehemently pursue the poor lad
it all works greatly in the end though cos i mean, look at him, he's fuckin delicious 🤤
dates with marlon would consist of late night walks and starry nights and handholding under the moonlight.
also, dungeon raids and raising slimes
all of your livestock have grown to really appreciate the gentle man (maybe even better than you)
your cat definitely jumps into his arms well before realising you're even there, and you wouldn't have it any other way
the gentle giant always softens when the bundle of ginger falls asleep in his arms, and you've caught them snoozing together on the couch on more than one occasion.
yer in the mines almost dead when an enemy appears out of nowhere to come fer yer life when, like a knight in shining armour, marlon swoops in and oneshots them and princess carries you to safety (maybe to the the lift? maybe to the guild? idk), tends to your wounds n shi and suddenly you find your heart going dokidoki as he takes such gentle care of you.
just. the whole appearing out of nowhere thing. the fact that i just know hed be fit af holding his sword to slash the monster. the way he'd literally just have no struggles whatsoever while carrying a literal human urghhh
why isnt he real dammit
and then he takes care of me another way to teach me a lesson about being so stupidly reckless yum yum 🤤
MARLON!! You guys are feeding me such lovely old-man ideas ah <3
whats this?? s-soft? fluff?? (with some zest..)
Marlon is such a gentle man, he cares so deeply about his adventurers. It shows with the way he bows his head to the moss-struck headstones near the guild, with how he tends to Ol' Gill, with every one-on-one combat lesson he indulges you in.
It shows when you stir with a whimper, your head stuck in a spinning loop of vertigo. Your body aches, torso burns with a sting, making you hiss through your teeth and scrunch your brows, unsettling the migraine that lingered behind your eyes.
Gentle shushing fills the air, a cool cloth draping over your feverish forehead, the back of a well-worn knuckle pressing to your warm face, all cool and so, so nice to lean into.
"S'aight.." An all familiar rasp fills your ears.
"M..Marlon.." You whisper, throat cracking in protest. He only hums in affirmation, his presence lingering, rough hands so gentle when they tend to the wounds the caves had chewed into you.
In and out, you dip through the waves of consciousness, focusing on the sensations of Marlon; Gentle breathing that kept you calm, the faint stain of dust and dirt etched into his scent, that familiar healing balm soothing the cuts and stings on your skin.
Your heart flutters under his tender care, squeezing, constricting behind your ribs - He must've carried you here, hauled you all the way to the guild like it was nothing.. The remnant of whatever creature he took out to get to you lingers on his clothes, mystery slime and whatever else adding another stain to his cloak.
Yoba, you flush, coming to enough to blush each time his fingers trace your body - Barely even cloaked in the remnants of your clothes, mind you - Fastening and fixing your bandages, giving you a grounding caress when your cuts sting with antiseptic, feeling something.. warm and pulsey when his fingers wrap firmly around your wrist, holding you nice and still as he dresses your wounds.
You can't help but look through the wave of headache, eyes all wet and doll-like when you tilt your gaze up at him, repeating his name once again, biting into your bottom lip, watching the older man's breath hitch just that little, tiny bit...
People headcanonning Conquest as this dominate suave sex god in x reader fanfic (or any fic really) will never not be funny to me dude. Like did we watch the same show??? This dude's whole character is that he's been starved of any meaningful connection for most of his life be soooooo fucking fr.
That man's the subby-ist bottom this side of the galaxy. Literally all you'd have to do is do the knee thing to him and he'd be whimpering and shivering like a baby do NOT piss me off
Summary: When Din Djarin saves your life during a political attack, he unknowingly binds himself to your fate. A bond forged in silence. A love destined only once.
The Senate Hall glowed with light.
Soft beams from the high glass dome catch on jewels, silks, pressed uniforms, and polished boots.
Din stood still among it all, one dark shape carved from metal and silence.
He did not care for politics. He did not care for senators.
He was here because credits had been offered, and because Grogu was safe for the week with Peli.
The man who had hired him, Senator Veris, was important enough to draw attention and enemies. Din was meant to keep an eye on the crowd, watch for movement, and remain unbothered by the gilded pageantry of it all.
Until he saw you.
You were across the hall, speaking softly with another senator. Dressed in flowing robes of gold, your skin nearly shimmered under the light. Your hair was crowned in a woven braid of silver leaves, a subtle nod to your culture. When you turned, something almost celestial happened. The room seemed quieter. Brighter. Still.
Din did not move, but he felt it. His heart stopped for a moment.
The visor of his helmet reflected the golden folds of your robe, and yet, somehow, you looked directly at him.
Past the armour. Past the faceless metal. Past the man standing behind another man’s cause.
You tilted your head the slightest bit, as though amused. Then you turned back to your conversation and left him staring.
“Ah,” came Senator Veris’s voice beside him, sticky with disdain and wine, “do not be fooled, Mandalorian. That is not a woman you’re looking at. That is her. The leader of the nymphs. A pretty thing, is she not?”
