Hi, y’all, figured it was time for a proper introduction post <3
Name - Tabi
Age - 26
Pronouns - I’m open to suggestions lmao
Sign - Sagittarius
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masterlist - updated 06/25/25
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Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.
Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You
Word Count: 5579
Warning: Angst, Fluff, Pack connections/bond, You might need some tissues, Things are still a little overwhelming for the reader, she's got a lot to learn now.
A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.
A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.
A sharp pull in your chest dragged you from sleep so suddenly that, for a moment, you forgot where you were. Your breath came fast, uneven, your body tense with something you couldn’t name. The room was still dark, the sun hadn’t risen yet. Dean was warm beside you, his arm draped over your waist, his breathing slow and steady. Peaceful.
But something was wrong.
The feeling only grew stronger, insistent—an invisible thread tightening around your ribs, pulling you toward something, someone.
You carefully slipped out from under Dean’s arm, barely breathing as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. He didn’t stir, too exhausted from last night's intimacy. Even his wolf, usually hyper-aware of your every movement, remained quiet.
You didn’t stop to think, didn’t even hesitate as you reached for the nearest pair of jeans from your bag and tugged them on. One of Dean’s shirts—soft and worn, carrying his scent—was the first thing your hands found in his dresser, and you pulled it over your head without a second thought.
Your hair was a mess, tangled from sleep and the intimacy with Dean, but you didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was getting to the door, to whatever was waiting for you on the other side.
The cold floor barely registered beneath your bare feet as you moved through the cabin, past the quiet living room and dimly lit kitchen, past the familiar scent of home and him. Your fingers curled around the handle, and the moment you pulled the door open—
Jess.
Standing there, out of breath, her eyes wide with something unspoken.
Neither of you moved at first. The pull that had wrenched you both out of bed settled now, but the weight of it pressed heavy against your ribs, against your throat.
Then, before either of you knew it, the distance was closed, arms wrapping tight around each other. Jess clung to you just as fiercely, burying her face in your shoulder, breathing you in like she hadn’t seen you in years instead of days.
“I felt it,” she whispered, voice unsteady. “I woke up, and I just—”
“Me too,” you murmured, eyes shutting tight as you held her closer.
The last time you had seen her, she had been just as she always was—bright, teasing, the sister you had never had but had always needed. And now… now everything had changed, but in the most amazing way.
Jess pulled back first, her hands tightening on your arms as she studied you, taking you in like she was trying to make sense of the differences since Dean had claimed you. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
Her gaze flickered, nose wrinkling slightly, trying not to giggle.
You already knew what she had picked up on before she even said it.
“You smell different,” she mused, trying to keep a straight face.
You chewed your bottom lip nervously. “Good different or bad different?”
Jess’s lips turned up into a huge smile. “Good different. How do you feel?”
The tension left your body as a smile found your lips. “Different, but also the same. It’s hard to explain.”
Jess nudged your arm with a grin. “So? Gonna invite me in, or are we just gonna stand here all morning?”
You huffed a quiet laugh, stepping back to let her in. The cabin was quiet, the warmth of home nestled in the gentle shadows. Jess kicked off her shoes by the door, rubbing her arms as she followed you into the kitchen.
Without a word, you reached for the coffee pot. The routine was comforting, grounding. You moved on instinct—scooping the grounds into the filter, filling the machine with water, pressing the button. The low hum of the brewing filled the quiet.
Jess leaned against the counter, watching you. “Does he know you’re up?”
You shook your head, glancing down the hallway. “Didn’t wake him.”
“Probably for the best.” She smirked. “He’s gonna be all over you when he wakes up, huh?”
A warmth bloomed in your chest at the thought, the quiet ache of longing nestled beneath it. You rolled your eyes. “Jess.”
“What? I’m just sayin’.”
The coffee pop beeped. You grabbed two mugs, pouring them before handing one to her. The two of you moved to the porch without a word, settling into the wooden chairs side by side. The early morning air was crisp, the scent of pine and damp earth curling around, mixing with the steam of your mug.
Jess took a slow sip, sighing. “God, I missed this.”
You hummed in agreement, letting the quiet stretch between you before she spoke again.
“So,” she started, tilting her head toward you. “About your scent.”
You raised a brow. “What about it?”
Jess studied you, something fond and nostalgic in her expression. “You’ve always smelled like vanilla. Sometimes rain. But now… there’s cinnamon.” Her lips curled in a soft grin. “It reminds me of when we moved onto the land. You’d always bake when it rained. You’d spend the whole day in the kitchen, and the whole damn cabin would smell like cinnamon rolls.”
A laugh bubbled up from your chest, soft and genuine, but something deeper stirred beneath it. You knew your scent never repulsed her like it had others, but you’d never asked her what it smelled like before. “You remember that?”
Jess nudged your knee with hers. “Of course, I do. It was your thing. Rainy day baking.”
You shook your head, still smiling. “And now I just smell like it all the time?”
She smirked. “Apparently.”
Silence settled between you again, comfortable as your mind wandered to what she’d said.
“Jess…” your voice was quiet, gaze on the dark liquid in your mug. “I know it’s rare, but…” You hesitated, searching for the right words. It wasn’t just about scent—it was something deeper, something that had always been there between you two. That feeling of home in a way you couldn’t explain.
She didn’t need you to. Setting her hand on your arm, she gave you a knowing look. “Like we’re our own little pack?”
The breath caught, something in you unraveling at her words. The weight of being understood without having to explain, without having to justify what you felt—it hit you so hard your eyes stung. A shaky breath left you as you nodded, swallowing past the tightness in your chest.
Jess gave your arm a gentle squeeze before she leaned back in her chair, letting the moment settle. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “How was it, after Dean claimed you?”
Relief washed over you at the shift in topic, your gaze shifting to the forest. “It was strange,” you admitted. “Sometimes it was overwhelming, like my own mind wasn’t fully mine anymore. Other times, it was too foggy to think clearly—like I was caught between myself and something more. My wolf was… experiencing everything for the first time.” You exhaled, rubbing your thumb over the rim of your mug. “I remember feeling like I was drowning at times—like I was sinking into something too deep to fight. But Dean… he was always there, being that rock that we needed. He never let me get lost in it. I slept for seven hours when I finally understood her.”
Jess listened, sipping her coffee as you spoke, never interrupting. Just being there like she always had been. It reminded you of those times with Dean over the last three months, the times he hadn’t fought with his wolf.
She must have noticed the way your thoughts drifted, because she stood, grabbing your empty mug with a small smile. “I’ll get us a refill.”
You let her, exhaling slowly as you stretched your legs out in front of you. The birds had started their morning songs, the first hints of sunlight spilling through the trees. Jess returned a moment later, setting your cup back in your hands before settling beside you again.
The world felt still, the moment suspended in the quiet understanding. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like everything was exactly as it was supposed to be.
The world outside remained still, wrapped in the early morning hush, but inside Dean’s cabin, he stirred. His hand stretched toward the other side of the bed, meeting only cool sheets. His brow furrowed as he blinked awake, eyes adjusting to the soft light filtering through the curtains.
She’s been up for a while.
There was no concern, no spike of unease. He knew you were safe. His wolf knew.
With a slow exhale, Dean pushed the blankets off and sat up, running a hand through his hair before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He grabbed a pair of sweats from the chair, tugging them on as he padded barefoot toward the kitchen.
The scent of coffee lingered in the air, though the last cup had started to burn slightly in the pot. He smirked, pouring it into a mug and taking a slow sip, gaze drifting toward the porch.
You were out there. His omega.
Dean leaned against the doorframe, watching through the screen as you sat with Jess, both curled into your chairs, mugs cradled in your hands. The easy rhythm of your conversation, the warmth between you—it settled something deep in his chest. His pack. His family.
Across the way, in his own cabin, Sam reached out instinctively for Jess, only to find her side of the bed empty as well. A quiet sigh left him as he rolled onto his back, rubbing a hand down his face before pulling himself upright. He didn’t need to reach for their bond to know she was fine. He just knew.
Tugging on a pair of sweats, Sam stepped out into the cool morning air, his long strides taking him toward Dean’s cabin. The scent of coffee reached him first, wrapping around him with a familiar comfort. But it was the sight on the porch that made something tighten in his chest.
Jess and you, side by side, the quiet peace between you stretching into something deeper. A kind of understanding only you two shared.
At first, neither of you noticed your alphas, too lost in the soft flow of conversation, catching up as if it had been weeks instead of four days since you’d last seen each other. The brothers watched from a distance—the way the shifting sunlight danced off your features through the canopy, the way one of you would tip your head back in quiet laughter at something the other said.
Dean’s gaze flicked to the space beyond his porch, catching his brother’s approach with an easy smile. He pushed the screen door open, the quiet creak pulling your attention just as Sam reached the steps.
Dean let the screen door swing shut behind him, the quiet creak breaking the morning stillness. Sam met his gaze with a knowing smirk as he stepped up onto the porch, the weight of their unspoken conversation settling between them.
Their omegas had snuck out on them.
Dean took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes flicking between you and Jess, still curled up in your chairs, oblivious to the way your alphas were watching. He arched a brow at his brother. “You think this’ll become a pattern? Our omegas sneaking out before we wake up?”
Sam crossed his arms over his chest, his smirk deepening. “Mm-hmm. It’s like they think they can sneak off without us noticing.”
Dean scoffed. “I wonder what we should do about that.”
At that, Jess glanced up, her brown eyes narrowing in suspicion. You followed suit, brows knitting together as you took in the mischievous looks on both their faces.
Sam took a slow step forward, tilting his head just slightly as his gaze locked onto Jess. He held out a hand, then curled his fingers in a slow, beckoning motion. “Come here, omega,” he murmured, his voice a deep, playful drawl.
Jess’s lips parted in surprise before she let out a soft, delighted giggle. “Oh, we’re doing this today?”
You barely had time to react before Dean’s voice came low and smooth. “You know, sweetheart, sneakin’ out like that means we gotta hunt you down.”
Something in his tone sent a playful shiver up your spine, heat rising to your cheeks. “Hunt us down?” you echoed, already grinning.
Dean set his coffee down on the porch railing, cracking his neck as if getting ready for a chase. “Mmm, yeah. You’re real lucky we’re in a good mood this morning.”
Jess shot you a look before hopping up from her chair, stepping back just out of Sam’s reach. “And if we run?” she challenged, a wicked glint in her eyes.
Sam’s grin turned downright predatory. “Then you better run fast.”
For half a second, the porch was silent, tension strung between you all like a live wire—then you moved. Jess darted first, laughing as she took off over the railing, and you were half a step behind her, feet hitting the grass before either brother could react.
Dean let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh, they think they’re clever.”
Sam clapped him on the back. “Let’s remind 'em who the alphas are.”
And just like that, they were after you.
It wasn’t about catching you—not yet. It was about the thrill, the playful push and pull, the electric hum of instinct running between all four of you. The chase was just the beginning.
Yours and Jess’s laughter rang through the trees, bright and breathless, weaving through the crisp morning air. It bounced off the towering pines, the sound of it wild and free as your bare feet pounded against the damp earth. The two of you didn’t split apart, didn’t try to lose each other. Instead, you ran side by side, instincts keeping you together—just as your alpha’s instincts were locked onto you.
Dean and Sam trailed just behind, keeping pace without rushing. They could catch the two of you in an instant if they wanted to. But this wasn’t about winning. This was about feeling—the unspoken tether between the four of you tightening, thrumming with something bigger than any of you had words for.
Dean could hear it in the way your breath hitched with each burst of laughter, could see it in the way Sam’s focus never wavered from Jess, his playful smirk softening with something deeper. They weren’t just running. The four of you were playing together. Their pack. Just the four of you.
Then, in a perfect, instinctual rhythm, the brothers moved as one.
Dean lunged first, cutting off your path with ease. His arms wrapped around your waist as he spun you, your laughter turning into a breathless, delighted squeal as he held you tight against him.
Sam wasn’t far behind, catching Jess just as she tried to twist away. She gasped when he grabbed her, but it melted into giggles as he lifted her clean off her feet, her hands bracing against his shoulders.
The chase was over.
Dean held you close, the warmth of your body against his, making something deep in his chest settle. Your head fell back, laughter still spilling from your lips, breathless and carefree. And, damn, if it wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
My omega.
The morning light caught the glow in your eyes, the way your chest rose and fell as you tried to catch your breath. Your scent wrapped around him, something warm and right, making his grip tighten, just a little, like letting you go wasn’t an option he’d ever entertain.
Sam’s forehead rested against Jess’s, his breath fanning against her skin as she looped her arms around his neck. Their bond hummed between them, unshaken, unbreakable.
Dean didn’t need to say anything. Didn’t need to put words to what filled his chest, what swelled in the space between all four of you. He just pressed his forehead to yours, feeling the way your fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring yourself to him the same way he was anchoring himself to you.
And for a long, quiet moment, the world held still around you, wrapped in nothing but warmth, belonging, and love.
A light breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the lingering echoes of laughter as the four of you slowly made your way back toward Dean’s cabin. The chase had left you breathless, warm, and tangled in that deep, unshakable connection—the kind that settled in your bones and made belonging feel as natural as breathing.
Dean’s hand rested on the small of your back, absentminded but steady, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Sam and Jess walked ahead, her fingers laced loosely with his, their easy closeness as much a part of the morning as the golden light filtering through the branches.
The scent of coffee still clung to the air when Dean stretched, rolling his shoulders before nudging his brother. “Alright, we worked up a hell of an appetite. Gotta make sure our omegas eat a real breakfast, huh?”
Sam smirked, side-eyeing Jess. “Think that’s a challenge, sweetheart?”
Jess grinned. “Depends. You boys gonna cook for us?”
Dean snorted. “Like we’d trust the two of you in the kitchen together and you not burn the place down.”
Your mock gasp of offense made Sam chuckle, tossing an arm over Jess’s shoulders as the four of you stepped onto the porch.
The kitchen soon filled with the comforting sounds of a pack moving as one.
Dean stood at the stove, flipping pancakes and tending bacon with the practiced ease of someone who had spent a lifetime making sure his people were fed. Sam moved beside him, stirring a skillet of eggs, the two of them working in sync without needing words. The occasional nudge of an elbow or shared glance was all it took.
At the table, you and Jess sat side by side, mugs of coffee warming your hands as you watched them. The ease, the unspoken rhythm of it all—it settled something deep inside you. This was home. Not the place, but the people.
Then it hit you. This was the first time the four of you had been in the same space for more than a few minutes. Before Dean had claimed you four days ago, Sam could barely stand to be near you. Your scent repelled him—just like it had with nearly everyone else. But today? He didn’t seem bothered in the least.
Jess leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “Kinda nice, isn’t it?”
You smiled, watching as Dean murmured something to Sam, both of them chuckling before Dean reached for another plate. “Yeah. Real nice.”
Sam glanced over his shoulder, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Hope you’re getting comfortable, ‘cause you’re gonna want a full belly for this conversation.”
Jess straightened, but the shit-eating grin on her face gave her away. Your brows furrowed as you glanced between the three of them, suddenly feeling out of the loop, “Oh?”
Dean turned, setting a plate of food in front of you with a small, satisfied grunt. “Yeah. We got something to tell you.”
Sam placed another plate in front of Jess before finally settling across from her, his expression softer now, more thoughtful. “We’ve been working on something,” he started, cutting a glance at Dean, who simply nodded for him to go on. “Something for the four of us.”
Dean leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, watching you closely, but before a single word could come out, Jess piped in, practically vibrating with excitement beside you. “A cabin for all four of us,” she squealed.
He rolled his eyes, but his expression was anything but frustrated. “A place of our own,” he said, voice warm, steady. “Not just any place. A home. For us. All of us.”
Your breath hitched slightly as realization settled in, a tight ball of emotions forming in your throat. Jess took your hands in hers, giving them a gentle squeeze. “We’ve been talking about it since the pillow fight,” she admitted. “We just didn’t want to bring you in until you could feel it too—the bond between all of us.”
A single tear slipped down your cheek, and she softly brushed it away just as Sam spoke.
“Plus,” he added, voice sheepish, “I couldn’t really stand being around your scent for very long.”
He looked almost apologetic, but before he could say more, you turned to him.
“It’s okay,” you murmured, taking a moment to quell the overwhelming emotions as they coursed through you. “Hopefully, it’s at least tolerable now.”
You meant it as a tease, but the weight of it lingered.
You had always known your scent repelled most people. It had been your reality from the day you presented as omega. But not anymore.
Light laughter filled the kitchen as the tension eased. Being there, with them, felt like living a dream.
“Yeah. Now you just smell like a bakery on a rainy day,” Sam quipped, a teasing grin on his lips.
As plates settled onto the table, the warmth of freshly cooked food mingled with the quiet hum of the morning. The scent of coffee, bacon, pancakes, and eggs wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, grounding you even as your heart thrummed in anticipation. You swallowed hard, glancing between them, trying to read the emotions simmering just beneath the surface.
“You’re serious?” you finally asked, voice softer than you intended, almost hesitant, as if saying it aloud would make it too real.
Dean’s lips quirked at the corners as he leaned forward, resting his forearms against the edge of the table. “Dead serious,” he said, gaze steady on yours. “We found a spot deep in pack land—secluded, quiet. A place that's just ours.”
Jess grinned around a bite of pancake, nudging Sam with her foot before adding. “Big open space, lots of trees. You’ll love it.”
Sam swallowed a sip of coffee, his expression shifting to something softer. “It’s more than that, though. We wanted somewhere that felt like… home. Not just a place to stay, but somewhere we could put down real roots.” He glanced at Jess before turning back to you. “All four of us.”
The words settled deep in your chest, pressing against something raw, something you hadn’t fully realized you wanted until this moment. You had spent your life feeling out of place, a constant reminder that you had been different. And yet, here they were—offering you something so much bigger than a cabin. They were offering you belonging.
The Winter pack had always accepted you, never treating you as an outsider. But even within your pack, you had never felt truly connected to them—except for Jess. From the moment she was born, something about her had pulled at you, an unexplainable bond you hadn’t understood at three years old. But now? Now, sitting here with them, you understood.
My pack…
You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, absently pushing a piece of bacon around your plate with your fork. “I… don’t know what to say.”
Dean smirked, taking a slow sip of coffee before setting his mug down with a quiet clink. “A simple ‘thank you, Dean, you’re the best alpha ever’ would work.”
Jess snorted, rolling her eyes. “Or just say yes, because we already started clearing the land.”
Your head snapped up. “Wait—what?”
Sam chuckled, nodding. “We started prepping it a week ago. The land’s perfect, and with the packs helping, it won’t take long to build.”
Dean leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, watching you carefully. “Figured we’d tell you when you were ready. When you could feel it, too. I didn’t want you overwhelmed while you went through the merging process with your wolf.”
And you did. The bond between you and Dean had settled into something quiet, unshakable. But something had always been there with Jess. And Sam… even though you didn’t know him well, you felt it with him, too. It was woven into every moment, every touch, every glance. A connection, a bond that went deeper than blood or pack ties. This was soul deep. This was home.
Jess reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. “So? What do you think?”
Your fingers curled around hers, your throat tightening against the sheer weight of it all. You blinked rabidly, trying to chase away the sting in your eyes before glancing at Dean, then Sam. “I think…” You swallowed thickly, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across your lips. “I think I’ve never wanted anything more.”
Dean grinned, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he lifted his coffee in a silent toast. “Then it’s settled.”
Sam nodded, his expression light with something like relief. “Plus, it’s not far from where you and Dean met.”
That did it. A few tears slipped free as Jess beamed and pulled you in a warm hug. But there was no sadness in them—only joy. A joy that radiated from deep inside and spilled over. A joy you didn’t want to contain.
For several long moments, none of them spoke, letting you take the time you needed to compose yourself. Jess gave you one final squeeze before pulling back, and the four of you returned to breakfast. The silence stretched, but it was comfortable, full of unspoken understanding.
Memories teased your mind—little moments that had led you here. Life had a funny way of working itself out. A small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. If any of those moments had gone differently, maybe you wouldn’t be sitting here, with them, planning a home for all of you.
Dean pushed his plate aside and reached for a well-worn folder on the counter, its edges slightly curled from being handled so much. He flipped it open as he sat back down, his fingers running over the papers inside before sliding it toward you.
“We started planning this a month ago,” he said, his voice steady but carrying a note of something deeper—anticipation, maybe. “Wanted to make sure we got everything right.”
You wiped your hands on a napkin before taking the folder, eyes scanning the sketches and handwritten notes inside. The first thing that caught your eye was the layout—spacious, open in the middle, but clearly designed with the four of you in mind. The communal space stretched through the heart of the cabin, connecting everything—the living room, kitchen, and shared bathroom—before splitting into two separate wings.
Dean tapped the page lightly. “Common space is right in the middle. Big enough to handle all of us, even with a pack gathering here and there.”
Sam leaned over, pointing at a section of the blueprint. “Your side’s here,” he said, tracing the outline of a master bedroom with an attached bath. “Two more rooms, for the future.”
Your stomach flipped at the implication, but Sam’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “Same setup on our side. Bedrooms, another bathroom, just in case we need it.”
Jess grinned, nudging your arm. “And before you ask—yes, the kitchen is big enough for you to do all the baking you want, all while those two knuckleheads bicker over who’s cooking dinner.”
You chuckled quietly, already picturing it. Home.
Dean huffed, crossing his arms, but the twitch of his lips gave him away. “We don’t bicker.”
Your fingers brushed over the hand-drawn wraparound porch, already imagining how it would look nestled in the land. No fence, no barriers—just the open stretch of space where the trees met the clearing. You weren’t even paying attention to the three of them acting like pups at the moment.
Jess rested her chin in her palm, focusing on you, watching carefully. “What do you think?”
Your throat tightened, the weight of it all settling in—not just the cabin, but what it meant. A home, built for all of you. A place to grow, to settle, to put down roots deeper than anything you’d ever dared to dream of before.
Your eyes lifted to Dean’s, and he was already watching you, his expression soft, open.
You swallowed, exhaling slowly. “It’s perfect.”
The warmth of the moment lingered, laughter threading through the space between you, but beneath it, something heavier coiled in your chest. You knew it was coming—had been trying to prepare yourself—but that didn’t make it any easier.
Dean felt it before you fully registered it yourself.
The second your emotions dipped, when that silent weight settled behind your ribs, he caught the shift in your scent—how the soft warmth of contentment cooled into something tinged with sorrow. His fingers twitched against the table, jaw ticking as he swallowed down a growl, his wolf bristling at the ache bleeding from you.
Jess must’ve noticed too, because her laughter faded, her gaze flicking to you before she reached out and nudged your arm. “Hey,” she said softly. “We need to talk.”
Dean straightened, his foot brushing against yours under the table, grounding you in his warmth. But it only helped so much.
Your stomach tightened.
Jess didn’t draw it out, didn’t try to soften it with too many words. “Sam and I head back in a few days.”
The sharp inhale that followed wasn’t yours—it was Dean’s. His muscles coiled instantly, his entire body going rigid, like he could somehow shield you from the hurt with sheer force of will.
You swallowed hard, nodding before you could trust your voice. You’d known this was coming. Summer always had an expiration date. But this time, it felt different.
Sam, who had been quietly watching from across the table, leaned forward. His expression was steady, calm—always the rational one—but there was something else in his eyes. Something that mirrored the ache pressing against your ribs.
Dean’s fingers twitched around his mug. He didn’t reach for your hand—didn’t want to push you when your emotions were already raw—but his foot rubbed against yours, firm, anchoring. I’m here.
Jess exhaled, reaching for your hand, her fingers curling around yours. “It’s not forever. We’ll be back for visits, and we’ll call all the time.”
Dean’s jaw flexed, his eyes flicking between the two of you, his frustration simmering beneath he surface. He hated seeing you upset. Hated that he couldn’t fix this. His wolf was restless under his skin, itching to do something, anything.
You forced a breath past the tightness in your throat, trying to smile. “Yeah. I know.”
But the timing cut deeper than just missing them. Jess had been coming out every summer since she started college. Now, with the bond thrumming between you, the thought of her not being here left a hallowness you couldn’t shake.
Then there was the next full moon.
The thing you didn’t want to voice that churned in your gut. The full moon near the end of August would be your first shift—and Jess wouldn’t be there, with you. Dean may have been your mate, but Jess… Jess had been there from the day she was born.
Dean knew where your mind had gone before you even said a word. His stomach clenched, his wolf prowling at the edges of his mind. He felt the shift in you, the way your scent wavered, trembling with something close to fear.
Jess must’ve caught it too, because her grip tightened around your hand. “Hey. Look at me.”
You did.
Her eyes softened, but there was no hesitation when she said, “Do you really think I’d miss my sister’s first shift?”
Your breath caught.
She let the words settle before continuing, her thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “Sam and I already worked it out. We’re coming back for the full moon. No way in hell we’re letting you experience that without us.”
Dean exhaled sharply, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. The relief crashed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs, and before you could stop them, the tears spilled over.
Jess didn’t say a word, just tugged you into a fierce hug, holding on like she knew exactly what this meant to you. Sam was there a second later, gently pulling you from your seat, his arms wrapping around the both of you, solid, steady.
Dean was the last to move, but when he did, it wasn’t hesitation that slowed him—it was the way his entire body reacted to yours, to his pack. The moment your tears hit the air, the second your scent shifted from heartache to overwhelming relief, he was there. His arms wrapped around you from behind, his chest pressing against your back, locking you in with them. His chin dipped to your shoulder, breath warm against your skin.
“You’re stuck with us,” Sam murmured, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head.
“You really think I was gonna let them leave you hanging?” Dean muttered, voice low against your ear. His grip tightened, heat radiating through you, steady and sure. “Not a damn chance, sweetheart. Besides—” his smirk brushed against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine “—means I get you all to myself, for a whole month.”
You choked out a laugh, gripping onto them all, the weight in your chest finally easing.
The ache of their leaving was still there, but now, it wasn’t as sharp. They’d be there when it mattered. And that?
Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.
Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You
Word Count: 4171
Warning: Angst, Fluff, Dean being Dean, Reader struggles with the unknown, Talk of claiming.
A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.
A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.
You smoothed your hands over the fabric of Dean’s old flannel, the worn softness comforting against your fingertips. You had chosen something simple—jeans, a comfortable shirt, and that flannel, the same one he’d left with you that first night, three months ago. Back then, everything had been uncertain. You hadn’t known how things would play out.
Now, you did.
Tonight, you were meeting him under the full moon—not just his wolf but all of him. The man and the wolf, together as one, able to shift back if he chose.
You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself against the rush of anticipation curling in your stomach. You weren’t afraid. If anything, you felt a quiet certainty, something deep in your bones that told you this was right. You’d spent so many nights speaking to his wolf, but tonight, it would be different.
You grabbed the pair of his sweatpants he’d forgotten to pack last time and tucked them under your arm. If he did shift back, he’d need them. It was a simple thing, but grounding. A small act of care, just like his flannel pulled over your shoulders.
The path to your meeting place was familiar, one you had walked for years. But this time, the man you had waited for was already there.
—--------------------------
Shifting while fully there was a whole new experience. The memories had been one thing, but feeling it—God, feeling it—was something else entirely.
He stretched, muscles rolling beneath thickening fur. It was seamless, effortless, like breathing. But damn, the rush of it. The exhilaration of instinct flooding his veins, of the world sharpening into something more.
His pack was there, shifting beside him, the unspoken bond between them deeper like this. Words had never been enough for this connection. Every flick of an ear, every shift of a muscle meant something language could never quite capture.
Sam nudged against him, a comforting press of warmth. Then the others followed, their scents mingling, their bodies moving in unison. They lifted their heads, howling to the moon. A song of welcoming, of acceptance, of family.
Jess nudged against his side. Their song changed, shifting to weave her into it, an unspoken recognition. She was being welcomed, too.
Dean howled in return, then a short bark before he took off—toward their place. The place that has been as much a part of his life as shifting itself. Tonight, for the first time, he would get to see you through his wolf’s eyes. Experience it.
The night air carried the scents of home, woodsmoke and pine mixing with the subtle traces of the pack that had worked the land. He could still smell them in the disturbed earth, the faint musk of hands smoothing over freshly carved wood. The effort put into something that mattered.
The fence was gone.
The barrier that had once divided this place, the invisible line where he had stopped and you had stood just beyond, no longer existed. In its place stood an archway of intertwined wood, polished and sealed, its craftsmanship careful, deliberate. On either side, a bench sat with space between them—five feet, just enough to let a choice be made. Lanterns hung on either side, their glow casting flickering shadows over the clearing.
His wolf’s ears flicked forward, eyes scanning every inch of it, but his chest ached in a way that wasn’t purely instinct. This wasn’t just a place anymore. It was a piece of both your stories, shaped by hands that understood what it meant without ever being told.
A shift in the air made his breath hitch.
You were coming.
And for the first time, he saw you—all of you.
You moved through the trees, quiet but undeniable. But something deeper stirred in him as he watched, something that reached beyond the physical.
Your form blurred, not in reality, but for his eyes only. Something held for your true mate, him.
Your wolf walked with you. Superimposed like a ghost, its coat the deepest black, darker than the night sky stretched above him. Its eyes—your eyes—burned with a blue so deep it felt endless, like the ocean at its most unfathomable depths.
Dean exhaled, slow and reverent.
She was always mine. I was always hers.
He had felt this bond before—the day he met you. But seeing you like this, both the woman and the wolf, woven together in a way he hadn’t known was possible, made something inside him settle. This was how his wolf had always known you, how it had always seen you.
He felt everything his wolf had every night the two of you had met before. The bond his wolf felt from the first night he shifted. But seeing your wolf with his own eyes…
God, you were breathtaking.
And it only steeled his resolve of claiming you once this full moon descended for another month. Two more nights, that’s all I have to wait.
—----------------------------
Before you ever quite made it to that spot, the glow from lanterns caught your eye. The was… unexpected. You knew the pack elders had discussed removing the fence, but that was all you’d been privy to.
As you stepped past the ancient stump, your breath hitched.
The fence was gone. In its place stood a beautifully crafted archway, built from wood taken from both lands—woven together, seamless, like something that had always been meant to exist. And beneath it, waiting, stood your mate.
A sharp inhale stung your lungs, emotions surged too fast to separate—relief, joy, longing, something deeper you didn’t have a name for. Your throat tightened, but you smiled through it, letting a few quiet tears slip free.
His wolf no longer just beneath the surface, no longer something separate from him, but fully, completely part of him.
His stance was the same, familiar and steady, but his presence felt… different. Stronger. More complete. His eyes—God, his eyes—were no longer just his own. Something deeper lived there now, something you could only describe as home.
You swallowed past the lump in your throat, exhaling softly before whispering the words you had always greeted him with.
“Hi, wolf.”
Dean couldn’t move. His paws rooted in place, those two simple words settling deep in his chest, wrapping around his soul. A familiar lopsided grin spread across his open mouth, his tongue hanging slightly as he held your gaze.
You knelt on the earth before him, setting the sweats on the bench, but his eyes were on you.
Then, without hesitation, he licked your cheek, a warm, grounding touch before he pressed into you—his head tucking into the curve of your neck, his chest flush with yours. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, sinking into the embrace.
The two of you stayed like that for what felt like hours, in the comfort of each other, even if it wasn’t more than a few minutes. Then, Dean shifted back to human form, still holding you close. It was something his wolf had wanted to do on so many nights.
When you tried to shift to reach for the sweats, he stopped you, his hand curling gently around your wrist. Your eyes met his, the weight of something unspoken passing between you.
“I wasn’t sure it was possible to love you more than I already did,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with emotion. He reached up, cupping your cheek, nuzzling his nose against the side of yours. “But seeing you tonight, under the full moon…”
Dean let out a shaky breath. It wasn’t the bond of being true mates. It wasn’t the bond from you claiming him. It was something more.
It was the way that you had fallen in love with him without any of those things. He just wasn’t sure how to put that into words.
Dean exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing over the curve of your cheek before he finally pulled back just enough to take you in. His gaze flickered over to the folded sweats on the bench, something soft crossing his expression.
“You brought these for me?” he asked, reaching for them. His voice was quieter now, like the weight of everything was finally settling in.
You nodded, watching as he unfolded them, his thumb grazing the fabric. It was such a simple thing, but the care behind it hit him deep. No one had ever thought about moments like this for him before—not like you did.
He tugged them on, the warmth of the gesture lingering as he stood beside you. That’s when you took in the benches—new, sturdy, built for moments like this. Curiosity got the better of you, and as you lifted the seat, you found a couple of neatly folded blankets inside, with a few other miscellaneous things.
A surprised laugh left your lips. “Looks like they thought of everything.”
Dean huffed a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah. Pretty sure that between our two packs, there’s nothing we can’t figure out.”
You pulled out a blanket and draped it over the two of you as you sat close together, the night settling around you. The silence stretched, not awkward, just… full.
Dean glanced over, something flickering behind his eyes. “Can you—” He hesitated for a beat before pushing through. “Can you talk to me?”
You turned to him, brows lifting in question.
“Like you used to,” he clarified, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “When I was—when it was just my wolf.”
The request sent a deep warmth curling through your chest.
So you did.
You spoke softly, just like before, about the things over the last month he hadn’t been there for. How you and Jess stayed up late, eating ice cream while she rambled about Sam, her words laced with a kind of teenage giddiness that made you tease her like sisters did. How you’d laughed together, but also how you’d struggled—how the weight of your mutation still pressed against you in ways you didn’t always know how to process.
Dean sat still, barely breathing, as if afraid that if he moved, the moment would slip away. His fingers curled over yours beneath the blanket, grounding himself in your presence, in your voice, in the feeling of finally hearing what his wolf had always known.
It wasn’t hard to share those things with him. This was different. The way he held you close, anchoring you as you did him, eased the tension from your body. It allowed you to lean into him more—let you breathe.
A shaky breath left your lips. “I’m scared,” you whispered, pausing as you tried to find the right words.
You weren’t scared of him. Not in the least.
His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face, but he didn’t push. He simply stayed, patient, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over your knuckles.
“Of how things will change for me,” you admitted, your voice quiet, distant—like the thoughts were unraveling in real time. “I’ve never had any sort of connection to my wolf. I’ve never shifted.”
Dean tightened his hold just slightly, placing a kiss on the top of your head, warm and reassuring. “I’ll be right there,” he murmured, voice steady, certain. “You won’t be alone.”
The silence that settled between you wasn’t empty. It was full—of warmth, of unspoken understanding, of something neither of you had the words for but felt all the same. The night stretched on, the full moon casting its glow over the clearing, over the archway that stood where the fence once was, over the two of you wrapped together beneath the blanket.
Dean exhaled slowly, his grip on you steady but gentle. This—you—was what he had been missing all those years, and now that he had you like this, he wasn’t sure how he had ever convinced himself to not go figure out who you were years ago. The ache of all that lost time should have weighed on him, but it didn’t. Not really. Not now. Because for the first time, there was no distance. No waiting, no wondering if the wolf inside him would ever be whole. He was whole. And so was this.
His wolf had always known you. Had always loved you. And now, Dean understood.
He let out a quiet sigh, brushing his lips over your temple before settling his chin atop your head. “Feels like this is how it was always supposed to be,” he murmured.
You hummed softly in agreement, fingers still tangled with his beneath the blanket. Because it did. Despite everything that had changed—despite the shift in knowing, in understanding, in being—there was still something so familiar about it. Like finding your way back to a place you’d always belonged, even if you hadn’t realized you’d left.
You tipped your head slightly, just enough to glance up at him. “Still feels like you,” you whispered.
Dean smiled, something soft and easy, something that settled deep in his chest. “Still am me.”
But better. Stronger. Whole.
And with you beside him, he had everything he’d ever needed.
The night pressed on, but neither of you moved to leave, content to stay wrapped in this quiet, in each other, for as long as time would allow.
However, when the moon had dipped low, signaling the coming dawn, you let out a sigh. “It’s time.”
Dean groaned but couldn’t argue. He knew it would come eventually. Slipping the blanket off his shoulders, he stood, your gaze following.
“You know,” he smirked, teasing the waistband of his sweats. “If you wanted to see me naked again, all you had to do was ask.”
Warmth flooded your cheeks as you ducked your head, instantly averting your eyes. He laughed, the sound deep and playful.
The rustling of fabric was the only warning you got before something soft and warm smacked into your face. You yelped, flailing as you yanked the sweats off your head, only to find Dean grinning at you like a damned Chesire cat.
“You ass,” you huffed, chucking them right back at him. He dodged easily, his laughter rolling through the clearing like the last echoes of the night.
“You love it,” he shot back, still all smug amusement as he took a slow step back.
Your breath hitched, the playful moment slipping into something quieter, heavier, as his smirk softened into something more familiar—something knowing.
And then, right before your eyes, Dean let go.
You had seen him as a wolf plenty of times, but never like this. Never the moment of change, the shift between man and wolf. You weren’t even sure what you had expected—pain? Hesitation?—but there was none. Only fluidity, like a breath of wind, like the natural order of things aligning just as they should.
Bones reshaped, fur rippled into existence, and in the span of a heartbeat, Dean was gone. In his place stood a wolf, like you had always seen him, golden-brown fur illuminated by the dim glow of the lanterns, green eyes staring back at you, steady and sure.
Your lips parted, a stunned breath leaving you as the weight of it hit you. Jess had explained shifting to you before, but seeing it for yourself was something else entirely.
Dean’s wolf huffed, tilting his head slightly, that familiar teasing glint still dancing in his eyes.
And just like that, the spell broke.
You snorted, rolling your eyes as you crossed your arms, his sweats dangling from one hand. “Show-off.”
The wolf chuffed, then took a step closer, bumping his nose against your arm in something that was equal parts affectionate and smug.
“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, unable to help the small smile tugging at your lips as your fingers found their way into his fur. “You should get back. They’ll want to hear about your night. Come by after.”
Your voice softened as you crouched in front of him. Then, just as you had every other night of the full moon, you placed a kiss on his muzzle. “Good night, wolf,” you murmured.
Dean huffed, a warmth lingering in his gaze before he did what he always did—licked your cheek with a quick swipe of his tongue, like a playful promise. Then, with one last lingering look, he turned and bounded off toward his pack’s cabins.
You watched him go, the smile still lingering on your lips. With a quiet exhale, you turned to tidy up the blanket, tucking it neatly under the bench before heading to your cabin in the opposite direction.
—----------------------------
Sunlight streamed through the cabin’s windows, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor. The air was cool, bringing the anticipation of fall. The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, rich and familiar, but your mind was elsewhere. You curled your hands around the warm mug, letting the heat sink into your palms as you sat at the small table near the window, gaze unfocused on the tree line beyond.
Two days.
In forty-eight hours, Dean would claim you.
You swallowed, the thought settling deep in your chest, heavier than you expected. Not out of fear—no, there was no fear in this, no doubt, not when it came to him—but out of the sheer weight of knowing. The inevitability of it. The finality. The way it would change everything, even though you had been moving toward this moment since that night when you were fourteen, when you sang to the moon, and he had answered.
A shaky breath left your lips. You took a slow sip of your coffee, trying to ground yourself, to find steadiness in the warmth and ritual.
Jess was still with Sam on Winchester land, which meant you had the morning to yourself—to think, to process, to feel everything. You weren’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. Jess had a way of making things clearer, even if her bluntness sometimes made you want to chuck a pillow at her face.
Your fingers curled tighter around the mug as your mind drifted back to last night, to the way Dean had looked at you before he shifted. The raw openness of it. The trust. The way it had done something to you, something that made your lungs feel too small and your heart beat too fast.
It wasn’t even about the claiming process, of you giving yourself to him completely. That alone would have been enough to shake most people—being in their mid-twenties and never having been with someone, only to have the first time to also be the time they were claimed.
It was everything else.
The scents—new and undiscovered. The ones you had never been able to perceive, the world that had existed beyond your reach for so long. Everyone had their own unique scent, and soon, for the first time in your life, you would truly know them. Not through logic or deduction, but through something primal, something instinctual.
Then there was her.
Your wolf. The part of you that had been silenced before she ever had a chance to be. The part your mutation had buried, forcing you to live as something else, something incomplete. She would wake up the morning after that, and you had no idea what that would mean.
What would my wolf feel? What would she think? Did she have memories of my life? Could she see everything, like being behind a barrier in my mind, only able to watch?
You exhaled slowly, curling your fingers around the mug, searching for the grounding its warmth refused to provide.
Another slow sip. Another deep breath.
You weren’t afraid. You were apprehensive.
Far too many questions, and no answers. These were the things the files hadn’t contained. The things you needed to know. The things you would put in your book for others.
That thought was enough to pull you from your spiral.
You stood, mug in hand, and moved toward the living room where your desk sat near a window. Sliding into the seat, you set the mug down on a well-worn wooden coaster and opened your laptop. Then, you wrote.
You let it all spill onto the screen—every question that refused to leave your mind. Every worry. Every doubt.
Because knowing something wasn’t the same as experiencing it. And the worst part? The stories, the warnings, the things meant to prepare you… they only made it harder. Because now, they played on repeat in your head.
—---------------------
The next two days passed in a blur of keystrokes and quiet moments.
You spent hours at your desk, pouring your thoughts into the document—trying to process, trying to make sense of what was coming. Writing had always been a way to clear your head, to take something overwhelming and make it tangible. But no matter how many words you typed, nothing could prepare you for what you had never known.
Dean stopped by around the same time each morning, lingering in the doorway or settling onto the couch until you closed your laptop and joined him. He never pushed, never asked for more than you were willing to give, but his presence was grounding. Comforting in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.
He could smell it—the quiet strain threatening through your scent. The subtle undercurrent of unease that clung to your skin despite your best efforts to keep it at bay. And though he never called attention to it, you could tell he was watching you closely. Making sure you were okay.
You did your best to be.
With Jess away on Winchester land, spending the full moon with Sam for the first time since they had claimed each other, the house felt quieter than usual. You missed her. Missed the easy conversation, the way she could fill a room with warmth just by being in it. But at the same time, you were happy for her. This was something she had waited her whole life for. Something you had never quite understood—wouldn’t understand, not yet.
The nights stretched long, spent with Dean at the archway, at the place that had always belonged to the two of you. For some of the night, he stayed in wolf form, the two of you just cuddling while you talked to him like you used to. He noticed it was easier for you that way—easier to say things out loud.
The other half of the time, he was in human form, holding you close, making quiet mental notes of all the little things he could do to help ease the stress you couldn’t quite keep out of your scent. The stress of the unknown.
“I’ll be by to pick you up around ten,” he murmured, mere hours before sunrise on the last night of the full moon.
