Hiii! I see the requests are open so if you write for Bo,can you make where the reader suffered from physical abuse from her parents in the past and have some scars? If you aren't confortable with this dont need to make! <3 Kisses from Brazil 🇧🇷💚
Awww the angst! Here u go uWu 🥺💕💕
“I trust you.”
Bo x reader
By jena marie
Summary:
Reader has many scars on her back, which reveals years of traumatic abuse from her only parents. How does Bo comfort her?
The poor girl. The girl who had broken white lines, scars, littered across her rib-engraved back, who when was given the scars-- laid silently with wet eyes as they beat her; again and again until she was blue. Thinking back to that small, broken house brought back the taste of blood and the emptiness in her chest. She didn’t speak a word for two years, until she found that short-tempered mechanic in the pit of nowhere, sweaty, messy, with an old cap that looked like it might fall apart. But in his eyes held a thousand suns, something so warm she seemed to melt-- and made her luminous once more 🥀
I never paid attention to the spectacles of wax specimens, moreless trapped humans, than I did to the way the breeze blew silently across the town and washed away my worries. Nor did I register the occasional muffled screams downstairs than I did when the sun warmed my face or when he walked up to me to take his hand in mine, and tell me that lunch was ready. I loved Ambrose. It was everything I was missing, those few years of mine drained me completely-- but Ambrose replenished me to the brim, and I loved it. I would never leave, ever.
And him— he was everything. I never thought in a hundred years that I would meet such a kindred spirit such as him. I was in shock. I remembered how he stood over me, my hands tied and mouth duck taped— he stood over me and said to his brother, “Not this one.”
He told of his job, what he did for a living, everything— every last honest detail. When I didn’t leave, I became his world too. Once we laid out under the stars— something I suggested as a date to which he rolled his eyes and reluctantly followed— I told of my past, something in return for his own honesty.
He spoke of how he hated my parents, how if it were up to him, he would hunt them down and tear them apart. And he didn’t say this as a gentlemen, he said this blind with rage— tearing through the house ripping up his hair with his mouth spilling blood from biting the inside of his cheek too hard. Vincent has to give him stitches. He wanted to find them, demanded of me to tell him where they are and faced utter disappointment when I told him that they were already dead. “Good riddance.” He spat. We didn’t speak of it ever again, because I never wanted to see him so angry that I was scared for my safety again.
To be honest, there was one thing that was missing, no matter how full I was from the gentle words I received, or the meal I made all by myself, or the warm bed with the warm body curled around me in bliss. I wasn’t truly exposed to the love, not entirely. I wasn’t even sure if I would ever be able to; but the dainty lines that decorated my back like torn white lace were always kept a secret from him, and it was the only way I could feel safe. I was so terrified he would finally see that I am a horribly flawed and broken-winged creature-- someone in no condition to love or accept love, but I still wanted to show him. I always did.
“Y/n.” His voice reverberated off of my neck, in the dark room, his arm thrown over me as usual in our bed. His voice was gruff, tired, but determined.
“Mhm?” I replied.
“Do you like it here?” His softness was forced, clearly not liking the topic of discussion but still wanted to be gentle-- considering my background.
I shifted a bit, turning more towards him.
“I love it here! Why?”
He loosened his grip, “I don’ know. You jus’ seem… Forget it.”
There was silence, and I endured it for several moments before I used the small amount of bravery I had, and sat up.
I couldn’t let him drop it. I saw it in his eyes, every time I pulled away when he got too frisky, his words of frustration when I slipped away to the back porch in solitude-- when his fingers slipped underneath the fabric of my back. I wish I could’ve stayed then.
“I know what you mean.” I uttered flatly, and I could see his eyes, grayed from the darkness, stared up at me anticipatingly. It was a heavy silence.
“It’s something I’ve been meaning to talk about.”
He didn’t respond, he only stared up, mind running blank on what to say.
“I’m sorry, I just— I’m not exactly proud of them, Bo—“
He sat up quickly, and turned to the side to twist the lamp on, and he turned back to me with eyes filled with a softness I’ve never seen before in my life. I could barely utter a word afterwards.