Din said nothing. But Veris went on.
“She’s older than she looks, like all her kind. Only loves once, they say. One touch and it’s done. Foolish, really, for a creature of myth to involve herself in politics. She does shine, I’ll grant her that.”
Din’s fist curled at his side.
The following days were long.
Din kept to his post, trailing behind Veris during endless meetings and thinly veiled threats wrapped in speeches. But no matter where he stood, he could feel your eyes. You never lingered, never stared too long, but you knew.
And Din... he kept looking.
On the third day, the air changed.
You were seated two rows down during a security summit when the doors burst open. Screams echoed. Blaster fire tore through the room. Chaos bloomed like a storm. Bodies fell.
Din had one job. Protect Veris.
But when he saw you stumble to the floor, eyes wide and golden robe torn, he moved.
Not towards his employer but towards you.
He knelt beside you, grabbing your arm, pulling you close.
"Stay down," he said gruffly. You looked up at him, shocked.
His glove had torn. Skin met skin.
Your eyes widened. And then... you knew.
Every nymph did.
You only fell in love once. And your soul had just found its match.
---
The cold bit deep.
Din carried you through the crash.
The transport had barely made it off-world, targeted mid-escape by whoever had orchestrated the attack. The ship went down on a forgotten ice-covered moon. No signal. No shelter.
But you were alive. Because he had refused to let go.
You huddled now near a fire he had built using broken wreckage and fuel cells. Snow fell outside the cave he had found. The wind howled.
"You saved me," you whispered.
Din removed a piece of his armour and sat across from you. "It was instinct."
You smiled gently. "You could have left me. You should have protected the man who paid you."
Din met your eyes. "I did what I had to."
You looked down at your hand. You could still feel the warmth of his touch, even through the cold.
"I felt it," you said softly.
He was quiet.
"You probably don't believe in fate," you added.
"I don't know what I believe anymore," Din admitted.
You reached across the fire. Not to touch him. Just to be closer.
"We don’t get to choose who it is. I’ve always known it would happen like that. One touch. One truth. And now it’s you."
His voice was low. "I don't know how to be what you need."
You laughed a little.
"You don’t need to be anything. Just be with me. Talk to me. Let me know you."
So he did.
That night, and the next. He told you about Grogu, about the Creed, about losing it and finding it again. You told him of your people, of how nymphs had been hunted in the past, turned into myth, how you'd hidden your heart so deeply it startled you when it stirred.
He listened. So did you.
He watched you smile in the snowlight, gold and warm even wrapped in frost.
You watched him remove pieces of his armour, bit by bit, until his helmet sat beside him and his eyes met yours in full.
You did not cry. But your heart filled with something that felt like light.
"Din," you whispered.
He blinked. "Say it again."
"Din."
He kissed you then. As though it had always been meant.
---
They found you after six days.
A search party, alerted by an old emergency beacon Din had fixed.
You stood together when they arrived. Hand in hand.
Senator Veris had not survived. But the reports focused on you. The only nymph senator left. And the Mandalorian who had saved you.
The galaxy turned. It always did.
But when you returned to the capital, Din did not leave.
He stayed.
He built a home with you just beyond the city's edge. Grogu had his own room. You had a garden. Din kept his armour close, but he wore it less and less. You still wore gold, but sometimes, only in your eyes.
He never said much. But he looked at you every morning like you were still glowing.
Because to him, you always were.
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
Wattpad
/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/
Characters : frank castle, matt murdock, peter parker, kurt wagner, wade wilson, eric brooks, scott summers, remy lebeau, logan howlett, johnny storm
You wake up slowly, the first thing you register being warmth. It was solid, steady, protective.
Frank is still asleep beside you.
The room is quiet in that early-morning way, sunlight barely slipping through the blinds and casting soft lines across his bare shoulders. One of his arms is wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. His grip isn’t tight, just… certain.
You shift slightly, testing the space, and his arm tightens immediately. Instinct.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, barely conscious.
You smile to yourself.
Last night lingers in the air, not in details, but in feelings. The closeness. The way he looked at you like you were something rare. The way he stayed, instead of pulling away like he usually does.
You trace a finger over the scars on his chest, careful, reverent. He stirs again, eyes fluttering open. For a moment he looks disoriented—then he sees you.
And everything softens ever so slightly.
“Hey,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your hip. “You okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. I am.”
He studies your face like he’s committing it to memory, jaw tense, like he’s bracing for you to regret staying. When you don’t move away, when you lean in instead, he exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he admits.
You kiss his shoulder. “I wanted to wake up with you.”
That’s what gets him.
Frank pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. No armor. No walls. Just a man who stayed the night and woke up to someone choosing him in the morning.
He presses a gentle kiss to your hair.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”
You wake up tangled in warmth, limbs lazy, sheets a mess that tells a story neither of you are pretending didn’t happen.