You let out a shaky breath, trying to calm your nerves, as even his presence wasn’t enough anymore. “I’ll be ready,” you whispered, not trusting your voice not to break if you spoke any louder.
Dean gave you one final hug, holding you close for a moment longer than necessary before pulling away. He smiled softly down at you, placing a tender kiss on your cheek. Then, he shifted before bounding back in the direction of his cabin.
Nervous goosebumps accompanied you on the walk back, the spiraling questions in your head refusing to settle. Even as you ascended the porch steps, pushed open the front door, and climbed the stairs to your room, they only got louder.
Standing at the foot of your bed, the room still dark, you began packing, your movements slow. Typically, you would take a nap, get at least a little rest. But your mind wasn’t going to let that happen.
So you moved on autopilot, gathering your things. A few toiletries, comfortable clothes, your journal—just in case—and all those miscellaneous things on your mental list.
This would be the first time you would be at Dean’s cabin. The first time you crossed that threshold, knowing you wouldn’t leave the same.
You swallowed hard, exhaling slowly as you ran your fingers over the strap of your bag, now fully packed and waiting.
I should eat something.
Pushing past the tangle of thoughts, you grabbed your bag and carried it downstairs, setting it on the couch before heading into the kitchen. Another shaky breath and you were going through the fridge for something simple, but nothing looked even remotely appetizing. So instead, you made a fresh pot of coffee and sat at your desk, typing.
The sun rose, but you didn’t notice.
The minutes stretched into hours, but you didn’t notice that either.
Not until the front door opened.
Dean cleared his throat, and the sound shattered the haze of your thoughts. Slowly, you looked up, meeting his eyes just as the emotions swelled, threatening to spill down your cheeks.
Dean didn’t hesitate. He was by your side in a heartbeat, gently pulling you up and against him.
“I’m scared,” you whispered, fighting past the lump in your throat.
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual. “You won’t be alone, I promise.”
Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.
Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You
Word Count: 6638
Warning: Angst, longing, Fluff, Reader taking care of Dean. Dean being Dean. You might need tissues.
A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.
A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.
Morning came slow and soft, the scent of bonfire smoke still clinging to your hair as you blinked awake. The celebration had stretched long into the night, but here, back at your cabin, the world was quiet. Birds chattered in the trees outside, their songs blending with the gentle rustle of leaves. You stretched beneath the blankets, a lazy smile tugging at your lips as the memories of last night settled warmly in your chest.
There was still a twinge of guilt gnawing at your gut, but you pushed it aside. Morning meant routine, not overthinking. The coffee pot gurgled to life as you rummaged through the fridge, pulling out yogurt and fresh fruit. Through your kitchen window, the faint sounds of Jess moving around in her cabin made you chuckle. She had been practically buzzing since the moment she met Sam, and now that she was bound to him, she was downright giddy.
You sliced into a strawberry, your thoughts drifting despite yourself. Dean. His reluctance last night, the hesitation even with his wolf guiding him—it lingered in your mind like an unanswered question. Will he let me be there for him?
Before you could spiral too far, Jess burst through your front door.
Laughing, you shook your head as she strode in, snatching a strawberry before you could stop her. “I’m not baking this morning,” you teased.
She grinned around her bite. “I know. Mornings are just boring alone.”
You shot her a knowing glance as you added the sliced fruit to your yogurt, noting the way her hair was styled, the little extra effort in her outfit. “So… when’s Sam picking you up?”
Jess groaned, tossing her head back. “How do you do that?”
You smirked. “We’ve been friends since you were born. It’s not hard for me to tell when you put in just that scosh more effort.”
She scrunched her nose, pouting like a kid. For a moment, you wondered if either of you would ever grow out of acting like pups—but honestly, you hoped neither of you did. Then, just as quickly, her expression brightened.
“Sam’s taking me out to breakfast,” she squealed. “Like a date.”
Her excitement was infectious, pulling a grin from you. “Lemme guess—you’re gonna spend the whole day with him.”
“Yup,” she giggled, swiping a slice of strawberry right out of your bowl.
Shaking your head, you took your bowl and coffee, and settled at the table. “When’s he supposed to be here?”
Before she could answer, the familiar growl of a truck engine rumbled outside. You arched a brow as she visibly tried—and failed—to contain her excitement. But what caught your attention wasn’t her reaction; it was the sound of two doors opening and closing. Then, a knock at your door.
Jess didn’t wait for permission. She practically bolted across the room, flinging it open with a chirped greeting. Footsteps followed—three sets. Your breath hitched, your heart kicking up a notch. Dean?
Sam stepped inside, his posture relaxed but deliberate as he did his best to breathe shallowly. He never complained about your scent—knew it wasn’t your fault—but the effort was obvious. At least Jess never made him linger too long.
Before you could process who the third person was, Jess turned back and threw her arms around you, squeezing tight.
“See you later,” she whispered, barely containing her excitement. Then, with a knowing smile, she added, “Good luck.”
And just like that, she was gone, tugging Sam by the hand and practically dragging him out the door.
Your eyes met his—green, sharp, but layered with a storm of emotions he wasn’t ready to unpack. His hands stayed buried in his pockets, his stance hesitant, again.
“I don’t bite,” you said, attempting to ease the tension—only to immediately regret the choice of words.
Dean exhaled through his nose, something between a scoff and a sigh, his frustration aimed at himself, his wolf, and the impossible situation between you.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured, your gaze dropping to your bowl as you scooped up a bite of yogurt and fruit, but the food might as well have been sawdust on your tongue. I’ve made things worse.
Without a word, Dean moved around your kitchen, grabbing a mug and pouring himself coffee like he’d done numerous times before. The familiarity should have made it easier, but it didn’t. Three days ago, he’d sat across from you just like this—left not even twenty minutes later.
Today? Sam had driven him here. Today, there was no escape.
He wrapped his hands around the mug, letting its warmth ground him as his breath came uneven, anxiety coiled tight in his chest. “What happened that night, when you were fourteen?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
You’d expected the question. But hearing him actually say it? It twisted something deep in your stomach, made your appetite vanish. How were you supposed to answer him? The truth sounded so selfish now, knowing what you did.
“I was afraid of having to grow up too fast,” you admitted, voice quiet, gaze on a strawberry slice in your bowl.
Dean’s eyes snapped up, the shift in your scent hitting him before your words had fully sunk in. Guilt.
His wolf took over, not giving Dean a choice in the matter. With a quick motion, he moved his chair next to yours, sitting so that he was facing you, and pulled you into his arms. His nose brushed against your cheek as he nuzzled you, grounding you in the way only he could.
“No. Not that. Your song,” his voice was gruff, strained, as his wolf attempted to work with him, speak through him, make him understand.
The words made you tense for half a breath. He doesn’t remember. But his wolf does.
You let yourself lean into him, let his warmth settle the nerves twisting inside of you. But when you opened your mouth to speak, the words tangled somewhere in your throat.
“I was lonely,” you finally whispered. A single tear slipped free before you could stop it, and you swiped it away just as quickly.
Dean’s chest tightened. He knew that kind of lonely—the one that hollowed you out, that gnawed at the edges of your soul. He’d lived in it for years.
“Will you sing, for me?” he asked quietly, unsure if he’d fully understand it—but his wolf would. His wolf knew that song like a prayer.
You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself before shifting just enough to sit up. His hand trailed from your arm to your lower back, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your spine. The touch grounded you, but you still closed your eyes, letting your mind drift back—back to those nights beneath the moon, to the aching loneliness threaded into every note.
Then, you tilted your head, letting that song drift from your lips. The melody started soft, hesitant, but as the familiar tune settled into your bones, your voice steadied, carrying the weight of everything you had never spoken aloud.
Dean could only watch, emotions crashing through him like a storm at sea, feeling everything his wolf felt in that moment. A tear slipped down your cheek, your eyes still closed, his heart clenched at the pain, the hope, the longing woven into every note. Your longing wasn’t only for your mate, it was a longing to just feel your wolf, the part of you that had always been locked away.
His wolf howled, singing mournfully with you in his mind, their pain entwining, churning in his chest, twisting his stomach. Dean barely managed to hold back until your voice faded into silence, then gently pulled you against his chest, his arms tightening around you as he fought back the burn of unshed tears.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. Words didn’t belong here. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full, thick with understanding, carrying the weight of everything neither of you could speak aloud.
And finally, he understood.
He understood the things you couldn’t say, emotions you couldn’t name or express in words. The hurt that had coursed through him at feeling as though you abandoned him all those years ago, even if he had no clue it was because of this. It all just slipped away as your scent wrapped around him like a warm blanket.
Today, he had come here planning to tell you how he felt back then—how those three nights under the full moon had changed everything. How he had faked so much afterward. How he had forced himself to act like other alphas, pretending his wolf had any interest in other omegas vying for his attention. He’d had to put on a face for others at school, hide so much from everyone outside his pack.
But after hearing the same song his wolf had, he knew, without a doubt, you hadn’t been selfish, not in the least. You hadn’t stayed away out of spite or to hurt him. You’d been afraid, of everything.
Dean didn’t even realize the soft, rumbling purr in his chest, his wolf pressing forward, offering comfort in the only way he knew how.
And somehow, singing for him now—outside of the full moon, outside of him being in his wolf form—felt different. Lighter. Like you’d shed something you hadn’t even realized you’d been carrying.
The gentle vibrations of his chest rumbled against you, easing the tension from your body, letting you melt into him in a way you hadn’t expected. And then, before you could stop it, you began purring—soft and feline, nothing like the deep growls of a wolf. You’d purred around Jess before, even around Dean’s wolf, but here, in his arms, it was different. More vulnerable. A little embarrassing.
You started to pull away, instinct curling you inward, but before you could, he spoke.
“That’s kinda cute,” he murmured against your hair.
His words sent warmth curling through you, but it was the sheer fondness in his tone that had your stomach flipping. No teasing, no mockery—just quiet acceptance, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
You huffed softly, hiding your face against his shoulder. “It’s not cute.”
Dean chuckled, the sound low and soothing, his arms still secure around you. “Nah, it is. And it’s—” He hesitated, like he was trying to find the right words. “It’s nice. I don’t think I ever realized how much I needed this. How much my wolf missed this.”
The admission settled between you, shifting something unspoken. Outside, the world moved on while the two of you stayed wrapped in quiet stillness, a bubble where only you existed. Neither of you made a move to break apart, as if speaking too soon would shatter whatever fragile peace had settled between you.
Eventually, Dean exhaled deeply and shifted just enough to press his cheek against your temple. “You still hungry?
The simplicity of the question made you smile. “A little.”
“Good,” he murmured, finally leaning back. His hand skimmed down your arm, lingering as he helped you sit up. Then, with a slow smirk, he grabbed your bowl of yogurt and fruit, mixing it together before holding a spoonful out for you. “Open up.”
You let out a small laugh, but something about it made your heart stutter. You’d thought he was playing around at first, but the look in his eyes told you otherwise. This wasn’t teasing. It was something softer. A quiet tenderness that made the air between you feel warmer, heavier. Something about him wanting to feed you felt far more intimate than you thought it should.
Your reaction wasn’t lost on him—he’d noticed the way your breath hitched, the way your eyes flicked between his and the spoon. But he didn’t say anything. He just waited, patient and steady, before gently insisting, moving the spoon closer.
Instinctively, your lips parted, and he fed you the bite.
And that was how the day unfolded—easy, unhurried, laced with small, intimate moments that neither of you had expected but welcomed all the same. Conversations came naturally, quiet confessions exchanged while wrapped up in each other on the couch. He shared his fears and worries, so you offered yours in return. No judgment. No pressure. Just the promise that neither of you had to face things alone.
You encouraged him and his wolf to work together, to try to find some kind of balance, while he allowed himself to relax against you. It was an odd sensation at first—him and his wolf shifting, blending in ways that felt right but never quite lasted. His mutation remained a barrier, something neither of them could push past, no matter how hard they tried.
Later, while he cooked dinner, you leaned against the counter, beer in hand, watching him. His shoulders were tense, his mind clearly somewhere else.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” you asked, voice light but curious.
He didn’t look away from the sizzling pan. “You claiming me before the next full moon.”
The honesty in his tone made you pause mid-sip.
“I’ve just really been thinking about it,” he admitted, shifting the pan slightly. “I want to experience what my wolf does, but…”
He trailed off, struggling for the right words. You stayed quiet, attempting patience, giving him the space to find them.
Dean exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening slightly before he finally voiced what had been weighing on him.
“...I also want to claim you,” he said, quieter this time. “I just—I want to be able to handle the memories I’ll get before I do. Does that make sense?”
You heard it then—the uncertainty laced in his voice, the vulnerability he wasn’t used to exposing.
Without a second thought, you moved behind him, slipping your arms around his waist and leaning your cheek against his back. Just holding him close.
“It does,” you murmured. “I can wait. And, if you’ll let me, I’ll be there for you and your wolf.” A gentle squeeze. A promise. “You’re not alone.”
Dean let out a slow breath, his hand finding yours, holding onto you as if grounding himself. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to put into words what you truly meant to him—what you meant to his wolf—but he hoped one day, you’d understand.
By the time Sam and Jess returned, night had already settled over the land. You and Dean were curled up on the couch again, lost in the quiet comfort of each other, when the cabin door swung open.
You barely glanced over the back of the couch, a small chuckle slipping out as Dean’s fingers traced lazy patterns up and down your arm.
Jess stopped in the doorway, eyes wide with amusement, before she broke into a fit of giggles. “Perhaps we should have gone to my cabin,” she mused, her teasing directed at the two of you.
You deadpanned, though your tone was all playful challenge. “Cute, Jess. Just because you and Sam are acting like teenagers doesn’t mean we are.”
Sam chuckled, already wrapping his arms around Jess’s waist, pulling her flush against him as he nuzzled into her neck, his lips ghosting over her scent gland.
All you and Dean could do was watch as she melted into him, a soft sound escaping her—practically purring.
“God, get a room,” Dean groaned, grabbing the nearest throw pillow and chucking it straight at Sam’s head.
A startled grunt left Sam before the room erupted into laughter, pillows flying back and forth in a chaotic flurry. You and Dean versus Jess and Sam—an all-out war. It was ridiculous, juvenile, but it didn’t matter. It was a simple moment, one that made it feel like, somehow, everything would work itself out. That the bond the four of you shared ran deeper than blood, deeper than pack lines.
When the night wound down and Dean finally had to leave, you handed him the blanket he’d brought back three days ago. He took it without a word, pressing it to his chest like something precious before leaning down, cupping your cheek as he kissed you goodnight.
“Give me a couple days,” he murmured against your lips, then nuzzled your nose with his.
A playful smile tugged at your lips as you nuzzled him back. “If I have to, I’ll bribe you with freshly baked apple pie.”
He groaned at the thought, fingers curling into your hair as he brushed his lips against yours in a teasing graze. “Oh, I’ll definitly be here for that.”
Sam would have given him shit, even teased him, if it wasn’t for Jess keeping him thoroughly distracted as they whispered their own goodnights on the other side of the truck. When the brothers finally pulled away, you and Jess were both grinning like idiots.
Stepping onto the porch, you watched the taillights disappear down the road before Jess giggled, hooking her arm through yours. “Ice cream and details,” Jess giggled, she declared, already dragging you inside.
Laughter bubbled up from your chest, the kind that came easy, knowing exactly how the rest of the night was going to go.
—--------------------
Dean spent those couple of days attempting to prepare himself. His wolf wasn’t helping—it's amused huffing only made his nerves worse. Sam had been at his cabin both days, talking him through what to expect, explaining things in ways he could grasp. But none of it stopped the restless pacing in his living room.
“Would you just sit down?” Sam sighed, running a hand down his face.
“I can’t,” Dean grumbled, making another pass.
It wasn’t just nerves. It was anticipation, a coiled tension winding tighter with each passing hour. Things between you had been slow—cuddling, a few stolen kisses over the last two and a half months—but this was different. This was the step neither of you had taken yet, and he was desperately trying not to think about the intimate details of what was about to happen.
Then, Sam chuckled. “You’re nervous.”
Dean froze mid-step, then shot his brother a deadpan look. “Shut up.”
That was all it took. Sam lost it, laughter spilling out as if this was the funniest damn thing he’d ever seen. His brother, the alpha, who had been with several omegas, was nervous. It was gold.
Dean crossed his arms, scowling. “You know what? She’s different, alright? It’s not the same.” He knew how it sounded. Hell, if the roles were reversed, he’d be the one on the couch laughing his ass off.
With a sigh, he sank into the armchair, scrubbing a hand over his face. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “I just don’t want to hurt her, you know?”
The amusement drained from Sam’s expression. He studied Dean for a long moment before his face softened. “Your wolf won’t let you hurt her. You’ll see, since you don’t want to believe me.”
Dean wanted to believe him. But that fear still sat heavy in his chest—that when the moment came, and you claimed him, everything would hit him at once. The bond. The instincts. His emotions colliding with his wolf’s in a way he couldn’t control. Could his wolf really stop him from claiming you in return?
He eyed the small overnight bag sitting next to the couch like it might bite him. It was packed, zipped, ready to go. He wasn’t.
His fingers drummed against his thigh as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring at nothing in particular. He’d never thought twice about grabbing a bag and heading to an omega’s place before. But this wasn’t just any omega. It wasn’t some casual night. This was you—his true mate.
His jaw tensed, and he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before rubbing at the back of his neck. His wolf was restless, pacing just under his skin, waiting, preparing to be stronger than him.
“I wish you’d just trust your wolf,” Sam sighed from the doorway, but he already knew the truth.
Dean scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m working on it.”
Sam chuckled but didn’t push. Instead, he grabbed the bag and tossed it toward Dean, forcing him to catch it. “Then let’s go before you work yourself up even more. Or get cold feet.”
Dean shot his brother a glare, but didn’t argue. He allowed himself a single moment of hesitation. Then, he stood, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight pressing down on him. He took one last glance around his cabin—like he was stepping into something he wouldn’t come back from the same. Because he knew the truth.
When he woke up tomorrow, everything would be different.
With a slow breath, he followed his brother out the door.
—-----------------------------
The kitchen smelled like cinnamon, butter, and warm apples—comfort baked into every corner of the cabin. Three golden-crusted pies sat cooling on the counter, and yet, Jess had been circling them like a predator for the last twenty minutes, arms crossed, lips pursed.
“You don’t need four,” she finally announced, eyeing the closest one like she was calculating the risk of just swiping a slice.
You smirked, pulling the last dish from the oven and setting it on the stovetop. “Says the girl who conveniently showed up right before the first one came out.”
Jess gasped, pressing a hand to her chest like you’d wounded her. “Excuse you! I’m here for emotional support.” Then she grinned. “And maybe a taste test.”
You rolled your eyes, but before you could argue, Jess leaned against the counter, her expression shifting into something a little too smug for comfort.
“So,” she started, dragging out the word, “are you freaking out yet?”
You hesitated, then shrugged, focusing a little too hard on adjusting the placement of the last pie. “Not really. Just… thinking.”
Jess snorted. “Thinking. Uh-huh. You mean overthinking.”
You sighed, giving up the act, and leaned against the counter opposite her. “It’s just—this is it, you know? No backing out, no do-overs.”
Jess softened, but only for a second before her grin turned downright wicked. “Oh, sweetheart, backing out isn’t going to be your problem. Trust me.”
Your face burned instantly. “Jess.”
“What? I’m just saying, when it happens, it’s gonna hit you like a freight train.” She held up her hands. “But! That’s where I come in. Because lucky for you, I have wisdom to impart.”
You groaned. “I really don’t think I need—”
“Shush. Listen. First off, breathe. I know that sounds stupid, but I mean it. When it starts, your instincts are gonna take over, and it’s gonna feel like everything’s too much, all at once. And I’m not talking wolf instincts. But you have to stay in control.”
You swallowed, nodding.
“Second,” she continued, “don’t be afraid to take the lead. Dean might be an alpha, but tonight? Tonight, you’re claiming him. This is all new territory for him. He won’t admit it, but he’s probably losing his mind about it just as much as you are.”
You frowned, surprised. “You think so?”
Jess scoffed. “Oh, I know so. You’re his true mate. That man is probably pacing the floor somewhere, questioning every life choice that led him to this moment.”
The mental image made you smile, nerves easing just a little.
“Good, there’s that face I like.” Jess tapped the counter. “Now, last thing—trust yourself. This is supposed to feel right. It’s supposed to be intense. If you let yourself feel instead of thinking so damn hard, I promise, you’ll be fine.”
She let that settle, then reached for the closest pie with zero shame. “Now, about my emotional support slice…”
You chuckled, sliding the pie she’d been eyeing closer to her. “I made extra just for you.”
Jess beamed, licking her lips. “This is why you’re my favorite.”
The chuckled snort slipped out before you could stop it. “Favorite omega,” you corrected playfully, knowing Sam was truly her favorite. He was her soulmate, after all.
A deep rumble of an engine pulled up outside, and you barely had time to exhale before Jess shot you a knowing grin.
“That’s my cue.” She plucked the pie you’d given her off the counter and moved toward the door like she hadn’t just been giving you explicit advice minutes ago. “Try not to overthink, and remember to breathe.”
You barely heard her over the sound of one truck door shutting while she made it outside, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
Dean’s fingers clenched around the strap of his bag as he stood on your porch. Jess shot him a knowing look before sliding into Sam’s truck—the very seat Dean had occupied only moments ago. The entire drive over, Sam had been suspiciously silent. Now, Dean knew why.
He huffed, rolling his shoulders. His wolf? Perfectly fine. Amused, even—and absolutely no help.
Then, you were there, standing in the doorway, holding the door open for him, your scent curling into the air, mixing with the warm apple pie. He couldn’t even stop the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. “I did say I would bake,” you told him, hoping you didn’t sound as nervous as you felt.
His lips quirked up in a happy half-smile. “You did. And what would you have done if I didn’t show up?” He wasn’t quite sure where this playful, cocky feeling was coming from, but he was going to go with it. It wasn’t like he would use around other omegas. With you, somehow, it felt different in how he meant it or hoped you’d answer.
“I would have made Sam hog tie you, toss you in the back of his truck, and drive you over here. Nice to see you made it easy on him,” you quipped back, enjoying the playful banter with him.
You were like a breath of fresh air to him. Everything about you was amazing, including how you could keep up with his mouth. Internally, both of you were still nervous, but it wasn’t hanging heavy in the air like it had been only a few moments ago.
Stepping to the side, you gestured for him to come inside. That was when it hit him again. He swallowed hard, exhaling slowly—and swore his wolf was laughing at him.
Dean stepped inside, dropping his bag near the door. The space smelled like you—warm, familiar, and something he couldn’t quite put into words. His wolf knew, though. Knew and was damn pleased to be here.
Dean wasn’t as collected.
His fingers twitched at his sides, flexing like they wanted to reach for you, but he stuffed them into his pockets instead. You noticed—of course, you did—but didn’t say anything. Pushing him wouldn’t help.
“You good?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.
“Yeah. Yeah, ‘m good,” he answered, too quickly. His wolf huffed inside him—liar.
Your lips pressed together, amusement flickering across your face before you let it go. “Hungry?”
Dean exhaled, relieved for the distraction. “Starving.”
“Good. The pies are cool enough to eat.” You turned toward the kitchen, and for a second, he hesitated. He should follow, maybe help, but that meant getting closer. His stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from something else.
His wolf was having none of it.
The shift was seamless, instinct threading through his limbs before he could overthink it. Tension drained from his shoulders, his body moving on its own, closing the space he’d left between you.
You glanced up at him as he came up behind you, but you didn’t comment on the shift you noticed. Instead, you just smiled. A small thing, easy. It settled him more than he thought it should have.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t let himself hesitate. His hands skimmed down your arms, gently coaxing you to set the plates aside. You obliged without a word, and the next thing you knew, he was wrapping you up in his arms, nuzzling his nose into your neck. Breathing you in.
It was surreal—like watching himself from a distance while still feeling everything. His wolf was in control, but not in a way that scared him. No, this was different. Right.
Until it wasn’t.
Dean jolted back like he’d been yanked forward, tension slamming back into his frame.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice tight. He forced himself to take a slow breath, to focus on your scent, the grounding comfort of you in his arms. “I’m just—” He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m really nervous.”
You shifted in his arms so you could face him. Your hands smoothed up his back, fingers pressing into the tense muscles at his shoulders. “I’m nervous too, you know,” you admitted softly. “I know this isn’t how it’s usually done. It’s different. We’re different.”
Dean exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He pulled back just enough to look at you, searching your expression like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you murmured, your thumb brushing along the nape of his neck. “But different isn’t bad, Dean. And you don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.”
His wolf preened at your words, a low, satisfied rumble stirring in his chest. That’s our mate. Strong. Sure. Ours.
Dean swallowed hard, his lips twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it yet. Instead, he dipped his head, resting his forehead against yours. “I know. Just… still wrapping my head around it.”
You let the moment settle before tilting your head, nudging his nose with yours. “Come on, Winchester. Movie and pie first. Then, I’ll cook you dinner. You’ll feel better with a full stomach.” A teasing smirk played on your lips. “If you relax for me, I might make your favorite.”
His laugh was quiet but real, his eyes flickering with something warmer than nerves. “Bacon cheeseburgers?”
“Relax for me, and I’ll make sure you get extra bacon,” you promised.
That earned you a small groan and a smirk before you took his hand, guiding him toward the couch.
You picked a movie you’d seen together before, something easy—background noise more than anything. As Dean got comfortable on the couch, you disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a pie and a plate with a fresh slice for him. His eyes flicked from the plate to you, and you could see the moment his wolf settled. Mate takes care of us.
Before he could dig in, you sank into the couch opposite him and opened your arms. “Come here.”.
At first, he hesitated, his fingers gripping the plate a little tighter. But this time, his wolf nudged him forward. He swallowed hard and moved closer, the uncertainty in his posture almost endearing. It didn’t take you long to figure out that he wasn’t used to being the one held—he kept shifting, trying to figure out how to cuddle up against you and still eat his damn pie.
“Here,” you said gently, taking his plate for a moment.
You sat up straighter, guiding him to lean into you, his head resting against your shoulder. Then, you wrapped one arm around him, securing him against you, and retrieved the plate. Dean’s arm settled loosely around your waist, his fingers idly playing with the hem of your shirt.
The moment stretched between you, quiet and intimate.
You took a slow, steadying breath before scooping up a bite of pie, holding it up for him. His lips parted slightly, his gaze flicking to yours before he accepted the bite.
Dean Winchester—Alpha, protector, fighter—let you take care of him.
And for the first time all day, the tension in his shoulders eased.
The warmth of the pie lingered on Dean’s tongue, but it wasn’t the taste that settled something deep in his chest—it was this. The quiet, the way you absently stroked your fingers through his hair, how your touch soothed a part of him he hadn’t realized was still restless. He had to admit, for all his instincts screaming that he should be the one taking care of you, this felt… good.
Too good, if he was being honest.
His wolf was smug about it, stretching inside him, content in a way Dean couldn’t remember feeling in years.
Dean shifted against you, pressing his face into the curve of your neck, taking a deep breath. Your scent wrapped around him, grounding, warm, and unmistakably yours. It was all-consuming in a way he hadn’t expected, in a way that only confirmed what he already knew—he was gone for you.
Still, it didn’t stop the knee-jerk reaction that flared up as soon as the credits rolled on the forgotten movie. “I should get dinner.”
He barely made it an inch off the couch before you stopped him, your touch firm against his chest. “Not tonight.”
Dean froze, his wolf going eerily still. His eyes flicked to yours, his mind already working, already trying to figure out how to navigate the instinctual wrongness of sitting back and letting you take care of him. He swallowed hard, tension creeping back into his shoulders. “Omegas don’t cook for the alpha on claim night.”
Your lips quirked, a knowing glint in your eyes. “I do. Because I’m the one claiming you.”
His wolf all but preened at that, purring in satisfaction, but Dean wasn’t so easily swayed. His jaw tightened. “Doesn’t mean I can’t help.”
You softened, your hand sliding up to the nape of his neck, fingers scratching lightly at his skin. The touch sent a shiver down his spine, made his wolf melt under your hands even as his pride wrestled with it.
“Dean,” you murmured, gentle but unyielding. “Let me do this. Just this once, let me take care of you.”
He swallowed hard. He wanted to argue, wanted to push back against the wrongness of it—because he was supposed to be the one making sure you were taken care of, he was supposed to be the one providing. But the way you looked at him, steady and sure, left no room for anything but the truth.
You weren’t asking him to let go of who he was. You were asking him to let you love him in a way no one else ever had.
Dean exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine. But I’m cutting the damn onions.”
Your laughter rang out, warm and bright, as you shook your head. “Not a chance, Winchester. When you decide to claim me, would you let me help?” It was a question he didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Both of you knew the truth. He wouldn’t let you help. He’d want to be the one taking care of you.
Grumbling, he let you push him back down onto the couch. He muttered something about this being unnatural, about how he was never gonna live this down, but his heart wasn’t in it. His wolf was too damn pleased, too damn content to let him fight it for long.
From his seat, he watched you move around the kitchen, watched the easy way you pulled ingredients together like it was second nature. It hit him, somewhere between the sizzle of the pan and the way you hummed softly under your breath—this was the first time someone had ever done this for him. Just because they wanted to.
He fidgeted, playing with the condensation on his beer bottle, the beer you’d gotten for him not long ago to help settle his nerves. He tried not to think about what this meant, about what it said that you were willing to break tradition for him, to flip everything on its head because of his genetic mutation.
But as you turned, setting the plate in front of him, your voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I know this is weird for you.”
Dean’s fingers curled around his beer bottle. He stared at the plate for a long moment before looking up, meeting your gaze.
“This is weird for me,” he admitted, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
You didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. You just nodded, reaching out to rest a hand over his. “I know. But it won’t be forever. Just tonight. Let me give you this, Dean, please.”
Dean stared at you, at the quiet certainty in your eyes, the unwavering patience in your touch. And then, finally, finally he got it.
This wasn’t about taking something from him.
It was about giving him something he’d never let himself have before.
His grip tightened around yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The tension in his shoulders loosened, just a fraction, as he exhaled.
“Yeah.” His lips twitched. “Okay.”
The smile you gave him was worth every bit of the struggle.
Dinner passed in a haze of warmth and quiet understanding. You watched Dean out of the corner of your eye as he ate, the way his shoulders slowly lost their tension, the way his wolf settled with each bite. It reassured you—he was letting you do this. He was letting himself accept it.
You had read about this, about what an alpha’s care meant to an omega, how it soothed something deep in their bones. But experiencing it, watching Dean, an alpha, relax into it, was something else entirely. He fought against it at first, grumbling under his breath about not being able to help, but each time you met his gaze, steady and sure, he let it go just a little bit more.
You paid attention to everything—the way his fingers curled around his beer, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. If only I could smell his scent and not just his presentation. That would make this so much easier. You were learning him, but without that, it was like trying to put together a puzzle without the final pieces. At least he was letting you.
After dinner, another movie played in the background, but you barely paid attention. Dean was stretched out on the couch, head resting in your lap, your fingers moving soothingly through his hair. The weight of what was to come soon, pressing against your ribs.
Claiming him.
Your fingers brushed against the nape of his neck absentmindedly, your mind running through everything you had researched. The placement was important. The timing. The pressure. You knew exactly what to do, exactly what it would mean. It wasn’t just a mark—it was a declaration, a tether that would bind him to you in a way nothing else could.
You wouldn’t feel the full force of it yet, not until he claimed you in return. But for now, this would give him the ability to truly bond with his wolf, allow him to have what everyone else did. That connection.
Dean shifted, his breath warm where it fanned against your leg above your knee. You knew the moment was coming, the moment where you would have to move, to take his hand, to lead him where you both knew this night would end.
Your heart pounded, not with fear, but with certainty.
This was for him. For his wolf. For them. The next major step in your future together.
You took a slow, steady breath. Then, as the credits began rolling, you slid your fingers through his, squeezed gently, and tugged.
Dean lifted his head, blinking at you, searching your face for something. Whatever he found made his breath hitch, his fingers tightened around yours.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.
Instead, he sat up on the couch, watching as you moved—turning off the movie, then the lights in the kitchen, leaving only the dim glow of one lamp in the living room. Then you returned to him, hand outstretched, a silent request. His eyes never left you, his heart thudding against his ribs again.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he took your hand, letting you lead him toward the stairs.
i might write a full thing out later, but, like, the brainworms are wriggling and i'm still unsure if it's anything
something something mob au where price suffers a blow to the head on a handoff gone wrong, and while he seems to be cognitively fine in all other ways, there's just one small problem:
he keeps demanding to see his wife- but he's never been married.
he talks about her all the time, tells the boys what she looks like, her name, how they met at a coffee shop she'd worked at- one that's not too far from where he keeps his office. it doesn't take them long to realize he's been harboring something of a crush on the barista at his local coffee place- and a solid thwack to the head with an improvised nightstick has convinced him that the two of you have been together for years.
were price not a) the head of organized crime in the city and b) growing increasingly upset and violent at being kept from his 'wife', they'd just ignore his demands, up his sedatives, and worst case scenario, hire a working girl to put on a wig and play the part for a night. easy peasy, no harm done.
instead, you're snatched up after a closing shift, your car left abandoned with the door half open as you're shoved into a van and given very clear instructions at gunpoint: you will play the role of mrs. price, you will allow him to do and say as he pleases, you will not cause a fuss, run away, or do anything to harm the old man.
you'll be made to play house, to be his perfect housewife under the threat of a bullet to the brain. you're to let him do whatever he likes and pretend it's absolutely fine and normal- groping, smacking, fucking, fingering, all of it. you are his little plaything, given a very specific role to act out. anything less than a completely convincing performance and you'll wind up in the river. or the rose garden. the man in the skull mask is still thinking it over.
it's hard to do anything but agree, especially when all you've been told is that the infamous 'bravo' who runs the 141 gang has asked for you, specifically, despite the fact that you have nothing to do with organized crime. it's terrifying- after all, you're just a barista, worried about picking up enough shifts to pay rent. the most contact with bravo and his gang is reading about the brutal deaths linked to him on the evening news. you couldn't pick him out of a lineup if you tried-
-or so you thought.
your entire world feels like it's caving in on you when you're led to a private room with armed guards at the door, only to see one of your favorite regulars being tended to in an ostentatiously large bed, his eyes lighting up as he bats the doctor's blood pressure cuff away as he reaches out for you as if you're long-lost lovers and not just a barista and the guy who recently switched from americano's to lapsang souchong.
something something it's a terribly confusing thing, after all, to be forced at gunpoint to play wife to someone who actually does make for a very loving and attentive husband- even if he is mafia.
Warnings: Mild Violence. Maybe I'll add more in the future.
Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.
Word Count: 4.3k
Previous Chapter
She blinked.
Of all the things she had expected him to say -‘give me all you have’, or even ‘where am I?’- that had not been on the list.
Her brain, which had been screaming danger at full volume, stuttered to a confused halt.
"...Excuse me?"
His eyes searched her face, flicking from her eyes to her mouth, then back up. The frown deepened.
"The ring," he said, and there was something in his voice now that hadn't been there before, something that sounded almost like fear, buried under the controlled features. "You put the ring in the chest, did something. You brought me here."
She stared at him.
Right. So. Not a drunk actor. That left her with someone eloped from an asylum, or a veteran with some kind of shock.
She forced herself to take a breath, to level her voice to a stay, calm tone, the way you'd talk to a spooked horse or a confused child.
"Listen, sir," she said. "I don't know what you've got going on in that head of yours, but I am not a witch, I don't know anything about any ring, and I would greatly appreciate it if you got off me. Now."
----
He studied her properly now.
Really examined, now that the immediate threat of the -whatever that thing was she'd tried to brain him with- had been neutralized.
The clothing was wrong. Scandalously wrong. She wore a blouse with short sleeves that ended above the elbow, leaving her forearms bare. And the neckline! God. The neckline was cut in a V that plunged toward her chest with no chemise beneath, no modest linen to preserve decency, with buttons made of something that caught the light, like shell or bone, beaconing the eyes toward the tantalizing curve of her-
His eyes snapped back to her face, jaw tight.
No respectable woman dressed like this. No lady certainly, but even common women knew better than to display themselves so openly unless they were advertising a service. Also, the carmine on her lips. He had never seen such a brazen display.
So. A whore, then? Or a service in whatever establishment he'd been dragged to after being drugged and robbed? The building smelled strange. Earth and growing things, yes, but also that underlying wrongness he couldn't place. And the light overhead wasn't firelight, wasn't candlelight, but something steady that didn't flicker, didn't smoke, just existed like it had been summoned there and told to stay.
Magic. Had to be.
His head was pounding. His ribs ached with every breath. And this woman was staring up at him like he was the confusing element in this situation.
"If not a witch," he said, keeping his voice level with effort, "then what are you, wench?"
Her eyes went wide.
Then they narrowed, and something in her expression shifted from fear into outrage so quickly he almost missed the transition.
"Wench?" she repeated, her voice climbing half an octave. "Did you just call me a wench?"
He frowned. "You object to the term?"
"Get off me, you brute!"
She shoved at his chest with her free hand. Not hard enough to move him, but hard enough to make her intention clear. The outrage was burning off the fear now, replacing it with something that looked a lot like indignation.
He didn't move. Didn't understand her sudden fury.
"I asked you a simple question-"
"A simple-" She made a sound that was half-laugh, half-disbelief. "You pinned me to the floor, accused me of being a witch, called me a wench, and-"
"You tried to strike me-"
"Because you're a stranger in my stockroom!"
"after summoning me here with dark magic-"
"I didn't summon anybody!"
They were talking over each other now, voices rising, and he could feel his own temper fraying. He was tired. His whole body hurt. He'd woken up in a hovel filled with plants and dirt, and that gods-damned light hanging from the ceiling like something out of a fever dream.
Wasn’t a candle, nor a lantern, just a spark that had no business existing without flame inside an unbelievably thin glass.
And now this woman, this… temptress with her bare arms and her plunging neckline and luring lips, was acting as though he was the unreasonable one.
As though she hadn't put that cursed ring in the tournament chest.
As though she hadn't brought him here, wherever here was.
He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to something harder, more controlled.
"Listen to me very carefully," he said. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I woke up in this place with your plants scattered around me and that-" he jerked his head toward the overhead bulb without taking his eyes off her, "thing burning without oil or wick. The ring on my hand is still warm from whatever spell you cast. So you can tell me what you want from me, and where I am, and we can handle this civilly-"
His grip on her wrist tightened slightly.
"-or you can keep pretending you don't know what I'm talking about, and I'll get the information another way."
She stared up at him, breathing hard. For a moment, he thought she might bite at him, she looked angry enough for it.
Instead, with a kind of forced, brittle calm:
"You are insane."
He blinked.
"I'm- what?"
“In-sane.” She pronounced it carefully, as though he might not know the word. “Crazy. Not right in the head. You need a doctor.”
Not right in the head.
The words landed somewhere specific, which was the problem.
There had been men along the country who said it without ever saying it outright, in the way conversations faltered when he stepped into a room, in the way former companions clapped him on the shoulder a shade too carefully, as if he were something that might splinter or lash out depending on the day.
Barnes came back wrong, was the version that traveled fastest, passed between cups of ale and lowered voices in corners they assumed he wouldn't overhear. Too quiet. Too watchful. Sleeps alone, drinks alone, doesn't speak of the time he was missing.
Not right in the head.
As though he hadn’t entertained the possibility himself.
In the particular hours between midnight and dawn, when sleep refused him and the walls of whatever rented room he happened to be in seemed to inch steadily closer, he had considered it more than once.
And now here he was.
Sir James Buchanan Barnes.
Pinning a strange woman to the floor of a room full of crushed plants, in a place he didn’t recognize, beneath a light hanging from the ceiling like a captured star, after being brought here by a ring he had put on for no better reason than to see if it fit.
Not right in the head.
Maybe he was.
The breath left him before he could stop it. Short, sharp, entirely without humor, and yet somehow adjacent to it. The nearest thing to a laugh he’d produced in longer than he cared to reckon, wrung out of him by the worst possible circumstances imaginable, which felt fitting enough to almost be funny.
Then he looked back at her, and his expression settled into something harder, flatter. Guarded.
The joke, such as it was, was over.
“Where is this place,” he said.
Not a question.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then tried again.
"You're in my stockroom," she said carefully. "The Sweet Briar. It's a flower shop on Camden Street."
"What city."
"New Wintermouth."
He stared at her.
New.
"What county."
"Hancock."
The name meant nothing. He watched her read that in his face.
"Maine," she added, as if that clarified anything.
It didn't. That meant nothing either, and somehow that was worse than if she'd said a name he could place and dispute.
"New Wintermouth," he repeated, very quietly.
She nodded.
He looked at the wall, at nothing, at the impossible reality that someone had taken the name of Lord Morrow's seat -the city he'd ridden into a hundred times through the eastern gate, where he knew which taverns watered their ale and which armorers charged fair prices- and transplanted it somewhere else entirely.
Hancock.
Maine.
The place was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
He looked past her, toward the strange window set high in the wall. Pale grey light filtered through, early morning by the look of it, and beyond the clear glass…
He couldn't see much from this angle. A wall, maybe. Brickwork. Something metal, dark and angular, running up the outside of the building like a ladder but too narrow, too precise. Too uniform.
"Hancock County," he said again, quieter this time.
She nodded, still pinned beneath him, still watching him with those wide eyes that were starting to look less afraid or mad and more worried, which was somehow more unsettling.
He stood slowly.
She was already moving before he'd fully straightened, scrambling to her feet and putting the width of the stockroom between them. Her back hit the shelving on the far wall with a soft thud, and she stayed there, breathing hard, watching him.
From standing, the room rearranged itself into something even stranger.
Every surface was occupied with objects that made no sense. He turned his head slowly, cataloguing against his will, his mind trying and failing to organize the wrongness into categories he understood.
The black device mounted on the wall, the thing with the coiled cord she'd been holding before she'd tried to brain him with the trowel. It hung there like some kind of sleek, modern artifact, its purpose utterly opaque.
Beside it, a small table.
And on that table: a cup, and some little storage boxes, made from metal.
He stared at it.
Ceramic, pale pink, a color so uniform and so perfect it could not have come from any potter's wheel he'd ever seen. Too smooth. Too flawless. Not a single variation in the glaze, not a fingerprint or settling mark or any of the small human inconsistencies that came from an object being made by hand.
It looked as though it had been conjured into existence fully formed, which -given present circumstances- he could not entirely rule out.
His attention drifted back to her, because she was the only thing in this room that made any sense, except she didn't.
She didn't make sense at all.