He took both of my wrists in his hand, and I became putty in his grip.
“Don’t.” His voice was like jagged rocks, and scary serious. I wanted to cry.
“I can’t.” My voice was slow, deep. I couldn’t understand myself.
“Don’ talk like that. I,”—he was trying to find the right words— “You know… how much you mean to me.” He seemed uncomfortable, but I knew and he knew that it needed to be said.
“You shouldn’t be self conscious, baby,— I know you ain’t proud— Hell, I ain’t proud of these,” he spoke softly, gently, like how an adult would encourage a young child. He revealed his own scars on his wrist, all while looking into my eyes which I started to lose myself in.
He saw how my expression was changing, and he was silent, moving his calloused hands to the sides of my face this time. I thought for the first time in the two years that we’ve been together, how much blood his hands were drowned in, and how yet I trust them completely— and seek safety in them with my entire being.
“If you think, I’ll be disgusted by anything about you, you’re wrong.” His voice started to break, he was in tears, and I was too.
I finally fell apart, the floodgates were open, drowning any more doubts in my mind, and I wrapped my arms around his neck— and buried my face in his shoulder.
I just felt so safe and sound— something that was so foreign for so many years that feeling this again was like walking for the first time. He wrapped his arms around me too, feigning the embarrassment— but he was silent as he choked down his emotions once more.
“Fuck, I hate you for makin’ me do this.” He said, his voice recovering.
“I love you.” I said softly as I positioned myself back into the blankets, his arm of eternal protection around me— closer than before, tighter too— and he curled himself around me.
“I love you too, baby.” He said gruffly and quietly, and turned off the light.
We didn’t speak another word that night, and yet I was a new person.
The shining girl, the lion girl. Badges of maturity and beauty marks raked across her skin in intricate designs— and she looked at them with a dancing smile. He traces his finger across them to tell her that he wants her no other way— and took her flower, more gentle than she would have expected. She became a lioness, and he was proud to carry a crown as gem-encrusted as hers 🌸
A yandere!Genji, BW!Genji, commission for Anonymous! You’re a reader with a scarred face. Genji sees himself in you, sees beauty where you see ugliness and is determined to make you see what he sees. 3k
Non-con, More like heavy Dub-Con, Mirror Sex
Steam rolled out of your bathroom like movie smoke in a pinnacle, dramatic scene. Soft yellow light flooded across your small dorm. You stood fully naked. Inticing a rush of blood to leave his head and flood his crotch. The mad rush was quelled, but only slightly when you slipped on a robe and started towel drying your hair vigorously. When your arms grew tired, you used the towel to clear out a circle of steam from the mirror and disappeared to hang the towel up. His mind races and his heart pounds against his ribcage until you come back.
Life is so much better, so much more livable when he has an eye on you.
Genji crept open your closet door a little more. He loomed and watched you fuss over your discontented face in the mirror. An explosion on a mission, a few months back now, left permanent damage on your left cheek. Scarred tissue blanketed your neck, caressed your clavicle. Mercy prescribed you a solvent that you had been applying religiously. When she gave it to you, she made no promises. Unfortunately, not even the prodigy doctor could get rid of scars; Genji intimately knew of that, first hand.
But you were more beautiful for it; all of your strength and perseverance to survive was plain as day, right there on your face. You should be proud of it. You were something to be revered and admired. For Genji, he saw a road to his own recovery through you. If he could make you believe that you were perfect, that the ‘monster’ as you’d whisper with a genuine distaste for yourself in the mirror, was not a monster, but a goddess harnessing more power than she’s ever had, then perhaps there was hope for him yet.
He has spent countless hours hiding in the shadows. Watching you sleep, watching you eat, shower, and live out your life. He longed to be closer to you, longed to be at your side at all times. But Genji’s own insecurities kept him bound to the darkness. It was when that explosion nearly took your life and nearly took your face, that he realized he needed to muster up the confidence. Confidence enough for the both of you.
You were strong for him once, he’d be strong for you now.