Remy’s half on top of you, one leg hooked over yours like he claimed you in his sleep and never let go. His hair is a disaster, eyes still closed, lips curved like he’s already amused by something.
You shift just enough to get comfortable.
He hums immediately.
“Mmm… careful, chère. Dat kinda movement’s dangerous.”
You snort and grumble a grouchy, “You’re the one crushing me.”
One eye opens, cherry red on black, bright with mischief.
“Crushing?” he repeats, offended. “Non. Dis is cuddlin’. Very affectionate.”
“Your knee is practically a weapon.”
He grins wider and adjusts — somehow making it worse on purpose, pressing intentionally against the inside of your thigh.
“Funny. Didn’t hear you complainin’ bout my knee between your legs last night.”
You swat his chest, but he catches your wrist easily, presses a kiss to your knuckles instead. The teasing fades just a notch, replaced by something softer.
“You still here,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your palm.
“Still here,” you confirm.
That earns you a slow, satisfied smile. He leans down, kisses you properly this time — unrushed, warm, smiling into it like he’s got all the time in the world. His hand traces familiar paths, unhurried, like he’s savoring the morning as much as you.
“You know,” you murmur, “most people make coffee when they wake up.”
Remy laughs low in his throat.
“Chère,” he says, voice dropping, “I got somethin’ sweeter in mind.”
He slides down under the blankets, eyes never leaving yours. There’s a crooked smile on his lips now. Pure Remy. But his gaze is soft, reverent, like this isn’t a game so much as a promise. He settles between your thighs, spreading you gently as his breath ghosts warm and slow, hitting your bare cunt, making you gulp in anticipation.
— and he looks up at you like he’s exactly where he belongs. The softness of that crooked grin sending shivers through your body.
“Bon matin,” he murmurs.
Morning comes quietly.
You’re the first to wake, tucked against Matt’s side, his arm slung loose but possessive around your waist. The city hums faintly outside, distant traffic and early footsteps filtered through the cracked window. His breathing is steady, warm against your shoulder.
You shift just a little.
“Mm,” he hums immediately. “If you’re trying to sneak away, you’re terrible at it.”
You smile. “You were asleep.”
“I was resting my eyes,” he says lightly. “Big difference.”
You roll onto your elbow, looking down at him. His head is turned toward you, looking just over your shoulder, lips curved in that knowing little smile that always makes you feel like you’ve already lost.
“You know,” you say casually, “I expected more stamina from the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”
One brow lifts. Intrigue. “Oh?”
“Tapping out after four rounds?” you continue, thoughtful, “Kind of pathetic.”
He hears the lie immediately, hears the amusement threading through your pulse, the way your body gives you away even when your mouth doesn’t.
And he grins like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket.
“Four,” he repeats, savoring it. “That’s tapping out now?”
You shrug, trying to hide your smile so that he wouldn't be able to hear it in your voice,“I had higher expectations.”
He lets out a soft hum, deep in his chest, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
“Funny,” he says, voice warm, teasing. “Because your heart says you were very… satisfied.”
“Your hearing is overrated.” you scoffed, tugging his earlobe for emphasis, making him chuckle.
“Mm. Maybe.” He tilts his head, “But you’re smiling.”
Before you can fire back, his hands are on you — confident, gentle — sliding up your bare thighs as he pulls you easily on top of him. You barely have time to register the movement before you’re straddling his hips, his touch grounding, familiar.
His hands settle at your waist, thumbs brushing slow, deliberate arcs that make it very hard to remember your argument.
Matt smiles up at you — innocent, almost angelic, like he isn’t absolutely enjoying this.
“Well,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t want you walkin’ away disappointed.”
That hum again, low and pleased.
“Go on,” he adds, brown eyes somehow finding yours as they scrunch cutely with amusement, “Prove your point.”
Your cup his cheeks and your press your lips to his for the sole purpose that he would be able to feel your smile," You asked for it, counsellor."
You wake up warm, pleasantly sore, wrapped in blue limbs and silk-soft sheets that smell faintly like incense and ozone.
Kurt is curled around you protectively, one arm tucked beneath your neck, the other resting light at your waist like he’s afraid to hold too tight. His face is peaceful in sleep, lashes dark against his skin, lips parted just enough to look tempting.
And then there’s his tail.
It’s draped lazily over your thigh — except not lazily at all. The tip twitches the moment you shift, curling, tightening, giving him away long before his eyes open.
“Kurt.” you murmur.
His eyes snap open immediately.
“Guten Morgen, Liebes,” he says, voice gentle, careful. Too careful.
You tilt your head, “You look… composed.”
He nods solemnly. “I am being very good.”
The tail flicks.
You bite back a smile. “Your tail disagrees.”
He freezes.
Slowly, he glances down. The traitorous appendage tightens around your thigh like it’s trying to make a point of its own. His ears flush a darker blue.
“…It has a mind of its own,” he says weakly.
“Uh-huh.” You stretch deliberately, enjoying the way his breath catches despite his best efforts. “You’re staring.”