The short sleeves. The scandalous neckline. The hair, uncovered and unpinned like no modest woman would wear it.
And her mouth. A deep red like crushed berries or wine, and he had never seen a woman paint her mouth like that outside an itinerant play.
But she'd said she sold flowers.
Then his gaze dropped lower, following the line of her blouse, and that was when he saw them.
Her legs.
He hadn't noticed from the floor. He'd been too focused on neutralizing the threat, on controlling the situation, on trying to make sense of where he was and how he'd gotten there.
But now, standing, with the full measure of her visible from across the room, it was impossible not to notice her skirts ended below the knee.
Not down the ankle, where they belonged.
Below the knee.
The hemline sat several inches beneath that joint, casual and deliberate, as though this were perfectly normal. As though she had simply decided that the entire lower half of her legs were public information and dressed accordingly.
The shoes buckled neatly at the ankle with thin straps, propped up on heels that were barely wider than his thumb.
Heat crawled up the back of his neck.
He averted his eyes. Glanced back, because he was trying to assess the situation, and that required looking at all of it, required understanding what kind of place allowed -expected- women to dress like this.
But God's wounds, her legs.
He jerked his gaze back to the room, sensing the flush spread from his neck to his cheeks, feeling like an untried boy who'd never seen a woman's ankle and was now being confronted with several square feet of information he had no idea what to do with.
Focus.
There were more objects. Incomprehensible things demanding his attention.
A flat rectangular object on the worktable, smooth and dark. A row of metal implements along the wall, too identical to each other, like they'd been cast from the same mold a dozen times over.
And then, on the wall beside the door, what it seemed to be a calendar. It had Arabic numerals, instead of Roman, but the month across the top was in clean, uniform letters.
Still, he didn't recognize the paper; it was too white, too perfectly flat, without the texture of vellum or the slight yellowing of parchment. Or the image above: flowers rendered in such flawless, vivid detail that they looked real. Not painted or illustrated with some improved technique. Something else entirely. Something that made a cold shiver run down his spine.
He took a step toward it and looked at the numbers. The month. The year in the corner, small and plain.
1955.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then he heard himself say, from a very great distance:
"What year is this."
A pause from behind him.
"1955," she said. Carefully. The voice of someone delivering bad news to a person they weren't sure could handle it, which under other circumstances might have offended him.
His stomach dropped.
He turned away from the calendar, one hand reaching blindly for the shelving unit beside him, gripping the edge hard enough that the wood bit into his palm.
The room tilted.
He bent forward, bracing himself, trying to breathe through the sudden lurch of his body trying to reject this information the only way it knew how.
Nothing came up. He hadn't eaten since before the tournament, which was perhaps the only mercy available, so his body produced only a long, miserable contraction that did absolutely nothing except inform his bruised ribs -in exhaustive detail- exactly how much they resented this recent turn of events.
He straightened slowly and breathed through his nose.
Across the room, she was watching him with her arms crossed over her chest -covering that scandalous neckline, finally- still concerned.
"Are you-"
"Fine," he said.
His voice came out steady. He was distantly proud of that.
She pressed her lips together, clearly unconvinced. The red paint held, he noticed with the detached part of his brain that was still cataloguing details. Whatever she'd used, it didn't smear or fade. Just stayed there, perfect and crimson, even when she pressed her mouth into a skeptical line.
Focus.
"1955," he said aloud, because saying it a second time didn't make it better, didn't make it more believable, but at least made it real. A thing that had been spoken and could not be unspoken. "That is the year."
"That's the year," she confirmed quietly.
She was still watching him like he might collapse. Or bolt. Or do something else unpredictable and damaging.
Fair enough. He felt like he might do all three.
----
She watched him stare at the wall.
The anger had gone somewhere quieter while she wasn't paying attention, replaced by something she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to be feeling toward a man who had, not ten minutes ago, pinned her to the floor and called her a witch.
But he looked… lost. That was the word that kept circling back. Not dangerous-lost, not the wild-eyed unpredictability of someone you needed to run from. Just lost.
His eyes were staring, but whatever they were seeing, wasn't in the room. It was something considerably worse than whatever floral calendar and shelf of terra cotta pots were actually in front of him.
She'd seen that look before.
On men who'd come back from overseas and sat in the pews at St. Benedict's on Sunday mornings, staring at the stained glass with that same hollow, distant focus. Present but not present. Seeing Normandy or the Pacific or some foxhole outside Bastogne instead of the story of Pentecost rendered in jewel-toned light.
Poor thing, she thought, against her better judgment and every reasonable instinct of self-preservation.
The real question now was where he'd come from, and whether anyone was looking for him.
The state institutions weren't, by any account she'd ever heard -and she'd heard plenty- places that took particularly good care of anyone. Overcrowded, underfunded, and more concerned with keeping people contained than actually helping them get better.
Some families made their own arrangements instead. An attic room, a trusted relative, a situation that worked well enough until it didn't.
She looked at his clothes again, cataloging details she'd been too frightened to notice before.
The quality of the leather in that belt, in those boots. The weight of the fabric in his shirt, even dirty and sweat-stained as it was. The craftsmanship in the stitching, the buckles, the strange straps running down his thick thighs.
Not cheap. None of it was cheap.
Wealthy family, then. Wealthy enough to commission custom theatrical costumes, or whatever this was. Wealthy enough to keep their troubled son at home rather than surrender him to the state system. Wealthy enough to preserve the family name by keeping the problem private.
And then he'd gotten out somehow -wandered off, slipped away during a moment of inattention- and ended up here.
In her stockroom.
On her begonias.
She uncrossed her arms slowly, a deliberate gesture of peace, or at least of temporary ceasefire.
Alright.
"I have an immersion heater," she said, keeping her voice gentle, unthreatening. "Do you want some chamomile tea?"
He turned from the wall and looked at her with that steady, unreadable gaze.
"Chamomile," he repeated. “What is… tea?”
She blinked at him. He couldn't be serious.
"It's… like a herbal broth, I suppose." She gestured vaguely toward the little table, where she had a tin of teabags and the mug. "You put hot water and the dried flowers that come into a little bag. It's calming. Helps with..."
She trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. Helps with shock? Helps with whatever is going on in that head of yours?
"It's nice," she settled on. "Soothing."
Something moved across his face. A flicker of recognition, maybe, or consideration. His gaze went to the tin, then back to her, assessing.
A pause. He seemed to be weighing this information against some internal metric she couldn't guess at. Deciding something.
Then: "No."
Simple. Firm. Final.
Not exactly hostile, but borderline rude.
She blinked. "No?"
"No," he repeated. His hand was still braced against the shelving unit, white-knuckled, like he needed it to stay upright. "I don't need some herb-water. I need to think.”
Fair enough, she supposed. Though he looked like he could use something warm and settling, standing there pale and swaying slightly like a man who'd taken a harder hit than he was willing to admit.
But she wasn't about to force tea on someone who'd already demonstrated he had very effective reflexes, and a concerning assumption she was a practitioner of dark arts.
"Alright," she said. "No tea."
She shifted her weight, smoothed her skirt once more with both hands, and decided that if they were going to be standing in her stockroom together so early in the morning, the least they could do was know each other's names.
So she gave him hers.
He held her gaze for a moment, eyes narrowing with suspicion. But then, his shoulders dropped into a stiff, old-school posture, seeming to accept the exchange.
"Sir James Buchanan Barnes," he said. Each word precisely articulated, formal. "Knight of the Realm."
She blinked.
Knight. Sir.
They were committing fully to the delusion, then.
Hospice or relative's attic, definitely. Or perhaps a family arrangement gone wrong, some relative's responsibility until he'd slipped away when their back was turned. Poor man, probably thought he was Richard the Lionheart half the time.
"Right," she said, very carefully. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Barnes."
----
He frowned.
No curtsy. No change in her posture, no dip of the chin, no clasping of hands or murmured sir or any of the thousand small genuflections that should have followed an introduction like that.
She'd just looked at him, the way one might acknowledge a tradesman. A merchant. A peasant.
Either she didn't recognize what a knight was, which would mean she was poorly educated -but that made no sense, because even the lowest-born knew what a knight was, even children knew- or she knew perfectly well and was choosing to ignore it discourteously.
An insult delivered with that same gentle, careful voice she'd used to offer him a herbal infusion.
The third option, that the title meant nothing here, that it carried no weight at all in this place, he set aside. Pushed it into the same corner of his mind where he was keeping 1955 and New Wintermouth and the impossible light hanging from the ceiling.
He wasn't ready to look at any of those directly yet. Wasn't ready to line them up and see what picture they made together.
It didn't matter. Not right now.
What mattered was the door behind her, and what lay beyond that door. What this place was, and whether the wrongness ended at the stockroom walls or continued out into the streets beyond.
He needed to move. Needed to get outside and find a street corner, a landmark, a church spire, something. Anything he could use to orient himself. Because right now the walls of this small room were doing something to his breathing that he was going to attribute entirely to the bruised ribs and not examine any further.
He pushed off the shelving unit, steadying himself.
"I'm leaving," he said.
It wasn’t a request. Just a statement of fact.
"Wait-" she started, taking half a step toward him, one hand lifting in a gesture that might have been placating or restraining or both. "You don't look so good. Maybe you should sit down for-"
"I'm aware," he said.
The words came out hard, but God's wounds, he didn't need her to tell him he looked like hell. He could feel it in every breath, every movement. Could taste it in the back of his throat, all dust and bile.
He probably looked exactly like he felt.
Which was, to put it charitably, like shit.
He ignored her and made for the door, the one that presumably led out of this cramped back room and into the rest of whatever establishment she was running.
"Is there someone I should call?" she asked behind him.
He paused, with hand on the doorframe.
Call?
The word hung there, strange and contextless. Call as in... summon? Send for?
"Give notice to, you mean?" he said, not turning around.
A beat of silence. Then: "I- yes. Someone who'd be worried. Family members, or..."
"No," he said. "That won't be necessary."
He pulled the door open and stepped through.
----
The proper shop opened up before him, and he stopped.
Well.
She hadn't lied, at least. She did, apparently, sell flowers.
The room was larger than the stockroom, lined with tables and shelving at different heights. Buckets and vases everywhere, stuffed full of blooms in various states of opening, roses, lilies, things he didn't have names for in colors that looked almost too vivid to be real.
Along the walls: more displays. Wreaths hung on hooks. Arrangements in ceramic containers. A small table near the window held potted plants, their leaves dark and waxy.
He walked further in, boots heavy on the wooden floor, his gaze moving over the inventory. The flowers were fine. Good quality, even, from what he could see. Fresh, well-tended, the kind of stock that spoke to either a reliable supplier or exceptional luck.
But flowers.
Flowers.
He tried to reconcile the economics of it and came up blank.
They were... what? A luxury for feast days and weddings. A merchant's wife might buy a small bouquet for her table if she had coin to spare and wanted to show it. A nobleman might send flowers as a token to a lady he was courting, but even then, it was usually a single perfect one, not an entire shop's worth.
How could this possibly sustain a business? Not a shabby street stall where overhead was low and expectations lower, but an entire building. With a dedicated stockroom.
Who was buying this many flowers?
His gaze drifted back toward the stockroom door, where she was still standing there, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching him as though he were the source of confusion here.
He broke eye contact first.
Because looking at her for too long made his thoughts arrange themselves in directions he did not care for. The scandalous skirt and the colored lips. The shop full of flowers that could not possibly keep a roof over anyone’s head unless the flowers were not, in fact, the point.
A front, then.
A respectable veneer for a less respectable trade.
He felt his face go hot.
Whatever this establishment was, whatever this city was, whatever madness had brought him here, he would not find answers standing in the middle of a flower shop while a half-dressed woman studied him like a puzzle she was trying to solve.
He needed air.
He needed sky.
He needed to see the street.
So he turned toward the front door.
“Mr. Barnes-”
The name stopped him for half a breath. Not Sir Barnes. Not Sir James. Mr. Barnes, again, as if she had decided the rest of him was decoration.
He did not turn around.
“I said I’m leaving.”
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
"Your concern," he said, reaching for the door, "is noted. And dismissed."
There was a chime above it. He noticed it only when the door opened and the thing gave a bright, ridiculous little bell, cheerful as a jester's cap.
He made it three steps past the door before the world stopped making sense.
A run on the classic "three times that Superman saves you and the one time you save him". Before the first time he saves you, while working at your new job in a record store, you meet Clark, who might just be the man of your dreams.
wc. 9.8k | My Masterlist | Next Part
notes. This is my first work for Clark Kent/Superman! ahhh! I hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think!
tags. clark kent (superman) x fem!reader, hurt/comfort, angst, close to the movie AU, mentions of a deceased father, some violence, clark being a cutie.
After quitting your office job, you took a pretty significant pay cut to work at a record store in the heart of Metropolis. It was the only record store in the city before heading toward Gotham, so getting the job felt like somewhat of an accomplishment.
It wasn’t a big store, or even that popular, but the music scene in Metropolis held Metrecordlis in the highest regard. It was a sort of sacred ground where most people forgot their day to day lives and just got to come in and browse while listening to music.
Once upon a time, your father would bring you too and the two of you would pick out some random records to bring home.
Those nights after dinner, the two of you would go into the living room and listen to the records you bought in their entirety. No words would need to be spoken as the music overtook the two of you in ways you couldn’t describe.
You’d done that every week up until he passed away.
And even a year later, you still hadn’t quite found your footing.
Grief made it hard to get up some mornings, while other mornings felt totally normal. You knew logically that a loss that significant would make you feel deeply, but it was still so suffocating to not know when something or someone would trigger you. Especially since every-day life was tied into your father like air.
Even at home, you kept his TV on and his door closed like he was still in there resting. Sometimes pretending made things easier, but not always.
Most days were mundane at this record job for you, but definitely more interesting than the office. You actually liked your coworkers and manager for the most part. And you got to meet all kinds of interesting people that walked through. It made for great distraction most days.
You saw just about everyone there was to see come through the store; business execs, mothers and fathers, fitness gurus, influencers. Everyone came through to look for their music they loved.
And just being in Metropolis itself was bound for some chaos too.
It made things even more interesting having the newly formed Justice Gang around. Trouble did seem to find the city at some inconvenient times, bringing the craziest things like giant monsters and mutants. But the Justice Gang did a pretty good job of keeping the city safe.
Most of the thanks went to Metropolis’ hero, Superman.
You admired Superman a lot after your Dad’s passing. Or at least the way he was portrayed on TV - resilient and indestructible. You envied that, wishing you could be just as strong.
The chime above the door sounded, causing you to snap out of your deep thoughts.
It hadn’t been a busy day, and in your downtime, you had let yourself get caught up in your memories. It was one of the parts of the job you disliked the most - having so much time alone - but there wasn’t much the customers could do about your own wandering thoughts.
Putting on your best customer service face, you approached the man who’d walked through the door.
The first thing you noticed was how tall the man was. Even slightly hunched, he towered over the gondolas that held the records.
Next, you noticed how ill-fitted his suit was. It looked like the heavy tweed of his suit jacket just fell over his shoulders, as well as the pants. For someone his size, he was being swallowed by his clothes, which felt… off.
And lastly, when he spotted you approaching him, he locked his eyes with yours. You couldn’t help but notice that they were bright blue, brighter than you think you’d ever seen. Even with just a glance, his eyes held something so deep and sincere. It almost felt otherworldly.
This man’s gaze made you stop in your tracks, your heart starting like a motor.
He was handsome.
It had been a long time since you’d found attraction in anyone, and even then, it still took a while for you to see features that felt striking to you. But with this stranger, you were nearly dumbstruck.
“Can I help you find anything?”
The words finally left your mouth without your volition as more of muscle memory. Months of asking the same dull question helped you here, as your brain felt as though it were turning to mush.
“Yes ma’am.” The man’s voice was velvety and rich with the smallest country twang in it. He was starting to smile wide at you, “I was looking for any old Johnny Cash records.”
It was like his voice encompassed you, surrounding you with warmth. Just like his eyes, it wasn’t like anything you’d herald before, and it took you more by surprise than you’d anticipated. It took a moment before his question fully registered in your mind.
“Oh,” you breathed, shaking your head to try and put you back into customer service mode, “Yes. You can follow me. Everything is alphabetized by last name.”
He gave you a grateful smile before you led him the short walk to the country section. Once there, you awkwardly stood off to the side, allowing the handsome stranger to look for himself. There were a lot of “C” names, so both of you started to sift through the records after a few moments.
“So, you’re a country fan?” you asked, albeit quietly.
You tried not to cringe at yourself as you chanced a look his way. He was still smiling, dimples forming at the corners of his mouth. As if he couldn’t get even more handsome.
“Kinda. I like it just fine, but not as much as my Pa. I’m grabbing these records for his birthday coming up.”
You nodded, “That’s kind of you.”
“Sort of…” The tall stranger shrugged once, but his smile didn’t waver, “I kinda messed up and his records got damaged a while back, so I’ve been slowly rebuilding his collection for him. It’s been slow going though. I’ve been busy, and he doesn’t live around here, so I’ll have to fly these out to him.”
A sad sort of longing crossed his features as he spoke about his Pa. It didn’t dim his eyes, but it made them look weary. It made you think of your own father and how you would’ve done the same for him.
Shaking the thoughts away before you could get sad, you plucked out a sleeve of an old Johnny Cash album with a small, triumphant smile, handing it to the stranger.
“Hey, well, at least you’re trying for him,” You said gently, “Even if it was a mistake on your part, your Pa must really appreciate the effort you’re putting in to rebuild it.”
Once again, the blue eyes met yours and another smile graced his face, taking the record from your hands,
“Thank you…” Just barely, you could see his cheeks growing a dark crimson, “Now you’re the one being kind.”
You felt your face doing much of the same and you shrugged back at him, “I’m just trying my best.”
He stood there for a long moment, just staring at the album, his large fingers fiddling with the paper cover. It was like he was thinking of more things to say, but couldn’t quite get them out. It would’ve been comical had you not been in much of the same boat.
Finally, he murmured, “I never got your name.”
Just above a murmur, you gave him your name and he hummed aloud with a larger smile than before. The small sound to him nearly reverberated the entire store, but no one else but you seemed to notice that.
“Clark.” He outstretched his hand immediately, and an air of confidence suddenly surrounded him. Your hands met and it was much more firm than you’d expected. It was even more surprising just how warm his skin was, “Clark Kent.”
The name was instantly familiar to you, “Like the Daily Planet reporter?”
Ever so slightly, his eyes lit up.
“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” He said with a short nod and an awkward laugh, “So you read the news.”
A laugh escaped you too, “I do. My Dad kept the news on all the time, so I kinda just gravitate towards keeping up with everything, plus there’s a lot going on here. You kinda gotta know the news in order to not get eaten by something alien… even if a newspaper is expensive these days.”
Clark let out a small chuckle, more sure this time as he held up his hands in defense, “Listen, I just work there.”
The two of you gave a smile to each other once again. The two of you stood there for a long few moments just looking and staring until you realized neither of you had made another move. You motioned for him to follow you again, starting to head toward the register when he stepped to your side.
“If you don’t mind helping me find one more thing,” He said quickly, nearly stumbling over his words, “Do you have The Mighty Crabjoys?”
Furrowing your brows in confusion, you looked him up and down. He was more the nerdy type than anything with the big glasses and swallowing suit. You didn’t think he seemed the type to like pop punk bands.
You smirked, deciding to tease him, “Don’t tell me that’s for your Pa too.”
“No, it’s for me,” Clark shook his head, biting back a laugh, “But there seems to be some judgement coming from you about my taste in music. Not so nice now, huh?”
Laughing again, you also held up your hands in surrender,
“No judgement, Mr. Reporter, but I wouldn’t have pinned you as a Crabjoys fan.”
“I enjoy them a lot,” he said with a small huff, “I need something to pump me up when I’m working on an article.”
You rolled your eyes and nodded your head toward the pop-punk section, “Follow me then, Mr. Kent.”
As you turned, he let out another hum. His voice, even with small sounds, made you feel warm inside. You could still feel that same buzzing energy from him, like a beam of light bursting through a pitch black room. All of your thoughts went to how you wanted nothing more than to be enveloped by whatever he was giving off.
You led him to the pop-punk area and began searching through the “M”s until you found exactly what you were looking for fairly quickly. You pulled the sleeve from its place and handed it to the much taller man standing beside you.
Clark bit his lip for just a second to try and hide the small smile that formed.
You on the other hand weren’t hiding your grin anymore, “Anything else I can help you find?”
He let out a small sigh and held out his collection of records for you, “I guess this will be it, thank you, ma’am.”
You both smiled at each other a little longer than necessary before you walked him to the register. Albeit, your pace slowed, feeling abnormally sad that your time together was coming to an end. Your limbs felt like they were moving at their own pace; becoming noodles as you got to the counter and started to ring up the incredibly handsome man’s items.
Adjusting his glasses, Clark cleared his throat, “Are you new?”
You nodded, “Kinda. I’ve only been working here for a couple of months. Why?”
“Just curious. I haven’t seen you before,” He shook his head quickly, “It’s not that I come in here that often, but it’s been the same people here for so long. The other guy that works here, B-Dog, is a really fun guy. Met him a couple of times.”
Laughing, you nodded, “He’s certainly a character.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here today instead.”
His murmur was almost too quiet for you to hear, but when it hit your ears, you began to reel. You could feel your cheeks heating up again. You tried to hide your growing flush from him by ducking below the counter to grab him a bag for his purchase.
You took a deep breath, trying to convince yourself that a little flirt was nothing serious. You popped back up quickly, giving him a genuine smile.
“I’m glad you’re here today too. It’s been really nice talking with you.”
Clark smiled wide at that as he reached into his pocket. A confused look took over his face, and after tapping his suit pockets for a few seconds, he let out a defeated sigh.
“Shoot…” He whispered, “Silly me. I think I left my wallet at home. Would you be able to keep these for me?”
Those piercing blue eyes gave you an almost pleading look, and you couldn’t help but nod in response almost automatically.
“I can put them on hold for two days.”
There wasn’t actually a policy for that.
“Perfect,” he smiled wide, biting his lip, “And will you be working in those two days?”
The prospect of possibly getting to see him again was more than exciting. With your heart hammering hard against your chest, you felt like you could barely breathe enough to answer him. Eventually, you managed to speak again, “I’ll be here tomorrow… Nine to six.”
“Good, Thank you,” your name rolled off his tongue, “It was a pleasure meeting you today.”
This time, you were the one to hum in response “The pleasure’s all mine.”
With a small, final smile, he rushed out the door, calling over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow!”
No one else seemed to hear the boom of his voice; it was like it shook the entire earth. But as you looked around to see if anyone else was stunned, it was like you were the only one encapsulated by him.
So, you chalked it up to just having a small, tiny crush.
***
The next morning, grief had other plans for you.
It struck you hard especially after good days, making it difficult to get out of bed in the morning. Some days felt real and normal, while others felt fake. And now everything felt just a little too fake for you.
Waking up in the apartment was always the hardest part. As you got ready for your day, you felt yourself going through all of the motions, but almost as if your head were underwater the entire time.
It took so long for your brain to catch up sometimes, and you wished desperately that you could just bounce back and put on a brave face. You allowed yourself to cry to try and relieve some of the pressure in your mind, but it only proved to make your head even more foggy than before.
Some solace came from the news. Trying to distract yourself, you turned the TV on and tried to look for the good in life.
Superman, the protector of your city, had done it once again from a comet-like entity. And again, you found yourself wishing you could’ve been more like him. He seemed to do it all, and he did it with a smile on his face. Obviously you didn’t have the powers he had, but you figured he must’ve been so strong mentally just as much as physically.
Once you got to the store later in the morning, you helped open slowly and did everything that was asked of you. It was a decent distraction for you as well, but sometimes the feelings were just a little too heavy.
As the day progressed, busier than the day before, you successfully had gotten your mind off of some of your sadness, but had nearly forgotten about the tall man and his records from the day before.
You had made yourself too busy to greet Clark when he walked in sometime after five. One of your other coworkers had greeted him and retrieved his records from the back. Feeling slightly defeated, you tried to stay out of their way, letting your coworker have the sale.
However, nearly moments after you’d thought that, you felt his warm presence before you saw him approach you. When you saw him, it was like your entire demeanor changed.
“Hey there!” He greeted you with a chipper voice, “I was beginning to think you weren’t here today.”
You chortled, but it didn’t feel as genuine as the day before, “Yeah. Barely made it.”
Clark’s voice dropped almost immediately, “Barely, huh?”
The sudden mood change shocked you a little. You hadn’t expected him to take you so seriously.
Not wanting to sour the mood between the two of you, a small tug happened at the corner of your lip as you nodded, “Guess I’m not feeling the greatest today.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
His voice cut deep; inviting and enveloping just like the day before. It was welcome, but the warmth made you want to cry again. There was something about Clark that felt so familiar; nostalgic even, that it reminded you of spending your days in the sun as a kid.
He frowned when you didn’t answer right away, “Anything I can do to help?”
Gently, you shook your head, “That’s very sweet of you, but… no, I’ll be okay.”
“I’ve got tylenol in my bag.”
That made you laugh the tiniest bit, much more authentically, “It’s okay, Clark. Thank you. I’m just… a little sad. Nothing I can’t deal with.”
“I have no doubt.” A soft smile graced his lips, “I’m sorry you’re sad. I wish I had some magic pill to cure that.”
“Talking to you has been really helpful,” You murmured, hoping he wouldn’t hear you, “It’s made this day a little brighter.”
Before Clark could respond, your coworker B-Dog came back around, looking for Clark, but saw that he was talking with you. Luckily, Clark let him know that you’d been the one to initially help him, so your coworker relinquished the records to you to ring him up. You began leading him to the register again, feeling a small air of confidence arise in you.
When you turned at the counter to ring up his items again, you noticed a small dusting of pink overcoming Clark’s cheeks. Just your luck, he’d obviously heard you before, but he thanked you anyway. Quickly, he swiped his card to pay, keeping his eyes to the floor.
After taking his purchase from you, he still made no move to exit. He stood there, somewhat awkwardly, staring at you with a sort of battle going on behind his eyes.
“S-Sorry.” Clark stammered, “I know this is very forward, so forgive me, but you’re very pretty.”
This time, you knew your cheeks were burning too as soon as the words left his lips. Your mind went haywire as you were now the one to stare right back at him. You mumbled something of a thank you as you felt it leave your throat, but it was incredibly incoherent.
Clark was the one to laugh this time, breathlessly, like he was trying to catch up with himself as well.
“I-I’m sorry. I know that was brash.”
“No, it’s okay. I just don’t get compliments very often,” You said quickly, trying to regain your composure, “Thank you… you’re handsome yourself.”
He smiled wide as the nervous energy expelled off of him, “Would you like to get lunch sometime with me? I know it can’t cure sadness, but maybe being near you would help a little. You know… like you said.”
Biting your lip, you nodded, “I’d love that.”
“Great!” Clark had said it a little too enthusiastically; too loud for the space. He cleared his throat again, speaking at a much more normal volume, “What day are you free next?”
“Friday,” You said, slightly winded, “I’m off Friday.”
“I could take you out on my lunch break. Guess it’ll even it out for disrupting your work time here.”
“This is far from disrupting me,” you said with a short laugh.
“How does noon sound?”
“Sounds like a date.”
You gave Clark a smile, the blush never leaving your cheeks.
“Yeah, sure does,” His voice cracked, “Um… how will I get in contact with you?”
Smirking, you thought of teasing him again, if only to make him blush more.
“I guess you can have my number.”
He smirked, shaking his head, presumably at himself, “I’ve forgotten how to talk to people.”
You were already writing your phone number on a post it note. You quickly tore it off and put the sticky side just below his pocket protector on his ill-fitted suit jacket. You weren’t normally this forward either, but it felt fun - exhilarating - to be so free with someone.
Clark’s smile got wider as he took off the sticky note and peeked at it before stuffing it in the pocket. He adjusted his glasses before looking back at you.
“Thank you again,” it was like velvet as he said your name, “See you Friday?”
“See you Friday.” You nodded.
Leaving it at that, he walked out the door, but not before turning back to look at you once again. You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you watching him trying to balance all of the things in his hands as he gave you a small wave.
The light of the day sort of shifted after that, and you were left back to work and your own thoughts. The grief had still been there, quieting for a while as you spoke to Clark, just waiting to rear its ugly head back out. It seemed to come crashing back down as soon as he was out of sight.
You excused yourself to the bathroom, just to give yourself a few extra moments alone and to allow some tears to escape.
It was strange always feeling this whiplash of emotions especially after something so good.
However, not even a minute after the tears had sprung, your phone dinged in your pocket. You dug it out, managing a smile as you read the message:
This is Clark! I look forward to helping you cure some sadness Friday!
Wiping away your tears with your palm, you felt as though he was already trying.
***
Friday came around much quicker now that you had something to look forward to. Most weeks, mundane as they were, tended to drag on. So, this was certainly a welcome change.
You woke up feeling a lot better than you had in a long time; you felt giddy and excited for what felt like the first time in forever.
Admittedly, you’d only been on a handful of dates, and none of them had gone very well, so you were hopeful this would change too.
The two of you had been texting back and forth since you’d given him your number. Most of your messages were about the date and other details, like where to meet. But sometimes, you’d both delve off into other things, like talking about your days or tiny flirty messages back and forth.
This felt different.
As you got ready, you made sure to wear some of your best clothes and put on the best smelling scent you had before walking out the door. You wanted to put in effort for yourself since it’d been so long, and in leaving the house, you felt fresh and confident.
The walk to the little cafe you decided to meet at felt excruciating long, like trudging through a dream. It felt like no matter how long you walked, you weren’t getting anywhere. You kept forward though, pure determination keeping you going.
You felt your phone ding in your hand and you lifted it to see the message:
Just made it. I’m in the third booth from the back.
Beside the text was a little winky face. Again, you smiled, luckily right around the corner.
Trying to be as confident as you felt, you strode into the little cafe. You scanned the room for only a second before your eyes landed on the tall figure - already seated at a booth - waving you over. You couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped your mouth as you made your way over to him. Awkwardly tall against the booth, he still clambered out of the seat to greet you, giving you the utmost respect.
“It’s nice to see you again.” He said as you approached, motioning for you to take the seat across from him, “I haven’t ordered yet. I thought I would wait for you.”
“Thank you Clark,” You said as you sat, “It’s nice to see you again too. And it’s even nicer of you to sacrifice your lunch break for me, no less.”
Clark gave you a wide, toothy grin, letting his dimples show and his accent pop out.
“It was nothin’. I usually take my time for lunch most days, anyway.”
Surrounded by his warmth, especially being in the booth with him, you felt a lot closer than you were; more intimate than talking in the record store.
You had some time to scour the menu before the waitress came by to take your orders. It was all mostly breakfast, so you settled for a small fruit salad and toast. Clark on the other hand got the works: a large breakfast, complete with eggs, toast, hashbrowns, bacon, and a small stack of pancakes.
As the waitress walked away to put in your orders, Clark sat back in the booth, giving you a funny look, “Fruit salad and toast?”
Again, you felt your cheeks burning, “There seems to be some judgement coming from you about my food choices.”
He shrugged, smirking, “A little. Doesn’t seem like much of a breakfast.”
“Well, it’s lunch,” you chided, “And it’s not much of a meal, but it’s better than the greasy breakfast food.”
Clark’s mouth fell open like you’d just said the most shocking thing in the world. You bit your lip, trying your best not to laugh as his hands started to frenzy around him.
“What?!” he guffawed, though a grin still evident on his face, “What’s wrong with greasy breakfast food? You can’t tell me you don’t like pancakes or waffles. Everyone likes one or the other! There’s, like, a whole stupid song about it…”
Another laugh escaped, “There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s just not my preferred food choice.”
“But fruit salad and toast?”
“What’s to say I just wanted something small? This is my first date in a long time, after all, I’m a little nervous.”
Clark didn’t say anything for a moment, only letting his smile widen slowly. He cleared his throat, “I haven’t been on a date in a long time either. I suppose I’m a bit nervous too.”
“I’m relieved to know I’m not alone,” you murmured.
The conversation flowed easily for a while until your food was sat down in front of you a few minutes later. The country twang in his rich voice came and went as you’d spoken, sparking your next question.
“Where are you from, Clark?” You asked, beginning to prepare your toast the way you liked it, “Pa doesn’t sound like a Metropolis term.”
“Because it’s not.”
You glanced over at him to see that almost all of his eggs were already gone. Holding in a laugh, you let him continue.
Swallowing his food, he took in a deep breath like he was about to reveal a secret, “I’m from Kansas. My Ma and Pa raised me on their farm and I moved here a few years ago for work.”
The answer still felt vague, like there was more to be said, but you didn’t press him further.
Instead, you hummed back with a small smile, “That makes a lot of sense.”
“Being from Kansas?”
Clark shed his suit jacket off to the side, leaving him in just a light blue button down shirt. You watched as he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, and you came to realize you were getting a little lost.
His arms were… huge. As he crossed them to get his other sleeves, it was like all of his muscles pulled at the thin fabric of his shirt, barely able to move and mold with him. The ill-fitted suit suddenly made even less sense as it obviously did him no justice.
The man in front of you looked at you, clearing his throat when he noticed you watching him without any words.
Speaking without volition, you blurted out, “Well, you definitely have a farm-boy physique. But... no, it's your southern hospitality.”
Clark laughed aloud, the room booming again.
He shrugged, trying to be modest, “I threw hay barrels around for a long time.”
“Do you miss Kansas?”
“Every day.” He admitted softly, "Sometimes, I wish I had stayed. But… most days I’m really proud of my work that I do here in Metropolis.”
“Then you must really like writing for the Daily Planet. You’ve gotten to interview some pretty cool people.”
A smirk graced his face as he cut into his pancakes. He hiked his glasses up his face with his finger, shielding himself for a second before speaking, “You’ve read my work?”
“I have. I like your articles about Superman.”
“Superman, huh?”
It was like his pace slowed significantly; taking slower and more deliberate bites of his food as his eyes perked up to you. He seemed to watch you and study your reaction.
You took a small bite of fruit, “You make him sound really… human. I like the thought of that; being able to do anything, but still having the capacity to be kind and compassionate.”
Clark nodded, speaking softly, “I think it’s important for people to see that too. He’s just like everyone else.”
It gave you pause again as you locked eyes, a charming smile gracing his lips. You couldn’t help but let yourself smile too. It was almost making your cheeks sting with how much he made your lips curl up, but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to.
“So,” he started as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, half of his food devoured, “You got a long round of questions. Mine starts now: Where are you from?”
And again, your mouth curved up, “I’ve lived in Metropolis all my life. I am a born and raised metropolitan.”
“We just call you folk city slickers back home.” He chuckled, “You must be close to your family then.”
Biting your lip, you knew something like this would eventually come up. There wasn’t a use in being so vague, so you came out with it, trying to mask the grief that started to travel through your body.
“I was. I don’t have any immediate family here. It was just me and my dad, but he passed away last year.”
Another look overtook Clark that you couldn’t place. You hadn’t told many people about your father, expecting a lot of pity looks, but this wasn’t that. He was looking at you like he understood very well. It had been difficult to talk about your father without getting emotional, but with Clark, you were able to keep calm.
“Gosh,” he murmured, “My condolences.”
You tried to smile through your growing sadness again, trying not to let the mood drop too far, “It’s still a little fresh, but I’ve been okay. Thank you.”
“Of course.” Picking up that you didn’t want to speak on the subject anymore, Clark gave you a polite nod before pivoting completely with his next question. “Have any pets?”
His bright eyes trailed you as he took in another big bite of his food, now blatantly gauging your reaction. You were grateful he didn’t press further about your past with your dad.
“Do fish count?”
“Sure,” he shrugged, “Do you like your job?”
“Are you investigating me?” you asked with a small chuckle. Clark didn’t answer, simply motioning for you to continue through his mouthful of food. “I like my job most days. I like it better than the office job I had before.”
He swallowed, “What do you like and dislike most about your job now?”
“You are investigating me,” you mused, “I love music and people who also love music. I don’t like sales tactics.”
"Is that what was wrong with the office job?"
"Kinda" you sighed, "Just needed a change of pace."
“So you take pride in sharing your passion with people.”
Your brows furrowed at him curiously as you nodded slowly, “I guess so.”
Another smile graced his face, making his dimples show.
The two of you ate and talked for a little longer with more basic getting-to-know-you questions. He asked things like what your favorite color was, or your favorite movie. Even with the most mundane questions, however, he looked as if he were filing every bit of information away for later.
His raven hair fell in a curl over his forehead as he moved, and all you could think of was reaching forward and putting it back in place. As much as it pained you, you kept your hands to yourself.
Towards the end of the date, Clark happily paid for the both of you, waving you off with a short, “You can pay for me next time.”
As you stood together from the small booth, you took a deep breath and asked him, “Can I walk you to work?”
He flashed you a toothy grin, “I’d love that.”
The short walk to the Daily Planet was filled with extra questions, but mainly it served as an excuse to be around him more. The feeling of warmth he radiated was addicting, making you wonder why herds of people weren’t following him around for it.
And all too soon, your walk came to an end.
Both of you stood in front of the massive building, making no moves to go further. Neither of you said anything for a long while as exchanged short, shy glances. You didn’t want the date to end, and you were silently cursing yourself for it being such a short meeting.
“When can I see you again?”
Clark was the first to break the ice, asking in a fast, hushed voice. Pushing his glasses up on his face nearly covered the blush that was forming on his cheeks.
“That is, if you want to see me…”
Your face was doing much of the same as you nodded back at him, “I do. What about Sunday?”
“We could have dinner?”
“It’s a date.”
Smiling sheepishly, Clark’s hummed, low and deep, just like the day you met him. Slowly, he upturned his hand to you, silently asking for you to take it. Once you did, he brought it up to his lips slowly, leaving a light kiss along your knuckles. You were already reeling from that, but as he pulled his hand away - in one swift movement - he leaned forward to leave a kiss on your cheek.
“This has been the best lunch I’ve had by far.”
“I’m glad. Very glad.” you stammered.
“See you Sunday?”
“Yeah," you breathed out, "See you Sunday.”
With another big smile, he backed away toward the entrance of the building, nearly stumbling when his eyes wouldn’t leave you. His large, clumsy limbs flailed as he waved at you, and you couldn’t help but giggle. You waited until he was inside before making your way back to your apartment.
At that moment, you felt like the luckiest person in Metropolis.
You’d been on dates with others - plenty, actually - but had never felt the way you did on that one. Not even by a mile. Even in just that short time, he made you feel seen and listened to without having to blurt out every aspect of your life.
Even being near him made you feel giddy, like a child with a crush.
What left you even more dumbfounded is that Clark seemed to like you back, like he felt just as happy and carefree with you. And that was refreshing.
Almost as if to solidify your thoughts, you got a text almost as soon as you closed your apartment door.
Hope you made it home safe. I can’t stop thinking about our date. I’m very excited for Sunday!
A bunch of emojis flooded in after: smiley faces, sunshine, and little hearts.
You held the phone close to your chest and let out a small squeal of joy. Clark really did have a way of curing sadness.
***
Sunday came before you knew it. In those near 48 hours, you were glued to your phone, responding and waiting on messages from Clark about when and where your Sunday date would be. You’d been texting even more since your date, and every text was like a breath of fresh air.
The two of you decided - well, Clark decided - on a nicer, more upskaled restaurant in the heart of downtown. He made reservations for the two of you and everything.
It wasn’t until Sunday morning leading up to your date that something started to feel… off.
Leading up to your date in the evening the both of you still had to work. To you, it was a nice distraction from the nerves pooling in your stomach. Your heart beat wildly against your chest the entire day any time you thought of the nerdy, dark-haired man.
Throughout the day, you and Clark continued to talk intermittently, but you notice he’d pulled back somewhat pretty early in the day. The messages he sent were still sincere and enthusiastic, but shorter and less frequent than they had been.
You thought that maybe he was just having a busy day. And very desperately, you tried not to think about what else it could be.
Once work was done, you had some time to go home and get ready for your date. However, that weird feeling that something was wrong kept popping up. So when you entered your apartment, you stood in the living room, typing out a message to Clark.
We’re still on for tonight?
You decided to take a shower as you waited for his answer.
Despite the strange feeling, you were beyond excited to go on another date with Clark. It had been a long time since you’d looked forward to something like this. You found yourself even wanting to put effort into how you looked; making yourself look as good as you felt. It wasn’t something you’d felt in such a long time.
After your shower, you could feel anxiety building as you checked your phone. Luckily, there was a text waiting for you from Clark:
Of course! I’m still at work, but I’ll get off soon!
A sigh of relief left you as you shot back another text, confirming that you’ll see him at the restaurant.
Before long, you were checking yourself out in the mirror, putting on your last touches of jewelry and accessories. Another weird feeling washed over you, despite Clark’s confirmation, but you thought of it just being your nerves.
As you locked up your apartment, you took in a large breath, looking at the time and making sure that you were still on time for the reservation. You glanced at your messages, but the screen remained blank after the last message you sent.
Although you didn’t know him that well, it didn’t seem normal.
Still, you sent another quick text, telling him you were on your way to the restaurant, hoping he would respond to you when he could.
Throughout the train ride downtown, the feeling that something wasn’t right was growing deeper in your abdomen. Especially with the radio silence from Clark. It had already been almost an hour since you’d last heard from him and normally he wouldn’t have gone that long without sending you something back already.
Still, you persisted.
At the restaurant, you kept a brave face as you approached the counter. Part of you thought that maybe your date was already there, waiting for you at the table he reserved. But it was no such luck as you looked around the mostly vacant restaurant.
You smiled at the hostess, giving her the name “Kent” and the reservation time. You felt a small rush of relief as she nodded to you, leading you back to a booth. She placed down two menus before giving you a polite smile back.
“Still waiting for your guest?”
You tried to sound confident, “Yes, he’ll be here soon.”
She gave you a solemn look before nodding and taking your drink order. Still hopeful, you decided to order a glass of red wine. As she walked away, you looked around at the few couples that littered the place before pulling out your phone.
You sent another message, telling him you were there. But there was nothing in return.
Feeling your heart pounding in your chest, you didn’t want to give up just yet. Although something felt wrong, you knew Clark wouldn’t put in effort to make reservations just to stand you up. He’d been so sweet to you that this didn’t seem like his character.
But then again, you didn’t know him like that.
Against your better judgement, you still waited. And waited. And waited.
After an hour, you felt more embarrassed than anything. The waitress had come up and asked you if you were waiting still, and each time you would nod, asking for another glass of red wine. Three glasses later, the waitress set a small appetizer down in front of you for free.