No more cowering in corners daydreaming, dissociating, obsessively touching himself to the thoughts of you and how delicate you are. No more fantasizing about your wanting hips, and willing, warm flesh underneath him. Tight, wet flesh wrapped around his cold metal body, clenching his still human sex. Taking risks, laying down with you in bed so he could jerk himself and smell you at the same time.
There were tears in your eyes. Tears. Your mirror-self caressed your own cheek and neck with shaky fingers, breathed out in a shudder. He steps out from the closet. It doesn’t creak, gives you no warning. He’s dead silent, with the silent steps of the ninja that he is, and you don’t notice him until he speaks.
“Why is it that my scars are beautiful,” Genji asked, “But yours are not?”
Startled, you screamed; short lived when you heard your own shrill cry. You clamped a hand over your own mouth, spun around to gawk at him, now looming in your illuminated room. Genji’s red eyes glared. Scary. A menace of half a man. If only he could control them and make them softer. Change the color into something less threatening. How is he, without words, supposed to convey the sorrow he felt looking in on you hating yourself?
You laughed nervously and tried to protest his comment, but he closed in too quickly. Genji grabbed ahold of your shoulders. Cut off your words before the first syllable could be uttered. He spun you around with such velocity that you shrieked again. He held painfully tight to your shoulders, dug his fingers into your skin. His cybernetic hand was searingly painful, near breaking.
“Genji... what’re...”
“Look at yourself,” he pleaded. He was desperate, there was a strange crack in his deep, robotic voice. Genji’s eyes narrowed, homed in on the newly softened burn scars still shiny, and somewhat seeming healed from the fresh application of Mercy’s personally cultivated balm.
It was an illusion. The deep wrinkles, permanently inflamed red skin--raised higher than your healthy skin--would be back in full force before your head hit your pillow for sleep. You reluctantly listened to the impassioned colleague at your back and looked at yourself-- even If only to avoid looking at Genji and into his intense burning red eyes.
He remembers a time before your incident when you held his face during one of his most soul breaking meltdowns. You, like an angel, brought Genji back from the brink and assured him that he was one of the most handsome men you had ever laid eyes on. Stronger than any man you’d ever known, because he was still there and taking each day one at a time. He’d never met such sincere kindness, never felt it like he did then. Not even the seasoned doctors and hardworking scientists who rebuilt him and saved his pitiful life were ever as compassionate and empathetic as you were.
Now he knows that you’re capable of being so many things. The lovely, fragile flower inspiring calm and intense admiration, and the strong brick wall capable of withstanding fire. From that day on, all he could think of was you. All he could dream of was you. Leagues better than the nightmares that horrified him and reminded him of the event that led him to be the glowering half human he is. Even if he still felt tortured by the thoughts and dreams that you inspired, it was still better than the thoughts of bloody revenge that used to plague him.
You rubbed your shoulder as he finally set it free, pouting at him through the mirror. He set it free only to grab ahold of your chin and force your face to the right side baring your scars in all of their glory.
“You’re beautiful,” he said softly.
“Genji-- what are you doing here?” You had yet to find it within yourself to say thank you.
It was as if you hadn’t asked the question, as if you weren’t trembling against him. “If you think yourself a freak, then what am I?” Genji caressed your cheek, glided bent fingers over the shiny bumps, traced the grooves that led into your neckline. He held onto you like that for what felt like forever. He held onto you like it was pertinent that he memorize every line, every shape.
By the time Genji was done the steam had completely cleared from the mirror. Your gaze shifted down as you watched his attention fade away from your scars to your robe that slipped open ever-so-slightly. A ‘V’ of dewy skin seemed to make his eyes glow even brighter. Intense much in the way they’d become in the heat of battle. Drops of water rolled down into your cleavage, tickling your skin and mesmerizing Genji.
It’s not as if you and Genji are strangers. You often take it upon yourself to sit with him whenever possible. At breakfast, lunch, and dinner. On the long Orca rides into places you’ve never been to. He’s not often good for conversation, but you like that. When he did choose to speak, it felt special; Genji doesn’t converse with just anyone. Above everything else, he was one hell of an agent to have on a mission. He’d saved your ass more times than you could keep up with. You never found a reason to argue with having a brooding, angry guardian angel dropping in from unknown places.