“I am not,” he protests.
The tail tightens again.
He exhales, resigned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Forgive me. It is just-” He gestures vaguely, “You look very… happy.”
“Happy?”
He swallows. “Deliciously… content.”
You laugh softly, reaching out to trace the fuzzy edge of his ear. “Well... you were pretty damn good last night.”
That makes him smile — soft, shy, pleased in that uniquely Kurt way. “I tried to be restrained this morning,” he admits, “Out of respect.”
His tail betrays him by sliding higher.
You raise a brow and snort,“You’re doing a terrible job.”
He laughs quietly, giving up, pressing his forehead to yours. “Ja,” he murmurs. “I fear my self-control is… limited.”
The tail curls possessively around your waist now, and Kurt sighs like a man who has accepted his fate. His golden eyes warm, affectionate, absolutely undone by you.
“But,” he adds softly, smiling, “I regret nothing.”
Morning light cuts through the blinds in thin, pale stripes. You wake up first, tucked against a solid wall of warmth that is very much Eric Brooks pretending he isn’t awake.
His arm is heavy across your waist. Protective. Familiar.
You shift and feel him tense instantly.
“You’re awake,” you say softly.
A pause. Then a low sigh.
“…Yeah.”
You turn slightly, catching sight of the faint mark at your shoulder in the mirror across the room. Two small impressions, already fading. You touch it without thinking.
Eric notices immediately.
His jaw tightens. “ fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, quiet but firm. “I didn’t mean to—”
You roll toward him before he can spiral, smiling. “Hey. You stopped.”
He frowns grouchily, “Still shouldn’t have happened.”
“You’re half-vampire,” you point out gently, “And you were hungry.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
You reach up, thumb brushing along his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “It kind of is. And you showed a lot of control.”
That does it.
He snorts softly, shaking his head, clearly uncomfortable with praise. “You’re givin’ me too much credit.”
But you hear it — the tiny hitch in his breathing. Feel it in the way his grip tightens just a little, like the words landed somewhere deep.
You grin. “C’mon. Most people would’ve left more than a mark.”
He leans down abruptly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Right over the bite like he’s trying to erase the compliment before it sinks in. Then another, softer one. Then one to your jaw.
“You talk too damn much,” he mutters.
“And you hate being appreciated,” you shoot back.
A corner of his mouth lifts despite himself.
He pulls you closer, forehead resting against your shoulder, voice low but warm. “You scared?”
You shake your head, “Not even a little.”
That makes him pause. Then he exhales slowly, tension easing, and brushes his thumb across your waist with surprising gentleness.
“…Good,” he murmurs.
You smile, completely content, while Eric Brooks pretends he isn’t glowing inside over being trusted.
You wake up to exactly zero peace.
“Mornin’, beautiful~ wow, okay, still unfairly hot. Did I ever tell you how talented you are with your mouth?”
His mouth is everywhere. Your cheek. Your jaw. Your temple. Each kiss punctuated with commentary delivered at machine-gun speed.
“—seriously, Olympic-level effort last night, ten outta ten, would absolutely risk my life again—”
“Wade,” you mumble, trying to surface from sleep.
“And the confidence? The enthusiasm? The way you—”
You pinch his nipple.
Hard.
“YOW—!” He jerks back, eyes wide, then immediately breaks into a grin," Oh no. Oh wow. File that under unexpectedly into that.”
You roll your eyes. “Please shut up.”
“Can’t. Won’t. I am physically incapable of not praising you for-”
You cut him off by leaning in, pressing a quick kiss to his scarred cheek, softer than all the others.
“Wade,” you say sincerely, “you were really sweet last night. And you make me feel… safe. Wanted.”
Silence.
Actual, honest-to-god silence.
His grin falters. Not gone, just stunned. His eyes soften in a way that makes your chest ache. For half a second, he looks like he doesn’t know what to do with something that genuine.
Then-
You blink, and suddenly he’s above you.
Pinned.
Your wrists gently but firmly held over your head, his weight settling between your legs, hips pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.
He’s grinning wildly now, unrestrained joy written all over his face.
You swear - swear - you see little cartoon hearts practically floating in his eyes.
“Well,” he says, delighted, “now I gotta reward you for how fucking cute that was.”
You groan out an amused," you slut.”
He leans down, nose brushing yours before he literally licks the tip of your nose, “And you looove me.”
You do, unfortunately.
You wake up before him, which feels rare enough to be a small miracle.
Logan is sprawled beside you, sheets tangled around his waist, broad chest rising and falling slow and steady. For once, there’s no tension etched into his face. No scowl, no clenched jaw. Just calm. Rest.
It makes your chest flutter stupidly.
You prop yourself up on one elbow, studying him like he might disappear if you look away too long. His dark hair is mussed, lashes resting against his cheeks, brow still faintly furrowed even in sleep.
You reach out carefully, smoothing your thumb over that crease.