Your heart couldn’t take it anymore.
Just as you were gathering your things, ready to go to the front to pay, your phone dinged. Reaching for it, you finally got some form of an answer by text.
I’m so sorry. I got so caught up at work, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you–
Without reading the rest of the message, you stuffed your phone in your purse, not wanting to read any excuses. You finally asked for the check and paid for your wine, keeping your head low as you slowly made your way out of the restaurant.
The waitress, and you were sure any of the patrons, were giving you sad looks, only making you feel worse. You took a mental note that you would never go there again out of pure embarrassment.
You held your tears in until you were fully out of view of any prying eyes, but as soon as you were out the door, the dam broke and it was like a waterfall fell over your cheeks. You tried to wipe them away to no avail, only for more to continuously fall.
As you walked home, you tried to cover your face with your hands, trying to focus on simply getting to the apartment. The subway had too many eyes, and you didn’t want anyone else to see you. With your eyes casted to the ground, the walk felt like an eternity.
Halfway home, you passed by some men sitting on some apartment steps. You kept your head low, hoping no one could see your tear stained cheeks. Still, a low whistle sounded from one of the men who stood up, trying to get your attention. Typical of a lot of men in Metropolis, but you never budged, you simply ignored them, continuing on your walk.
But a little ways away, you could hear footsteps behind you and low murmuring as the men talked to each other. You tried to quicken your pace, feeling that they were trailing behind you fairly quickly.
Your heart started to thud fast against your chest as you lengthened your stride. Easily, however, they were able to keep up, some of them being much faster.
“Hey!” One of the men chimed behind you, “Where you going?”
You kept walking, ignoring him again. With just your luck most of the shops you passed were closed and no one else seemed to notice or care that these men were following you. Taking in a large breath, you remained forward, using all of your strength to speed up.
“This is a nice view back here. I would love to see the front.”
Another man said, or maybe the same one. It didn’t matter though, and you didn’t dare to look behind you.
You were almost at a job, but judging by their footsteps, you knew they were still gaining on you. The tears that you’d been trying to keep in were freely flowing down your cheeks, creating a harsh sting against the cool night air.
As a hand caught your shoulder, you let out a yelp, and in an instant, he showed up.
Superman.
You heard the commotion before you even had the chance to turn around. There was a smack and a groan as some of the bystanders around you finally started to turn their heads. As you finally looked behind you, there was Superman with his hand around the neck of who you could only assume was the man that grabbed your shoulder.
From where you stood, you couldn’t see the strong man’s face, but you knew it was Superman just by everything else. You could obviously see how big and tall he was, but you could also feel the presence and power he had.
The three other men were watching in horror as the large meta-human stood incredibly still, his cape flapping lightly in the wind as if he were waiting for them to speak first.
“Fellas.” His voice was loud and pointed. He let the man by the neck go, shoving him towards his friends, “Why don’t you run home?”
As the men scampered off, Superman watched for a moment, crossing his arms in front of him before turning to face you.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
Words and thoughts weren’t coming easily as you stared possibly for too long. The super hero in front of you started to smile wide, dimples poking out of the corners of his lips.
A soft buzzing noise began in the back of your brain, low and soft, like it was trying to grab your attention. Maybe it was the combination of everything that had happened that day; the shoddy communication with Clark, him standing you up, the men, and now Superman, but you couldn’t hold your tears in any longer. The dam broke once again as tears spilled from your eyes.
“I don’t know,” you sobbed.
Superman’s eyes softened as he uncrossed his arms, making himself just a bit smaller for you.
“It’s okay to not know.” The large meta-human motioned to a bench along the sidewalk about a block away, “Want to talk?”
Nodding at him, he gave you a kind smile before leading you over to sit. As he sat beside you, you could immediately feel the inhuman warmth radiating off of him. It felt almost familiar but not enough to come to mind.
Instead, you thought of your father.
Superman didn’t say anything or make you feel like you needed to talk back at him. He simply sat with you and waited until you were ready.
When you did finally speak, you tried to deflect off of your sad feelings, “Aren’t you supposed to be out saving the world?”
The question came out more accusatory than you’d wanted, but it didn’t seem phased as he answered.
“The world starts with the people in it.”
Without pressing, he waited again for you to continue talking. You took a deep breath, shaking your head at how ridiculous it was to be telling Superman of all people your mundane problems.
“This sounds so stupid saying this to you,” your laugh was wet as you tried to gain composure again, continuing, “I got stood up by a guy I really liked. And then this happened. But… this guy felt really different. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“That’s not stupid.” His voice became quieter like it was just for you, “The only thing that’s stupid is the guy that stood you up.”
You sighed, nodding, “Guess so. I got so frustrated and embarrassed. I think he tried to apologize, but I didn’t read his messages.”
“You have a right to be angry,” Superman caught your gaze and you weren’t sure if you ever noticed that his eyes were blue, “Regardless of if he apologizes, you don’t have to accept anything else from someone that wronged you.”
You thought for a moment.
“I don’t want to feel angry though, and maybe that’s naive. But everything was going really well until a few hours ago.”
Superman sighed, cautiously placing a hand on your shoulder. That same warm familiar feeling washed over you once again as you leaned in to him.
“I can’t offer you much, but I can offer you my opinion.” Nodding lamely, you urged him to continue, “It sounds cliche, but trust yourself. He miscommunicated and made you upset, rightfully so. If you feel like this bond you’ve made with him has severed beyond repair, don’t read the message, and don’t waste anymore energy on just some guy. But on the other hand, maybe he had a valid excuse and now he’s trying his best to apologize. It’s ultimately up to you to decide whether you give him the benefit of the doubt or not.”
For a long moment, you stared at the super human before you in complete awe. You’d looked up to him for a while, and here he was in the flesh giving you advice.
“What would you do?”
Superman laughed, his voice echoing through the city.
“I have a bad habit of giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. It’s hard not to want to see the good in people. And who knows, maybe now he knows that he should’ve made time for you.”
You didn’t say anything to that, studying him again. The low buzzing in your head was getting slightly stronger; his blue eyes and dark hair were setting off sparks of something that you couldn’t place. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t grasp what was so familiar.
After a few moments, your head started to ache. You shut your eyes for a second to recalibrate, giving up on trying to figure anything else out for the night.
Certainly, he noticed you taking the moment, “You should rest.”
He stood up from the bench and outstretched his hand to you. Gently, you took his offered hand, standing to face him. For someone so strong, he was incredibly gentle as he helped you up. He gave you a wide smile, standing tall once you were on your feet.
“Thank you, Superman.” You sighed, “You’ve done so much for me tonight. Not only saving me, but taking the time to talk to me too. I can’t thank you enough.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am, but you don’t need to thank me. I’m just a guy trying to do what’s right.” He nodded to you once, beaming at you, “If you ever need to talk again, I’m just a shout away.”
You nodded back and before you knew it, Superman was flying off into the evening sky.
Swiftly walking the rest of the way to your apartment, you felt more at ease than you had before. Once you got inside, you felt like you could breathe again finally.
Still feeling utterly conflicted, you cleaned yourself off and threw your outfit in the hamper before finally crashing onto your couch. You didn’t let the tears well in your eyes this time as you pulled out your phone.
Thinking over your conversation with Superman, you mulled over what you wanted to do with Clark.
On one hand, he had stood you up. Plain and simple, that was a really awful thing to do. You’d felt so embarrassed and stupid at such a nice restaurant that it would make sense to cut him off much like he did for you.
But Clark felt… different. That feeling you got while you were with him was unlike anything else you’d felt with someone before. He’d been so sweet before that there must’ve been something wrong for him to not show up.
You thought of what Superman said about giving people the benefit of the doubt. And you came to the conclusion that if the most powerful man on earth could give people a chance, you could too.
Finally, you opened up your phone to your unopened message from Clark.
I’m so incredibly sorry. I haven’t stopped thinking about you, but I’m still caught at work. I hate to think you’re waiting for me, and I understand if this is inexcusable. It’s not my intention to leave you hanging. I’d love to try again.
You sighed heavily before typing out a reply: Can we talk?
Mere seconds after you hit send, your phone was ringing. It almost would’ve been funny had the situation been a little lighter.
“Hello?” Clark sounded first, your name slipping quietly from his lips.
“Hey.” You said timidly.
“Listen, before you say anything, I’m really sorry. I-I know I messed up really big. I get caught up with work like that sometimes, and I should’ve warned you instead of making you think I was leaving you high and dry. It’s not an excuse for being a jerk, but I thought I should at least offer you an apology.”
Tears pricked at the back of your eyes again, but none fell. You were too tired to let anything else out, “I waited over an hour for you, Clark.”
“Gosh,” He sighed, “I… I understand if that was too much.”
“I really like you… but right now, after this, I-I really don’t know.”
“It’s okay to not know.” He murmured.
Lightning zapped at your brain again and you furrowed your eyebrows, trying to shake it away as you didn’t want to think too hard. Clark waited silently on the other end of the line for you to speak. Hesitantly, you took in another deep breath.
“Clark?”
“Yes?”
He answered like you took his breath away
“Can we try again… like you said?”
He let out an audible sigh - like he was finally releasing the air he’d been holding, “Of course. Yes, we can try again. Thank you. Wherever you’d like and whenever you want, I’m all yours. I’ll even take off work for the day.”
You let out the smallest laugh, “You don’t have to do that much.”
Clark let out a hum of thought over the phone like music to your ears, “What about now?”
Your eyebrows nearly shot to the ceiling.
“Now?”
Over the receiver, a low chuckle sounded, “I can pick up some wine and a midnight snack?”
Your heart began to speed and stutter, your head already beginning to whirl. In your silence, Clark’s voice dropped even lower to a murmur, speaking again before you had the chance to overthink it.
“You can say no to tonight and we’d still make time for another date. I just want to make things up to you.”
“Okay…” you bit your lip, beginning to feel that giddy feeling again as before, “But you better bring a red.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Once you hung up, it only took about fifteen minutes before there was a knock at your door. You ran out of your bathroom to answer the door, having thrown on a more casual outfit than your pajamas.
At the door stood a very disheveled Clark, like he’d been running around. His curly dark hair was in disarray and he was still in his ill-fitted work suit. He held out a bottle of red wine, a bag of snacks, and a large bouquet of flowers. You looked at him incredulously as he beamed a large smile back at you.
“Can I come in?” He said breathlessly.
A giggle escaped you as you stepped aside, letting the tall man walk through your door. He placed the items he brought on the nearest surface except for the flowers, which he held back out to you.
Clark said your name quietly, catching your gaze, “I can’t express to you how genuinely sorry I am. Any excuse I give is not enough. I wanted to be there, but I wasn’t.”
Carefully, you took the flowers from him, but before you could pull away, he enveloped your hands with his. His strong fingers squeezed yours with a soft pressure, gazing into your eyes with his deep ones.
“You’re here now,” you whispered.
His eyes flickered down to your lips. Your heart started to dance in your chest as he placed one of his hands along your cheek. He was hesitant, like he was testing the waters with you. Although he wasn't fully forgiven yet, you couldn't find yourself to pull away.
“Can I kiss you?” His voice was just above a whisper.
You nodded once, but he didn’t move immediately.
Ever so slowly, you pressed your lips together, like you were savoring every second. It was a quick, small beck before you pulled away to look at each other.
And for a moment, things felt blissful again.
No words needed to be spoken as you leaned in again, pulling him to you. The second kiss was longer, more intimate and slower… hungrier. But he didn’t make any moves to go any further. He was content with your lips, keeping you grounded as he molded to yours. He began to smile into the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist.
The two of you kissed for a few moments longer, only pulling away when you needed to get air.
Soon, the two of you were sitting on your couch with two glasses of wine in hand, eating your snacks as you slowly fell into a comfortable rhythm of talking and getting to know each other again. It felt like you could talk about everything and nothing with him all at once.
And after a while, it was like the forgotten dinner never happened.
Sometime in the night, Clark stood up from your couch to inspect the bookshelf of records you owned.
“Golly, you have quite the collection,” He mused aloud.
Clark walked over to the record player and carefully opened it up. The last record you’d been playing - The Righteous Brothers - was queued already and Clark simply pressed the play button.
“It was both me and my father’s collection.” you said as music started flowing through your speakers.
“Unchained Melody.” Clark hummed, “My Pa loves this one.”
“Mine did too.”
Clark outreached his hand to you and for a moment, you had a flash of deja-vu back to your conversation with Superman. That moment with the super human felt like a lifetime ago, but in reality it had only been a few short hours. That low buzzing started in your head again, but this time, you could feel something poking and prodding as you looked at the man in glasses before you.
But the thought that crossed your mind was impossible.
Instead of thinking too hard, you took Clark’s hand, letting him help you off the couch. Ever patient, he waited for you to get closer before wrapping his arms securely around your waist, placing his chin on your shoulder as you swayed to the song.
“If you'll let me fix things,” He whispered, “I want to be yours if you’ll have me.”
You smiled wide, nodding.
“I’d love that.”
end a.n. believe it or not, this is only the first part! if you made it this far, let me know what you thought or if you would like to join my superman taglist! I like feedback, and tbh, if you have your own ideas for this series, send them my way!
(taglist).
Summary: After 5 years of being single, you find your new roommate worming his way into your strictly planned routine. Suddenly, you aren’t the only one pulling all the weight, and you’re not sure what to do about it. The guard you carefully placed around your heart feels close to breaking, and you’re surprised to find you aren't entirely opposed. One romance novel and one rehearsal dinner later… the truth will come out.
warnings/tags: No use of Y/N. Post-college roommate AU. Not canon compliant. Mentions of romanogers or whatever their ship is called. Roommates to lovers. Idiots to lovers. Brief mention of the notebook by Nicholas sparks (cited in APA bc I didn’t know how to cite that in fanfiction lmao). Hyper independent!Reader. Anxious!Reader. Mention of past relationship. Light trauma and attachment styles. Angst because it’s my drug of choice. Smut (I’m scared). Soft!Dom!Bucky. Praise and dirty talk. PinV. Unprotected smut- please do not treat this like a sexEd class. Oral (F! Receiving). Fingering. He has a kink for taking care of you? Idk let me know if I missed anything.
MDNI !!! 18+
wc: 10k
Disclaimer: first time writing smut this detailed. Go easy on me, or don’t. I’ll be anxious about posting this either way lol. Proofread by me and only me (I have no friends to talk abt this with so like we should totally be mutuals tehe)
It really seemed like a no-brainer to you when the topic came up at the engagement dinner. Steve and Natasha weren’t trying to kick him out. In fact, it wasn’t even their idea. He was the one who said it made the most sense, that they needed their space and he should find his own. Sam joked that he just didn’t wanna hear the bed banging on the other side of the wall, if they “knew what he meant.” Bucky’s face, and the red on Steve’s cheeks, told you he wasn’t too far off.
So, when he mentioned to you that he wanted to keep a roommate, you didn’t hesitate to offer that he move into your apartment. After all, Wanda had moved out a year ago when her and Vision found a house on the outskirts of the city. You had the extra room, and you didn’t mind offering him help. You had known him for years throughout college, if only through mutual friends, but you enjoyed his company. He was the type that didn’t expect anything out of you during conversation. It flowed naturally, or if it didn’t then you simply sat in comfortable silence. You had discovered through several discussions that you shared the same taste in literature, and you both preferred the night to the morning.
You knew living together would be easy, and you were nothing if not capable of adapting. If need be, you’d just work around each other's schedules and respect the other’s space. You had never had any expectations of your roommates, not since you became used to your own capability. If you needed something done, you’d figure out how to do it. Wanda had said several times that she often wasn’t even aware you were around, given your nature to tending to yourself. You understood what she meant, because there was a point in time where you had to force the habit. Your last relationship was happy, you really had no right to complain… it was only that he never wanted to do any favor you asked. Something as simple as taking out the trash could turn into a huge argument about you “suffocating” him. Which was fine, you had found in the recent years that you liked your independence more than reliance on others.
So, when you offered, you assured Bucky that you knew how to pull your weight. You were not simply asking him just because you thought it’d be useful to have a man around.
You figured you were on the same page when he gave you an easy smile, a teasing scrunch of his nose, and leaned over to say, “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart.”
Oh, you were wrong.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
It started small, with chivalrous things you hadn’t realized you missed until he did them so easily. There was no show about it, no performance. It wasn’t grand or mind blowing.
He opened your door.
The day he moved in, you had been out grocery shopping, getting home right as he finished up. He had gone back outside to park his car. You beat him up the stairs, grocery bags making red indents in the skin of each of your arms. You didn’t mind, until you came to the door and found you couldn’t even reach it. You mumbled several curses while trying to maneuver for your keys and not drop the bags, this was a weekly occurrence after all.
“Let me,” came that familiar voice from behind you, two hands reaching for the bags on your arms before you had a chance to even respond.
He glanced down at your arms with a frown, looking at you as if disappointed. Then, bags in hand, he reached for his key and opened the door, waiting for you to enter first. You blinked at his steady smile, looking between him and the entrance to the apartment. When you walked in, he followed behind and came to set the bags on the counter.
“You don’t have to do that,” you stopped him as he began taking things out of the bags, “I’m sure you need to unpack.”
He simply scrunched his nose as if you were just being silly, “I am capable of both, you know.”
And you supposed you did know, given his success on the college hockey team. The strength and stamina shared between him and Steve was a highlighting topic among many broadcasting channels. Not that you paid attention, or anything. Still, though it was a helpful gesture, something about it made you uncomfortable enough to stop him again. “It’s just that…” you offered a smile, “I’m kind of crazy about organizing everything.”
He glanced between your eyes and the fidgeting of your fingers, stepping back with an easy smile and a, “Whatever you say,” before retreating to his room to unpack.
It continued like that, small things that you didn’t know how to feel about. After all, opening the door for others was just polite. It spoke to how introverted you were that it was a novelty. The same applied to carrying heavier objects, or offering to do your laundry when he was already putting in a load. You were baffled to have them returned to you perfectly folded.
You supposed you were just good friends who enjoyed each other's company, even if his accommodating attitude set you off balance. You enjoyed how he paid attention. Getting to know each other was a simple exchange of observations, where you learned that you mirrored the other often. Except for a few things.
It was late afternoon on a sunday, you had just stepped out of the shower and thrown on a long shirt and shorts. You stepped out of your room, into the living area where the golden New York sunset seeped through the windows. There was Bucky, haloed by the light, setting a book back on your shelves only to take another off. You stopped and watched as he ran his finger over the spine, then split the pages. His brows drew together, but his lip turned up.
“What is it?” You spoke up.
He looked up to you immediately, only his eyes seemed to drag up from your bare legs to your wet hair. That smile grew into a smirk, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He took his time, like he always seemed to. Like he didn’t know what it meant to rush. Yet he never left you hanging, “You’ve annotated every book on this shelf.”
It wasn’t a question, just an observation, lifting the book in his hands as if to prove the point. He was holding Pride and Prejudice. Your eyes widened as you took sight of your neat scribbles in pink ink, taking several steps forward and opening your mouth to respond.
Only, he beat you to it, eyes flickering back to the page, “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of Mr. Darcy described using the word ‘daddy.’”
Your mouth fell open completely, in fact your jaw might have unhinged itself altogether. The way he read the word aloud with no shame whatsoever? You remembered feeling embarrassed just writing it across the page.
You forced yourself to stand straighter, crossing your arms and clearing your throat.
“Well, you obviously haven’t been on booktok very often, then.” You raised your brow, turning the challenge onto him.
He only took it in stride, leaning a shoulder against the bookshelf and giving you a deliberate once over. “Oh really? You’re telling me there’s an entire community out there for the kinds of things you write in these margins?” He turned his attention back to the flipping pages, muttering more so to himself, “interesting.”
You scoffed, finally reaching out and snatching the book from his hungry eyes, “Oh, give me that!” You turned to place it back where it belonged, next to Emma. “And for your information, no. Not all of them are annotated.”
You expecting more teasing from where he stood, still leaned on the shelves. Like he was right where he wanted to be. Only, his smug expression softened into something closer to curiosity. “Yeah, I was wondering about that…” then he reached a corded arm over you, almost caging you between him and the bookshelf. You lowered your eyes immediately, because seriously, he wasn’t even flexing, were his biceps naturally that large? Was that normal? It felt disrespectful to even look. But he brought it back down soon after, holding in his hand the one book you hadn’t touched with a pen.
When he still didn’t move away, you took it upon yourself, taking a considerable step to the side. He only thumbed through the pages, as if to prove his point, “What’s so different about The Notebook?”
What couldn’t be more different? You wanted to say. You simply turned your eyes to the shelves, exhaling a dissatisfied breath. “It’s unrealistic.”
“Unrealistic?” He laughed, pointing to the top shelf, “More than The Chronicles of Narnia?” Which was littered with your takes on favorite moments and quotes.
You rolled your eyes, “It’s unrealism disguised as realistic.” You shrugged, trying not to sound bitter, “I mean, what kind of man genuinely asks a woman what she wants, and then vows to give her all of it?”
He didn’t miss a beat, “A good one.” His voice was softer then, and you didn’t like the look in his eyes when you met them again. Like he was reading you now, like you were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. He looked as if he just found another fitted piece.
“Yes, well,” you tried to sound unbothered, because you were unbothered. It didn’t matter. It never had. “Sometimes you have to be ‘a good man’ for yourself.”
The conversation ended there, because you felt exposed under his gaze, and plucked a book before retreating back to your room. The Hobbit this time.
You hadn’t noticed the book was missing until you walked into the apartment a week later and noticed the unbalanced lean of other books on the shelf. Some had fallen over into the empty spot it had left. Your mouth turned into a frown, but you quickly brushed it off. Maybe he wanted to read it. Maybe he’d feel the same way you did in the end, that it was a pointless kind of fantasy, and you would laugh together about it.
When it returned to its spot, however, you felt your palms itch immediately. For what reason, you didn’t know. You asked him if he liked it the following morning, and he gave a simple “yeah,” that somehow made you more antsy. He didn’t give anything else but a shrug, before turning the conversation to teasing you about your inability to get a pancake to the perfect temperature without burning it on one side.
When you were alone in the apartment, you finally groaned in frustration and picked it up. You didn’t know what you expected, because you knew he didn’t so much as highlight his books, and yet…
You found quotes highlighted in marker to match the cover, small annotations written in black at the edge of the pages.
“She would tell him what she wanted in her life--her hopes and dreams for the future--and he would listen intently and then promise to make it all come true.”
“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.” (Nicholas Sparks, 2000).
And off to the side: You deserve all of it. Everything.
You shut the book immediately and put it back, stepping away with a hand over your chest. It was as if you actually heard alarms go off in the back of your brain, red sirens flaring. It was unfair of him to plant any idea of that in your head. You wringed your hands and turned away, not liking the chasm that formed in your chest. The ache it created. Within minutes you had your bag and were out of the apartment, trying to get as far from that bookshelf as possible.
Then it became… more. He took notice of your work schedule several weeks in, noting when you would usually come home late and when you usually went without dinner as a result. Suddenly, you were coming home to dinner on the table and a Bucky who only smiled and asked about your day. Suddenly, the dishwasher was emptied before you had a chance to get to it. Suddenly, the washer wasn’t making that horrible noise anymore and the volume on your TV didn’t randomly move up and down. But he never mentioned the bookshelf.
You didn’t let it affect your expectations. He was just being nice, trying to make a good impression. It was sweet. Gentlemanly. You continued your routine as you had before he moved in, only more deliberately. In hindsight, you might not even have noticed yourself doing it. Anything you said you would do, you made sure it got done early. Even if he brushed you off and said he would take out the trash in the morning, you would wake up early and do it, responding innocently when he eyed the new bag in the can.
You worked hard at your HR internship, then came home and worked some more. You liked the space clean and organized, probably more than you even realized. It’s only that you were used to relying on yourself; not even your maintenance men were helpful–
“What are you doing?” Bucky said from somewhere above you, his tone sounding like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
You slid out from under the sink, wrench in hand, “There’s a leak.”
The crease in his brow was obvious, his mouth opened as if you said something offensive, “Didn’t you just get back from work?”
“Mhm.” You figured you could work and talk, leaning back under the sink.
“And you didn’t think to–hey!” Before you knew it, a hand was wrapped around your ankle, and you were tugged across the tile until you were no longer laying under the sink. Bucky had knelt down, like getting closer would get his point across, “I’m right here.”
Yes, yes he was. Right there. Close enough that you could lean up and you’d be sharing the same breath. You could pick the grey out from the blue in his eyes, the hint of something solemn, yet all you did was look at him with a questioning expression.
He sighed, shaking his head, “You’ve been working all day, let me fix the sink.” He held his hand out for the wrench.
You didn’t give it to him, “You’ve been working too.”
“From home,” he said simply, “You have been on your feet–”
“This doesn’t require me to be on my feet.” You motioned to the fact that you were very much on the floor.
He turned his head away, muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “unbelievable” before taking a deep breath and meeting your eyes again, “Why won’t you let me help?”
You didn’t want to open that topic at the moment, so you decided to hit him with the biggest card you had, “Do you not think I’m capable of fixing the sink?”
The look he gave you told you he was not going to fall for that game, but he only said: “I think you’re incapable of relaxing.”
You shrugged, “I’ll relax when the sink is fixed.”
“Or,” the wrench was plucked from your hand when you least expected it, “You go change, get settled, and I will have this fixed in thirty minutes.”
“Or,” you growled, reaching for the wrench he held high above your head, “you could let me–” you huffed, shifting to reach higher, “just give it–” you didn’t even think before using his shoulder as leverage, and your sentence turned into a squeal as you fell forward. Directly onto him. Your thighs split across his abdomen as you landed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale as he hit the tile. You hadn’t had much time to catch yourself and focus on grabbing the wrench, meaning you fell directly onto his chest.
You were certainly sharing air now.
The look on his face was… you didn’t have time to read the look on his face. You scrambled off him so quickly, muttering several “I’m so sorry”s and “oh my god”s because you were splayed completely across him and you felt way more than you should have and–
You only breathed once you got back to the safety of your room, realizing then that you basically just surrendered the battle. Your pride swelled, scolded you for losing focus all because you forgot what it felt like to be pressed up against…
You shook your head, not the time.
The next morning, you would turn the faucet to find the sink working perfectly. No leak at all. And Bucky wouldn’t mention a thing.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Somehow, it got worse after that. You noticed the vase on the coffee table, the green one you found thrifting, had a new bouquet every week. Now, when you came home late, he wouldn’t have just made you dinner, but he’d wait to eat his with you. At the table, without a phone in sight. When you went somewhere, found yourself cold halfway through whatever event you were attending, he’d appear with an extra jacket he’d brought, “because you were too stubborn to grab one, doll, even though you always get cold.” It was so… domestic. So unlike the life you had made.
So much so that at times, you panicked. Wanda and Natasha didn’t understand it, no matter how much you tried to explain it. They told you to lean into it, and you didn’t know how to tell them you couldn’t. You had been pretty certain that you were happy as you were. You enjoyed your alone time, your career, and the community you had made. You didn’t need romance. You had once been told that love was a disease to a woman with ambition, and you had believed it wholeheartedly.
Now, you weren’t so sure.
You found yourself conflicted once you realized that no, James Barnes was not going to turn around at some point and resent you for all the helpful things he had done. You weren’t sure when it became such an obvious part of his character. Maybe somewhere between him knocking on the door while you showered to place towels—fresh from the dryer—on your counter and him calling every clinic in town on a Friday night to see who could fit you in when you were sick.
“Fuck—“ he threw the phone down on the couch next to your hip. He was crouching in front of you, hand running over his frustrated face. “Every clinic closed at 5.”
You only hummed in acknowledgment, too achy to care. You had been in and out of sleep the entire evening, going between shivering with a fever and breaking into a cold sweat. You only became more aware when you noticed him standing, reaching for his coat, “What are you—“
“We’re going to the ER.” He said as if he wasn’t, in your opinion, half mad. He shrugged on his coat then did a once over for you, turning to your room to presumably grab your shoes.
“What?” You croaked in the most astonished voice you could muster, sitting up on your elbows, “Buck–no, there’s no reason–”
He looked over his shoulder at you as if you were the crazy one, motioning to your form spread across the couch, “You’ve been like this all day. You can barely walk, you won’t eat, you’re feverish–”
“Listen to me…” You pushed yourself up slowly, your heart thundering like each movement was equivalent to a mile, “It is just a cold, I’m sorry–”
He stepped forward then, “Why are you apologizing?”
“I didn’t mean to take up your day, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening taking me somewhere or nursing me back to health.” You gave him a kind smile. You appreciated him, so much so that something else was blooming next to that ache in your chest. A sort of… fluttering. But this wasn’t his job, “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you.”
He was silent for the time it took him to close the remaining space, his expression looking as if you had spoken a different language entirely. He crouched next to you, shaking his head and gently wrapping his hands around your shoulders to help you lay back down, “I don’t have anywhere else to be…”
“Still, I–”
“Why do you apologize for existing?” The words seemed to spill out of him, as if he couldn’t quite keep them in.
“What?”
“You’re human,” he whispered your name, absentmindedly checking his watch. It was time for medicine again, he reached for the pain reliever and your water. You had to give it to him, he didn’t look the least bit burdened. “It’s natural to need others.”
You took the medicine, laid your head back down, “I’ve taken care of myself this far, I can handle a common cold.”
He gave you that same look from the engagement party, but this time you read his smile as something akin to pity, or maybe affection? He lifted a hand to slide over your cheek, curling in your hair and smoothing it over your pillow, “I know you have, but now I’m here too.”
It didn’t matter when, just that you knew. This kindness was who he was, only that didn’t make him yours. The sweet words, soft touches, helpful gestures… James Barnes was a good man. Perhaps one of the best you would ever come to know, and that in of itself was more difficult than anything. You couldn’t brush him off as incompetent, or ill-mannered, or drowning in toxic masculinity, which had been so easy when dating up to that point. Only you weren’t dating, he wasn’t yours.
It became apparent when, a year after moving in, he announced, “I’m thinking of looking for my own space.”
You were eating takeout on the couch when he said it, curled up on opposite ends of and talking about nothing in particular prior. Then suddenly every nerve in your body lit, your focus zeroing.
Had you been wrong? Did he think you were taking advantage after all?
All you could say was, “Oh.” You set your carton down, suddenly not hungry. Suddenly the quiet atmosphere of the room felt as if you were suffocating.
He seemed to track the movement, as if assessing. His mouth pulled into a frown, “Yeah.”
You pulled your lips inward, biting down on them as you looked literally anywhere else. Which time had it been? When your laundry was done in the dryer, and you hadn’t noticed because you were knee-deep in paperwork, so he folded all of it for you? You hadn’t known what to think when he handed you a pile of your neatly folded panties with a slight blush across his cheeks. Or was it when he noticed your books were overflowing, so he surprised you on your birthday by building in an entire new section to the shelves?
The apartment was practically screaming his name at this point, filled to the brim with his actions. The flowers, the late night dinners, the shelves, all of it. If he had been trying to worm his way in, he had done it.
“It’s just… I saw some listings go up down the street,” he continued, picking at his chow mein, “figured I’d give them a look. Couldn’t hurt, right?”
Right.
You forced your throat to clear, planting on a supportive smile. This was your best friend, moving onto a new chapter of his life, you should be happy. You nodded eagerly, “Yes, that sounds great… um,” you unraveled your legs from below you, “I think I’m ready for bed actually…”
He furrowed his brows, “Already? We’re not even through the first Scream.”
You scrambled for words, “It’s been a long day.”
“Ah, I see,” bless him and his ability to bounce right back, “Natasha said you’re an easy scare, but I never thought–”
You smacked his shoulder, “I am not! You’re the one who was so focused on your book the other day that you jumped at the sound of the doorbell!”
He waved his finger at you, “Not fair! I was reading Stephen King!”
“And what? You were scared the pages were going to jump out at you?”
His mouth fell open, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere–”
Bucky jumped up at the same time as you, blocking your exit from the living you. You squealed, trying to get around the coffee table, but fuck him for being a goalkeeper. He follows you around, and you resort to trying to step onto the table for a fast exit, only to find his arms wrapping around you from behind. You screamed, the giggle in your throat making you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“Got you!” His voice was rough with laughter, and you felt him step back, easily picking you up completely.
“Oh my god,” you slapped his arm around your waist, “put me down!”
“Nope,” he fell back on the couch, bringing you with him. It was unfair, the way he held you, like your previous conversation never happened. His breath tickled your neck as he promised, “Not until we get through at least the first two movies.”
You did eventually make it back to your room that night, shutting the door and falling against it. Your hand came up to cover your mouth. You weren’t proud of the sobs that followed shortly after, or that chasm in your chest that now felt as if it had doubled in size. You groaned in frustration, pulling at your roots.
“There were rules, I had rules…” you pleaded to the ceiling, as if someone would hear you, as you sank to the floor. “I said I wouldn’t change my expectations… that I wouldn’t let it go too far.”
But at some point… it had. At some point, that fluttering you had felt began to wrap around the discomfort like a balm over your heart. It soothed, forcing your guard down. Letting you dream before you even realized you had been. Thinking about what it would be like to trust someone again. To have… not a man to babysit, but a partner who was equal to you in character and intelligence. You thought the girls who said they wanted a man they could turn their brains off with were naive, stupid even, until you started imagining how easy it would be with him. Not all the time, but like an even exchange. Being able to trust that he had you, just as he would trust that you had him.
It was becoming increasingly obvious what had happened.
“Damnit.” You sobbed, your forehead dropping to your knees.
You were upset, but also so angry. So pissed off at yourself for letting this happen. You were smarter than this, stronger than this. They said the most intelligent women didn’t fall for this bullshit, and here you were.
You let yourself cry quietly for another thirty minutes, then you forced yourself up. Off the floor, away from the door. You got ready for bed, and didn’t let yourself cry again. You had felt this before, and you had overcome this before. Yet, as you laid down, closing your eyes, you had a nagging feeling that one realization wasn’t going to go away.
You didn’t want to be alone forever, not anymore.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Claps rang out around the room, a few people drying tears on the corner of their napkins. Yelena’s maid of honor speech was funny and lighthearted, and yet still made hearts swell as she recounted childhood dramas and memories (or lack of) of late nights in college. She was even biting her lip at the end, trying to hold in a smile as she explained how Natasha never thought she’d find her person, until she met Steve. The cliche lines earned raised glasses, and knocked back champagne.
It was a gorgeous rehearsal dinner, with a small party. Both families had pitched in on the decorations. The colors were muted, but no less beautiful, with red roses centering each table. Candles lit up the entire room, washing everyone in a romantic, golden light. All of the guests were asked to wear colors while Natasha and Steve sat in white. It was everything Natasha had said was dumb before, and you enjoyed seeing her lean into it.
You enjoyed all of it, so much that it made that ache in your chest feel the size of a canyon. It was the same ache that had been building for a year, and you hated yourself for it. It was their day, and you wanted it to be perfect. But as you watched Steve pull her in, kiss her cheek, and the tension fall from her shoulders… all you could think was that you wanted that. That softness, that intimacy. Falling into someone and not wondering if they’d catch you.
But you’d been doing this for so long on your own, you weren’t even sure how to appeal to someone anymore. You weren’t necessarily flirty, or even playful unless you really knew the person. You also rarely found yourself attracted to strangers, so how would you even pick someone? There were too many variables, you wondered how anyone figured it out.
Bucky rose from the chair next to you a few moments later, after Yelena sat down. You watched him, in his blue suit, go to pick up the mic and smile to the room. He opened with something that made the room laugh, but you found yourself in a daze. There was nothing surprising about him, nor how he was dressed. You had seen him walk out of his room, had driven with him on the way here, had plenty of time to adapt to the way he seemed to take up the entire room, and yet… suddenly it felt as if he was the only one in the room.
You watched his eyes scan the room, “…Folks, I’m just the best man. I can’t speak for Steve or his feelings but, I believe love isn’t about lust or attraction… and yes, it is about friendship. About finding that woman who you want to share everything with, who you can’t get off your mind. But more importantly,” then his eyes landed on yours and he paused. Like it was just him and you and that wide smile, with eyes that matched his suit jacket. Then he found himself, cleared his throat, “it’s about finding the person you want to take care of for the rest of your life. The person that makes effort feel like a privilege…”
His eyes snapped away as he kept speaking, but you felt like you were about to throw up. This was the only variable. Every missing data point combined into one. Everything you wanted, right here.
And he would be leaving soon. Soon, you would be coming home to an empty apartment that still felt like him. You would have to move on and rebuild each wall, knowing all it took from him was a single look to knock them down.
Glasses raised, people cheered, the couple kissed. Bucky found his seat next to yours right as you swallowed a lump in your throat.
“How’d I do?” He leaned into your space, his arm coming around the back of your chair.
You managed a small smile, grateful for the steady and supportive tone of your voice, “Perfect, very romantic.”
Dinner was served, and everyone gathered. It was lovely, every single moment of it. The drunken laughter and kind remarks. Natasha and Steve fawning over each other. Sam teasing everyone in sight. Even Tony stood for a speech towards the end.
You chastised yourself every time the thought popped into your head: I want this. It wasn’t your day. It wasn’t yours to want. Even when your mind felt like it was racing a million miles a minute and you just wished that you had a soft place to land. A place to rest it all. Instead, you had driven away the one person who had been such a driving force in your life the past year. Now he was leaving too.
You tried to distract yourself by moving to the other side of the table with the excuse of visiting with Natasha to discuss bridesmaids plans for the next morning. It helped, for a moment. She was so lively about how she wanted everything done, and you were good with lists. Little boxes to check off, that was your area. The wine was a good call too, because two glasses in you were giggling and successfully avoiding glances from down the table.
It would only last so long though, you supposed, because once dinner was over you were out of options. You hugged every last person, even the family members you didn’t know, taking extra long on your goodbyes. But, finally, you met him back at the door with a tense smile.
Bucky stood with his hands in his pockets, angling his neck to get a better look at you, “You alright?”
You nodded, bouncing on your heels, “Yeah, ready to go?” The valet would be bringing the car back soon.
He only tensed his brows and raised the back of his hand to your cheek, “You sure, you’re flushed?”
“Oh,” you didn’t mean to flinch away, it was only a reflex, “I probably had too much wine.” Which you were regretting, just now remembering that wine did not get you tipsy in the same way vodka or tequila did. You were tired now, and every thought you had from earlier was rushing back. You turned for the doors, not wanting to continue the conversation and knowing he would follow. The valet had, indeed, brought the car around, and you hopped in the passenger side after thanking them.
Bucky took the driver's seat, adjusting his arm behind your head to reverse out of the narrow lot. He was mostly quiet, save for when he made sure you were buckled. You held your breath against the swelling emotions, trying to bat away the voices in your head. You felt at war, like the two different sides of yourself wanted very different things. One screamed it’s better this way, while the other responded it doesn’t have to be. Both had valid arguments.
In the five years you had been single, you had made the most progress in your career and financial independence. You knew yourself better, had built a better routine, and had become comfortable without the opinions of others. However, there had also been nights where all you wanted was a pair of arms wrapped around you. There were times you ate dinner, and wished you had someone across from you to talk about your day with. Someone to dance in the kitchen with… or even the more intimate aspects. Someone who took their time with you, learning every inch of your skin without a selfish expectation. Someone who just wanted to be with you.
That lump in your throat became too much, and you coughed into your elbow, trying to release some of the tension in your chest. You began to feel pins and needles breaking out over your skin, your hands feeling restless and unsure of what to do with themselves.
You felt his eyes glance over at you before focusing back on the road. You were on a backroad now, the dinner having been out of the city. After several moments of quiet traveling, he finally spoke, “I’m not sure if I told you, you look stunning tonight.” It was a soft compliment, his hand slowly reaching over to squeeze your knee, because of course he knew something was wrong. “This dress is lovely.”
It was too much, all of it. You couldn’t even remember the last time a man complimented something specific on you. When it was dangled in front of you like this, you found you enjoyed it too much. You felt greedy with the need for more, like you wanted this to be your normal.
But he was leaving.
The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, all of it suddenly becoming too much. You brought a hand to cover your mouth, turning away, but it was already too late. Bucky only squeezed your knee one last time before bringing his hand back to the wheel with a pained sigh. You noticed the car slowing, finding him pulling over to the shoulder. You grunted in disapproval, something like an apology. For causing a scene? For being selfish? For having agreed to this in the first place? All of the above?
Once the car stopped, you heard him unbuckle and turn to you. Then, a hand gently pried the one from your mouth, “Sweetheart? Talk to me.”
You only hung your head, your teeth clenching around more sobs. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block everything out.
He was persistent. He moved your hair behind your ear, trying to get a look at you, “What’s going on,” with a plea of your name he said, “please?”
You shook your head, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know–”
“Don’t apologize,” then he was taking your cheeks in his hands, giving you no choice but to turn to him. He made a pained noise when he saw your tears, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, “Tell me what it is, pretty girl. Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”
That felt like salt on a wound, your breath releasing from your chest broken and cracked. You tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let you. One hand slid to cup your nape while the other unbuckled you, tugging your knees till you faced him more. It only made you cry harder.
“You gotta talk to me, I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me.”
You finally broke with a, “You don’t need to do anything!”
He wasn’t having it, “Bullshit. You’ve been out of it all night, and now you’re bawling your eyes out. Best believe I’m going to figure out what caused those tears and–”
“I’m tired!” you emphasized the words, trying to give them more meaning than they had on their own.
His brows furrowed, “Of what?”
“Everything! All of it.” You motioned your hands as if that was a good explanation, “I’m so fucking selfish! It’s someone else’s night and all I could think about–all I’ve been thinking about–is how goddamn tired I am of doing everything myself.”
“You don’t have to,” a hand runs through your hair, smoothing it, almost lulling you.
“But I can! I was! For a long time! And-and then suddenly…” you trailed off, shrugging your shoulders and finally forcing yourself to look away from him.
He squeezed your knee again, “Suddenly?”
You shook your head again, but not necessarily to his question. More so, to the tone of his voice, the earnestness of it. He cared so much, and it was as heartbreaking as it was exhilarating to be the center of his attention.
It must have been the exhilarated side that quietly answered: “You.”
“Me?”
“You!” You repeated with more confidence, “You showed me something different and now you’re leaving and… I don’t know…” You searched for the words, “do you ever get tired of being alone?”
Your question seemed to send the car into such thick silence that you couldn’t stand to stare out the front dash anymore. Slowly, you turned to look at him. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were downcast, his mouth hung as if he had no clue what to say.
Shame spread across your cheeks. You’d really done it this time. In a matter of months, weeks for all you knew, he’d be gone. He wanted to leave, and here you were saying silly things. Embarrassing yourself. This was why you hadn’t dated.