Much like he had just then.
You were scared; it showed in the way your breasts heaved. A nipple peeked out from underneath the fuzzy fabric, erect and inviting. He took the invitation with vigor. You squirmed. Tried to tear his hand away, but it was no use. He was locked onto the breast over your heart. His hold changed sporadically between groping that teetered on the edge of nice, and groping that had you clenching your teeth in pain. He wasn’t mindful of his own strength yet, didn’t know just how bruising his cybernetic touch could be.
“Genji,” you pleaded and gripped his wrist. “You’re hurting me... just-- slow down...” It was all happening too fast. The question of how, when, or why he was in your room at such a late hour was beyond importance at that moment. You’ve not been without great respect for the ninja's resilience and killer skill, but you’d never quite thought of him in that way. Then again you never thought of anyone on base in--that--way. In the midst of a crisis that’s the furthest thing from most agents’ minds.
His fingers tugging at your nipple. His heavy, metal shrouded breath in your ear. The small gyrations, his hips moving subtly against your ass had you thinking of him in--that--way. It hit you like a hyper train, took your breath away. It’d been a long time since you’d been with a man. Genji was a bad boy, unlike any other partner you’d ever been with. And truthfully looking at your face, your horrid self-esteem had you in the belief that you never would be wanted by a man again. So on some deep, sick level, the unwarranted desire was somewhat welcome and revealing.
Perhaps it was the need to feel sexy, or maybe it was the sense of owing Genji something for all the protection he had provided you over the missions. Or the assassin pressed against your back that was frightening and exhilarating a the same time. But you didn’t scream, and you didn’t throw elbows or smash your head back into his own. You’d probably end up hurting yourself more than him anyway. Way to give yourself a concussion.
“Your heart, it’s beating so fast.” His flesh hand--strong, still white-knuckled gripped on your shoulder--slowly moved to wrap around your waist. He held you firmly and flush with his chest. “Mine is too,” he confessed.
Your robe, lazily tied, was easily untied and thrown open. You were completely exposed to him, insecurities and all. His hands roamed, explored all over your body, reached down low ghosting over your sex, slipped between your thighs. They found their way back to your breasts, not quite full up on them yet. No matter the difference between flesh and metal, each hand did work the same. Your nipples raised, pebbled. Your body became one long plain of gooseflesh. Deep down you warmed, became hotter and hotter, melted and became wet with slick.
Though, the fear still remained. And it showed through the tears that streamed down your face. Your head that was perpetually shaking from side to side, it was clear that you were unsure of the events that were unfolding. There was something uncontainable, explosive about Genji. Having your body in his eager hands felt like skirting a dangerous line.
“We should really--ah--take a breath, Genji... let’s--” His cybernetic hand rushed down and cupped your pussy. He pressed two fingers between your wet folds, thumbed your clit. Your back arched, and you gripped the counter for support, legs weakened and head spinning. “Let--let’s get some tea, and, and.. talk.”
Genji was no longer interested in talking, just small praising. Gruff whispers of how pretty you are, and how proud he strongly feels you should be carrying the scars that you do. All while his fingers work deftly along your labia. He plays and teases with the skill of a playboy that he used to be. Not all of his old life has been lost to trauma and time. He takes his time blindly massaging you and spreading your juices until he abruptly shoved two of them inside you. Pumped them in and out, fast. Circled your throbbing clit and reached in deep with a growl, stroked your g-spot with too much pressure. Sharp pressure that had you throwing your hips back into him in an attempt to get away from it.
You groaned out your discomfort. “Genji...” You shake your head from side to side. You wanted to try to plead with him again. Ask him once again just to... slow down a little, think about the abrupt intimacy he’s forcing upon you without any regard to future consequences or whether you’re ready for it or not; was he ready for it? It’s no use, your mind’s too glazed over with the fog created from the mixture of pain and pleasure going on inside of you. Unable to form the proper words, your gut knowing they wouldn’t matter anyway.