He snaps forward without warning, teeth chomping the inside of your wrist — not hard, but just enough to make you yelp.
“Logan!” you gasp.
He doesn’t even open his eyes at first. Just smirks hotly.
“Shouldn’t poke dangerous animals,” he murmurs from having your wrist beteeen his teeth, voice rough with sleep.
“You were asleep!” you accuse with a glare.
“Was restin’,” he says with a snort, “You’re noisy.”
You glare harder at him. “I was being affectionate.”
He releases your wrist, bringing it closer to inspect like he’s deciding whether to apologise for the faint mark he had left. His thumb rubs over the spot, gentler now.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
That’s as close to soft as he’ll get, and it makes you grin.
“You looked peaceful,” you tease. “Didn’t know you were capable.”
“Careful, darlin'. ” he warns. “I got a reputation.”
You lean down and press a sweet kiss to his scarred knuckles — slow, deliberate, affectionate.
That’s all it takes.
Logan’s breath hitches immediately. His eyes darken, and in the next second he’s pulling you down against him, hand fisting lightly in your hair as he claims your mouth in a heavy kiss. All heat and hunger and unmistakable intent, tongue sliding against yours like he’s been waiting for an excuse.
When he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he exhales sharply.
“…You do that on purpose,” he growls.
You smile, completely smug. “Maybe.”
He snorts, already leaning back in. “Smart mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”
"Well, my smart mouth made you cum three times last night, so-"
His teeth nips your bottom lip, glaring at you but the smile twitching onto his lips told you all you needed to know.
You wake slowly, cocooned in warmth and soft sheets, your body pleasantly heavy. For a moment, you don’t move. Just breathe.
until you realize the weight against you isn’t just the blankets.
Scott.
He’s curled into you, his head resting against your chest, one arm loosely draped around your waist like he belongs there. His face is relaxed in sleep, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth parted just slightly. For someone who always carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, he looks… peaceful. Safe.
Your heart does a small flip.
His hair is a complete mess, dark strands sticking up in every direction, and when your gaze drifts lower, you notice them... two faint bite marks along his collarbone, already blooming into soft bruises.
Heat rushes to your face as last night crashes back into your mind in vivid fragments.
“Oh my god,” you mumble to yourself, mortified and amused all at once. “I’m such a horny mess.”
A quiet snicker answers you.
You freeze.
Scott looks up at you, his eyes shut tight as he gives you a charming smile, “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”
You groan, lifting a hand to cover your face. “You were awake.”
“Mm. For a while.” His voice is still rough with sleep, low and warm. He shifts closer, tilting his head so his lips brush your skin. “Couldn’t bring myself to move.”
You reach toward the nightstand, fingers searching blindly, and he takes that as an invitation as your body hovers over him more.
His mouth trails along your collarbone, slow and lazy, punctuated by soft kisses that linger just long enough to make you shiver. A gentle nip here, a teasing suck there - like he’s leaving reminders.
“Scott,” you laugh breathlessly, finally grabbing his glasses and nudging them toward him, “You can’t even see.”
“Minor detail,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss before slipping them on. Once his glasses are secure, he looks up at you properly, that familiar fondness settling into his expression, “Besides, I know you pretty well by now.”
You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “So confident for someone who uses a laser-proof sleep mask.”
“Hey,” he protests lightly, fingers tracing idle patterns along your side. “You like my sleep mask.”
“I tolerate it.”
He hums, clearly unconvinced.
The banter fades into something quieter as you lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. Then another. You let them trail lower, over his jaw, down his neck, across his chest, feeling his breath change beneath you.
By the time you disappear beneath the blankets, his breathing is already uneven, a sharp inhale catching in his throat as your breath ghosts against the inside of his thighs.
His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through gently - not guiding, just holding on. You were his tether.
“God,” he exhales, head tipping back with a pant, “You’re dangerous.”
You smile to yourself and take him into your greedy mouth.
You wake up warm and hazy, reaching instinctively for him—
— and finding nothing.
Your eyes blink open, frown forming immediately as your hand pats the empty space beside you. The sheets are still warm, which somehow makes it worse. You let out a quiet, dramatic huff and flop back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling like you’ve been personally wronged.
Then you hear it.
The toilet flushes.
A moment later, the bathroom door creaks open, and Peter pads back into the bedroom in nothing but soft pajama pants and a sheepish grin, chocolate brown hair still damp from splashing water on his face.
“Oh no,” he says immediately, voice amused. “That face. That’s the ‘I thought you disappeared forever’ face.”
You turn your head slowly, eyes narrowed. “You left.”
“For, like, thirty seconds,” he laughs, crossing the room. “I promise I didn’t swing off into the sunset.”
He barely gets back under the covers before you’re on him, arms and legs wrapping around his middle like a sleepy octopus. He lets out a surprised laugh, automatically curling into you, one arm snug around your back.
“Missed me that much, huh?”