But that was a lie. You hadn’t dated because you hadn’t felt this in a very long time. If ever.
When Bucky finally did move, it was to shift the car back into gear. His other hand moved back to the steering wheel at the same time that you said, “I’m sorry.”
It was his turn to shake his head, “Just…” his voice was rough, pained, “Just let me take you home. I think… I think you need to see something.” He pulled back onto the highway, careful of the speed limit despite the way his fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel.
The ride was quiet, save for your sniffles as you tried to quit crying. You had no idea what he meant, no clue what he might want to show you at home that you didn’t already know about. Or maybe it was something else… a lease he’d already signed? His bags packed neatly in his room? Maybe he just wanted out of this car before telling you how tiresome this past year has been for him. Either way, you were determined to pull it together by the time you entered the parking garage.
And you had, for the most part. To his credit, he didn’t seem the least bit angry getting out of the car. You both walked calmly up the stairs to the apartment, and you waited for him to unlock the door. When you walked inside, however, he did not lead you to his room to show you any documents or boxes. He did not turn and give you a piece of his mind.
He walked to the bookshelf.
Your face twisted in confusion as his hands went directly to the spine of the book he was after, not even taking a second to search. Like he knew the exact spot it lived in like the back of his hand. And when he turned, you saw the cover was the same book he had pulled months ago when you had stood against those shelves together. The Notebook. The same book he had annotated for you without a word, that you had put back before even beginning to flip through the pages.
Now, however, he was thumbing through them himself. When he stopped, three fourths through the book, he opened it fully and turned it to you. His eyes met yours again, the first time since you had spoken in the car, as he handed you the book. You took it without question, looking at him for a few moments before finally turning your eyes to the page. And right there, where highlight draws over lines of Noah confessing to Allie what is loving her has meant to him, is the only annotation written in your favorite pink ink:
When I read these love stories, about a man who cares for a woman until his dying breath, I only ever think of one person. Love at first sight might not exist, but I have cared for you from the very first moment. Then again at every party, every class, every dinner, and every night in this little apartment.
Oh.
You blinked several times, reread the words to the point that he probably thought you were illiterate, but you only wanted to make sure they were real. Then you looked up at him, with his bitten lip and puppy-dog eyes. You mouthed wordlessly for several seconds before landing on a single question, “James–”
“I was betting on you getting curious when the book was missing,” he shrugged, “I guess I was wrong.”
You shook your head, “You weren’t, I-I did look. I just didn’t get too far because…”
“You got scared.” He understood.
You finally met his eyes, “You don’t think I’m too much?”
The exhale he let out was soft and full of pity, yet he still stepped forward. “I think,” he said, “that you have been left alone for far too long,” he gently took the book, setting it on the arm of the couch next to you, “and I am sorry that anyone ever made you think you had to do this alone.”
You couldn’t breathe, “I—“
“I love you.” His hands cradled your face once again, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly. He was so close, close enough to do whatever he pleased, and yet he still waited.
Only until you said: “I love you too.”
Then he was kissing you without reprieve. There was no hesitancy in the way he took your purse from your shoulder, dropped it to the floor, and backed you against the door. You took no time in responding, your mouth matching his kiss or kiss. Your hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding down to fist his shirt in your fingers. It was a consuming sort of kiss, and not just for the fact that you hadn’t kissed someone in years. It was him, and it was overwhelming in the way that it felt right.
You forced yourself to pull back before you could melt into him, giggling when his lifts tried to follow yours. “I just…” you leaned against the door, looking up at him, “I thought you wanted to leave?”
His breath was already ragged, and you could practically hear his heart pounding. It didn’t stop him from shaking his head, “No, sweetheart.” The words were breathed against your forehead before his lips dropped to your skin, planting kisses on your forehead before reaching your cheeks, “I never wanted to leave, but being near you and…” his exhale was hungered, full of longing, “and not having you, it’s like torture.”
“I know the feeling…” you replied, voice no more than a whisper.
The groan he let out was like nothing you had heard from any man before, and then his lips were on yours again. There was nothing held back about it. He fisted your hair and tugged your head back, his tongue sliding along yours when you gasped. You didn’t need him to hold you there, you were more than happy to arch into him, and he knew it. His hands slid down next, over the fabric of your butter yellow dress, brushing your thighs right where the hem ends. He mumbled something against your mouth, but you were too focused on the taste and feel of him. His muscles were both hard and soft all in one, and it was the safest place you had ever been. And as you ran your hands down the definition of his abdomen, you found yourself dizzy with more than just love.
He pulled away when it was obvious you hadn’t heard him, and only then did you notice his fingers brushing up under your dress. Your breath hitched, fingers flexing against him. He nudged your nose with his, whispering again, “Will you let me?”
You knew what he was asking without any clarification, because your body was miles ahead. Still, you hesitated. Could you do this? Did you still even know how? What if you messed up? Or couldn’t please him? Or–
Bucky whispered your name, thumb brushing your cheek, “You’re overthinking.”
“It’s just been a long time for me.” You bit your lip, watching his eyes track the movement.
He nodded like he knew, because of course he knew. “I just want you to relax, okay? Let me take care of you.”
You weren't prepared for how easy it would be to listen to the gentle command, to uncurl your fingers from his shirt and let go of the urgency because he had you. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the back of your thigh as he pulled you up to wrap your legs around him. And then he really was against you, and you gasped once again against his mouth. He smiled as he turned to walk down the hall, undoubtedly knowing that you can feel all of him pressed to you. And judging by your perception of size, "all" was a considerable amount.
He entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him, and brought you to his bed. He kissed you once more before laying you down on the white comforter and leaning back to get a better look at you. Your hair fanned across the bed, your dress riding up your thighs. He smirked down at you, his hands coming up to your thighs.
"Gorgeous," he mumbled, more to himself, and ran his hands down to wrap around your ankles. You squealed as he gave a sudden tug, pulling you to the edge of the bed where your thighs fell on either side of him. Your dress was ridden up to your hips by that point, putting the cotton of your ordinary panties on display.
Not that it seemed to make any difference to him, he was still intent on looking his fill. So much so, you felt yourself start to squirm at the attention, letting out a whine.
He only tutted, shrugging off his suit jacket before his hands went to the buttons of his shirt, "Patience, sweetheart." Then he was shirtless, and you couldn't have formed a remark if you wanted to. He was all definition under soft, tanned skin. When he finally brought himself down, his body covering yours, you did not hesitate to run your hands along his chest and shoulders.
You could have stayed there like that for a long while, just feeling him pressed against you. But Bucky was the one losing patience all of the sudden, with his lips against yours and his hands at the hem of your dress. You moaned when he bit down on your bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, and he used the moment to drag your dress up your sides and over your head. It had been wired, leaving you without the choice of a bra, not that you regretted it when you heard the groan he let out at the sight of you under him.
Then his mouth was on you, leaving nips along your collarbone before dropping down to your breasts. You cursed in response to the sensation, gasping his name as your fingers flew to his hair.
"Fuck," his lips let go of your nipple just to mumble against your skin, "dreamt of this, having you under me," he sucked a hickey onto your skin, "thought I was an awful man for wanting you at my mercy, but look at you," his hips rolled into yours, you arched and pulled at his hair, "you're loving this."
"Please," you breathed as his mouth closed around the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth.
"Please what, baby?" He trailed kisses down your stomach next, before he dropped off the bed. Next thing you knew, he was kneeling in front of you.
You could only squirm, feeling pinned under him, "I-I don't know..."
He hummed, still so pleased with you, "I know, I know what you need. You just lay there and take it, doll."
The very idea made your insides burn, pleasure licking up your spine as his lips ghosted along the seem of your panties. He kissed over them, completely shameless to the eroticism of his actions. You, on the other hand, were speechless. Your thighs were already close to shaking and he had barely touched you. He knew the effect he had too, if his smirk was any clue. He watched for your reaction as he brought his hands to the sides, slowly bringing them down your legs.
You closed your knees on instinct, but he wasn't having it. He pulled them apart with a warning look at you and placed one thigh over his shoulder, his other hand pinning your knee to the bed. You couldn't take your eyes off his expression though, seeing the hunger in his eyes when they finally fell on you. He exhaled, his voice rough, "look at you," then his thumb was pushing through your folds, dragging down the seem of your cunt. "Already so wet for me. I think I deserve a taste, don't you?"
You gasped, not even thinking when you started nodding, your hips already grinding against his thumb.
He hummed, nipping at the inside of your thigh, "So good f'me." Then he was on you, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit before his mouth sucked hard. It was your turn to cry out a curse, your hips coming off the bed. But he adjusted, an arm wrapping under your thigh and coming back up to hold your hips down. "So sweet," his voice vibrated against you, "can't believe you kept this from me."
"Didn't want to," you whined, words barely coherent, "didn't wanna--"
"Mm," he pulled back, thumb replacing his mouth and working your clit while he watched your reaction. "We're gonna make up for all that lost time, yeah baby?"
You nodded incessantly, muttering pleas as his pointer finger found your entrance.
"Gotta get my pretty girl ready," he mumbled, more so to himself, as he pushed the finger in and found immediate resistance. He wasn't discouraged, though. His mouth found your clit again, laving and sucking until your thighs began to shake. Slowly, you began to relax to the point that he was able to move the finger in and out, curving it into the spot that made you let out a needy whine.
"There she is," he smiled against you, and you thought you might have found heaven. When he used a second finger with his tongue, his arm pulling your hips flush against his mouth, you found yourself repeating words over and over. "Please"s and "I love you"s tumbling out. He talked you through all of it. The second your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth opened with a scream, he was encouraging you with "good girl"s and "give it to me"s and "please, baby"s.
He didn't stop until you were tugging on his hair and trying to pull him back up. When he sat up, he was breathing heavily and his pupils were blown wide. And when he brought himself back onto the bed, you could so clearly see the evidence of his arousal. You bit your lip, hard, and looked up at him with an expression you were sure gave away exactly what you wanted. If it didn't, it didn't really matter, because then you were tugging him down over you.
His mouth met yours again, and you tasted yourself on him. It was consuming, but you didn't let it distract you from moving your hands to the zipper of his slacks. You weren't about to waste any time, and with the way he was grinding against you, he wasn't either. He kicked his pants and boxers down the minute you pushed them past his hips, both of you groaning at the feeling of skin on skin.
He kissed you hard once more, taking a moment to admire you, before leaning up on his forearm. Using his other hand, he brought your leg over his hip. His forehead dropping down to yours, he whispered, "You gonna let me take care of you?"
You could only nod, feeling him adjust and run the head of his cock up through your wetness and against your clit. You could barely see straight.
He smiled, pleased, "Breathe for me, okay? Relax." He waited to watch you obey, pulling in a deep breath and melting against him all over again. Then he pushed against you, the tip of him sinking slowly inside. He took the moment to pinch the nipple of one of your breasts, making you cry out and push against him. It made the pleasure of him thrusting into you sharper, better than you ever remember this being.
He cursed once again, moaning your name against your ear as he pulled out only to sink back in. "So tight. Perfect. And just for me, aren't you?"
You nodded, eyes rolling back as he set a rhythm.
But he grasped your chin, made you look at him, "Say it, tell me you're all mine."
It took you a minute to find your words, too focused on the feeling of him dragging inside you. There was no way it had always been like this, there had to be something different about James Barnes. Him and the way his cock pushed inside you, making stars dance in your vision.
"'m yours, Bucky, all yours. Please--"
"That's right," he pushed harder, his thumb dropping back down to press against your clit, "My perfect girl and her tight cunt, all for me." He dropped his mouth to your breast, sucking and biting down gently, "All for me to take care of."
The words mixed with all of the sensations happening in your body were too much. You felt your legs tighten around him, your hips lifting to meet his, mumbling his name and whining into his neck when you began to press kisses into it.
"Mhm, that feel good, doll?" the room was full of the noises of slapping skin and heavy breathing, "You gonna cum for me?"
You cried out, hands grasping at his back and nails dragging across his skin, "Uh huh, please!"
"Don't gotta beg me, I'll give you anything you want. As long as you keep letting me take care of you." He groaned, his thrusts turning sporadic, "Fuck, and letting me spread those legs and ruin this pussy. Please, baby..."
You felt your body tighten around the pleasure, the buildup from your first orgasm to your second feeling ten times more intense. And being pinned down underneath him while he whispered dirty words and promises of love only added to the pleasure as it hit you. You screamed his name so loud he was forced to put a hand over your mouth so the whole apartment wouldn't hear. He didn't last much longer either, his mumbles turning to whimpers of your name as he thrust through his orgasm.
You were both left with ragged breaths and sweaty skin after, letting out quiet laughs as your kisses turned lazy and sweet rather than rough. He ran his hands up and down your sides as you combed yours through his messy hair.
"Are you okay?" You found yourself asking.
He chuckled, "That's my line." Then he slowly began to pull out, watching your reaction as you winced at the soreness. He brought a hand to your hip, rubbing soothing circles into the skin.
You bit your lip, feeling a hint of that worry seep back in as he gave you a once over, "But... are you?"
He met your eyes again, reading you like a book. You watched as it dawned on him what you meant, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, swiping your hair from your cheeks. "I'm not sure I could be better," he pulled back, "I love you. I mean it, I'm not going anywhere."
You sighed, any last bits of tension seeping from your muscles, "I love you too."
He smiled, standing and scooping you up into his arms once more. You squealed again, securing your arms around his neck and bringing your lips to his for one last peck. He then buried his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent as he walked towards the bathroom.
"What are we doing?" You rested your head on his shoulder as you let him take you wherever he pleased.
"Taking care of you," he said simply, "You barely ate at dinner. So, I'm gonna get you cleaned up, then we'll eat something."
You hummed, and for once didn't worry about the where, or why, or how of it all. You let him take the lead, knowing he had you. You were safe. You were loved.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
note: this might have felt a little daydreamy... and that's because it really was just me daydreaming about actually finding a competent man. As a hyper-independent, anxious girly, I won't be putting bets on it. But I sure can dream about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. :)
Please remember to repost and support your creators!
I so badly want to write a “fuck or die” fic that doesn’t end in them being flustered sappy lovebirds
I want a fuck or die where one party came out of it with the hardest sub drop known to man, inconsolable and just wants anything but to be touched by the other, even long after the fog clears.
The other of course feeling responsible for letting it get so bad and for hurting their less-than-consenting partner. Enormous guilt when they discover, no matter how bad they feel, they still can only get off by imagining their tear-stained, blissed out, and mortified face asking them if it’s over yet.
Summary: It doesn't matter how Clark's love feels, it won't fix you.
Word count: 8k+
Warnings: angst, insecurities, based on the Olivia Rodrigo song
A/N:
hey guys!! don’t worry, part 2 of hula hoop is still coming <3 but I really wanted to post this fic because I genuinely think it was illegal for olivia rodrigo to release the cure??? The song is devastatingly beautiful. The second I heard it, i knew I wanted to write a fic about it.
This fic is really special to me and definitely one of the more emotional things i’ve written, so I really hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :( xxx
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The first time Clark kissed you, you cried afterward.
Not because it was bad. God, it was the opposite.
It happened in the kitchen of your apartment at two in the morning while rain hammered against the fire escape outside your window hard enough to rattle the metal. Your apartment smelled faintly like rain-damp laundry, and the tea Clark had insisted on making, even though both mugs now sat forgotten on the counter, steam long gone cold.
You wore one of his sweaters over sleep shorts, the sleeves hanging past your hands because Clark liked tugging them over your fingers absentmindedly when he talked to you. His glasses sat crooked beside the sink where he'd abandoned them while drying dishes, and without them he looked softer somehow. Less like the sharp-featured reporter from the Daily Planet and more like the man underneath all of it.
There had been music playing quietly from your phone somewhere in the living room, something low and old crackling through bad speakers. Clark had been talking about work, about Perry assigning him some impossible article, but you hadn't really been listening anymore because he kept looking at your mouth between sentences like he was trying not to.
That nervousness in him undid you.
Clark Kent, who could stop planes from falling out of the sky, looked terrified of kissing you wrong.
You leaned against the counter while he stood too close in your tiny kitchen, broad shoulders nearly blocking out the overhead light. He smelled like clean laundry and rainwater and something warm you could never fully name. Home, maybe. Safety. Whatever it was, it made your chest ache.
“You're staring,” you murmured.
A flush crept slowly up his throat, visible even in the dim light. “Sorry.”
“You don't sound sorry.”
His mouth twitched slightly. “Guess I'm not.”
You should have looked away then. You knew you should have. Moments like this always became dangerous eventually. Intimacy always carried the possibility of disappointment behind it, and disappointment had teeth.
But Clark looked at you like you were something worth being careful with.
That was your first mistake.
His hand lifted slowly, hesitant enough to give you time to move if you wanted to. When his fingers finally touched your jaw, warmth spread through you so quickly it almost frightened you. He held your face like he thought too much pressure might crack you apart, which was ironic considering he could probably shatter concrete without trying.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.
Not cocky. Not assuming.
You nodded before he even finished speaking, and Clark kissed you like he was trying to convince you of something.
Not with urgency. Not greedily. There was no performance in it, none of the practiced confidence you'd grown used to from other men. He kissed you with unbearable sincerity, like he was offering you every gentle thing inside himself all at once.
The hand on your jaw trembled slightly.
That nearly destroyed you.
Because nobody that powerful should have been nervous around you.
You kissed him back harder than you meant to, almost desperately. Your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt as if your body already knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet. Clark made this small sound against your mouth, startled and soft, and then his other hand slid carefully to your waist.
For one suspended, impossible second, your brain went quiet.
No comparisons. No inventory list of everything you wished you could carve away from yourself. No remembering every prettier woman you'd passed on the street that day or imagining all the girls Clark could have wanted instead.
Just him. Just the warmth of his mouth against yours and the slow drag of his thumb against your waist through the sweater, just relief so overwhelming it felt almost holy.
It hit you all at once then, sudden and devastating.
Oh.
This was what people meant, this unbearable quiet.
You felt it so strongly your eyes burned instantly.
Clark kissed you deeper, slow and careful, and your chest ached with terrible, desperate hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the thing you'd been waiting for your entire life. Maybe love really could reach into all the ruined places inside a person and pull them whole again.
You had spent years believing that.
And the second he pulled away, your chest cracked open with grief so sudden it embarrassed you.
The silence inside your head vanished all at once, replaced by something sharp behind your eyes.
Clark noticed immediately, of course he did.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You turned your face quickly before the tears could fully spill over, wiping beneath your eye with the sleeve of his sweater. “Sorry.”
Your laugh came out weak and embarrassed.
Clark's expression shifted instantly, concern softening every feature. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” you answered too fast.
“Was it too much?”
The nervousness in his voice made guilt twist painfully in your chest. He looked genuinely worried he'd crossed a line somehow, his hand slipping from your waist slowly like he wasn't sure if he should still be touching you.
“No, Clark.” You shook your head quickly. “God, no.”
“Then why are you crying?”
You swallowed hard.
Because how were you supposed to explain that the kiss had felt too good somehow? That your emotions suddenly sat too close to the surface to hold back properly?
So instead, you lied.
“I think I'm just overwhelmed,” you said quietly, staring down at your hands. “I've been waiting for this for a long time.”
Clark's entire face softened at that.
Relief flickered visibly across his expression.
“Oh.”
You nodded quickly, forcing out another shaky laugh. “It's stupid.”
“It isn't stupid.”
His voice dropped softer then, warmer somehow, and before you could say anything else Clark stepped closer again carefully, like he was still trying to make sure this was okay.
“You scared me for a second,” he admitted.
The confession was so earnest it made your chest ache.
“Sorry,” you whispered again.
Clark frowned immediately. “Stop apologizing.”
Then he smiled a little, nervous and sweet in that way only he could manage, and brushed his thumb lightly beneath your eye where your tears had escaped.
“You know,” he murmured, “for the record, I've been waiting for this too.”
And somehow that made your throat tighten even more.
When you were younger, love looked medicinal.
Not literally, of course. Nobody ever sat you down and said one day another person will save you from yourself. It was quieter than that. Hidden inside every movie you watched late at night and every song you replayed until the lyrics hollowed something out inside you.
Love was always presented as transformation. The lonely girl became radiant. The insecure girl became chosen. The moment somebody looked at her with enough devotion, all the sharp little insecurities evaporated like they had never existed at all.
Every story seemed to promise the same thing in different packaging: you will be wanted, and then you will finally become whole.
You absorbed that message young enough for it to root deep.
You remember being fourteen and standing sideways in front of your bathroom mirror, sucking in your stomach until your ribs hurt because girls in magazines looked effortless, and you already understood somehow that effortlessness was the closest thing women were allowed to perfection. You remember tilting your chin different ways, pulling at your clothes, analyzing every inch of yourself with the detached cruelty of someone grading an exam.
Too soft here. Too awkward there. Not pretty in the right way.
You spent years believing there was a correct version of femininity everyone else had received instructions for except you.
At school, pretty girls moved through the world differently. People softened around them automatically. Conversations bent toward them like gravity. They laughed without covering their mouths afterward, existed without apologizing first, and you wanted that ease so badly it made your chest ache.
Instead, you became observant. Funny. Self aware in the exhausting way insecure people often are.
You learned how to laugh before anyone else could laugh first. Learned how to make yourself agreeable and easy to keep around. You became skilled at reading rooms within seconds of entering them, instinctively figuring out who needed you quieter, prettier, smarter, less emotional.
Smaller.
And underneath all of it lived jealousy so intense it frightened you sometimes. Not loud jealousy, but silent jealousy. The kind that sat in your stomach like swallowed poison while you smiled through it politely.
You would see a beautiful girl beside someone you liked and immediately begin dissecting yourself against her without even meaning to.
Her skin is clearer. Her waist is smaller. She doesn't look nervous all the time.
You could ruin entire days that way.
Then dating started, and everything got worse.
Because suddenly there were histories attached to people. Other girls who existed before you. You approached relationships like someone preparing for inevitable disappointment, every question feeling like gathering evidence before a trial.
How many exes have you had?
Have you ever been in love before?
How many girls have you slept with?
You always forced yourself to sound relaxed asking it, like the answers wouldn't matter. Then afterward you'd lie awake replaying every detail they gave you voluntarily and inventing dozens more they didn't.
Sometimes you'd stalk social media until three in the morning searching for faces you could attach to names. Then you'd compare yourself against carefully curated photos until your stomach hurt.
It became ritualistic in a horrible way. You'd spiral. You'd cry. You'd hate yourself for caring so much.
Then you'd do it again anyway.
The worst part wasn't even the jealousy. It was how humiliating love made you feel afterward. The neediness. The panic. The unbearable desire to be chosen permanently in a world where nothing actually stayed permanent.
You hated how quickly affection turned into fear inside your chest. Hated that one delayed text could unravel your entire evening. You wanted love desperately, but you resented what wanting it turned you into.
Then Clark arrived and complicated everything.
Not because he was Superman, though discovering the quiet reporter you'd started falling for could hear heartbeats from buildings away certainly rearranged your understanding of reality for a while.
No, Clark terrified you because of how gently he loved.
There was nothing calculated about him. No games. No strategic withholding. Clark cared openly, almost recklessly, like affection was the easiest thing in the world for him to give.
Most men you'd dated made you feel auditioned, even the good ones. There was always some underlying sense that attraction was conditional, that you were being evaluated against every other woman in the room.
But Clark looked at you with this steady certainty that made your chest tight. Like he wasn't searching for flaws. Like he had simply seen you and decided that was enough.
You didn't know what to do with that kind of acceptance.
The first few months of knowing him, you kept waiting for the illusion to crack. Waiting for him to notice something disappointing about you and pull away slightly afterward. You expected affection to fluctuate because every other version of love you'd encountered had.
But Clark remained painfully consistent.
He remembered things you mentioned once in passing. He brought you coffee exactly the way you liked it after memorizing your order accidentally. He texted you when he got home safe without being asked. When you spoke, he listened with his full attention instead of scanning the room over your shoulder for someone more interesting.
And maybe none of those things sound extraordinary.
But to someone who had spent years feeling fundamentally replaceable, they were.
Clark made you feel seen in a way that bordered on unbearable.
Because part of you still believed love had to be earned constantly through beauty, usefulness, perfection, or whatever version of yourself seemed easiest for other people to keep.
And Clark loved you before you had proven any of those things.
That should have healed something.
Instead, it exposed every wound more clearly.
Because if someone like Clark could love you this sincerely and you still hated yourself afterward, then maybe the problem had never been a lack of love at all.
You met him at the Daily Planet on a Thursday afternoon that already felt cursed.
The air conditioning on your floor had broken sometime before noon, leaving the newsroom sticky with late summer heat and irritation. Phones rang endlessly from every direction. Someone in politics was arguing loud enough to be heard across the bullpen. Perry had shouted your name three separate times in the span of an hour, and by three o'clock you were surviving entirely on bad coffee and spite.
You were halfway through rewriting a headline when Lois appeared beside your desk like a hurricane in heels.
“You look terrible,” she informed you casually.
You didn't glance up from your computer. “And you look intrusive.”
“Good. Keep that energy.” She dropped a folder onto your keyboard before you could stop her. “I brought you something.”
“Unless it's a winning lottery ticket or hard liquor, I don't want it.”
Lois grinned, sharp and dangerous in the way only Lois Lane could manage. “Perfect. You two already sound married.”
You frowned and finally looked up.
That was when you saw him standing awkwardly a few feet behind her.
Tall. Broad shouldered. Wearing a button down rolled messily at the sleeves like he'd tried to look professional halfway and given up afterward. His tie sat slightly crooked beneath the collar, glasses slipping down his nose just enough to make him push them back up every few seconds.
Clark looked painfully out of place against the chaos of the newsroom. Like someone had taken a small town librarian and accidentally dropped him into the middle of Metropolis.
“This,” Lois announced with immense satisfaction, “is Clark Kent. Small town farm boy. Be nice to him.”
Clark immediately looked embarrassed. “Lois.”
“What?” she said innocently. “It's accurate.”
You expected him to laugh it off smoothly.
Most men did.
Instead, Clark glanced at you with visible nervousness, like he genuinely cared whether or not you liked him already.
“Hi,” he said, offering a hand. “Clark Kent.”
His voice surprised you. Warm. Deep. Softer than someone his size should've sounded.
You shook his hand automatically and immediately noticed how careful he was. Most people shook hands absentmindedly. Clark held yours like he was worried about gripping too hard, despite the fact that you were not made of glass.
“Nice to meet you,” you said.
Clark smiled then.
And God.
He was beautiful. Not movie star beautiful, not the polished kind of attractive that made heads turn instantly when someone entered a room. Clark's beauty unfolded slower than that. It crept up on you quietly until suddenly you realized you'd been staring at him for too long.
He looked warm. Open. Like sunlight through curtains early in the morning.
There was something deeply unguarded about him that threw you off balance immediately. Most people in Metropolis wore layers. Professionalism. Charm. Calculation. Everyone at the Planet sharpened themselves into something harder just to survive the pace of the city.
Clark still looked soft around the edges.
Sincere in a way that almost seemed outdated.
You remember thinking, very suddenly and very clearly, 'This man is going to ruin my life.'
Not because he was intimidating, because he wasn't.
That was the problem.
Men like Clark always ruined you the worst. The gentle ones. The ones who listened too carefully and smiled too softly and made you feel safe enough to lower your guard before they left carrying pieces of you with them.
It was never the cruel men who did the most damage. Cruelty at least prepared you for impact. But kind men convinced you to trust them first.
Then they became irreplaceable.
Clark settled into your life slowly after that.
At first he was just another reporter weaving through the chaos of the newsroom, apologizing too much when he bumped into desks and always looking faintly overwhelmed by Lois' existence. You'd catch glimpses of him throughout the day — bent over notes, arguing quietly with Perry, carrying six coffees because apparently he knew everyone's orders within a week.
And he looked at people when they spoke.
Really looked at them.
Most conversations in the newsroom happened while typing emails or scanning headlines or mentally preparing responses before the other person finished talking. Everyone was moving too fast to fully pay attention.
Clark paid attention completely.
The first real conversation you had with him happened after midnight during a stormy deadline shift. Half the office had gone home already, leaving the bullpen dim and exhausted. You were rubbing at your eyes trying to finish edits before Perry lost his mind when Clark appeared beside your desk holding two vending machine coffees.
“I think this legally qualifies as motor oil,” he said, setting one beside you. “But it's warm.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me all week.”
His smile appeared slow and shy, like he wasn't used to making people laugh on purpose.
“You've been here since six this morning,” he said. “Figured you could use it.”
The comment startled you.
Not because it was invasive, because he'd noticed.
“You keeping tabs on me, Kent?”
A faint flush climbed his cheeks instantly. “No. I just... notice things.”
And there it was again.
That sincerity.
After that, Clark became impossible to keep at a distance.
He remembered things casually, effortlessly, in ways that made your chest ache without permission. If you mentioned liking a certain pastry once, he'd bring it the next week because he “happened to pass the bakery.” If you complained about insomnia, he'd text you ridiculous articles about sleep habits at two in the morning because apparently he was awake too.
You started expecting him without meaning to. Expecting the warmth of his voice drifting over your cubicle walls. Expecting him beside your desk asking if you'd eaten lunch yet because somehow he'd noticed you skipped it again.
One afternoon you muttered absentmindedly that your favorite pen had run out of ink.
The next morning there was an identical pack sitting on your desk.
No note. Just Clark shrugging awkwardly when you confronted him about it.
“You sounded upset,” he said simply.
The terrifying part wasn't grand gestures.
It was the consistency.
Clark cared in steady, unremarkable ways that slowly became devastating.
Even after you started dating, even after discovering he was Superman and spending several weeks mentally unraveling over that information specifically, he remained impossibly attentive.
He texted you after interviews. After late shifts. After nights out with friends.
Made it home safe?
That was it sometimes.
Four words.
But nobody had ever checked for you so consistently before.
There were nights he'd disappear suddenly in the middle of dinner because somewhere across the city a building was collapsing or someone screamed for help loud enough for only him to hear. Then hours later you'd receive a text at three in the morning.
Sorry. You asleep?
Did you remember to eat?
It made no sense. This man could be stopping disasters halfway across the planet and still remembered tiny details about you.
Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. Not staring. Something quieter than that. Like there was an ache inside him he didn't know what to do with.
You'd be talking about something completely meaningless — office gossip, bad takeout, a movie you hated — and Clark would watch you with this soft, almost wounded affection that made your chest feel too small for your ribs.
Like he couldn't believe you were real.
And slowly, horribly, you began to hope.
Not all at once. Hope arrived carefully, in pieces. In the way your body relaxed around him without permission. In the way silence stopped feeling dangerous when you were together. In the way you started believing him every time he called you beautiful, even if only for a few seconds before doubt returned.
You hated that hope most of all.
Because hope meant vulnerability. Hope meant believing this time might be different.
And deep down, beneath all the fear and jealousy and poison you'd carried for years, a small desperate part of you started whispering something terrifying every time Clark touched you gently enough to make your throat ache:
Maybe this was it.
Maybe this was finally the antidote.
One night, months into the relationship, you sat cross legged on Clark's couch while he cooked dinner behind you.
It was late autumn by then. Cold enough outside that the windows fogged faintly around the edges, the city glowing soft and blurred beyond the glass. Clark had left one of his sweaters draped over your shoulders the second you walked through the door because apparently your hands were “always freezing,” and now the sleeves swallowed your fingers while you scrolled absentmindedly through your phone.
His apartment smelled like garlic and tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Warm and comforting, the kind of smell people associated with home.
The television murmured quietly in the background, some black and white movie Clark loved because his parents used to watch it when he was little. You weren't paying attention to the plot, only the rhythm of it. The low static hum of old film. The occasional burst of orchestral music. Clark humming softly under his breath while he stirred the sauce.
It was domestic and safe, the kind of moment people wrote vows about.
That thought hit you strangely hard.
Because this was the sort of life you'd imagined wanting when you were younger. Not glamorous. Not dramatic. Just this. Someone moving comfortably around a kitchen while you existed together in easy silence.
Clark looked over his shoulder toward you then, wooden spoon still in hand.
“You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Because I was starving twenty minutes ago too.”
A smile tugged at his mouth.
God, even that smile hurt now.
Not in a bad way. In the way beautiful things sometimes did when you loved them too much.
You watched him move around the kitchen for a moment longer. The sleeves of his gray henley pushed to his elbows. His glasses slipping down his nose while he cooked. The quiet ease in his posture now that he was home with you instead of carrying the weight of the world somewhere on his back.
Clark in private still stunned you sometimes.
Superman belonged to everyone; Clark Kent belonged only to you.
Then Clark's phone buzzed on the coffee table.
You glanced down automatically, thinking it was a text message, and felt your stomach drop almost instantly.
A girl from Clark's college years had followed him on Instagram.
You knew that because her profile included the university initials, and because her picture was beautiful enough to make something sour twist beneath your ribs before you even clicked it.
You should've ignored it.
Instead your thumb moved anyway.
The first photo loaded, and she was pretty.
Of course.
Not intimidatingly glamorous. Worse than that. Effortlessly pretty. The kind of beauty that looked untouched and easy. Soft brown eyes. Tiny waist. Bright smile that didn't seem practiced at all.
You clicked the next photo.
Then another.
And another.
A sickness bloomed slowly beneath your skin because now your brain had something to work with.
A real face. A real woman who had existed in Clark's life before you.
You imagined them younger. Meeting in college hallways. Sitting too close together at parties. Her laughing at something he said while touching his arm casually like beautiful girls always seemed to do without fear.
Had he loved her?
Had he looked at her the way he looked at you now?
Had she ever stood in this kitchen?
You hated how quickly your thoughts spiraled.
Nothing had even happened. A follow request, that was all.
But your body reacted like betrayal had already entered the room.
Your chest tightened painfully. Heat crawled up your throat. You kept scrolling even while nausea spread hot beneath your ribs because some ugly part of you needed to know exactly what kind of woman Clark had once wanted.
Every photo became evidence against yourself.
Her legs are thinner than yours.
She looks easy to love.
She probably doesn't overthink every little thing.
Clark noticed the shift immediately.
Of course he did.
“You okay?”
His voice came from behind you, gentle and immediate.
You locked your phone too quickly. “Fine.”
The answer came automatic, almost too fast.
You heard the stove click off behind you almost instantly.
Silence settled over the apartment except for the television murmuring softly in the background.
“Hey.”
You looked up to find him watching you carefully from the kitchen doorway. Concern already written across his face. He wiped his hands absentmindedly on a dish towel before crossing toward the couch.
“Talk to me.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undid you on the spot.
You hated that sometimes. Hated how quickly tenderness made tears burn behind your eyes these days. It felt embarrassing, how fragile you became whenever he handled you gently.
“I just...” You laughed shakily. “God, this is stupid.”
Clark's brow furrowed immediately.
“It isn't stupid if it's hurting you.”
There it was again. That awful, beautiful softness. Like your pain mattered to him even when it made no logical sense.
Clark crouched in front of the couch slowly, close enough for your knees to brush his chest. His expression stayed open and patient, waiting instead of pushing.
You stared down at your locked phone in your lap.
Then whispered, “Do you ever compare me to other girls? I don't know, like girls you know, girls you dated before me, girls you see walking on the street. Do you?”
The question sat between you for a second too long.
Clark's face softened immediately, something sad flickering across his expression. Not annoyance. Not frustration. Just the quiet hurt of hearing someone he loved talk about themselves that way.
“No,” he said softly.
You looked away first.
“But you've loved people before.”
“I cared about people before,” he corrected gently.
The distinction should've comforted you. Instead it made your throat tighter.
“Sometimes I think about everyone you've ever been with before me and I feel physically sick.”
Clark went very still.
The television laughed faintly in the background at some joke neither of you heard.
Silence stretched between you then, but not the dangerous kind. Not irritated silence. Sad silence. The kind that came from watching someone you loved hurt themselves in real time and not knowing how to stop it.
Clark reached for your hands carefully enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted.
You didn't.
His palms were warm around yours, steady.
“Listen to me,” he said quietly. “I don't want anyone else.”
“But that's not the point.” Your voice cracked unexpectedly on the last word.
Because suddenly this wasn't really about the girl on Instagram anymore.
It was about the ugly thing underneath all of it. The constant, gnawing belief that eventually everyone would realize you were harder to love than they first thought.
That one day Clark would wake up and see you clearly. Really clearly. All the insecurity and jealousy and fear curled underneath your skin. All the exhausting ways you constantly needed reassurance while simultaneously distrusting it.
And once he saw it fully, he'd leave too.
Maybe not cruelly.
Maybe sadly.
But he'd leave.
Because people always did eventually.
Clark searched your face carefully like he was trying to read thoughts you couldn't say aloud.
“What is the point? Please tell me.”
And there it was.
The impossible question.
You stared at him, devastated suddenly by how badly you wanted him to answer it for you.
Fix me.
Please.
Tell me why I feel this way all the time.
Tell me how to stop measuring myself against every woman who walks into a room.
Tell me how to believe you when you say you love me.
Tell me why being loved still feels terrifying instead of safe.
Clark waited patiently while tears gathered in your eyes again.
“I thought...” Your voice trembled badly. “I thought being loved would make me feel different.”
The words landed heavily between you.
Clark looked heartbroken.
Not defensive. Not frustrated. Just devastated in this quiet, aching way, like he'd finally realized how much grief you'd been carrying silently the entire time he'd known you.
“Baby,” he said softly, “you think I don't see how hard you are on yourself?”
That did it.
You started crying fully then.
Because the worst part was that he did see it. Every flinch in front of mirrors. Every shift in your mood after seeing prettier women nearby. Every self deprecating joke disguised as humor.
He saw every ugly little fracture inside you and loved you anyway.
That should have healed something. Instead, it made the grief sharper.
Because now there was proof. Proof that even being loved completely and wholeheartedly still didn't silence the ache inside you.
And that realization terrified you more than loneliness ever had.
Clark moved immediately, sitting beside you on the couch and pulling you into him before you could apologize for crying.
You folded against his chest instinctively.
His arms wrapped around you carefully, one hand moving slowly up and down your spine while the other cradled the back of your head against his shoulder. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and warm and painfully human despite everything extraordinary about him.
“I've got you,” he murmured softly.
The words nearly broke you apart.
Because he meant them, completely.
“You don't have to earn love,” he whispered into your hair after a long silence.
Your eyes squeezed shut.
Because logically, rationally, you knew he was right. You knew people weren't meant to perform perfect versions of themselves just to deserve softness from others. Clark had spent months trying to show you that through every small, steady act of care he gave so naturally.
But somewhere deep inside you, underneath all the warmth of his body against yours and the comfort of being held, another voice still lingered quietly.
Small.
Persistent.
Cruel.
Then why doesn't it feel like enough?
Loving Clark felt like standing in sunlight with frostbite.
Warmth reached you, it did. That was what made it so confusing sometimes. Because Clark loved you beautifully. Consistently. There was never any shortage of tenderness between you, never any question about whether or not he cared.
And yet some parts of you stayed numb anyway.
Some wounds remained untouched by all that warmth no matter how desperately you wanted them healed.
Clark tried so hard.
Sometimes you thought loving you must feel like trying to hold water in his hands. Every time he soothed one hurt, another crack opened somewhere else. Another insecurity. Another spiral. Another night where your own mind turned against you so viciously it left you exhausted.
And Clark met every single one of those moments with gentleness.
That was the unbearable part.
He never mocked your fear or rolled his eyes at the things that sent you spiraling. Even when he clearly didn't fully understand why your mind turned ordinary things into catastrophes, he still handled your feelings carefully, like they deserved compassion instead of ridicule.
Like you deserved compassion instead of ridicule.
There were nights he'd find you sitting on the bathroom floor after staring too long at yourself in the mirror, knees pulled to your chest while shame crawled hot beneath your skin for reasons you couldn't even fully articulate. Clark would crouch in front of you immediately, concern softening his face before you'd spoken a single word.
“Hey,” he'd say quietly. “Talk to me.”
And sometimes you couldn't.
Sometimes there wasn't language for the heaviness sitting inside your ribs. How do you explain to someone that your reflection feels wrong in ways too abstract to name? How do you explain the exhaustion of constantly fighting your own brain just to exist comfortably inside yourself?
Clark never pushed when you couldn't answer. He would just sit beside you on the cold tile floor, broad shoulders pressed against yours, waiting silently until your breathing slowed again.
Once, after a panic attack left you shaking so badly you could barely unclench your hands, Clark sat cross legged on the edge of your bed and held your face between both palms with such impossible care it made fresh tears spill from your eyes.
The room was dark except for the small lamp glowing beside the bed. Your breathing still hurt from crying too hard, too long. Clark had arrived halfway through it, still wearing his glasses and rumpled work clothes, concern written all over his face the second he saw you curled against the headboard struggling to breathe properly.
He hadn't panicked, hadn't overwhelmed you with questions.
He just climbed onto the bed carefully and stayed close until the worst of it passed.
“Look at me,” he whispered gently once your breathing started slowing.
You tried. God, you tried.
But your vision blurred too badly with tears, and shame crawled hot beneath your skin at the thought of him seeing you like this again. Broken open. Unsteady. Too much.
“I can't,” you admitted weakly.
Clark's expression softened immediately. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away tears with a tenderness that almost hurt to endure.
“Yes, you can,” he murmured. “There you are.”
The words lodged somewhere painful inside your chest.
Not 'calm down.'
Not 'get it together.'
Not 'what's wrong with you?'
There you are.
Like he'd been searching for you beneath all the panic and noise. Like he still believed there was a version of you worth finding underneath all the unraveling.
And maybe that was the cruelest part of loving Clark Kent sometimes, the way he looked at you during your worst moments like you were still someone gentle and precious underneath all the damage.
Clark kissed every scar like reverence.
Not literally at first. It was quieter than that.
The scar near your knee from childhood. The stretch marks you once apologized for instinctively before he frowned and asked why you were apologizing at all. The parts of yourself you tried to hide automatically because past experiences had taught you softness was conditional.
Clark handled all of it carefully.
The first time he traced his fingers over the faint scars on your thigh without hesitation, your throat tightened so suddenly you had to look away.
It happened late at night while the two of you lay tangled together beneath his sheets, rain tapping softly against the windows while Clark talked about something you weren't really listening to anymore. Your attention had caught entirely on the gentle drag of his fingertips across skin you'd spent years trying not to think about too hard.
Then his thumb brushed over the scars.
He didn't freeze or pretend not to notice them. He simply touched them with the same tenderness he touched every other part of you.
Your chest tightened instantly.