To Genji, your reservations sounded as if you were fighting to deny yourself something that you deserved. You deserved the pleasure, you deserved sweet, sincere compliments from someone who understood you. He knew all too well what it was like to be stuck in your own head, tossing back and forth all the possibilities, what you could have done differently, how your life would be forever changed due to something that you can’t control, can’t change.
You fell over the counter, hand braced against the mirror. You gasped, air and voice caught up in your throat as you came, hard. Your mouth hung open in a silent scream. You felt totally out of your mind but it felt good, really good. Like you floated for a fleeting moment, too full of fuzz to stay on the ground, and then sank at the same time into thick, warm, soothing water.
Genji released his modesty plates, the hiss of steam startled you back into reality. You’re completely grounded and not submerged in anything soothing. In fact, you're blanketed by panic.“Genji! Seriously, wait a moment--” Ignoring you, he threw up your robe, exposing your backside. “Genji, we’re moving too fast, I like you but--”
“Shh,” he cooed. “Let yourself have this pleasure.”
Before you could finish your sentence Genji pressed his bare, hard cock to your entrance and thrust inside. His hips met your skin with a harsh slap. He tore through your walls, opened you up, and stayed fully sheathed for a moment just basking in how heavenly you felt hugging his length so very tightly. Your body violently shivered in response to being penetrated so suddenly. You looked at yourself in the mirror--much to Genji’s delight--your shocked face looked back at you, mouth wide open.
“Perfect,” he said. “Simply perfect, keep doing that.”
He gripped your hips and thrust into you, squinted his eyes in concentration. You took each brutal thrust with a grunt. He was so strong, he jostled your body and made you lose your hold on the mirror. Genji saw your struggle and pulled you back against his chest. One mechanical arm across your chest holds your chin at an angle that allows him to get a full gander at your scars, at the things he feels connects the two of you at more than a skin-deep level. His flesh hand still locked tightly on your hip, bursting blood vessels.
It seemed that his goal behind getting you to think of yourself in a higher regard bled away into chasing his own pleasure. He stared intensely at your flushed face, your strained neck. Slipped in and out of you at a steady and fast pace. Your skin stung, muscles ached from the strain of withstanding the desperate way he fucked you; like he’d never get a chance to do it again.
Suddenly, as if watching a tense rubber band snap, he snatched up your hair, curled his hand into a fist at the base of your head and demanded, “Look at yourself.” Having remembered just why he revealed himself, no longer hiding in the shadows, admiring and lamenting over your self-hate from afar. He paused for a one moment, allowing you to take a much needed deep breath. He ground into your ass, his cool metal hips such a stark contrast to the heat both inside of you and simmering across your skin.
“Do you feel that?” he asked in a whisper, his voice falling so low that it near sounded demonic. He looked into your eyes, expecting an answer. The glow of his eyes hurt to look directly at, so you looked to the silver plate covering his mouth instead.
You nodded quickly. “Yes, yes.” Your voice came out a whole lot hoarser than you were expecting it to be.
“That is thanks to you, to this body, this face, these beautiful scars...” It seemed he had more to say but the words were lost as Genji started to pick up speed again. He speared up into you with reckless abandon, sure that if the drum of pleasure was beating strong within his body, it must be beating in time within yours. He sprinted after his pleasure and quickly found the finish line.
He came inside of you. Sparked panic inside of your chest. As he pulled out of you, seed seeped out hot and sticky. It rolled down the insides of your thighs. Picked up momentum carrying all the way to your ankle. Your lip trembled; you were deathly afraid of getting pregnant. You weren’t on birth control; never saw the point and never had a medical condition that required it.
Very slowly, you turned around to face him; moved like molasses because your body felt brittle after how he treated it. Genji reached out for you. You winced back. He cupped your face. You could smell your arousal on his hand. To your immense shock, he gently, but still forcibly made you look at him.
“We understand each other,” he said. “Don’t we?”
You couldn’t convince yourself that you understood what he was getting at, nor had the time to try and gleam it. But for the sake of pleasing him, you nodded with earnest. “Yes, we do.”