You mumble something incoherent into his chest, fingers clutching his shirt. He smiles softly, pressing a kiss into the top of your head, lingering there. His hand drifts lazily over your side, warm and familiar, tracing over your hip and down your thigh.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
“My legs are sore,” you mumble, half-asleep.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Peter stiffens just slightly.
“Oh,” he says, flushing instantly. He clears his throat, ears definitely red now. “Uh— I mean— I can— I can carry you? Today. Around the apartment. If you need. Like, totally heroic bridal carry situation.”
You snort, lifting your head to look at him. “You’d do that?”
He nods earnestly, trying very hard not to think about why your legs are sore. He needs to remember you're not as flexible as he is. You seriously were put through the ringer last night, your legs being manhandled in every which direction.
“Absolutely. Doctor’s orders. I’m the doctor. Of… being your boyfriend.”
You laugh, settling back against him as he relaxes again, pressing another gentle kiss to your hair.
“Stay,” you whisper.
He tightens his hold just a little. “Wasn’t going anywhere.”
You wake to friction and heat, your body responding before your thoughts can form. Johnny is behind you, breath ragged against your ear, every exhale hot enough to make you shiver. There’s a slow, deliberate pressure as he moves, unhurried, like he’s savoring the way you melt beneath him.
You groan, half protest, half invitation.
“Easy,” you mumble, trying to sound annoyed.
He laughs softly, low and dangerous, and shifts closer. One of your legs is lifted with effortless confidence, opening you to him, fitting you exactly where he wants you. The contact sends a spark straight through your core, your back arching without permission.
“Funny,” he murmurs into your ear, voice rough with memory, “you weren’t saying that last night. Pretty sure you were the one pulling me closer.”
Your breath stutters. The words do things to you— do things with him pressed so close, heat radiating off his skin. Johnny always runs warm, but this is different. Sweat gathers along your spine, the air thick, charged. He’s a heater, coiled and barely contained.
A faint flare ripples along his shoulders, light licking through his hair. He swears under his breath and moves quickly, smoothly, rolling you onto your back before the fire can get out of hand. The mattress dips as he settles between your legs, bracing himself above you.
“Hold on,” he mutters, grin flashing as the glow fades. “Don’t need to set the place on fire.”
His hands slide to your hips, firm and grounding. He leans in, forehead resting briefly against yours, breath mingling with yours, the tension unbearable.
Then he shifts — just a fraction — and the world narrows to sensation. There’s a slow, steady press, a shared inhale, the unmistakable feeling of being filled as your cunt welcomes him again. A sound slips from your throat as he stills, eyes locked on yours, heat humming between you.
Johnny exhales, satisfied, reverent. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Just like last night.”
So, I have come to the fairly firm conclusion that King is the hottest Tekken man. I will not be taking questions at this time--
Enjoy the Rambles!
-
The Charity Tournament was proving to be a success, so far.
In the aftermath of the last King of Iron Fist Tournament, the Mishima Zaibatsu had something of a “PR issue”, as Lee had so delicately put it. Which, considering the last head of the corporation had attempted world domination, was probably something of an understatement.
You were not sure exactly how the idea had come about, but between the minds of Lee, Lars, Alisa, Jin and Steve, the King of Iron Fist Tournament had been rebranded. Now, the tournament’s goal was to raise funds for reconstruction efforts in the areas most affected by the corporation’s actions, along with charities and causes of the competitors choosing.
…you had to admit, the idea had merit. And it gave you an excuse to get back into the ring, so to speak. Jin owed you a rematch, after all.
Xiaoyu practically vibrated with excitement beside you, the prep room bustling with activity. On the large screen above your heads, the match between Jin and Hwoarang was in full swing, and so far it was proving a close call.
“KO!”
Hwoarang hit the floor as the audience erupted with cheers and groans. Xiaoyu bounced on the spot and clapped gleefully, her face lighting up.
“Jin! He did it! He did it!”
“I noticed.” You said dryly, watching her with some bemusement. “Is anyone actually keeping track of how many victories those two have over each other?”
Xiaoyu tilted her head, giving a thoughtful hum before shrugging her shoulders. “I’m sure they must be. I’ll ask later.”
You snorted and returned your attention to the monitor, the announcer’s voice blaring through the speakers as the leaderboard flashed across the screen. You spotted Xiaoyu’s name (“Hey, look, I’m going up against Steve!”) and were scanning for your own when a exuberant voice called out behind you.
“Ladies! Enjoying the show?”
Turning around you saw Lee approaching, his handsome face practically glowing. He had been in his element this evening, and seemed to enjoy working with others to make the tournament a success. You were glad he seemed to be having a good time, but at the moment you were eager to find out when you would be getting into the arena.
Xiaoyu smiled brightly and gestured to the monitor. “We were just looking for her name—”
“I better be fighting Kazama.” You cut in, leaning back to nudge Lee slightly. “Sorry, Xiaoyu, but your boyfriend is going down.”