Because he wasn't recoiling. Wasn't silently evaluating your body piece by piece beneath his hands.
Clark looked at your body like it was simply yours. Human and real and deserving of affection exactly as it was.
And still, somehow, you couldn't fully absorb it.
That disconnect tortured you quietly.
Because you knew how lucky you were. You knew people spent entire lifetimes searching for love this gentle, the kind that remained patient even when confronted with the ugliest parts of someone.
Clark loved you in a way that should have felt healing.
Instead, it often felt heartbreaking.
Not because he failed you. Because every time he held you through another spiral and the spiral still returned eventually, grief settled heavier inside your chest.
You started realizing love and healing were not the same thing.
That realization gutted you.
Sometimes Clark would wake in the middle of the night and find you staring at the ceiling beside him while thoughts churned endlessly inside your head.
“You're thinking too loud again,” he'd mumble sleepily, voice rough with exhaustion.
You'd laugh weakly. “Sorry.”
Clark always hated when you apologized for hurting.
Even half asleep, you could feel him frown.
“C'mere.”
Then he'd pull you against him immediately, large arms wrapping around your body until your back pressed firmly to his chest. Sometimes his hand would settle over your sternum like he was trying to steady the frantic rhythm underneath.
And slowly, eventually, your heartbeat would begin matching his.
Steady.
Clark held you like proximity itself could protect you from your own mind.
And maybe sometimes it helped.
There were moments where the noise inside your head softened enough for relief to slip through. Moments where Clark kissing your temple absentmindedly while half asleep made you feel briefly anchored to something solid.
But eventually the pain always returned.
You would wake the next morning and still feel fragile in your own skin. Still compare yourself against strangers without meaning to. Still flinch at compliments some days because part of you remained convinced love could disappear without warning.
And every time that happened, guilt followed immediately after.
Because Clark was trying so hard.
You'd catch him watching you carefully after another spiral with this quiet devastation in his eyes, like he hated that he couldn't save you from something invisible. Superman could stop earthquakes. Could hold collapsing buildings above his head.
But he couldn't pull the self hatred out of your bloodstream.
And the cruelest part was that some broken, childish part of you still wanted him to.
You kept waiting for the moment his love would finally outweigh your fear. For the day you'd look in the mirror and hear his voice louder than your own cruelty.
But healing didn't work like that.
Love didn't either.
That realization came slowly and painfully. It lived in the quiet moments after comfort faded. In the mornings where Clark kissed your forehead before work and you still spent twenty minutes criticizing yourself in the bathroom mirror afterward.
Clark's affection was real. Powerful, even.
There were parts of you that survived entirely because he'd loved them gently instead of harshly. Loving Clark changed you in undeniable ways. It made the world feel safer. Made tenderness feel possible again.
But it was not a cure.
His love could hold you while you unraveled, but it could not stop the unraveling itself.
And maybe that was the hardest truth of all.
Not that Clark failed to save you.
But that he was never supposed to.
The fight happened in winter.
It wasn't explosive or cruel, which somehow made it worse.
There was no screaming. No slammed doors. No sharp words designed to wound on purpose. If anything, the entire thing unfolded too softly, like watching something precious crack in slow motion while neither of you knew how to stop it.
The work gala had been sitting on your calendar for weeks. Some charity event hosted high above the city in a building full of people who looked expensive even standing still. Lois had been excited for it. You had been dreading it quietly since the invitation arrived.
By the time the night finally came, your anxiety already sat heavy beneath your ribs before you'd even started getting ready.
The apartment bathroom glowed warm with yellow light while snow drifted past the windows outside. Makeup products cluttered the counter beside half empty glasses of water and abandoned earrings you'd decided you hated the second you put them on. Three dresses lay discarded across the bedroom behind you like evidence from some humiliating crime scene.
Nothing fit right.
Or maybe it fit fine and your brain simply refused to let you see it correctly anymore.
The black dress pinched too tightly around your waist.
The blue one made your shoulders look broad.
The silk one clung wrong at the stomach.
Every angle in the mirror felt unbearable.
You stood there twisting sideways beneath the bathroom light, arms wrapped around yourself while shame crawled hot and vicious through your chest. The longer you stared, the less recognizable your reflection became. Every insecurity sharpened under scrutiny until it felt impossible to imagine leaving the apartment at all.
Outside the bathroom door, Clark moved quietly through the bedroom gathering his wallet and watch, the soft sounds of hangers shifting and drawers opening carrying faintly through the apartment.
“We're gonna be late,” he called gently.
Not irritated. Never irritated. Even now, with the evening slipping away while you stood frozen in front of the mirror fighting yourself, his voice stayed patient and warm.
You squeezed your eyes shut briefly. “I know.”
There was a small pause before he spoke again, softer this time, closer to the door like he'd started making his way toward you.
“You look beautiful.”
The compliment hit something raw inside your chest.
Your laugh came out brittle before you could stop it. “You don't have to say that.”
Silence answered immediately.
Heavy silence.
The kind that made your stomach sink because you knew, instantly, you'd hurt him.
Clark stepped inside the bathroom carefully, like approaching a wounded animal that might bolt if startled too quickly. He'd already changed into his suit, dark tie loosened slightly at the collar while snowlight filtered pale through the bedroom windows behind him.
God.
Even then, part of you noticed how beautiful he was.
Not intimidatingly beautiful, just unfairly kind looking.
Clark took in the scene immediately. The dresses scattered across the room. Your mascara beginning to smudge beneath your eyes. The way your arms folded tightly around your middle like you were trying to physically hold yourself together.
Concern softened his face instantly.
“You've been in here almost an hour,” he said quietly.
You looked away from the mirror first. “I can't find anything that looks right.”
Clark frowned slightly, confused in that earnest way he always became when confronted with pain he couldn't logic through.
“You've changed three times,” he said gently. “You looked beautiful in every dress.”
Your throat tightened immediately.
Because he meant it.
That was the problem.
Clark wasn't saying it automatically or carelessly. He wasn't throwing compliments at you just to end the conversation faster. He genuinely looked confused standing there in the bathroom doorway, like he couldn't understand why you were seeing something so completely different in the mirror than what he saw standing in front of you.
“I don't understand why you can't just believe me.”
The words were quiet. Careful. Not accusatory in the slightest, but they still split something open inside your chest.
Because there was hurt in them too.
Not anger.
Just the soft, exhausted sadness of someone trying desperately to hand you love in a language you still didn't know how to accept.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror, at the tears gathering humiliatingly fast in your eyes, and suddenly anger flared sharp beneath all the shame.
Not at him.
Never at him.
At yourself. At the exhaustion of carrying this feeling everywhere you went. At how impossible it seemed to escape your own mind no matter how deeply Clark loved you, no matter how gently he held you, no matter how many times he looked at you like you were something worth cherishing.
Something inside you snapped.
“Because you love me.”
The words came out harsher than you intended, echoing off the bathroom tiles in the silence between you.
Clark blinked, visibly thrown by the sudden sharpness in your voice. “Yeah,” he said slowly.
You laughed once under your breath, bitter and shaky all at once. “So of course you don't see me clearly.”
The second the sentence left your mouth, regret crashed into you.
You watched the pain cross his face in real time.
Not offense. Not anger.
Pain.
Real, quiet pain that softened his expression instantly, like you'd reached into his chest and pressed against something bruised there. Clark stared at you for a long second without speaking, and somehow that hurt worse than if he'd snapped back. He looked at you like you'd just reduced his love to something naive. Like you'd taken something honest and beautiful he'd been trying to offer you and called it blindness instead. Like you'd struck something tender directly with your bare hands.
“Is that what you think love is?” he asked softly. “Blindness?”
You opened your mouth, and closed it again.
Because maybe it was.
Maybe some part of you truly believed love required delusion to survive. Maybe you thought people only stayed because affection distorted reality enough to make flaws tolerable.
Otherwise, why would anyone stay at all?
The silence stretched painfully between you.
Clark stepped closer slowly.
Snow drifted quietly outside the windows behind him while the radiator hissed softly in the apartment, filling the room with warmth that somehow never reached your skin.
“I know what you look like,” he said carefully.
You shook your head immediately. “Clark...”
“No.” His voice stayed gentle, but steadier now. “Listen to me.”
He moved closer until he stood directly behind you in the mirror.
Not trapping.
Just there.
Grounding.
“I know every version of you,” he continued quietly. “I know when you're insecure before you even say anything. I know when you're pretending you're okay because your left eye starts twitching when you're anxious.” A sad smile flickered briefly across his face. “I know you leave cabinet doors open. I know you steal my shirts even though you claim you don't. I know you cry when dogs get hurt in movies and pretend it's allergies afterward.”
Your chest hurt.
Clark's voice softened further.
“I know you.”
The words landed heavily.
Completely.
“And I still love you.”
His voice wavered slightly on the last part.
That nearly destroyed you.
Because there it was again. The unbearable truth of him. Clark wasn't loving some idealized fantasy version of you. He saw the mess. The insecurity. The spiraling thoughts and sharp edges and ugly fears.
And he loved you anyway.
Tears blurred your vision instantly.
“But why doesn't that fix me?” you whispered.
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Raw.
Ugly.
Honest in a way that made your stomach twist afterward.
Why wasn't his love enough?
Why did you still stand in mirrors feeling fundamentally wrong even after being loved this deeply? Why did panic still crawl through your bloodstream at parties full of prettier women? Why did reassurance dissolve so quickly inside you no matter how sincerely he offered it?
Why could Superman hold collapsing buildings together with his bare hands but not the inside of your chest?
Clark looked devastated.
Not because you'd insulted him, and not because he was angry. It was worse than that. You watched understanding settle over his face slowly, painfully, like he was finally seeing the full shape of something that had been hurting right in front of him this entire time.
The problem had never been that he wasn't loving you enough.
The problem was that somewhere along the way, you'd started expecting love itself to save you. To reach into years of fear and insecurity and self hatred and somehow cut them out cleanly. Like being loved deeply enough would finally silence every ugly thing you believed about yourself.
And Clark, for all his strength, could not survive carrying that responsibility forever.
He reached toward you slowly then, hands careful and uncertain in a way that made your chest ache. Like your heart had become something fragile in his hands, something he was terrified of hurting further.
“This isn't something I can save you from.”
The words shattered something inside you.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were true.
You felt the truth of them immediately, sinking heavy into your ribs with devastating clarity. Clark could hold you through every panic attack. Could kiss every scar on your body gently enough to make you cry. Could love you with terrifying sincerity for the rest of your life.
But he could not heal wounds he didn't create.
Your knees gave out before you fully realized you were crying.
You slid down against the bathroom wall hard enough for the tile to sting through the thin fabric of your dress, sobs tearing out of your chest so violently it hurt to breathe. Everything inside you felt split open. Years of impossible hope collapsing all at once under the weight of reality.
Clark followed you down immediately.
Suit forgotten. Gala forgotten. Everything forgotten except you.
He knelt in front of you on the cold bathroom floor, both hands reaching for your face while tears blurred your vision so badly you could barely see him.
“Hey,” he whispered urgently. “Hey, look at me.”
You couldn't.
Everything hurt too badly.
“You're your own hero in this story, baby,” he murmured shakily, pressing his forehead against yours. “But I don't want to lose you to this.”
The words cracked something open inside you all over again.
Because Clark sounded scared.
Not exhausted. Not resentful.
Scared.
Like he was watching someone he loved drown right in front of him while knowing he couldn't jump into the water and breathe for them.
“You won't,” you whispered automatically.
But even to your own ears, the words sounded uncertain.
Because for the first time, truly, you were beginning to understand how exhausting it must be to love someone who kept asking for proof love could resurrect them.
Clark closed his eyes briefly, his breath uneven against your skin before he spoke again.
“I'll stay,” he said quietly. “But you have to stop asking me to heal something I didn't break.”
That one hurt the most.
Not because it was harsh.
Because he was right.
Love would hold you. Comfort you. Change you in small, tender ways over time. But it would never become the cure you spent your whole life searching for, and somewhere beneath all the grief pouring out of you on that bathroom floor, you finally understood that.
Well, have you ever had a writer pull every single thought and insecurity and self doubt you’ve ever experienced and pull it straight from the depths of your soul, write it into a devastatingly beautiful fic that leaves you crying at your desk all before lunch? I have. And oh my god I may never recover genuinely, sending so much love to you, OP. This was gutting.
Warnings: Mild Violence. Maybe I'll add more in the future.
Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.
Word Count: 4.2k
note: This is a silly time-travel story written purely for entertainment and to get out of my author's block. I won't be diving into complex timeline theories here. Let's not overthink the logistics and just enjoy the ride(?)
The tournament grounds were quieter now.
The crowd that had packed the stands since dawn -merchants, nobility, smallfolk who'd bartered half a week's wages for a decent vantage point- had dissolved into the taverns and banquet halls of the city, chasing warm ale and the joy of retelling someone else's violence over a good meal.
The field itself was a ruin of churned mud and discarded favor ribbons, the occasional lost boot. Someone's gauntlet, bended and forgotten near a fence post. The detritus of spectacle.
Sir James Buchanan Barnes walked through it like a man who wanted very much to be somewhere else.
He was limping. A gift from the third bout, when Sir Aldric Thornwall had gotten a lucky angle with his shield and introduced it firmly to Bucky's ribs.
The impact had knocked the air from his lungs with an audible crack that he'd felt more than heard. He'd finished the match anyway. He'd finished all of them. He'd placed second, which in any reasonable accounting of the day should have felt like something.
It didn't feel like much of anything.
Just the persistent throb beneath his ribs with every breath. Just the weight of mail he hadn't bothered to shed yet, still bearing the afternoon's sweat and dust.
The banquet, he thought, scowling.
Lord Castellan Morrow had made it clear, through three separate messengers, that his presence was expected at the celebration feast. That the competitors were guests of honor. That it would reflect poorly on a man of his standing to absent himself.
Bucky's standing, such as it was, had survived worse reflections.
So he just kept walking.
The city proper closed around him as he left the tournament grounds. Cobblestones replacing mud, the noise changing from open-air echo to the compressed warmth of torchlit streets.
Wintermouth at night had a specific smell: woodsmoke and river damp. He knew these streets well enough to navigate them half-asleep, which was approximately his current condition.
A pair of knights from the eastern circuit fell into step beside him for a while, their breath wine-sweet and celebratory, clapping him on the shoulder with the camaraderie of men who hadn't taken a shield to the ribs. He felt the impact reverberate down through the bruise, sharp enough that his vision whited at the edges.
"Hell of a final bout, Barnes."
"Could've taken him," the other offered generously. "Aldric fights dirty."
"Aldric fights to win," he said, which was the only response that was both true and didn't require him to have feelings about it. His voice came out rough, abraded by thirst and the dust he'd swallowed every time he'd hit the ground.
They took the hint, or something close enough to it, and peeled off toward the sound of music spilling from an open tavern door, lute strings and off-key singing and the particular roar of men determined to enjoy themselves.
The next interruption came two streets later, in the form of two scarcely clothed women leaning against the warm stone of a bakehouse wall, still radiating the day's stored heat.
Their exposed skin gleamed amber in the torchlight, deliberate and inviting. They tracked him with the experience of people who had learned to read a man's evening prospects at a glance.
"Sir Knight," one called, with a smile that had worked on better men than him. Her voice was honey-slow, practiced. "Shame to spend a victory night alone."
"First runner-up," he said, without stopping. The mail clinked with each step, a sound he'd long stopped hearing.
"Close enough."
It wasn't, but he didn't have the energy to explain the difference. He kept walking.
The maester caught him at the corner of Chandler's Row. Plump, earnest, clutching a satchel of medicines with both hands as it might escape. His robes were too clean, his face unlined. Fresh from the Citadel, probably. Still believed healing mattered more than politics.
"Sir Barnes." He was slightly out of breath, which suggested he'd been following for a while, trying to work up the nerve to address him. "Lord Castellan Morrow sends his regards and requests that you allow me to examine your injuries before the feast-"
"I'm not going to the feast."
A pause. The maester's throat worked. "He anticipated you might say that. He asked me to convey that your attendance is-"
"How's your handwriting?" Bucky interrupted.
The man blinked. "My- adequate, ser. Why?"
"Good." Bucky stopped walking, turned just enough to face him properly. Watched the maester straighten reflexively under the attention. "Here's what happened: you found me three streets back, examined me thoroughly despite my objections, and determined I've got at least two cracked ribs and a possible concussion. You ordered me to bed with strict instructions not to drink, feast, or make any sudden movements for the next three days."
He held the maester's wide-eyed stare. "Your professional opinion is that my attendance at tonight's festivities would be, and I'm quoting you here, 'medically inadvisable and potentially dangerous to Sir Barnes's recovery.'"
The maester's mouth opened. Closed. His gaze flickered down to Bucky's left side, where he'd been favoring it, where the mail sat wrong.
"You..." The man's voice was uncertain. "You do likely have cracked ribs, ser."
"There you go. Not even a lie." Bucky's smile was brief and sharp. "You write that up for your Lord, attach your seal to it, and you've done your duty. He gets his excuse in writing, you get to have actually helped someone today, and I get to go home. Everyone wins."
He could see the man working through it, the truth of the injury versus the falseness of the examination, the political cover versus the medical accuracy.
"I... suppose that would be acceptable," the maester said slowly. Then, with a hint of spine Bucky hadn't expected: "But you should let me examine you properly. Cracked ribs can shift, puncture-"
"I've had worse."
"That's not the reassurance you think it is, ser."
Despite everything -the ache and the exhaustion- Bucky felt something in his chest. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
"Tomorrow," he offered, and meant it more than he'd meant most things today. "You can poke at me all you want tomorrow."
The maester nodded, satisfied or at least willing to accept the compromise. "I'll have the letter sent within the hour."
"Appreciated."
----
His lodgings were modest by deliberate choice. A single room above a cooper's workshop on the quieter end of the merchant quarter, rented by the week during tournament season. No servants' quarters. No one to report his comings and goings to anyone who might have opinions about them.
This had its advantages.
He catalogued the disadvantages the moment he stepped inside and faced the cold hearth, his breath still misting in the chill air.
Right.
He set the heavy tournament satchel down with a dull thump, rolled his left shoulder experimentally -the socket grinding in a way that spoke of old breaks poorly healed- and decided that feeling was overrated.
The fire wasn't going to light itself. The armor wasn't going to unlace itself. The evening was shaping up to be a prolonged exercise in doing everything the hard way, which was, at this point, so consistent as to be almost comforting.
Almost.
He got the fire started on the third attempt. The tinder was damp, -because of course it was- and then stood in its growing warmth and began the specific misery of removing plate armor without assistance.
The tabard first, then the gorget, useful as it was, he hated the damn thing; removing it felt like relief. Then the pauldrons, working the straps with fingers that were more cooperative on the right side than the left.
The scarring along his left forearm pulled when he reached a certain angle, the old tissue going taut. It always did. He'd stopped noticing it the way you stopped noticing a crack in a familiar wall; it was simply part of the room now.
The breastplate hit the floor with a sound like an argument ending, the impact reverberating through the floorboards.
There.
What remained was a man in a sweat-dampened gambeson with a bruised ribcage, a mild headache, and absolutely no interest in examining either. The padded underarmor clung to him, cold now that the mail was gone, the fabric stiff with salt and exertion.
He took off the gambeson and dragged the wooden chest from his satchel, the one the tournament steward had pressed into his hands with excessive ceremony, and set it beside the fire. The brass fittings caught the light, over-polished. Performative.
The lock was simple. Inside: coin, as expected. A satisfying weight of silver stacked in neat columns, some gold beneath. He'd need it. The estate his father had left him was four walls and a burned-out shell, courtesy of the same people who took him hostage and left their mark on his arm.
Rebuilding wasn't cheap. Timber, thatch, labor, it all required the kind of funds you didn't earn through valor or skill, just the slow accumulation of tournament prizes and some service contracts.
Glory didn't buy roofing.
He picked up a brooch set with garnets -gaudy, impractical, the kind of thing you pinned to a cloak if you wanted to be robbed- and looked at it for a moment. The stones were decent quality, at least. It would fetch a reasonable price from the right jeweler.
He set it aside with the others. A necklace of amber. A pair of silver clasps. All destined for the same fate: the jeweler's scale, melted down or pried out and reset for someone who actually wanted them.
He had no use for adornments. He wasn’t fond of them, as most of the nobility, and also, he had no one to give them to.
The war had seen to that.
He reached back into the chest, fingers brushing past velvet pouches, and found something else.
A ring. Silver, heavier than it looked. He drew it out into the firelight and turned it between his fingers. The stone was a ruby, deep red, cut into the shape of a star.
He stared at it.
Red stars on grey and black.
His colors.
He turned it slowly, watching firelight slide across the facets. The star was crude, the points uneven, the kind of work you got from a jeweler with more ambition than skill. It was, objectively, the ugliest ring he had ever seen. Garish. The sort of thing a merchant's son wore to his first banquet, desperate to prove he belonged.
Bucky, who wore his father's signet ring only on scarce occasions because selling it felt wrong, even if the man was never a paragon of paternal love, felt the particular pull of a terrible idea.
Just to see if it fits.
It was small for his right hand, so he tried the left, mostly out of stubbornness… and it slid on. The fit was perfect. Uncannily so, as though it had been sized for exactly this finger, accounting for the slight deviation where the bone had set wrong.
The ruby flared.
Not like firelight reflecting, but light from within, red and sharp and pointed, like something had woken up inside the stone and found him looking.
The ring burned. Seared against his skin, hot enough that he felt it in his teeth, a bright line of pain circling his finger.
What-
He grabbed for it with his right hand, trying to twist it off, but his fingers passed through something that wasn't air and wasn't quite resistance.
The room tilted.
No. The room disappeared.
The fire went first, snuffed like a candle, leaving no smoke, no ember-glow. Then the chest, the coins. The ceiling with its water-stained beams. The floor beneath his feet.
All of it went, between one breath and the next, and what replaced it was falling.
His stomach lurched, and the burning in his finger became the only solid thing in a world that had stopped being solid.
He tried to breathe and couldn't find air.
The darkness swallowed him whole and the last thing he registered, distant, wrong, was the smell of plants and humidity.
Then nothing.
----
She stood on the sidewalk in front of The Sweet Briar with her hand buried to the wrist in her purse, fingers closing around lipstick, a crumpled handkerchief, what felt like a receipt that she really ought to throw away, and absolutely nothing key-shaped.
The morning was grey and cool for early spring, the kind of damp that sank into your coat and stayed there. The street was quiet, too early yet for the lunch crowd, the shops on either side still dark. A truck rumbled past, leaving the smell of diesel and wet pavement in its wake.
Just when she thought she might have actually forgotten the keys -left them on the kitchen counter next to the bread box, maybe, or in yesterday's coat pocket- her fingers finally closed around the key ring at the very bottom of the purse, underneath everything else, because of course they were.
The lock stuck.
She jiggled it once, patiently, the same way she had jiggled this exact lock approximately four hundred times and had not yet called the locksmith, because she only ever remembered the lock was broken when she was standing directly in front of it, key in hand, and by the time she got inside she'd forgotten again.
The metal resisted, then gave with a sound like a small complaint. She pushed inside.
The front of the shop was an obstacle course.
Mr. Thomson from the supply house had delivered very late yesterday afternoon, because apparently a union picket line two blocks east had backed up half the city's delivery routes. By closing time, she didn’t have the energy to do anything about the results: buckets of early flowers stacked three deep against the counter, their blooms still tight-furled and smelling faintly of earth.
Two flats of fern she hadn't priced yet, the fronds already drooping from a day out of soil. A box of wire and ribbon spools that had no business being in the middle of the floor but was there anyway, and somewhere underneath all of it, allegedly, the new ceramic pots she'd ordered in February and assumed were lost.
She picked her way through it with careful steps, her heels clicking against the wood floor, and made it to the back without incident.
The stockroom was small and currently in a state that she chose to call organized chaos and not a problem she had to solve today.
More deliveries back here too: boxes stacked along the left wall, the worktable barely visible under brown paper wrapping and tissue. The air smelled like potting soil and the green, living scent of the spider plants hanging near the window, their runners brushing the top of a stack of terra cotta. She reached up and pulled the cord on the single overhead bulb.
The light swung once, twice, and settled.
She saw the legs first.
Long legs, stretched across the floor between a toppled flat of begonias and the base of the shelving unit, attached to a man who was very much present and very much not conscious, sprawled at an angle that suggested he had not chosen to be on the floor so much as arrived there.
Her breath stopped.
For one crystalline second, her brain refused to process what she was seeing -legs, boots, a body where no body should be- and then her heart kicked hard against her chest.
There was a man. In her stockroom. On the floor.
He'd taken out a good portion of the new stock on his way down. The begonias were scattered, soil spilled across the floorboards in dark trails. A ceramic pot in sage green -the one she'd specifically ordered and waited two months for- was in three neat pieces beside his left arm. The pothos she'd been propagating had been knocked from its perch; the vines lay crushed beneath his shoulder.
She stood very still for a moment, one hand still on the light cord, the other pressed flat against her chest where her heart was trying to break through.
He wasn't moving.
His chest was -she watched for a second, barely breathing herself- yes, his chest was moving. Shallow, but steady.
So. Not dead.
She still hadn't decided if that was good or bad.
Her gaze darted to the back door: still closed, the bolt still thrown from the inside. The window was latched. No broken glass. No signs of forced entry.
So how-?
Her hand moved without conscious thought, reaching back toward the worktable, fingers closing around the wooden handle of a trowel. Not much of a weapon, but the edge was solid steel, the point designed for breaking hard soil. It would do.
She took a step closer, the trowel held low at her side, ready to strike.
His clothing was strange. The shirt was wrong, off-white and loose, the kind of fabric that looked hand-woven, rough in a way she couldn’t describe. The collar was laced instead of buttoned, the ties loose and askew.
The trousers were the same, tucked into boots that had absolutely no business existing in 1955: tall, dark leather, worn in the way that took years and hard use, not a factory.
Over all of it, a belt of heavy leather, studded and wide. And attached to it, running down each thigh -she tilted her head slightly- what appeared to be straps, buckled and reinforced, holding padded cushioned sheaths flat against his legs.
Like something out of a medieval fair, except those fairs didn't come through this city, and even if they did, the participants didn't break into a flower shop in full costume and collapse on the begonias.
She took another step closer, careful to avoid the broken ceramic.
His face was-
Well.
A face that had seen better days was her first thought, and her second was that even roughed up as he was, it was a remarkable face to have stumbled into her stockroom.
Strong jaw, straight nose, the kind of bone structure you saw in magazine advertisements for razors or cologne, the ones that made you look twice even when you weren't in the market.
A bruise was already darkening along his left cheekbone, deep purple spreading toward his temple. There was a cut above his brow that had bled and dried, the blood a rust-brown line trailing toward his hairline.
The beard was a few days past deliberate.
And the hair -she paused on that- dark brown, long enough to brush his shoulders, pushed back from his face and thoroughly disordered, tangled with mud and sweat.
It was long for a man. Longer than any man she'd seen outside of a history book or painting.
She straightened up slowly, the trowel still in her hand.
Alright, she thought, forcing her breathing to steady. Think.
Option one: he was a vagrant who'd somehow gotten through a locked door -the damn lock, God help her- and passed out on her stock.
Possible. Unlikely, given the boots alone probably cost more than her monthly rent, but possible.
Option two: he was a veteran. There were men, she knew -the whole city knew, even if nobody said it plainly- who hadn't come back from the war quite right in the head.
Shell-shock, they'd called it in the first war. Combat fatigue now, as if giving it a softer name made it easier to carry.
Except that didn't explain the kind of clothes.
Option three: he'd gotten blind drunk somewhere in the vicinity, wandered in through a door she knew she'd locked, and the outfit was theatrical. A costume. There was a theatre district six blocks south. Strange things happened near the theatre districts. Actors were weird.
Except that the door had been locked. And bolted.
She looked down at him again.
At the slow rise and fall of his chest. At the ring on his left hand, silver with a red stone that caught the light strangely, still faintly warm-looking even in the dim stockroom.
At the begonias, crushed beyond saving.
The telephone was on the opposite wall. She edged past him, keeping the trowel between them out of some vague instinct that felt less vague with every step. Her heel caught on a scatter of soil, and she steadied herself against the doorframe, not taking her eyes off him.
He still wasn't moving.
She picked up the receiver with her free hand, the trowel still raised in the other, and dialed zero, the rotary clicking back into place.
The line hummed and returned a busy signal.
Dammit.
She clicked the hook and tried again, her gaze locked on the sprawled figure.
Busy. Again. It was a challenge to get to an operator these last few weeks. It was the third time this month she needed to make a call, and the lines were occupied.
She leaned her hip against the wall and tried a fourth time, watching him over her shoulder out of an abundance of caution that was starting to feel less abundant and more barely sufficient.
Okay. If she could just get through to the operator, get a squad car over here -or an ambulance, depending on what exactly was wrong with him- she could have this sorted before her first customer arrived at nine. It was a reasonable plan. It was perfectly reasonable-
The fifth attempt produced a busy signal and also, from somewhere behind her, a sound. The distinct scrape of ceramic against concrete, and then a longer drag, like weight shifting.
Her breath caught.
She turned around slowly, the receiver still pressed to her ear, the busy signal droning against her brain.
He was sitting up, propped on one hand with the other braced against the shelving unit, head bowed forward like it weighed too much to lift. The dark hair fell across his face in tangled strands. His shoulders rose and fell with breaths that looked like they hurt.
She didn't move. Her fingers tightened around the trowel handle until the wood bit into her palm.
For a moment he just sat there, motionless except for the breathing. Then his head lifted slowly, and he blinked at the stockroom with the heavy, confused expression of a man whose surroundings were not what he'd been expecting.
His gaze tracked left: shelves, boxes, the window with its spider plants. Right: more shelves, the worktable, the spilled soil.
Then his eyes found her.
A nice pair of steel blue eyes.
That was the completely irrelevant thing her brain produced, and she hated that it did, because those steel blue eyes were currently fixed on her with a frown that was more baffled than threatening, but he was large.
She could see that now, even sitting down he had the kind of shoulders that spoke of labor or violence or both- and he was between her and the back door, and she did not know him, and she was alone, and-
Her mind didn't finish the thought. She crossed the distance between them in three steps, raised the spade, and swung.
She didn't account for his reflexes.
One moment she was bringing the flat of the blade down toward his head, and the next, her wrist was caught mid-arc in a grip like iron, the world tilted sideways, and she was on her back on the stockroom floor with approximately two hundred twenty pounds of confused stranger pinning her there.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Her shoulders hit concrete, her head just barely missing the leg of the worktable. The trowel clattered away, skittering across the floor into the scattered soil.
He'd moved fast. Too fast for someone who'd been unconscious thirty seconds ago. Too fast for someone who'd struggled to sit up.
His hand was still locked around her wrist, holding it flat against the floor above her head. His other forearm was braced beside her shoulder. His knee was between hers, his weight distributed in a way that kept her pinned without crushing her, like this was something he'd done before. Many times before, in fact.
When she pulled at her wrist -once, testing, her breath coming in sharp gasps- he simply held it, not tightening, not letting go, like the question of her leaving hadn't seriously occurred to him as a variable.
Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat, behind her eyes. She could smell him: leather and sweat and something else, something like smoke and metal and old wool.
She could count his eyelashes.
The blue eyes she'd noticed before were a lot more striking at this distance, and a lot less groggy. Whatever fog had been in them when he'd first sat up had burned off fast into something sharp and assessing.
He was looking at her the way she imagined soldiers looked at enemies in the dark. His chest rose and fell against hers with each breath. She could feel the heat of him through her blouse, through his strange linen shirt.
Get off get off get off-
She opened her mouth to scream, to say something, to demand he let her go-
And then he lowered his face toward hers by one deliberate inch, eyes narrowing and demanded, low and very even:
⤷ summary: after a mission gone slightly awry, one of your colleagues got heavily wounded, prompting an emergency surgery. you and leon sit in the waiting room, anticipating the worst, but the quiet intimacy provides a comfort neither of you want to acknowledge just yet. (3.9k words)
⤷ pairing: leon kennedy x female!reader
⤷ genre: comfort, mild slow-burn
⤷ tags: RE9 Leon Kennedy, reader is his mission partner, reader is in her early 30s, both of them are mildly injured after a mission, mentions of blood and wounds, comfort, unresolved tension, slow-burn-ish relationship
🚏masterlist | part two ᝰ.ᐟ
You glance at the clock for the nth time, trying to distract yourself from the thoughts that threaten to consume you in the stillness of the waiting room.
It’s awfully quiet, save for the staff passing by the area, the quiet shuffle of footsteps of people who were also waiting for something to happen. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, but it still feels as if the world was holding its breath, not just you.
Or Leon, for that matter.
He sat two chairs away from you, and he hasn’t moved too much ever since he arrived once he explained the situation to his superiors through a quick phone call that sounded less like an emergency, and more of a formality in this line of work.
The two of you had just gone back from a mission along with your other colleague who was currently in the operating room after he nearly got obliterated by an unsuspecting bomb that turned everything into bits and pieces of shrapnel. Thankfully, you and Leon had reacted quickly, calling for extraction before you even realized your colleague was losing so much blood.
After your superiors were notified, all three of you were immediately taken to the hospital. The surgery began two hours ago, and the silence that had elapsed since then was beginning to bug you, because there was so much to be said about what happened earlier, except, it was truly an oversight. The bomb that had detonated had been hidden away from sight, thus making it more difficult to decipher in the dim conditions you were already faced with during your mission.
Thankfully, your directive had been accomplished—you managed to secure the sample of a degenerate virus that was about to be sold to a black market to create more bio organic weapons.
But this happened at the expense of your colleague, whose family was sure to be worried sick. Your superiors had done the work to explain the situation to his family, and you’re sure they will be swarming up the waiting room in a while.
For now, however, it’s just you and Leon.
He had his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped with his head bowed just a little—almost in defeat if not exhaustion, or perhaps a mixture of both. It was the kind of stillness that felt as though he’s holding himself together in your presence.
You glance at him. His jacket was gone, and his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, exposing the veins that ran along his skin. There’s a faint smear of something crimson across it—something dried. Or not. But perhaps he had just not bothered to check after the adrenaline had worn down and had been replaced by a silent contemplation.
Again, the clock on the wall ticks and you’re vaguely aware of how it’s become a rhythm that fills the silence. You don’t like it. The stillness, the silence, the quiet anticipation for some good or bad news—it all felt out of your control.
You bounce your leg a little, a habit of yours that gives your nerves away. You look at Leon once more, before you look away.
“Hey,” you say after a few heartbeats of silence, your voice softer and quieter than you had intended.
Leon doesn’t respond immediately. For a second, you think he never heard you, but then he exhales quietly, as if he’s coming back from somewhere else in his mind.
“Yeah?” came his quiet, steady response. Leon glances at you once, before turning away. There’s a certain dread laced in his tone. Something that mirrors you.
Then, you slightly hesitate. The question you want to ask sits heavily on your tongue, and you're unsure if you should even voice it out.
It’s not as if the two of you left the scene unscathed. If anything, you’re sure you’re sporting a few cuts and wounds, maybe even a bruise on your side that left you sitting stiffly. But these all seemed secondary to the state of your colleague inside the operating room. His life was on the line.
Leon, on the other hand, wasn’t very vocal about his injuries. Maybe he hasn’t noticed it yet, or maybe he has. Either way, you’re unsure if you should point it out.
Instead, you say, “you should probably get that looked at.”
There was a beat of silence before Leon glanced down at his arm as if he’s seeing the wound for the first time. Then, he looked back at you, his gaze partially softening when he looked at the state of you—disheveled hair, dirt and grime on your cheeks, and a nasty cut on your forehead that you’ve barely acknowledged.
“It’s nothing, Y/N.” He answered you, and you’re fully aware of how he’s suddenly scanning your frame like some detector made to discover wounds and bruises.
You shift uncomfortably in your seat as he looks at you. “Of course it’s nothing.” You mutter underneath your breath, but you’re sure he heard you.
Leon exhales a huff, not quite a laugh but almost. “I’ll live. You, on the other hand, should get that cut on your forehead cleaned up and checked before it gets infected.” He tells you as if his words are your new directives.
“It doesn’t hurt.” You answer him back, your gaze focusing on his arm and the way crimson stains his honeyed skin. “But I could say the same to you.”
A tiny smile curves on his lips as he hears the stubbornness in your tone. “Fine. We’ll both stay here then.”
That makes you smile a bit.
Silence settles again between the two of you, and this time, it lingers slightly.
Somewhere down the hall, a door opens. You hear the footsteps approaching, and you nearly stand up in your seat, until you hear a voice calling out a name that isn’t yours or your colleague’s. Leon’s gaze shifts toward the sudden sound of it instinctively, sharp for a split second, then he eases down when he realizes it’s not who you’re waiting for.
You notice it—the way he seemed on edge, earlier until now. He didn’t even have to say it. Some time early on, when Leon became your assigned partner, you had learned to read his tells, his little habits and quirks. Yet somehow, he’s still unpredictable to you.
The words escape your lips before you could even stop yourself from asking.
“You think he’ll be okay?”
Leon doesn’t answer immediately. You notice his jaw tightening just a bit as his eyes drop to nothing in particular, as if he’s searching for the answer himself too. You know he’s not one for blind, empty promises, and even something as simple as reassurance feels too complex given the gravity of the situation right now.
“He’s in good hands,” he says after a moment.
It wasn’t really an answer, you knew. It was the kind of thing that people say when they don’t have a definite answer to give, and while you needed the certainty, you knew Leon didn’t have enough of it to give, especially when your colleague’s being nursed back to health inside that room that you stare at for minutes, hoping it’ll make the operation go faster.
You notice Leon looking at you again. There’s something unreadable in his expression, but it lingers too long for you to say something, but before you call him out on it, he stands up and walks past you, rounding a corner to the nurses station. He probably went to ask about the operation again, you thought. Both of you were already growing impatient.
But when he returned at least a couple of minutes later, he was holding a packet of wet wipes in one hand, and two bottles of water in the other. This time, Leon sits right next to you, handing you one bottle, and then the packet of wet wipes.
“What’s this?” You ask, but taking the item nonetheless.
“It’s for your forehead,” Leon answered you simply. “Figured we should at least try to clean up while waiting.”
You offer him a small smile, one that feels appropriate to the situation. There’s that feeling of endearment welling up in your heart, but you remind yourself it’s just the typical nature of how he acts around you.
Still, you thank him for his kindness. “Thanks, Leon.”
“Don’t mention it.”
You pull a wet wipe from the packet before you bring it to your face, dabbing what you could to get the grime off and away from your skin. Leon did the same, except he’s cleaning around the edges of the wound you pointed out a while ago. You hear him hiss quietly, as if containing himself, and it was so like him to refrain from showing too much vulnerability in a public space.
Even if it was just the two of you in that waiting room at the moment.
“You missed a spot,” Leon pointed out, looking at your face.
That makes your brows furrow. You bring the edge of the wet wipe around the cut on your forehead which makes you wince. “Here?” you ask him, having no available mirror at the moment.
Leon shakes his head. Before you could even ask where, he reaches out and wipes a smidgen of dirt away from your cheek, his calloused touch lingering over the heat of your skin. He holds your face for a second, his thumb wiping away the leftover specks, before his touch settles there.
For a moment, you hold your breath. You stare at him, how his face softens up as he gazes at you, as he takes in the sight of your injury, and you’re briefly aware of how his pupils dilate when he looks at you, then his gaze drifts lower, then back up to your eyes.
“Leon—”
“It’s all good now.” He releases you, and you suddenly feel a pang of loss, a longing for his touch you never knew existed within you.
Swallowing hard, you try to hide the heat creeping up your neck, or the sudden thrum of your heartbeat. “Thanks.”
Leon returns to his earlier composure, focusing on cleaning up his forearms while you sit there beside him, acutely aware of his largeness, his warmth. There was a time when Leon’s presence never bothered you this way, as if you were never subjecting yourself to the scrutiny of being close to him.
But something shifted, along the way.
Maybe it was because of the hours you spent together in the office, time poured over reports and briefings. Or, the proximity you find yourself in with him whenever you’re on missions, where he’s asking you to stay closer and only lets you go when you really need to part ways—the whole divide and conquer thing. If anything, Leon preferred it less when you were away and out of his sight. Though, he’ll never openly admit that to you just yet, won’t he?
Maybe it’s the quiet intimacy you find yourself in after missions. The silence when you’re patching yourselves up, or the relief the two of you feel when it’s another mission accomplished and you’re finally able to call it a day.
Being assigned as Leon’s partner meant a lot of things and it wasn’t nothing to you. Perhaps it wasn’t nothing to him either, but there was just something about the way he treats you that makes you wonder—is there something there?
Surely his offers and invites for lunch, dinner, and coffee mean something?
You aren’t even sure.
Despite this, you’re sure of many things—in the battlefield, on missions, Leon has your back more than you’d like to admit. If you believe for a second you’re alone, he reminds you by making sure he’s always two paces behind. He prefers watching your back. He prefers being able to see what’s ahead, and what’s trailing from behind the two of you. It’s safer that way, even when it’s at the possible expense of his own safety.
Shaking away these thoughts, you lean back the seat and uncap the bottle of water. You take a few reluctant sips, the refreshing water hydrating your parched throat. Setting it on your lap, you tilt your head back against the wall, gazing up again at the clock.
“He’ll be in there for a few more hours,” Leon suddenly tells you, setting the dirtied wet wipes aside and reaching for his own bottle of water. “I talked to one of the nurses. He’ll be okay, but he’ll be in there a while.”
You hum. “I see.”
“You should probably get some rest,” he offered gently. Leon turns his head to look at you, his blue eyes swimming with depth. “I’ll wake you up if anything happens. But you should close your eyes for a bit, get some shuteye while waiting.”
You knew you were in no position to complain. When Leon pointed out getting some rest, you’re suddenly very aware of the exhaustion in your limbs, the way your joints screamed for protest when you stretch or move them. Your legs are aching from all the running, and even your neck feels strained from staring up the clock.
It was second nature for you to refuse. You wanted to tell him that he also deserved to rest, but knowing Leon, your needs were primary to him. He always mentioned that you should always be at your best, and he’ll make sure of it.
Both in and out of missions, it appeared.
“How kind of you,” you reply with a hint of playfulness in your tone. “Always looking out for your junior, Kennedy?”
Leon huffs. “I’m looking out for my partner, Y/N.”
Somehow, that makes you feel flustered.
The way he says it—my partner—feels more serious than he’d let on. You want to acknowledge it, but the moment feels raw and unready for you to say anything more. Instead, you just bite at your lower lip and look away, pretending to gaze at the doors again, anything to deflect the words he’d so casually thrown at you without sparing a thought for your sanity.
Then, feeling the exhaustion take over you, you lean back your head against the wall and close your eyes as your vision blurred over the edges. You can feel Leon’s shoulders touching yours, a steady presence in the uncertainty of the moment.
It wasn’t long before you were dozing off. The way you sat upright wasn’t exactly the most comfortable position, but you’ve learned over the course of over a dozen missions that it was better to get some rest like this than none at all.
In fact, you were sure you were asleep for a while, because when you woke up, you weren’t sitting upright anymore—your head was leaning on Leon’s shoulder. You froze and held your breath at the realization; so much so that it wakes you fully.
You wanted to lift your head almost immediately, afraid to inconvenience Leon any further, but you realize, with the way his breaths are a steady rise and fall, he’s asleep as well. You sneak a glance, and he’s sitting upright for the two of you, arms crossed over his chest while his brow furrows a bit.
It stole your breath.
You were so close to him that you can feel his warmth, can inhale his scent, and even feel the muscles of his arms brushing against your own. You had never been this close to him before, and you felt a sudden gush of giddiness, however subtle, but there nonetheless.
Deciding to take advantage of the moment, you sneak a few glances. He doesn’t look too peaceful while he’s asleep, but there’s a semblance of quiet calm written over his features that makes you want to burn the image of his face in the back of your mind forever. You’ve taken first watch during missions before, and Leon’s never looked like this when he’s closing his eyes.
Furrowed brows… that perfect nose, and even more perfect lips—
Wait, what?
Before you could reprimand yourself for having these thoughts, footsteps approach you and you pretend to be asleep on his shoulder again.
“Mr. Kennedy?” One of the surgeons stands before you.
You feel Leon shift carefully, as if trying not to jostle you.
“Is everything okay?” Leon’s voice was slightly groggy, a raspy husk that tickles you, somehow.
The surgeon starts explaining the condition of your colleague, mentioning that he’s now stable after all that they’ve done to him. All the while, Leon remains still, acting as your pillow and your cornerstone right now, and your heart begins pounding beneath your chest again. It was so easy for him to do nothing but affect you more than you realize, and you’re unsure if you like the feeling or not.
When the surgeon excuses himself, that was your cue to stop pretending to be asleep. You waited a couple of seconds before opening your eyes again, adjusting the fluorescent lights and the scenery around you, sterile and quiet.
“Hey, you’re awake,” Leon murmured, and you felt his breath fanning over the top of your head. You sit back upright, and adjust your position on the seat. “He’s okay. He’s stable.”
You hum, pretending as if you hadn’t heard the surgeon's explanation just moments ago. “That’s really good news.”
“Yeah,” Leon agrees with you, his eyes briefly glancing over you to observe your expression. “Did you get some sleep?”
Of course you did. You were comfortable on his shoulder, and you had hoped you could have more seconds if not minutes laying on it again. It felt right—to be that close to him. It felt safe.
“I did, yeah… thanks for letting me nap on your shoulder.” You say, offering him a small, drowsy smile. “Beats all the hotels we’ve been to, huh?”
The tease makes him chuckle quietly, a reference to your conferences or mission briefings. “Sure. Hospital waiting rooms take the five stars right off the bat.”
That elicits a small laugh from you before you shake your head.
Suddenly, there’s a certain lightness in the atmosphere. Your colleague’s fine, you and Leon are fine, and the mission has been a success without any fatalities. It felt like a relief, and a reward all in one. Especially after you’ve spent at least an hour or two napping on Leon’s shoulder without you even realizing it.
“The company car will be here in a few minutes,” he tells you as he looks at his company-issued phone. “About time we go home and get some proper rest.”
Nodding, you clean up your mess of wet wipes and the half-empty water bottle he’d gotten for you. When Leon stands up, you follow suit, stretching your languid limbs and feeling the ache in your joints—telling you that you deserve to rest on your queen-sized bed in your comfy apartment and shut off the world for at least ten hours before your debriefing in the office with your superiors afterwards.
You follow Leon as you both navigate the hospital corridors and lobbies before you reach the main entrance. Outside, there were two company cars, supposedly taking both of you home—individually.
You don’t know why that bothers you, when usually, you both left separately after a mission. It was only after debriefings that you got the opportunity to linger around Leon or vice versa.
But then, he was walking you towards your vehicle first. He opens the door for you and waits for you to get in, and you don’t miss the chivalrous intent. Before you do, you stand there, not because you’re stalling, but because he looked as if he had something more to say to you. It was written all over his face—you just needed him to say the words.
“What?” you prompt, tilting your head to the side in curiosity.
Blinking, Leon shakes his head. “Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you’re getting home safely.” He murmured, loud enough for the two of you to hear, like a spoken secret.
“I’ll be fine.” You reassure him, though you don’t know why you’re doing such a thing. “The company car will have me snoozing in a few minutes.”
Leon smirked at that. “I’ll make sure to tell the driver to go easy on the road.” He says as if he’s promising you such a thing. “Take care of yourself, Y/N. I’ll see you later.”
Then, before you could say anything, he’s leaning in, pressing a ghost of a kiss against your forehead, lingering just a few millimeters away from your wound. He knew you would patch yourself up later. Just how he’ll do the same when he’s back at his own apartment. But he felt the need to remind you, to tell you that your comfort and well-being mattered to him just as much as his own.
He’s pulling away before you could even react. Leon just gives you a nod, before encouraging you to get in the car. And you do. Wordlessly. Trying to pick up the pieces of your bearings for what he just did, because he’s never done that before.
As soon as you’re settled in the car, Leon gives you one more meaningful look before he closes the door with a thud. Then, he circled the car to the driver’s seat, where he murmured something to the driver before walking towards the next vehicle and climbing in.
You are genuinely so confused, but it’s not like his touch was unwelcome. You were still grasping the fact that he had so bluntly kissed your forehead as if he was bidding a lover goodnight. You weren’t that to him, were you?
At least, not yet.
The thought makes you shudder.
Your mind was already going to various places tonight, and Leon certainly gave you so much to think. But as soon as you arrive at your apartment, you shut the door behind you. It was a little over four in the morning then, and your debriefing’s at two in the afternoon, so you were eager to get in bed.
After washing up as quickly as you can, you change into an oversized shirt and some underwear, before climbing your bed and settling in the sheets. You were ready to drift off to sleep, but your mind has you replaying the moments of a while ago, when Leon pecked your forehead.
You touch the spot he’d kissed, as if feeling the phantom sensation of it all over again. Somehow, just the reminder of it made your heart stutter in your chest as a warmth bloomed over your face. Leon has definitely given you so much to think about, and you aren’t even sure if you’re ready to acknowledge all of it.
Number one, he’s your colleague.
Number two, he’s your insanely attractive, chivalrous, and witty colleague.
Number three, he’s probably just being nice. Right?
You groan against your pillow and force yourself to stop thinking about it.
When you do convince yourself to stop it, you easily drift off to sleep as the exhaustion consumes you. You like to believe that you’re the only one hung up over this, and so, that was enough to make you think about getting enough sleep and rest rather than focusing over whatever Leon has done to you.
Little did you know, however, that somewhere across the city, Leon was thinking about you too.
You are his last thought before falling asleep, and somehow, even in the middle of a dreamless slumber, you still are.
⤷ a/n: if you're reading this, then thank you for taking the time to read this fic! it's a bit poorly written since i wrote it on a whim (no beta read) and i'm thinking of doing a part 2 for this but that's still being decided (though if you want one, let me know in the replies/my asks!)
anyway, i'm not very good with tension and writing slow burn so i'm truly sorry if this feels so rushed 😓 i promise i'll have something more afterwards!
by the way, thank you so much for 800+ followers! this account has grown ever since i started writing here, thank you for supporting my works 💗 i sincerely appreciate each and every single one of you! it means the world to me!
also, my taglist is open if you're interested of being a part of it! moreover, my requests are open as well, but i'll only consider a few since i'm working on other requests, but feel free to stop by and chat and send in anything! 🫶
thank you so much for reading! i'm so excited to share more of my works with you in the future (and quite possibly a series too 👀) have a lovely day, wherever you are! 💖
summary: requested by this anon ♡ Leon comes home from a mission quieter than usual, and you try to give him the kind of peace he never knows how to ask for. But when a nightmare pulls him somewhere far away from you, he wakes up to something he can barely forgive himself for: hurting you.
warnings: re4!leon x reader, heavy angst with fluff, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, PTSD/nightmares, trauma response, accidental violence during sleep, choking/strangulation, panic, guilt, crying, emotional breakdown, mentions/allusions to Leon’s childhood trauma, mentions of past abuse/neglect, Raccoon City trauma, self-hatred, fear of hurting a loved one, intense emotional distress, comfort after a traumatic incident, english is not the authors first language.
wc : 6k.
author's note: sorry this took me so long to post. This one needed more time than I expected, mostly because I really wanted to handle Leon’s trauma and vulnerability with the weight they deserved instead of rushing it. Thank you for being patient with me and for sending requests in general — I promise I’m still working through them. Some take me longer than others, especially when they get this emotionally heavy, but I haven’t forgotten about them. This fic deals with PTSD, nightmares and accidental harm during sleep, so please read with care — nothing here is meant to romanticize trauma or violence♡.
Leon and you had been together for a few years.
You knew he was a special agent and, unfortunately, one of the very few survivors of Raccoon City, something that had left a deep scar on his mental health and marked the rest of his life. It was part of the reason he did what he did now.
You met one night at a bar because you had a few mutual friends. When Leon saw you for the first time, he was stunned by your beauty. No exaggeration, it was like everything around you disappeared. He only had eyes for you and that warm, loving light you seemed to carry with you.
Leon hadn’t had an easy childhood. His parents had struggled with substance abuse, so he had been raised by his grandparents, and when they passed away, the emotional emptiness he already carried only grew heavier. When he first started talking to you, everything was a little awkward and cliché: the cold, guarded boy and the sunshine girl.
The first day he saw you, he was far too embarrassed to approach you. Even though Leon was objectively handsome, he was deeply insecure about himself. It was at another gathering with your mutual friends that he finally worked up the courage to come closer. He started with dumb jokes, the kind that didn’t usually make many people laugh, but they always managed to pull a smile from you, and every time that happened, Leon melted a little more inside.
You began texting, then started meeting up more often, and he always offered to drive you home. Until one of those nights, outside the entrance of your building, you shared your first kiss: innocent, genuine, nervous. Not long after, you officially started dating, and since then, your relationship had been good. Really good.
Of course, it was hard not being able to see Leon much whenever he was away on missions, but you knew he was out there protecting thousands of people.
For Leon, however, the beginning of your relationship was a little harder. Not because of you. Never because of you. He considered you, even if he rarely said it out loud, the best thing that had ever happened to him. His life had always felt like a stormy sea, dark and violent, full of whirlpools of pain since he was old enough to remember, and then you had arrived like a warm breeze, pulling him out of his own mind. That was exactly why he felt so terribly guilty sometimes. He thought he wasn’t good enough for you, that you deserved something better than him, even if there were moments when you managed to make him believe, just a little, that he was worthy of being loved.
It was supposed to be a quiet night in the apartment you had shared for years.
Outside, it was cold. The city was wet from the thin rain that had been falling since late afternoon, and the headlights of passing cars reflected against the asphalt like blurry stains of color. Inside, though, everything was warm. The heating was on, a blanket lay abandoned on the couch, two mugs had been left on the coffee table, and a movie was playing softly in the background.
Leon had come home only a few hours earlier.
He hadn’t told you much about the mission, like he usually did whenever something had gone worse than expected. Over time, you had learned to read him without needing to ask. You knew the difference between when he was truly tired and when he was simply pretending to be tired so he wouldn’t worry you.
That night, it was the second one.
He had showered as soon as he got home, changed into clean clothes, and left his jacket hanging over the back of a chair. He was wearing a dark shirt and comfortable pants, his hair still slightly damp, his jaw tight with that tension that always settled there when his mind was still somewhere else, even if his body had already made it back home.
Still, he was trying to be there with you.
That was what hurt the most about Leon sometimes. Even when he was destroyed, he still found a way to sit beside you, ask about your day, listen to you talk about any domestic nonsense as if that alone was enough to convince him the world could still be a livable place. He had asked if you had eaten, if you had gotten home from work safely, if the bathroom light had started flickering again — the one he had been promising to fix for weeks, though there was always another mission before he could.
“You’re very quiet,” you said from the kitchen as you put away the glass you had just washed.
Leon was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you in a way that wasn’t exactly sad, but not peaceful either. He looked like he was trying to memorize you. The shape of your face under the yellow kitchen light, your comfortable clothes, the way you moved around your home like everything there was safe.
Like he was safe too.
“I’m fine,” he answered.
He was terrible at lying when it came to you.
You turned around slowly, drying your hands with a towel, and looked at him with that expression of yours that always managed to make him lower his guard, even when he didn’t want to. Leon held your gaze for a few seconds, then looked away with a small exhale through his nose, almost a laugh, but without any humor in it.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Leon said, something close to pleading hidden in his voice.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re reading my mind.”
You approached him calmly, without crowding him too much at first, because you had also learned there were nights when Leon needed to be held tightly, and others when he first needed to remember he was allowed to be touched. You placed a hand against his chest and felt the uneven rhythm of his breathing beneath your palm.
“I don’t need to know everything,” you murmured. “I just want you to rest.”
The way his eyes softened was almost unbearable.
Leon lowered his gaze to your hand on his chest and, for a moment, he looked much younger. Like a boy. Not the trained agent, not the survivor, not the man the government called whenever the world started falling apart. Just Leon. The same Leon who had approached you years ago with a terrible joke, pretending to have a confidence he didn’t really possess, and who had stared at you as if he couldn’t understand what you could possibly see in someone like him. The same boy who had only ever wanted love from his family.
“Sometimes it’s hard to come back,” he confessed suddenly.
He didn’t say it dramatically. He didn’t even look at you when he said it. He said it quietly, like he was ashamed of admitting it. Like speaking about it in the middle of such a normal life would somehow stain it.
You didn’t answer right away. You only lifted your hand to his neck, gently stroking his skin with your thumb. Leon closed his eyes for a second.
“But you do come back, Leon,” you told him, caressing his cheek. “That’s so much more incredible than you think.”
You led him to the couch, and Leon let you.
He let you sit him down, let you cover him with the blanket, let his head fall back as you settled beside him. The movie kept playing on the screen, but neither of you paid attention to it. You talked for a while, more to fill the silence than because you had anything important to say. You told him about a woman who had cut in line at the supermarket, about a package that had been delayed, about something silly on your phone that had made you laugh, and Leon listened carefully.
Every now and then, his fingers found yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t say anything, but he squeezed your hand a little tighter whenever you laughed.
Later, when the weight of the night started settling over the apartment, you noticed his eyes were far too tired.
He almost never slept well after coming home from a mission. Some nights, he stayed awake until dawn, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, trying not to make a sound. Other nights, he fell asleep from pure exhaustion and woke up startled an hour later, chest rising and falling too fast, his hand instinctively searching for something that wasn’t there anymore.
You knew about his nightmares. You knew the names he sometimes muttered without meaning to, the places he returned to whenever he closed his eyes.
But that night, he seemed too exhausted even to fight sleep.
“Let’s go to bed, baby,” you whispered sweetly, running your fingers through his hair.
Leon opened his eyes slowly, like he had been seconds away from falling asleep sitting up.
The bedroom was dim when you got into bed. From there, the rain sounded softer, barely a murmur against the window, and the streetlight slipped through the curtains, drawing pale lines over the sheets. Leon lay on his back at first, stiff, one arm resting over his stomach, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. You turned toward him without saying anything. A few seconds passed before he lifted his arm.
You moved closer slowly, resting your head on his chest, and he wrapped his arm around you carefully. Your hand stayed against his side, feeling his breathing slowly begin to match yours.
You fell asleep before he did.
The last thing you remembered was his hand stroking your back in slow, repetitive movements, almost unconscious.
For a while, everything was quiet.
Then something changed.
It wasn’t a loud noise or a sudden movement at first. It was a small tension in Leon’s body. A nearly imperceptible hardening beneath your cheek. His breathing, which had been heavy and deep until then, began to break into strange intervals, as if something inside him was dragging his sleep toward a darker place. You didn’t fully wake up. You only frowned, still trapped in that confused space between sleep and consciousness.
Leon moved, barely at first, then with more force.
His arm, which had been resting over your waist, tightened around you. His fingers closed around the fabric of your shirt, and his breathing grew faster, more agitated. He muttered something you couldn’t understand.
“Leon…” you whispered, your voice thick with sleep.
You lifted your head, propping yourself up on one elbow, trying to see his face through the shadows. His brows were furrowed, his eyes squeezed shut too tightly, his jaw clenched. He didn’t look like he was simply asleep.
He looked trapped.
Like something invisible was pressing down on him from the inside, forcing him to relive a scene you couldn’t see.
“Baby,” you murmured, touching his shoulder gently. “Leon, wake up.”
One second, you were sitting up on the mattress.
The next, he had moved with a violence that knocked the air out of you from sheer shock. You didn’t understand what was happening at first. You only felt the weight of his body turning toward you, one hand pushing you down against the bed and the other closing around your throat.
For the first few seconds, your mind refused to accept what was happening.
It was Leon. Your Leon. The same man who brushed your hair away from your face when you fell asleep on the couch, the same one who held your hand in the street without realizing it, the same one who apologized if he brushed against you too roughly while passing through a narrow doorway.
That was why it took you a moment to feel fear.
Because before fear, there was confusion.
“Leon…” you tried to say.
Your voice barely came out.
He was still asleep. Or somewhere worse than sleep. His face was distorted, washed in the weak light from the window, but there was nothing conscious in his expression. He wasn’t looking at you. He wasn’t seeing you. His breathing came out harsh, furious, desperate, like he was fighting someone who wasn’t you.
You tried to pull his hand away gently at first. Still with that absurd part of your mind trying not to scare him, trying to wake him without hurting him.
“Leon… it’s me…”
But the pressure increased.
Your fingers closed around his wrist with more force. You tried to move your head, to pull away, but you were trapped against the mattress and he was too heavy. Your legs shifted under the sheets, kicking clumsily against the bed. The sound of your breathing turned horrible, weak and broken, trying to find oxygen where there wasn’t any.
Your nails dug into his skin. You pulled at his hands, tried to say his name again, but only a strangled sound came out, almost unrecognizable. Tears filled your eyes before you could stop them.
And the worst part was that it was still Leon.
His hair fell over his forehead the way it always did. His shirt smelled like detergent and him. The hand stealing the air from your lungs was the same hand that had been stroking your back to help you fall asleep less than an hour earlier.
The contradiction was so cruel that a part of you couldn’t process it.
Then, somehow, you managed to touch his face.
It wasn’t a strong hit. Barely a clumsy, desperate tap against his cheek. But it was enough for Leon to suck in a sharp breath, as if something had violently dragged him up from underwater.
Then he looked at you.
And that second was almost worse than everything before it, because you saw consciousness return to him little by little. His eyes dropped to his own hand, still closed around your throat.
Leon let go of you as if you had burned him.
He backed away so quickly he almost fell off the bed, hitting the nightstand without even noticing. You half sat up, bringing both hands to your throat as you coughed violently, trying to drag air back into your lungs. Every breath scraped. Your throat burned. The sound that came out of you didn’t seem like your own.
Leon was standing on the other side of the bed.
The pale light from the window carved across his face, and you had never seen him like that. Not even after a mission. Not even when he had come home covered in wounds, his gaze lost.
This was different.
This was naked, absolute horror.
“No…” he murmured.
It was barely air.
You were still coughing. You tried to look at him, tried to say something, but you couldn’t. Your throat wouldn’t obey.
Leon took a step toward you by instinct, then stopped.
His eyes fell back to your neck, to the marks already beginning to turn red against your skin. The color drained from his face.
“No, no, no…” he repeated, this time with his voice breaking as he brought both hands to his head. “Oh my God. Oh my God, what did I do?”
The room filled with an unbearable silence.
Leon looked like he didn’t even dare to blink. His eyes were fixed on you, but not like before. Not with the quiet tenderness he had when he watched you in the kitchen or on the couch. He looked at you like you were living proof of everything he feared most about himself.
“Leon…” you finally managed to say.
Your voice came out hoarse, damaged, almost unrecognizable.
He brought a hand to his mouth, like he was going to be sick. His shoulders collapsed forward and he shook his head over and over again, unable to accept your broken voice, your marked throat, your wet eyes still trying to understand him even then.
You tried to move toward the edge of the bed. You didn’t know if you wanted to hug him, calm him down, or simply make sure he was there too, that both of you had made it back from that nightmare.
But the second he saw you trying to get closer, Leon stepped back.
“No,” he said, with a desperate urgency. “Don’t come near me.”
“Leon, you were asleep…” you said, your voice slowly clearing.
You stayed seated on the bed, struggling to breathe, while he began to fall apart in front of you in a silent, horrible way. Leon didn’t cry like other people. He didn’t allow himself to collapse completely. He only went very still. Too still. His jaw barely trembling, his eyes shining with a guilt that looked like it was eating him alive from the inside.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He couldn’t.
“Leon.”
It took him several seconds to obey. When he finally lifted his gaze, there was so much fear in his eyes that for a moment, you forgot the pain in your throat. Leon Kennedy, the man who had survived monsters, dying cities, missions that would have destroyed anyone else, was looking at you like a terrified child who had just discovered his nightmares could crawl out of his head and touch the only good thing he had.
“I thought…” he started, but the sentence broke before it could go anywhere. “I was there again. I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell the difference. Someone was on top of me, or I was… I don’t know. I don’t know what I saw. I just know that when I opened my eyes, it was you and I…”
Leon tore his eyes away from your neck and pushed both hands into his hair, tugging at it with such raw desperation that it hurt to watch. His breathing began to break, first in short, dry bursts, then into a sob he tried to swallow but that came out anyway, ugly and devastating.
He bent forward, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and head lowered, as if the weight of everything he had spent years burying had fallen on him all at once.
“No,” he repeated, but it no longer sounded like an order meant for you. It sounded like a plea against himself. “No, no, no… God, no.”
Leon broke with a choked, almost childlike sound, bringing one hand to his mouth as if he was ashamed you could hear him. His chest tightened, his shoulders began to shake, and suddenly there was no agent, no survivor, no man capable of walking into hell and coming out alive even if it tore him apart.
There was only Leon, barefoot in the dark bedroom, crying like he had become the boy who learned too early that no one was coming to save him.
“I can’t do this to you,” he said between sobs, almost breathless. “Not to you. Not you.”
You moved slowly, with all the care in the world, as if any sudden gesture could make him believe he was still inside the nightmare. You got out of bed without coming too close, keeping your hands visible, your voice low and soft, even though you were trembling inside too.
“Leon, look at me for a second.”
He shook his head, pressing his fingers to his eyes.
“No. I can’t look at you after…” The sentence died in his mouth. He sobbed again, harder this time, with a broken anger that seemed to come from somewhere very old. “I saw your face. I saw your face and I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know if it was you, I didn’t know if I was there, I didn’t know if it was…” He ran out of voice, breathing too fast. “And my hands were on your throat.”
“You were asleep.”
Leon’s head snapped up.
His eyes were red, bright, full of a guilt so wild it looked like he was hating himself with everything he had.
“What if I hadn’t woken up?” he asked, his voice destroyed. “What if next time I don’t wake up? What if you can’t…” He choked on the sentence, pressed a hand to his chest, and shut his eyes like he was going to be sick. “I can’t. I can’t touch you. I can’t be near you.”
That hurt more than the mark on your throat.
Because you knew him. Leon was scared, trying to tear himself out of your life before, in his mind, he could destroy it. He was the same man who blamed himself for cities he couldn’t save, for partners he couldn’t bring back, for decisions made when he was barely more than a boy in a uniform too big for him, a gun in his hand. He was Leon locking himself back inside that dark room from his childhood, where no one had ever taught him that love could stay even when he was a mess.
“I’m not going to leave you just because you’re scared,” you murmured.
“Please,” he said then, and that word completely disarmed you. “Please don’t make this harder.”
You stayed still. Not because you wanted to obey him, but because you understood that coming closer without permission, right then, could sink him even further. Leon was trembling all over. His breathing was out of control, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, and still, he couldn’t stop staring at your neck.
“Okay,” you whispered. “I’m not going to touch you if you don’t want me to. But stay here with me. Breathe with me.”
He didn’t answer.
“Look at my hand,” you said, lifting it slowly between the two of you. “Just that. Don’t look at my neck. Don’t look at anything else. Look at my hand.”
Leon swallowed. It took him an awful effort, but eventually he obeyed. His eyes dropped to your fingers as you opened and closed them slowly, giving him a simple, almost silly rhythm, as if you were calling back a part of him that had been trapped somewhere else.
“Breathe in with me,” you asked. “One… two… three…”
His chest rose shakily.
“That’s it. Now let it out.”
The air left him broken.
The second breath was worse than the first. The third too. But by the fourth, his shoulders lowered just a little, enough for you to see he was trying to come back.
“You’re not there,” you told him softly. “You’re home, with me. Your boots are by the door because you never put them away properly, even though you swear you do.”
Leon made a sound that almost became a laugh, but turned into another sob instead.
“And I’m here,” you continued. “I’m alive.”
He covered his face with both hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and then again, lower, more broken. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to open your eyes and see that the only person who…” His mouth trembled, unable to say it without falling apart. “The only person who has ever made me feel safe was scared of me.”
That was when you couldn’t stop your own eyes from filling with tears.
Because Leon never said things like that. Never so clearly. He loved you in small, quiet, almost clumsy acts sometimes. Checking your car before a trip. Leaving you the warm side of the bed when he got up earlier. Making coffee even when his hands were shaking after a bad night. Staying awake watching the door while you slept.
Hearing him admit you were his safe place while he hated himself for making you afraid was too much.
“Leon,” you said, taking one tiny step closer. “I was scared of what was happening. Not of you.”
The sentence came out so small that for a moment, you stopped seeing the grown man in front of you. You saw the boy who had probably learned to hide in silence, not to ask for help, not to cry too loudly because no one would comfort him, or because crying only made things worse. You saw the teenager who probably grew up believing affection always came with conditions, that tenderness could disappear at any second, that if someone touched him, it was safer to prepare for the blow. You saw that twenty-one-year-old boy who arrived in Raccoon City with his whole life ahead of him and left with eyes that looked older forever.
And you understood Leon wasn’t only crying because of that night.
He was crying for all the nights of his life.
“Come to the bathroom with me,” you whispered.
He looked up, confused, still soaked in tears.
“What?”
“Not for anything weird. Just… come. Let’s wash our faces. Both of us.”
You walked toward the door slowly, without touching him. At first, you thought he wouldn’t follow. You heard him breathing behind you, too still, too lost. But a few seconds later, the mattress creaked, and his footsteps appeared behind you, uncertain.
In the bathroom, the light was too white.
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: messy hair, wet eyes, your throat marked. Leon saw it too. He froze in the doorway, jaw clenched, and for a second you thought he was going to leave.
“Don’t look at that right now,” you asked him.
“How can I not look at it?”
“Because right now I need you to look at me.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t. He just stood there, broken and obedient, his eyes lowering to your face as if he expected to find hatred there.
He didn’t.
He only found exhaustion, fear still, yes, but also love.
So much love.
You turned on the faucet and waited until the water ran warm. You soaked a small towel, wrung it out, and moved closer to him, stopping before touching his face.
“Can I?”
Leon swallowed. His eyes filled again. He nodded once, barely, and you lifted the towel to his cheek.
You cleaned him with a tenderness that almost hurt. You passed the damp fabric beneath his eyes, along his jaw, over his trembling mouth as he tried to hold back more sobs. Leon closed his eyes when you touched his forehead, and suddenly he looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
He was exhausted from waking up every night ready to fight ghosts no one else could see.
“You were little,” you murmured, not really knowing whether you meant the nightmare, Raccoon, his childhood, or all of it at once. “Too little for everything that happened to you. And then the world just kept asking for more.” You wiped away another tear before it could fall. “More strength, more cold blood, more missions…”
Leon lowered his head.
This time, when he cried, he didn’t try to hide it as quickly. The sound came from deep in his chest, raw and aching, and you set the towel down on the sink so you could hold his face between your hands. He tensed at first, but he didn’t pull away.
“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he confessed, his voice barely there. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to… stop. When I was a kid, I learned not to make noise, not to bother anyone, to hold on until it passed. After Raccoon…” He shut his eyes tightly. “Just more orders, more dead people. And then you came along, and for the first time I thought maybe I could have something clean. Something that wasn’t rotten because of everything I’ve touched.”
It hurt to hear him talk about himself like that.
“You’re not rotten, Leon,” you told him, frowning at his words.
“You don’t know how many things I’ve done.”
“I know how you love me.”
He opened his eyes, ruined.
You stroked his cheekbones with your thumbs. Leon closed his eyes again and rested his forehead against yours with a trembling slowness, like such a simple gesture scared him and soothed him at the same time.
“I want to shower,” he murmured suddenly. “I need to… get this off me.”
You prepared the shower while he sat on the closed toilet lid, staring at a fixed point on the floor, fingers intertwined, shoulders collapsed. You left a clean towel nearby and adjusted the water until it was warm. You didn’t try to make it romantic. There was nothing like that in that moment. Only care. Only real intimacy, the kind that asks for nothing but to hold the other person when they can’t hold themselves.
When he stepped under the water, he left the shower door partly open, maybe because the idea of being completely alone with his head scared him. You sat on the bathroom floor, leaning your back against the sink cabinet, so he could see you if he opened his eyes.
At first, he said nothing.
The water fell over his hair, down his neck and back, and Leon pressed one hand against the wall, lowering his head. His shoulders started shaking again. This time, he didn’t do it silently. He cried with the water falling over him, his breathing broken, one hand covering his mouth and the other gripping the tile, as if that shower were the only place where he could let himself fall apart.
“I’m here,” you reminded him very softly.
Leon nodded without looking at you, but his fingers loosened slightly against the wall.
When he stepped out, wrapped in a towel, wet hair sticking to his forehead, he looked younger. Not calmer yet, but less far away. His eyes were swollen, his face clean, his skin flushed from the hot water, and there was such obvious fragility to him that you wanted to hug him until the whole world went quiet.
You handed him a clean shirt. He took it with clumsy fingers.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Come here.”
This time, he didn’t step back.
You moved closer slowly and dried his hair with another towel, rubbing gently, careful not to make any sudden movements. Leon let you, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his gaze lowered and his hands resting on his knees. Every now and then, a late sob escaped him, one of those that linger after the worst of the crying has passed.
Leon had never received this as a child.
You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, barely brushing him.
Then, with a slowness that almost undid you, he rested his forehead against your stomach and closed his eyes.
He didn’t hug you at first. He only stayed there. Then you lowered one hand to his damp hair and the other to the back of his neck, holding him carefully.
It was enough.
Leon let out a trembling breath and wrapped his arms around your waist. Not tightly, not like before, but with fear, with reverence, as if he were holding something sacred he never wanted to break again.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your shirt.
You returned to the bedroom without rushing.
You changed the sheets because Leon couldn’t look at the bed without tensing, and you didn’t argue. You let him do something useful: gather the old sheets, open the window for a few seconds, adjust the pillows. You knew he needed to feel like his hands could be used to care, not only destroy.
After everything was clean and the room smelled faintly of cold air and soap, you turned off the main light and left only the bedside lamp on.
Leon stood beside the bed.
“I can sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t want you to sleep on the couch,” you answered quickly. “You can stay on the other side of the bed. We can leave space between us. We can keep the light on. We can do whatever you need, but I don’t want you punishing yourself.”
His eyes filled with tears again, though this time they didn’t fall with the same violence. He looked too exhausted even to hate himself.
“What do you need?” he asked.
The question touched something deep inside you.
“I need you to listen when I tell you I’m still here. And I need you not to push me away.”
Leon nodded.
You got into bed carefully. He lay on his back, rigid, hands on his chest, staring at the ceiling. You turned toward him. For a while, you didn’t touch him. You only watched him breathe, noticing how every muscle in his body still seemed ready to run.
“Leon.”
He barely turned his head.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question seemed to hurt him and comfort him at the same time.
“Yes,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.
You moved just close enough to kiss his cheek.
Once.
Then again, a little higher.
Then his temple, where his hair was still damp. His forehead, over a crease of tension that refused to disappear. The bridge of his nose. His cheekbone, just beneath his eye, where the salty trace of tears still lingered.
Leon closed his eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured.
You gave him another kiss on the cheek.
“You’re good, Leon.”
His breath caught.
Tears slipped out again, silent this time, sliding toward his temples. You kissed the corner of his mouth with such tenderness it was barely a touch. You only wanted him to know your love hadn’t been extinguished by fear.
“You are not your nightmares,” you whispered. “You are not what they did to you, or Raccoon, or the hands of whoever hurt you when you were little. You’re Leon. My Leon. And you’re here with me.”
He turned his face toward you, completely disarmed.
“I’m scared to sleep.”
“Then don’t sleep yet. Stay with me.”
Leon swallowed and nodded, though every part of him still looked like it wanted to keep apologizing until his voice gave out.
He watched you for a few seconds, as if he were still asking for permission in silence, and then he moved toward you with a broken, almost ashamed slowness. He didn’t hug you all at once. First, he rested his forehead against your chest, right above your heartbeat, and when he heard it still there, alive and steady beneath his ear, something in him finally surrendered.
His arms wrapped carefully around your waist, still trembling, and he clung to you as if you were the only thing capable of keeping him in the present. You ran a hand through his hair slowly, feeling his breathing fall apart against your shirt in small, exhausted sobs, and Leon squeezed his eyes shut, hiding his face in you like a child who had finally found a safe place to break without being left alone.
“When I was little,” he whispered against your chest, “sometimes I imagined someone coming into my room and telling me I could sleep. That I didn’t have to watch the door. That I didn’t have to listen for footsteps.”
You moved a little closer and covered his face in small, slow kisses, placing them wherever the pain seemed to have settled. His forehead. His temple. His cheek. His closed eyelid. The tip of his nose. His tense jaw.
Leon slowly stopped crying.
“You can sleep,” you told him softly. “I’m here. The door is closed. No one is going to hurt you. I’m with you.”
His mouth trembled one last time.
Leon closed his eyes.
For a moment, you thought he was going to cry again, but he only let out a long, tired, almost defeated sigh. The tension in his shoulders began to loosen very slowly, like a rope that had finally stopped being pulled to the point of snapping.
“I love you,” he murmured, his voice so small it seemed to come from some hidden place inside him.
“I love you too.”
Leon kept looking at your face through half-lidded eyes, as if he needed to check one more time that you were still there, that you hadn’t become another loss, that the night hadn’t taken away the only good thing he allowed himself to want.
You stroked his knuckles with your thumb, slowly, over and over again, until his breathing began to match yours.
In the end, Leon fell asleep without letting go of you.
It wasn’t a deep sleep at first. His brow furrowed every now and then, his hand tightened over yours, and every small sound in the apartment seemed to brush against his skin even while he slept. But he wasn’t alone inside his head anymore. Every time his breathing changed, you whispered his name gently, and he came back.
And when his body finally surrendered completely, Leon searched for your warmth, his face calmer than you had seen it all night.
You pressed one last kiss to his forehead.
“That’s it, love,” you whispered, even though he could barely hear you anymore. “Rest. You don’t have to survive tonight anymore.”
hope you enjoyed it! i'm open to any requests! follow me on ao3 too here
Summary: Things aren't as good as you thought they were, but you have to make the best of it as the time finally comes to meet your spawn.
Pairing: Yautja x human
Word Count: 3,632 words
Warnings: Angst, intense emotional turmoil, depression, pregnancy mood swings, childbirth, slight blood, not super descriptive, author has never given birth just going off of research so sorry for any inconsistensies
A/N: Here it is after like five months of making you wait...so sorry...but it has happened! Baby is here and well, you'll see.
MASTERLIST | <- Previous
As your due date looms closer and closer, you find yourself slowly losing your mind.
Cravings come that you can’t satiate, often reducing you to tears. Your stomach grows heavier and heavier, making your back ache so badly sometimes you can’t even get out of bed. The swelling has started, as you realize one day you can’t put on your sandals without the straps cutting into your skin. That sends you right back into bed to cry.
Tayin comes to visit sometimes, bringing you food and tea. It helps, to a point. The tea only alleviates the aches and pains. It can’t do much for your rapidly deteriorating mental state.
You miss home. You miss Earth. You miss your family, your friends, even if you barely spoke to either. You miss Earth culture, Earth food, Earth clothing. You want to put on a pair of converse and take a walk in a park surrounded by trees and birds and a stream. You want to see snow again. You want to stand out in the rain and let it soak you until you’re freezing. You want to go home, away from this alien planet and its strange customs and food and people.
You miss humans.
It only makes you feel guilty.
Ute has been nothing but kind to you. Supportive, caring. He fought for you, saving you when he didn’t have to, threatening the clan leader, ostracizing himself from his people for your sake. He’s gone so far as to send his brother to get Dr. Pepper for you, buying you ingredients to try and replicate Earth foods. He’s trying, but it doesn’t feel like enough, and that makes you feel guilty.
It’s entirely normal, being homesick after months on an alien planet. Throwing in the emotional turmoil of being pregnant certainly doesn’t help either. Your body is under constant stress and strain from growing an alien spawn on an alien planet. A spawn you don’t want, you wouldn’t have wanted, had it been up to you. A spawn you had forced on you by the government and for what? The sake of doing it because they could?
A dark part of you wishes Ute had left you there in the lab. Then your spawn wouldn’t have been your responsibility. They’d let you keep it until it was old enough, but then they’d whisk it away to raise as they saw fit. What would they have done with you after, if they didn’t have Ute? Surely they had more samples from him. Would they have forced you to play broodmare until they used every last bit of his DNA? Then what? Would they have saddled you with at least one of the spawn, assessing how one raised by a human would turn out? Nature versus nurture?
You can’t imagine you’d be very nurturing.
Would they have drawn Ute back somehow? Used your soulmate mark against him to try and recapture him? Would he have come back for you at some point? Or would he have left you for good in the hands of the government who would never let you go?
He had no reason to care for you, outside of a mark on your skin.
Yet he’s done everything he can to make you comfortable, provide for you, maybe even love you.
And here you are, complaining that it’s not enough.
Tears wet your pillow as you lay in bed, curled up on your side. Laying on your back is now impossible, as you feel like your spine and organs might be crushed by the heavy weight of the spawn inside of you. Ute lays behind you in the dark, his claw absentmindedly tracing the mark on your skin. There’s a low rumbling sound coming from his chest, an undertone to your occasional shaky inhales and sniffles.
“What can I do?” He asks softly.
A sob leaves your lips at the sincerity of it. He’d burn down the world if you asked him to. That only makes you cry harder.
“Nothing,” you manage to gasp out, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. “It’s just my stupid brain and these fucking hormones.” You sigh, turning your face into your pillow for a moment.
Ute is quiet, his hand stilling on your arm. He’s been so good to you, such a trooper through your ups and downs. Each mood swing is met with kindness and understanding, even when you cursed him out for existing.
“I can’t wait until the pregnancy is over.” You sniffle, wiping your cheeks. “My body can go back to fucking normal, except for the fact I’ll need infusions of your blood every six months for the rest of my life.” You laugh sardonically.
You curse yourself silently for that day, when you uploaded your data into the soulmate registry. Going the rest of your life never finding your soulmate would have been better than this.
“Let’s just go to sleep.” You sniffle, curling tighter into a ball, as much as you can with your stomach in the way.
Ute doesn’t move for a long moment, his hand still touching you. He doesn’t say anything, but you get the feeling he wants to. Instead he keeps silent, his hand moving from your skin as he rolls onto his back. More tears spill down your cheeks as you descend into silence once more, broken only by the occasional snore from Ute.
****
The next day doesn’t bring better feelings. Guilt eats away at you from your thoughts, brought in by the darkness of your depression, your homesickness, your refusal to accept your new reality. Ute knows something is wrong, but you won’t let him in, so he keeps his distance. He spends a lot of time upstairs keeping himself busy as you rot away alone, swollen near to bursting. You want this spawn out of you. You want to belong to yourself again.
This distance that’s been driven between the two of you has your chest aching. It’s the bond trying to tug the two of you close again, where you should be. You wonder if he feels the same, if he feels that desperate tugging.
It is possible to break a bond. It does happen. Not often, but you’ve read stories, Reddit threads of those who survived a severed bond. A lifetime of pain and emptiness awaits, brought on by choice or by falling out of love.
You don’t want to break the bond. You love Ute, deep down beneath the depression and violently swinging moods. You’d be fine if you weren’t pregnant. That’s what you keep telling yourself. It’s your condition, and the feeling of being trapped because of it. Could eh take you home to visit if you weren’t close to bursting with his spawn? Once the spawn has been birthed could you see Earth again? Just a glimpse, just a step onto your home soil would be enough. Just a breath of clean oxygen and a gravitational field that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to compress you into the ground.
Maybe that’s just your spawn making everything harder.
God you can’t wait to get this thing out of you.
****
“Ute?” You ask him, seated across from him at the table.
He grunts, spearing a chunk of meat into his mouth.
“How long have we been here?” You ask, pushing vegetables around on your plate. You’ve been trying to keep track, but their time system is different than the one you’re used to.
He’s quiet for a moment, probably doing the mental math. “Nearly ten months.” He says.
“Great.” You say. Tayin told you yautja pregnancies last around ten months. “So I could give birth any minute now.”
Ute goes quiet, staring at you like the reality of the situation is finally hitting him. It could happen as soon as tonight.
Tayin had said she’d be there for you, promising to support you through the birth and the days after, which you’ve always heard is the hardest. How different are yautja newborns from human ones? Tayin says they suckle almost immediately, but how will your human DNA change things?
The nightmare creature your brain had created flashes through your mind once again.
You wince, spearing a vegetable with your fork. Might as well eat now while you still feel like it. Who knows when things will go downhill.
****
It’s like you cursed yourself.
You’re getting ready for bed when you feel it, a rush of fluid dripping down your thighs. You freeze, standing there wide-eyed.
“What?” Ute asks, kneeling on the bed.
“I think my water just broke.” You say, reaching a hand between your thighs to check and make sure it’s not blood.
Ute jumps off the bed, whipping his head around frantically.
“Hold on, big guy.” You say, holding your hands out. “Tayin said it could be a day before labor starts.”