“Hey, he’s not my—!”
Lee laughed boisterously while Xiaoyu flushed and pouted, flashing you a winning smile – whether in an attempt to charm or placate you, it was difficult to say. “Alas, you’ll need to get to the next round first.”
“Then tell me whose ass I need to kick, Chaolan.”
Lee reached into the pocket of his flashy, fur-lined coat, pulling out his phone and studying the screen for a moment. “Steve and I were talking about it, and we’re quite excited for who we’ve matched you with—Marvelous!” Lee interrupted himself, a pleased grin blooming on his face as his head suddenly turned to look past you and Xiaoyu. “You’ve arrived!”
You watched as Lee strode past you and Xiaoyu towards the entrance, cheerily greeting the newest arrival – was something growling?
It took a moment for you to register who you were looking at, a towering masculine figure with a bestial face – King had arrived.
Oh…..
You had heard of King, of course, and the distinct jaguar mask – seriously did he take that thing off? – and herculean physique made him instantly recognisable to most anyone. But you had not spoken to the man before. The events of the previous year had not exactly been the opportune time to socialise.
“I always forget how huge he is!” Xiaoyu whispered behind you. “He is even bigger than on TV!”
You watched King as he shook an enthusiastic Lee’s hand, your eyes falling on the thick swell of his bicep, rolling under sunkissed skin. “I didn’t know you were a wrestling fan.” You replied vaguely, gaze trailing over his exposed torso, the perfectly sculpted abdomen and broad, powerful shoulders, and what were quite possibly the most bloody fantastic pectorals you had ever laid eyes on.
“Well, I’m not really, Panda is though—ooooh I should get his autograph for her!”
You barely had time to register exactly what Xiaoyu had said before you found yourself being dragged along by the other woman, towards where King and Lee were still talking.
Damn it, Xiaoyu—
You instinctively wanted to pull back, but your gaze was immediately drawn back to King as he gestured animatedly in front of Lee, biceps flexing at his sides, causing the powerful muscles in his arms and shoulders to bulge downright indecently.
“Ah! Excellent!” Lee’s grin flashed bright as he spotted you, while Xiaoyu cheerfully introduced herself to King (“My friend Panda is a big fan—“) he gestured theatrically towards you, turning to King again with a flourish. “King my good man, this is your opponent for the next round. I am sure you two together will be a superb performance!”
The wrestler turned his attention to you, and you found yourself momentarily unable to form sentences as you grasped just how tall he was.
King held out a gloved hand for you to shake – his hands were as massive as the rest of him, their rough warmth enveloping yours and damn it all you could feel your face getting hot. “I have seen you fight before.” He growled, the sound low and deep, rising from somewhere inside that broad, gloriously sculpted chest. “It is a pleasure to meet you properly at last.”
It certainly could be.
You cleared your throat, struggling to regain some composure – damn him, was that a smirk you saw on Lee’s face? – and shook King’s hand firmly. “I like your mask.”
Are you fucking serious—
Xiaoyu gave you a confused look, and while it was difficult to tell, King seemed a little puzzled as well. Lee smothered what sounded suspiciously like laughter – you were going to kick his ass – before suddenly hooking his arm around Xiaoyu’s shoulders. “My dear, I almost forgot! I need to take a few shots of you and Steve before the match, you understand—”
“Oh, okay! I’ll see you later!”
Xiaoyu called to you over her shoulder as Lee quickly began leading her away, and you glared at the back of the silver haired man’s head for a moment before realising you had not let go of King’s hand yet.
Releasing your hold, you shook yourself, brushing imaginary dust from your shoulder. “I’ve heard good things about you.” You tried to steer the conversation somewhere close to familiar. “I’d like to get my hands on you. In the arena. I mean—”
God, this was embarrassing.
King’s shoulders shook, a deep, throaty chuckle emanating from him and you felt yourself flush again. Damn it, even his laugh was kind of sexy—
“I look forward to seeing you in action.” He said, nodding and crossing his arms, the simple movement triggering a symphony of contracting musculature, those gorgeous pecs flexing unconsciously fuck you needed a drink. “Let’s give the crowd a show to remember.”
The fight. Of course. Familiar territory. You felt your lips form a smile, and confidence began to flow back into your limbs. “Naturally.” You leaned against the row of lockers nearby, flashing your teeth up at King. “It’s not everyday people see a King being toppled now, is it?”
King laughed again, shaking his head as he leaned against the lockers with you – it was a little odd talking to someone wearing a mask over his entire head, but King had a surprisingly warm aura for such an imposing figure. “I do not plan on losing.”
“Neither do I.” You stretched your arms over your head – maybe it was your imagination, but you swore you saw his head tilt down slightly, gaze lingering on your chest, before immediately moving back to your face. Warmth blossomed across your skin, and you pushed yourself upwards, arching your back just slightly. His head tilted slightly, following the movement.
Oh? Looks like I’m not the only one who likes what they see…
You felt a surge of boldness, your footing regained. Adopting as casual an air as possible, you grabbed the zipper of your form-fitting jacket, slowly pulling it down. You shrugged out of the material, sighing softly as the warm air of the prep room rushed to greet the bare skin of your arms and stomach. The material of your top hugged your chest and as you tossed your jacket onto the bench nearby, you glanced in King’s direction.
The mask made it difficult to tell, but you could feel his gaze trailing down over you, stopping on your hips before moving back up. You bit your lip slightly, barely stopping a pleased grin from spreading across your face.
“We should talk more after the fight.” You said, pretending to examine your boots – lifting your thigh, tilting your hips, just slightly – smiling impishly. “Maybe get a drink? Lee tells me the hotel they’ve booked for the fighters has a good bar.”
King said nothing for a moment, although you swore you heard a low, rumbling growl from in his throat. “Yes.” He said after a moment. “I would like that.”
“Good.” You swallowed, a flicker of excitement sparking deep in your belly. “We can toast my victory.”
King laughed once more, then stepped away from the lockers. You watched as King began to make his way towards the tunnel leading to his side of the arena, the muscles of his broad back flexing and contracting with every step, his powerful thighs striding across the room, the pleasing snugness of his pants accentuating his perfectly crafted—
Fuck.
Kazama would have to wait, you decided as you turned and began to make your way to the starting area. You were beginning to think of a different way to spend your evening after the fight.
--
King was a thrilling opponent.
You had fought plenty of men who thought themselves showmen. Often they’d be so distracted performing for their perceived audience they seemed to forget they were in a real fight, with a real enemy. That carelessness had made those victories easy.
King was different. He balanced his technique with theatricality, showing off for the crowd, bringing excitement to the arena, but his guard was never down. Every opening you spotted was bait, luring you in for an easy strike only to close down around you like a steel trap.
He was strong, you were quick. The trap would spring, you would dodge, and the dance continued, the temperature rising, sweat clinging to your skin. You ducked beneath King’s grasp, the warmth of his powerful body grazing your own, and it was hard not to imagine how this intensity would feel in other, more intimate environments.
Fuck, you were so turned on.
The crowd cheered and the music blasted through the air as you spun beneath King, aiming a kick directly at his exposed abdomen. He twisted, his arm darting protectively in front of him, knocking you off balance. He swung his body to the side, a fierce roar bellowing from deep in his throat, and you were thrown back, barely managing to flip around and skid across the floor to minimize the impact.
You had put nearly full force into your kick, and King had tossed you aside as though you weighed nothing, throwing you across the arena with strength greater that even his powerful build and size would suggest.
Fuck, that was hot.
King charged suddenly, and you sprang into action, launching yourself upwards. You swung your foot directly at the side of King’s head, but his massive hand shot up, fingers snapping tight around your ankle. You barely had time to react before the wrestler’s other hand grasped your waist, guiding your momentum until your thighs were on top of his shoulders.
What the fuck—
You squirmed in his grip, adrenaline mixing with bafflement, but King held fast. He twisted around, and you felt air rush around your ears as the world dropped out as he threw himself forward, sending you both crashing into the floor of the ring. Pain flashed across your shoulders and back, the roughness of King’s fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs, the weight of his broad, muscled body sliding between your legs, strong and wide and hot—
The sound that slipped past your lips was downright obscene. King’s head snapped towards you, and he became suddenly still, the jaws of his mask open in a silent roar. He stared at you, unmoving, and you felt your cheeks burn as you realised he definitely heard that.
Blood rushed in your ears along with the crowd’s cheering and King continued to stare at you unmoving, his palms burning against your skin. Biting your lip hard, you twisted your hips sharply, squeezing your thighs tight around him. King grunted in surprise as he was thrown onto his back, you perched atop him, gazing down at him, breathless with adrenaline and something else.
King stared up at you, chest heaving, his strong hands still holding you. You held each other’s gazes, the noise of the crowd and pounding of your heart deafening in your ears.
“…about that drink….” You said finally, swallowing thickly as King’s hands subtly brushed up your thighs, heat trickling down your spine. “How about we have it in my hotel room?”
King did not reply, but after a moment he nodded, fingers lightly stroking the strip of skin between your belt and shirt, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. You arched slightly, fire coiling deep in your belly, and swung your fist downwards. King threw himself to the side as you rolled sharply to your feet, excitement crackling in the air as the crowd roared with approval.
“KING! KING! KING! KING! KING—”
“But first….” You crooked your fingers at the wrestler as he slowly rose to his feet, his gaze remaining fixed on you, the jaguar mask bringing to mind the image of a hungry beast eyeing prey – was it weird that was turning you on a little? – and flashed him a grin. “I’m afraid it’s time to disappoint your beloved audience.”
King’s shoulders shook slightly, a booming laugh rising from deep in his chest. “I do not disappoint.”
You definitely caught the edge of innuendo in his tone, and a grin burst onto your lips.