He grumbles something before leaving the room, his steps retreating up the stairs. You sigh, wiping the fluid from your skin as best you can before curling up on the bed. This is really happening. As soon as tomorrow you could have your spawn in your arms.
Ute returns, sitting on the edge of the bed behind you. “Pain?” He asks, tilting his head to glance at you.
You shake your head. “No. Nothing.”
He hums, sitting still as a board on the edge of the bed. You want to spend your last night of freedom sleeping as much as you can, but your on-edge yautja is making that hard. He’s never done this before either, just as clueless as you are. You’re both running with what Tayin told you, based on her own experiences, which could be completely different from what you will experience as a human.
You’re half asleep when a knock sounds at the door, Ute rising to open it. Voices filter through, two female voices. He’s called his sister and his mother already.
Tayin enters the room, moving to your side of the bed. You crack your eyes open, staring up at her as she leans over you. Her hand presses against your stomach, gently feeling along your bump. “Suckling is low.” She says, removing her hand.
“Tomorrow.” Ven’tea nods, sounding very sure of herself.
They leave you alone, moving back out into the main area. You let out a shuddering breath, nerves twisting in your stomach. Tomorrow. By tomorrow you’ll have your spawn in your arms, if Ven’tea is correct, which you have little doubt she is. You have no choice but to trust your female in-laws, putting your life and well-being into their hands. Not just yours, but that of your spawn as well.
What if something goes wrong? What if there’s a complication? What if its too big and gets stuck? You could easily die giving birth to a regular human baby, but an alien one? A giant alien baby? Could they perform a c-section if needed? You don’t doubt that, given their advanced technology, but how would it affect you? You’re not like them, far more delicate and breakable.
Oh god, this baby could break bones trying to get out.
You curl up tighter in a ball, pressing your hands against your stomach. The spawn is alive and kicking, what you think is a foot pressing against your palm. It must be head down by now, ready to come sliding out in a wave of blood and gore.
“Sleep. You’ll need it.” You hear Ven’tea say moments before Ute returns.
The bed dips behind you as the lights turn off, leaving the room in darkness. Ute presses up against your back, letting his hand fall on top of yours.
“Tomorrow.” You whisper, letting your eyes drift closed.
He grumbles low in his chest, the sound rumbling through you. His hand doesn’t move even as he drifts off to sleep, his breaths slow and even. What is he feeling in this moment? Some parental panic, given how early he called his sister and mother. He’s not the one that has to deliver the baby. He’s got it easy.
Unless something happens...then he has to live with the guilt.
You let out a sigh, relaxing as you start to drift off to sleep.
It’s sometime in the middle of the night when the first cramps begin. They’re hardly more than period cramps, low in your belly, enough to wake you but not enough to draw much of a reaction. They last for a few seconds before stopping, enough time passing between them that you drift off back to sleep before being woken by the next round of cramping.
It’s happening, your sleepy mind puts together. These are your first contractions. Labor has started.
Despite that frightening thought you manage to sleep until morning, waking with your contractions now that your mind has put a name to them. Ute sleeps through the night, entirely unbothered an unworried.
Lucky him.
Breakfast is waiting when you wake, Ven’tea making a full spread for the four of you. You don’t feel much like eating, the cramps having intensified just a bit, but you know you should. It’s important that you keep your strength, that you’re as prepared as you can be for when it finally happens.
Any time today.
“Do you have pain?” Tayin asks, sitting next to you at the table.
“A bit.” You answer honestly. “It started last night. Maybe an hour or two between.”
She grunts, putting a hand on your stomach again, pressing lightly.
She doesn’t say anything more, perhaps satisfied with her examination. You’ve still got a ways to go, you know that much from your own knowledge of childbirth. Timing the contractions is important, as that will tell you how close you are to holding your spawn in your arms.
The nightmare creature flashes through your mind again.
Not helpful.
****
As the day drags on, the cramping gets worse. The closer the contractions grow, the worse they get, stealing your breath from your lungs as your stomach clenches. Ute has been pacing so much he’s nearly worn holes in the floor, Tayin and Ven’tea looking entirely unbothered as they count minutes between contractions, constantly pressing at your stomach to feel where the spawn is. He feels low, lower than you’ve ever felt him, a constant pressure on your organs sending you constantly to the bathroom.
“Can it just happen already?” You groan, breathing hard after another set of contractions.
“It is almost time to go.” Ven’tea says, tapping at the tablet screen.
Tayin had told you most yautja gave birth at home, aided by other females or a healer if needed. You, however, were going to give birth in Netaande’s clinic, given the risks and the endless possibilities of something going wrong through this process. No one truly knows what to expect, and you can imagine Netaande is beyond gleeful to have this experience. He’s been more than fascinated in your biology, the ways you differ from yautja, the possibilities of what this pregnancy means.
The four of you wait for another contraction to pass before deciding it’s time, Ute halfway to picking you up before you protest that you can walk. You may have to stop and take breaks, but you’re determined to have this one last moment of freedom before you’re ripped in half by an alien spawn.
The walk to the clinic takes longer than usual, even with how swollen you were towards the end. Ute hovers, hands outstretched like you might collapse at any moment. Tayin rolls her eyes, her and Ven’tea following leisurely behind you.
Eyes follow as you pass, children and adults alike watching as you make your way down the street to the clinic, hands clutching at your stomach as another contraction hits. You’re so ready for this to be over, so ready to have your body back, even if it means you’ll have a newborn to take care of.
Netaande is waiting for you at the front, speaking rapidly with Tayin and Ven’tea as he gets you comfortable inside. The metal table is far from a hospital bed, but it’s what you’ve got. It’s cold, though, nice against your heated skin. Ute hovers so much Netaande has to push him out of the way, forcing him into a seat across the room. He’s definitely not pouting, his eyes following the healer as he scans you, pressing against your stomach.
The waiting is the worst part. The contractions only grow more and more painful, your breaths coming in gasps as the pain ripples through you. They’re getting closer and closer together, only a couple of minutes passing between each. Ute has taken to pacing again, back and forth and back and forth. It’s annoying you, but you’re afraid of what he might take to doing should you make him stop. He might start chewing holes in the walls.
What happens next is a blur of pain.
You vaguely remember Netaande telling you to push, your body curling up off of the table as you bear down. Tayin and Ven’tea were voicing praises and motivation as you bore down, clutching Ute’s hand so tightly you thought you could feel his bones grinding together.
It was like being torn in half, the pain intense, unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Your entire body was aflame, too hot and too cold at the same time. You could feel it moving, sliding out of you like a slippery eel.
There’s no sound when its born, when she is born. No crying, only a weak sound before she’s placed on your chest, blood and fluid coated limbs flailing.
She looks like a yautja.
Mottled green skin, four mandibles flaring as her mouth seeks you. Small numbs protrude from the top of her head where her locs will grow in, tiny fingers with blunt claws reach into the air as she squirms.
Tayin takes over, guiding her mouth to your breast. She latches immediately, suckling until milk starts to seep out into her little mouth. She has no teeth, something you’re grateful for.
“Oh my god.” You breathe, holding her against your chest. Ute is staring down at you, blinking rapidly like he might cry. Can yautja cry? You’ve never thought about that before. “She’s so tiny.”
She is small, smaller than you expected her to be considering the size you had grown to. Tears blur your vision as you stare down at her, stroking her tiny cheek with your finger. Her skin is soft, not rough like Ute’s.
You’re completely unaware of what’s happening at the end of the table, entirely too focused on your little girl, which was probably a good thing.
Ute brushes her tiny arm with his finger, as if he’s trying to check she really is real.
“Look at her, Ute.” You say, sniffling quietly.
“She’s beautiful.” He says quietly, her hand wrapping around his finger. He’s careful not to cut her with his claw, letting her cling to him as she eats.
“Tiny.” Tayin says, staring down at her niece.
“That’s probably my fault.” You huff out a laugh. “My genes made her small.”
“She will grow.” Tayin says, brushing a finger over her head. “Bigger than you.”
“I hope so.” You smile, pulling her away once she’s done eating, letting Netaande clean her up and check her over.
You’re exhausted, laying back against the table that’s slick with your sweat, completely uncaring that your tits are hanging out. No one seems to care much, Ven’tea dabbing at your face with a cool cloth.
“I feel like I could sleep for a week.” You breathe, letting your eyes close for a moment. You’re aching, the pain coming back to you now that you don’t have the distraction of your baby.
You glance over to where she’s being swaddled in a blanket, clean of blood and fluid, her skin looking greener than it had before. Do their colors change as they age? More vibrant as children before fading as they get older? There’s so much you don’t know, so many other questions now that she’s really here.
“I have so many more questions.” You say, looking up at Tayin.
“I will answer.” She says, patting the top of your head.
Netaande puts your daughter back in your arms now that she’s clean, her eyes wide open as she stares up at you. Can she see right away or is she like a human baby, looking at a blurry world around her?
“Hi love.” You say softly, smiling down at her. “I didn’t think you’d be this cute.”
The nightmare image you had conjured is gone now that you have the truth before you. A yautja pup through and through, if a bit small.
“I think your daddy would like to hold you,” you say, a bit hesitant to let her go, but it’s only fair.
Ute looks unsure as you hold her out, almost hesitant to take her. You give him a reassuring smile as he takes her, her tiny form looking even smaller in his arms. He looks like he might cry again, more emotion in his eyes than you’ve ever seen before as he stares down at his daughter.
“What is her name?” Ven’tea asks.
A name. You hadn’t discussed names. The prospect had made it feel all too real. Now you have to name her. Now you have to come up with something to call her, something that will define her entire life.
“Dikea.” Ute says, saving you from trying to come up with something Yautja sounding.
“Dikea.” You say, trying it out on your tongue. “I like it.” You say, telling the truth. It’s a cute name, fitting for her little form. You reach out a finger, stroking her cheek. “Hello, Dikea.”
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
The voices wake you.
Low, rough, they seep through the floorboards, down the hall to where you’re curled up in the back corner of a closet, tucked away with your back to the wall, covered in the blankets you stripped from the bed.
You slept here, you think, though the last twenty four hours are pretty hazy. You were in the SUV for a while, speeding down the highway as you desperately tried to keep track of the road signs, which way you were headed, trying to hold onto a sense of direction, only for it to slip through your fingers as night crept into day, and the highway turned into back roads.
“Where are we going? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” You asked, again and again, and only Johnny answered, turned around in the front seat to face you, blue eyes piercing yours.
“We’re takin’ ye to a safe house, an’ we’ll explain everythin’ as soon as we get settled. Ye should try to get some sleep, it’s a long drive.”
They told you nothing after that and as hard as you tried to fight it, sleep took you. Your nervous system was shot, the car was unnecessarily warm, and their proximity, their scents… it was a battle you were never going to win.
Even after they pulled into the driveway of a very normal looking house in an unknown town, they said nothing. Only opened the child locked doors and watched as you uneasily stumbled out of the car, warily walking between them up the stairs to the front door, half asleep. Sick to your stomach.
You slept walked inside, following behind Johnny as he led you to a bedroom.
“We’ll stay here for the night.”
“For the night?” Nothing made sense in your brain. This was a bad dream, you decided. One you just needed to wake up from. He nodded. Some sort of sympathy shone in his eyes, but it was dark around the edges, clear blue waters turned caliginous.
“We’ll move again in the mornin’.”
You should have questioned him, pushed back, argued, but you didn’t have anything left in you. You were drained, and there was an inner desire growing inside you, one that was desperately trying to push you into the arms of your mates.
Mates, who wanted nothing to do with you.
Mates, who you wanted nothing to do with.
So instead, you turned your back. Dragged the blankets and pillows from the bed and curled up in the closet, hidden away from the world, from them, at least for the rest of the night.
Now, their voices are what rouse you. They grow louder, closer, reverberating down the hall until they stop, and a knock sounds in their place.
You instinctively press back against the wall.
It’s quiet, and then… your name.
It’s not the first time you’ve heard it from them, your memory is hazy but you remember Johnny, or Simon, saying it while the three of you were running. Though it sounds different now, in the light of day, less like a command.
More knocks, this time more insistent, and you hold your breath, waiting. Wondering.
It doesn’t take long. The door creaks open, boot steps echoing across the wooden floor, coming to a stop in front of the closet.
Maybe you should run now. Or fight. Launch yourself out of the closet like a wild cat and attack.
Where would you go? You don’t even know where you are.
You’re still holding your breath. You don’t want to smell them, don’t want the leather and tea to sink into your skin, don’t want it to rearrange your soul. You don’t want them.
The closet door swings open, and there he is.
Johnny.
He’s clean, showered looks like, wet hair at his nape, eyes shining and bright. His bond mark, the bite, peeks out over the collar of his jumper, and you can’t help but stare at it.
“Good mornin’.” His lips quirks to the side with an almost smile. “Did ye sleep in here?” You don’t answer. You can’t, everything is jumbled up in your head now, your demands, your confusion, your fear, all of it compounded by the pain that’s starting to ebb back into your bones. All you can manage is,
“I want to go home.” His almost smile turns almost sympathetic.
“There’s breakfast in the kitchen. An’ tea.” He shifts, opening up space between him and the closet. “Will ye come out? We can talk.” Breakfast, tea. Normal things. Like any of this is normal.
When you don’t move, he sighs.
“If ye dinnae come out on yer own, I’ll have to do it myself.” Your eyes go wide.
“What? And drag me out of here?” His mouth tightens.
“If I have to.” Your throat goes dry, panic swooping up your spine, hard and fast, and for a second all you can do is stare at him wordlessly. Map his face, his shoulders, his hands, the body of your alpha, your mate, a piece of fate that was supposed to make you feel safe. Make you feel loved.
“I don’t understand what’s happening.” Your voice is small, as small as you feel. Pathetic.
“I know.” He shifts, creates room between him and closet door, and jerks his head. “Let’s go down, get somethin’ to eat, and I’ll explain what’s happenin’, alright?” You stay frozen, and he sighs. “C’mon omega, ye must be hungry. An’ ye cannae take yer meds on an empty stomach.” The reminder of your meds sends scorching shame into your cheeks, and you look past him, through him, to the bedroom door, the hallway and kitchen and world waiting beyond, all of it unfamiliar and cold.
Yours instincts are at war. Part of you wants to burrow down into this makeshift nest and never leave, part of you wants to run screaming down the hall and through the front door, and part of you, the most foul, traitorous part, wants to bury your face in Johnny’s neck and breathe him in. Breathe him into your bones.
These aren’t options, and you don’t like Johnny’s either.
So you move.
The table is set for one. A plate of food, a fork and knife, a steaming mug of tea. You say nothing as you slide into a chair, Johnny doing the same across from you with a shadow over his shoulder.
Simon.
He’s not wearing the mask now. He towers over the table with a watchful expression, sweeping you from head to toe like he’s completing an inspection. If you pass, if you fail, you can’t tell. His face gives nothing away.
Your focus drifts past the plate of eggs and toast to the orange bottles in the middle of the table.
Your meds.
Instinct has you reaching for them, standing out of your seat, relief already settling in the pit of your stomach and calming the churning apprehension that’s been building, the dread of the misery you know is coming.
Simon beats you to it, swiping them up into a giant paw. “After you eat.”
“Are ye in pain?” Johnny asks softly, and you stare at a speck on the wall over his shoulder.
“I want to know what’s going on.” You can’t acknowledge the hurt, the suffering that they caused. It’s too much. Johnny’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t push.
“Alright.” He sighs. “Ye’re in danger.” Of course you realize this already, but to hearing it out loud feels so much worse. It hits you like a brick.
“Why?” You croak.
“Because of us.” Simon’s admission is rough and pointed like a serrated blade jammed up under your ribs. “Because of who you are, to us.”
“You mean… nothing?” You look away, look down at where your hands are twisted together in your lap. “That’s what I am to you, right?” Johnny leans in, scent sharpening.
“We lied.” You knew it down to your bones, you knew fate when you smelled it, but to hear it after seven months of tossing and turning over it, after being sick over it, it makes your head swim. “An’ we’re sorry ye’re hurtin’-”
“You rejected me.” You whisper, gaze snapping up, flicking between their faces. Simon’s expression is a mask of neutrality, Johnny’s more focused. You wouldn’t say either are particularly kind, but maybe you don’t know how to read them, yet. “You humiliated me.”
“We had to. The bond will put you in danger.” Will. The omega in you purrs at the intent, and you push it down.
“Why?” Simon rubs his jaw, folds his arms across his chest.
“Who we are, what we do, it’s dangerous. And there are people out there who will use you to get to us.” Dread churns in your stomach.
“Who you are?” Johnny nods.
“We’re in a task force, a multi-national special operations unit that handles time sensitive… problems.” You blink. Everything slows down as you try to piece it together, make it make sense. “Problems governments contract us to fix.”
“So… that’s like… the military?”
“Kind of. Maybe, outside the military a bit.” Johnny looks like he’s diffusing a bomb, deciding which wire to cut, which to leave intact.
“A lot.” Simon grunts. “We’re not part of any specific country’s military.” Right, multinational.
“Oh.” The food in front of you has never looked more unappetizing, not in the face of the conclusions you’re drawing. “So… you’re dangerous.” Johnny kind of grimaces, but Simon nods.
“And you’ll be collateral damage. The people that are after you, they’ll kill you if they get their hands on you.” You can feel the blood draining from your face.
“Si.” Johnny gives him a look, but the bigger man only shrugs.
“Need to make sure there are no misunderstandings. She needs to understand how serious this is.” Misunderstandings.
“What kind of misunderstandings?” When they don’t answer right away, you crack under the weight of Simon’s heavy gaze, the only thing you want, the only thing you know, slipping free from beneath your tongue. “I want to go home. Can I go home?” You ask weakly. Something dark curls around the edges of Johnny’s irises, a wisp of black smoke and shadow that clears when he shakes his head.
“No.” One word, cut and dry, and your nose stings with the threat of tears.
“You can’t just keep me here.” You protest, trying to control your breathing, your rising emotions.
“We’re not,” Simon deadpans, “we’re movin’ today.” Johnny scoots in, scraps his chair across the floor until his knees are almost touching yours, leaning down into your line of sight.
“The things we said at the diner, they were lies. We were tryin’ to protect ye from all this.” His hand goes flat on the table, inching closer, close enough you could twitch a finger and touch him. The temptation being pushed by your instincts is so strong, it’s almost too hard to fight it. “We know this is frightenin’, but ye have to trust us for now. We’re the only one who can keep ye safe.”
“And if I refuse?” Simon moves, settles into a chair opposite Johnny, the wood and screws groaning under his massive weight. He pushes the plate of breakfast towards you.
“That’s not an option.” You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head. “Eat your breakfast, take your meds, get dressed. We’ve got a long drive to the airstrip.”
“An airstrip?!” You squeak, eyes wide. “Like, for planes? We’re getting in a plane? Where are we going?” Your heart rate kicks up, rattling in your ears.
“Somewhere safe.” Johnny soothes, his scent turning sweeter, calming. “Somewhere ye can stay put for a while, where ye willnae be found.”
“But when it’s all over… I can go home?” You can feel the tension in the air, the tightrope you’re walking snapping taut.
“Once we’ve eliminated who identified ye, we’ll take ye home. I swear.” A dark, foul thought threads through your mind. One that immediately makes jealousy turn white hot, an iron begging to be touched.
“What about your omega?” Simon cocks his head.
“You’re our omega.” Syrupy sweetness spreads through your veins, sweeping you up into a haze of contentment. He said it. He said you were theirs. You have to actively choose, intentionally fight to hold onto your sense. It’s wrong, he’s wrong. You’ve seen the bites.
“N-no your… your marks…”
“They’re ours.” Johnny says gently, his eyes softening. “We’re bonded to each another.” He reaches for your hand, and instead of pulling away like you know you should, you let him take it. Let him rub his calloused thumb over your palm, let the closeness of your alpha, your mate, wash over you without protest. “We didnae know about ye, we would have waited if we did.” It’s too easy to fall into the sentiment, and your instinct is to preen, purr for your alphas.
It’s all too much, too confusing, your head is pounding and your muscles are sore, stomach twisting. It’s this exhaustion, this ache that has you breaking down, your shoulders slumping.
“Okay, I... okay.” You’re not sure what it is you’re saying okay to. You don’t have a choice in this matter, Simon has made that explicitly clear, and you’re in danger. Someone wants to kill you. What can you do?
Johnny pulls the mug of tea into his hands, long fingers stretching around the circumference of the chipped porcelain, and then pushes it into yours.
“Let’s get some breakfast into ye, an’ we’ll get ready to leave. That alright?” His palm settles on your knee, warmth bleeding through your leggings, and the touch smoothes some of the jagged edges in your mind. You nod.
Type: medieval-ish fairy-tale-fantasy-ish three-shot, angst with fluff and a bit of hurt and comfort
Pairing: king!Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 9400
Summary:
Stolen by a couple of mercenaries to become a gift to a king of a neighbouring kingdom, you’re helpless to but watch even the pitiful remnants of your life burn down – and with it, your hopes. For freedom. For a good life. For love.
There are all kinds of tales told about King Steve Rogers I.; and only time will tell which of them are true and which are mere rumours. You can only hope – but hope is a fickle, whimsical thing.
And so is fate.
Warnings: mentions of excruciating pain during Steve’s transformation, reference to period-typical violence, references to reader’s kidnapping, injuries and near-assault, allusions to (what we in the modern times would call) a panic attack, internalized misogyny and strict religious rules, clearly excellent parenting on the dad's side, lots of feels, my love for Steve showing a bit too much, … help me out here, did I miss anything?
A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting "in a few hours", I got stuck with writing the third part... and I know it took a while and I'm sorry, but LIFE 😭; divider by @thecutestgrotto, header is mine; Happy reading!💕
Two stairwells up.
A maze of corridors.
A quiet, distant part of the castle.
Safety; or a calculated imprisonment and an insurance that a guest would not wander anywhere near the people important to the crown nor near the kingdom’s most guarded secrets.
You did not know which one it was that you were led there – perhaps both.
If you truly were a guest to the king for a reason beyond your understanding, you were safely locked away from the men who had taken all but your dignity from you.
If you were a prisoner, you certainly would have never imagined to be treated with such kindness and be offered such luxury – and you had been raised better than to scoff at such generosity.
The space of the guest chamber was as large as the entirety of your home used to be, warmer in interior, colder in personal touch and memories. The windows appeared larger than life, allowing for the remnants of daylight to seep through the heavy curtains framing them, the beautifully decorated wardrobe as sturdy as the desk with two chairs at it, the vanity table crowned by a mirror whose frame alone was a piece of art.
The true jewel of the room, however, was the bed. An enormous bed built of dark wood, its carved detailed decoration calling for an admiration by a gentle touch; if you had dared to do such, however, you would have taken the damnest care to not put pressure on the fine piece of art heavier than a brush of butterfly wings. Your breath caught at the sight of the wooden leaves curling like vines around the bedframe with canopy of light, soft blue fabrics, partially concealing a place to lay one’s head you could hardly imagine sinking into for it appeared as soft as clouds in the skies.
Your gaze flickered all over the room, always, always drawn back to the bed. Your muscles felt suddenly weary like never before despite having handled years and years of hard work, your bones achy and joints stiff, silently begging to be put to a comfortable rest, no matter how otherworldly and unreal the cushions might look to your eye.
Your heart raced in your chest, every beat vigorous and painful, warning you of a lie and a trick – of this being but a taunt before you’d be dragged through another maze of corridors, downstairs this time, where you imagined the dungeons were awaiting you.
And yet.
Yet, a tender voice in your very soul hummed about comfort and safety and a promise – that this was yours, at least for the time being. A tender voice which suspiciously resembled that of your Steve, a ghost of an intangible touch brushing over your hand and squeezing in reassurance.
You are safe, my sweetling. And as gods command it, what is mine is yours – be it weighted in gold or in matters of heart.
You would swear you could hear it, a sweet voice of a man you had just met, whispering straight into your ear; and despite all rational thought cautioning you that believing this beautiful lie was madness, much like hearing the voice of someone who was not in the room with you was, there was a part of you somewhere deep within, that believed.
For all the tears you had shed in the past hours, for all the times your eyes burned but no tears had welled up anymore, the sincerity of that damn voice calling you a sweetling and his lady, chased fresh tears into your eyes.
“My lady? Are the chambers not to your satisfaction? Or are you in much pain?” another voice, distinctly female and most certainly real asked, causing you to snap from your reverie and straight to Natasha’s face.
You were shaking your head wildly, hands trembling, before you could hope to find your voice.
She did not need another answer. She smiled politely, nodding, busying herself with pointing out individual spaces, her words, however wasted in sharing the obvious, aiding in steadying your breath and hands, even as your mind spun, circling the one and only crucial question.
Why?
Why were you here, in luxurious guest chambers, with a woman to assist you, instead of being casted away? Or imprisoned? Why weren’t you already warming the king’s bed since that must have been the only reason to keep you since he had even said so – that he would do as he pleased? Why-
“-and I shall see to it that while you bath, some refreshments are prepared for you, for you must be weary after the… long journey,” the redhead added, her smile sympathetic, but not pitying; and where her words concealed the fact she could imagine how exactly your journey had gone, her knowing gaze did not.
Strangely enough, her eyes spoke not of pity either; instead, they seemed to speak of certain and quite absurdly misplaced pride.
“The water should be here in but a moment. Will you require assistance, my lady?”
You shook your head again as you dried the few tears that rolled down your burning cheeks, your lips quivering with a sob you refused to release. Natasha nodded.
“Very well, then. I shall be right outside, guarding your door alongside Sir Barnes. He is the most trusted friend and protector of the king – you may rest easy knowing he would not let any harm come to you.”
You blinked, taking a wavering breath, processing the new piece of information and hoping to hide the shudder at the image of a man standing at your door – to keep anyone from coming in and harming you indeed… or you from coming out and wandering. Or fleeing.
Not that you would wish to do either.
A bath, on the other hand, sounded heavenly; and the bed, gods help you, was calling out for you even as it was entirely inappropriate for a woman of your standing doing anything but fluffing the pillows for the nobility sleeping there.
“T-thank you kindly, good lady-“ you croaked, earning but a smile and no mocking at the terrible quality of your voice.
“Of course. You may call me Natasha, should you feel comfortable. I will leave you to it… I believe one should catch a moment of reprieve alone after having to deal with men.”
She winked, honest to gods – unless you dreamed it, much like you must have dreamed up all of this – and backed away from the room, shutting the doors behind her with practised quiet ease, before you could as much as muster up a response.
As soon as the door closed, you felt your chest deflate, one weight falling, another settling in with crushing intensity.
You realized that for the first time since having been ambushed by Dimitri and Henry, you breathed in freely; only for a sob to erupt from your throat, one you were quick to muffle with your palms. Your knees gave out, sending you toppling over to the floor arse first, the skirt of your new dress rustling, the noise barely registering over the sound of your frantic breathing and your thundering heart.
Natasha was not wrong; a moment of reprieve was much needed, even as the most intense of the feelings swirling in your chest was relief, raging in your head so loudly it swallowed even the confusion creeping all over your skin.
For long moments, you simply breathed, chest heaving, ugly sobs silenced by your hands, tears streaming down your face through tightly squeezed eyelids.
Gods. Gods, thank you, you prayed to heavens, to hell, to every flower, tree and living thing, to the goddess of fire and life and death and all those you could think of.
You might still not know what awaited you, but with hands free of the binds that had left marks on your wrists, and with deep certainty whose origin you were not quite sure of, you knew you were free of the men having taken you. And whatever fate the king would proclaim for you, you knew deep in your bones as well as in your soul that it would be fate much better than the one which you’d meet should Dimitri or Henry get their hands on you again.
By the time a tub and godly warm water with soft scent of lavender were brought – to you, for you, just for you, your mind supplied unhelpfully – you allowed the relief you had little basis for consume you, a reprieve indeed from worrying about the future.
In the soothing embrace of the bath, even the marks left on your skin appeared less angry; more irritation than scrapes, more bruising than blood.
Soaking your skin in the warmth and another moment blissfully alone, your thoughts wandered to your late mother; wishing you could ask for advice or simply share the overwhelming emotions, good or bad. But most of all, you recalled her gentle touch and allowed the echo her sweet voice fill your very being, a memory relived thousands times over and over.
Lady Fortuna is watching over you, my little love. The red thread of hers will lead you to your fate.
And so you prayed to Lady Fortuna as well for your mother, and to the Lord of the new religion for your father, hoping for guidance towards your fate indeed.
And you hoped to all forces beyond human that the fate that awaited you was better than death.
-.-.-
By the time Natasha brought you food, the water had gone cold and you had grown restless by your idleness, unused to staying still for so long.
She was kind enough to ensure you had everything you could possibly need and more, genuinely unfazed by the sight of you in nothing but a soft warm sort of robe that had been brought to you along with the bath.
What King Rogers had described as ‘a little to eat’ and Natasha as ‘refreshments’ was enough to feed you for a day, albeit there were what you assumed was simple foods by nobility’s standards. The selection of fruits, breads and cheeses and jams had your head swimming and your mouth watering – but your attention was drawn by something else.
With the food, three different dress were brought for you, all clearly sewn of quality fabric, much like the dress you had arrived in; but neither the dexterity the attires were made with nor the finest fabrics was what caught your eye and had your heart race.
It was the variety.
And the choice to make which felt like a trial to pass, even as all dresses were in shades of blue.
Each was nothing short of beautiful, the finest the kingdom could offer, you were sure; but where one seemed something a royal would wear, with the finest details and jewels sewn onto the bodice and skirts, the other would perhaps be suitable for a noble lady who would wear it with only enough pride to not overshadow a queen or a princess. And the last one, while still gorgeous and worthy of a wife of a rich merchant, was rather plain.
Your eyes were flickering between the three, head spinning, even as the last one spoke to you the most – the one that would make you feel like you were perhaps out of a place still, walking the same halls a king walked, but not out of place in the sense of yourself.
On the other hand, should you meet the king, he might be offended by such choice, for perhaps this dress was unfit for the occasion; he might read scorn in your refusal of the luxury offered. At the same time, choosing the most expensive gown could be considered greedy; and where the middle ground of choosing the second dress could be seen as reasonable, it could also be regarded as taking the simplest path to walk and thus being worthy of being scoffed at.
“Your Majesty hopes you to join him in two hours,” Natasha startled you from your musings. “Sir Barnes, who will be guarding your chambers still, will bring you to the King’s quarters, should you agree.”
Your pulse flew sky-high; and the moment you met her clear honest eye, the words were tumbling out of you despite all reason and politeness.
“Do I have choice?”
Your hand slapped over your mouth a second too late to take the words back, horror pouring all over your skin.
But Natasha’s gaze sparkled with now familiar mirth, amused by your bluntness; she did not laugh, however, and if possible, her features softened and hardened at once.
“Of course you do. And not participating does not equal meeting your end, by knife or otherwise. You have a choice here – and you’d do well to make it your own, not whichever you believe is required. Whether it is of sharing dinner with S—His Majesty… or of an attire,” she added, one corner of her lips rising in a knowing but not unkind smirk.
You gulped, a cold shudder rushing down your spine at the reminder of what had taken place mere hours ago still, the phantom feeling of a blade being pressed to your side every single time your captors believed you might try and flee returning. Despite Natasha’s word clearly being meant as encouraging, you felt yourself deflate, your stomach, however empty and nearly growling as the smells of the foods slowly settled in the room replacing the aroma of lavender, churned.
You had been treated with utmost kindness. Natasha seemed nothing but honest with you. But no matter her beliefs, no matter the soft voice in your heart and soul you did not quite understand, the memory of Henry’s words rang in your ears like alarm bells, a reminder of just how fragile this illusion of safety and comfort truly was.
‘Might not be she’s worth to give him an heir, but she sure as hell can have his bastard.’
You would do well to remember the nature of all men you had encountered in your life and heard of.
You would do well to display the utmost respect for the generous offerings, showing gratitude and humility like a good woman should and your father had taught you.
You would do well to remember that oftentimes, life offered choices to act as a trial indeed and one could easily fail and ruin all.
You nodded in acknowledgment of Natasha’s words, thanking her for all her kindness and helpfulness, insisting you did not need help with dressing up; it felt like blasphemy and mockery, for you were the furthest thing from a noble lady, while she seemed to be exactly that. Even telling her she may go, in as polite way as you possible, wording it as a request rather than an order, was a picture perfect of absurdity.
With heart having leaped into your throat, you resisted the urge to walk out right behind her and do your damnest to dismiss Sir Barnes as well, since he most certainly had other and much more pressing obligations than to guard a simple woman being prepared to warm his king’s bed; but the insolence it would take to even attempt to counterorder what the King himself had probably asked for, was an offence worse than the fact the knight was there in the first place.
Gratitude. Gratitude and humility. Choosing the right path to walk and the right hand to play was the key to survival and to earning Lord’s favour, you reminded yourself. Must be that such rules apply to earn the King’s favour as well.
Worried that you might as much as crease, gods forbid stain the most luxurious dress you planned to wear to please His Majesty’s eye, and with your original one having been taken away, you opted to wear the simplest of the gowns for now.
With stomach tight and heavy with anticipation, thoughts of how to best prove your gratitude and humility in the face of the King’s kindness swirling in your head, you seated yourself at the table near the fireplace, reaching for the food. If it went untouched, surely it would only serve as an offence; and while your hunger battled with anxiety, you were not one to scoff at the blessings the table offered. With the bread alone tasting like heavens on your tongue, fresh with the softest crumb and crunchy crust, the knot in your stomach gave way to the hunger easily, appetite growing with each bite, the sweetness of the jam, the delicacy of the cheeses and the rich taste of ripe fruit nothing short of a pleasure, causing you to practically melt into your seat.
Should this be your last meal, your mind supplied, should you indeed meet fate as awful as death, you would be leaving this world grateful for experiencing this bliss.
And yet. Once your hunger was sated, senses fed beyond, the dark concerns returned tenfold, shivers crawling over your skin and raising goosebumps even as the room was far from chilly.
Memories of the past hours filled your head, the smell of lavender, wine and spices and sweat and smoke, images of men’s faces contorted in a gleeful warning and a challenge, snarls twisted into sharp smiles, flashes of cords of muscles on the arms handling you, a blade to your hip, a grip on your chin forcing you to watch the flames and the smoke and crackling and the taste of ruin, voices—a cacophony of chuckles and spits and threats and knowing smirks-
-not worth to give him an heir ----can still have his bastar’-
---them spread pretty legs of ya’rs will open doors for us--
--ain’t like he’s born with dam’ golden spoon in his mouth---- he’s one of us-
-ya’ sure we can’t keep her? She’d be so much fun to ruin---
The words felt like screams and wails in your ears, trembling hands thrown up to cover your ears, to shield you, eyes squeezed shut. But the darkness was worse; a scary blank slate of the future determined by your past, and there was no hiding – no hiding from the noise born in your very head, carved into your memory-
---ensure my favour-- you brought me a gift?-
-your utmost right to do as you please—
– And I shall--
--I’d be pleased if you’d join me-
-guarding your door alongside Sir Barnes---
---guarding your chambers still---
-guarding you or caging you in with violence if needed, the nails digging into your scalp whispered menacingly as you shook your head, realizing you had curled into yourself, but there was no hiding-
---will bring you to King’s quarters—
--in two hours-
You pushed away from the table and rose to your feet, the scrape of a chair a welcomed distraction for but a moment, gaze drowning in tears, the next words but a powerful echo, over and over and over-
-equal meeting your end, by knife or otherwise—
—your end--- by knife-
Knife, knife, knife-
Your hand was gripping it before you knew you had reached for it, your frantic breathing settled but a fraction with the familiar and yet unfamiliar weight, shiver subduing just a little.
A knife. The one thing that had kept you safe for almost two years and was torn away from your hand much like the rest of your life.
You took a wavering breath as its silvery glint, a mocking to the rust your entrusted weapon had carried, had your shoulders fall with your exhale.
A knife under your pillow.
In a middle of a castle, a guest, a prisoner, a thing to warm the king’s bed, his lady, whichever name they would call you – this could be your certainty.
It made no sense. In the very back of your mind, you were aware your steps towards the bed felt absurd and ridiculous in the worst sense possible, but you were but a spectator – your gait wobbly, you walked to the soft cushioning and placed the blade, cleaner but less sharp than the knife you had used to have, under one of the fluffed up pillows, something deep within you blooming with relief.
A knife would be little help against any threat that might come through your door, be it a mercenary, a knight, a guard or the king himself and the idea of being able to as much as nick the skin either of those, let alone to overpower them, was terrifyingly laughable; but the cold comfort that spread over your skin was better than feeling fear alone.
Your clammy hand caressed the impossibly clean and soft fabrics of the pillow, fingers sinking in for just a moment.
You had never had such beautiful thing; you had never as much as touched a cloth as precious.
The call of the bed, gorgeous in frame and too soft in cushions, returned.
Two hours.
By your estimate, however likely inaccurate, you still had plenty of time; it would be wise to lie down and to close your eyes for but a moment, to be rested as much as your jittery mind would allow, so you could face the king with at least remnants of dignity and enough life in you to please him indeed. You were not likely to be able to fall asleep, and if so, you’d be no doubt haunted by night terrors even before the night would fall – yet the idea was now etched into your mind and would not allow you not to act upon it.
Taking off your shoes, with as much reverence as your exhausted body and mind was capable of, you climbed into the bed, slowly laying your heavy head, cheeks still wet with tears, onto the delicate softness of the pillows.
You did not muster enough strength to free the covers once you had laid on top of them and drape them over you; your hand, however, found its way under the pillows with practised ease, the hold on the cold metal like a comfort aching in your bones.
And despite your mind running in terrifying circles, you were lost to the dreamland as soon as you closed your eyes…
…and much to the shock you’d experience once you’d wake, you were not haunted by evil spirits nor images worthy of the worst horror tales about monsters among men.
Instead, you dreamed of a soft touch.
You dreamed of a gentle respectful voice calling you my lady with emphasis on the ‘lady’ rather than the ‘my’, a pair of sincere blue eyes full of warmth and kindness and sparkles of humour without malice.
You dreamed of strong protective arms holding you rather than caging you, tender fingers of an artist tracing the features of your face like they were brushes against canvas of a work of art.
No punishment will come to you, sweetling, the man whispered, his hair like a halo of an angel of the new teachings.
Please, believe me. Allow me. Believe in me.
-worthy of a crown---bound by chain– exquisite--- clothing plain-
You are safe, my sweetling.
Yes, yes you are. No man will lay a hand on you ever again.
- lonely soul defied fate—one of long-lost precious arts—
--two pure and content hearts-
You are safe.
In your sleep, you lost the grip on the knife, and once you did, your soul relaxed into into the soft warmth of your dreams, sleeping sounder than before.
You woke up with a startle and a gasp, finding yourself sitting in a strange bed, hands fisting delicate sheets that gleamed gently in the light and shadows casted by a fire.
You found yourself blinking, heart hammering in your ribcage as your mind slowly awoke, along with memories – horrible memories wrapped carefully in an inexplicable feeling of comfort and safety that had your frantic breathing settle despite your racing heart.
The chambers were dark safe by the fire someone had kindled in the hearth but was long gone; much like the food you had not managed to eat, the cutlery and dishes replaced by what you assumed were two plates hidden by cloches – and an envelope.
You were on your feet so fast your head spun, curiosity and creeping realization leading your wobbly steps, sleep having been wiped from your mind but not your weary muscles and bones just yet.
You had slept through the dinner.
There was no denying so; not when the day had long said its goodbye.
Not when the envelope was sealed with what could only be a royal seal.
A letter from a king, should you be so presumptuous to think you were of enough importance for him to spare the time to write to you, be it for whichever reason.
To express dissatisfaction or even rage.
To reveal what the consequences of your absence would be.
To invite you to your own execution, perhaps, for having denied him.
And yet; a warm feeling of certainty you had no basis for made you dismiss the dark thoughts before they could take root.
There was no use in wonders and musings, no use in trying to figure out a man you had only met in passing; for all the truth one could find in their own heart, for heart could at times see more than eyes could, there was no doubt some truths were found in both actions and words.
You reached for the envelope, hoping your experience of handling the trades on the market after your father had given up, correspondence and short contracts included, were enough to have you understand whichever message the letter carried.
Your fingers were shaky; and breaking the seal felt like sealing your fate.
Reading the words written in beautifully curved letters, then, felt like a caress over the back of your hand, two strong hands cradling it and squeezing gently in reassurance.
My dearest of guests,
I regret I have not been able to welcome you at your chambers as I would have wished and you would have deserved. I shall only hope you found the suite satisfactory and I hope that Natasha has made sure you were most comfortable.
However disappointed I might have been, missing you at the dinner table, I was most pleased to have been informed you had found your rest after the dreadful experience you had been subjected to. I took the liberty to save your plates for you and have them brought for whenever you might welcome them.
Should you need anything else, please, know that a word is enough for it to be fetched if it only is in my power to give.
Should you wish to talk to me yet, as I wish to you, one of my most trusted men shall always stand guard to your chambers, so you may sleep soundly knowing you are protected. The same guard may serve to lead you to my chambers.
I am most looking forward to conversing with you at your convenience.
Steven Rogers I., The Just, The King of the Lands of Starkerbürg
You reread the words several times, breath bated, marvelling at both the individual letters which were closer to having been painted rather than simply written and the message itself.
Had you not once had to take over the trade of your family, you might have not been able to read the king’s words at all; but as fate or Lady Fortuna had it, while you might not read or write on the same level as nobility did, you understood well enough.
And yet, such did not equal comprehending how this had come to be; nor did it help you understand the sudden urge to speak to His Majesty in the very next moment, not led by fear of having already disappointed him, but a desire to truly know the man whose hand had led the ink so skilfully it might have as well been a piece of art.
Your heart ached with the need; fear silenced for the time being, soothed by the inexplicable dreams in which kindness, patience and affection seemed to be wearing the King’s face.
You had been reprimanded nor rushed despite the delay, and you were in no position nor right to demand or command. And yet, you could not imagine withstanding another moment spent here, another hour without speaking to His Majesty.
You could not bring your hand to lift the cloches off the food delivered and lose precious minutes by eating.
You could not bring yourself to as much as glance at the dress you had been sure you were to wear to acknowledge and appreciate His Majesty’s hospitality and generosity, the sweet echo of a gentle voice, ‘of clothing plain’ guiding you to hurry past, just as you were.
Your nerves were battling an instinct beyond your comprehension humming in your chest. On the one hand, your anxiety argued, asking for anything more than you had been given, even if it was but meeting the king as he had requested, seemed an arrogant overstep; on the other hand, an overwhelming feeling of being on the right path and needing to walk it despite causing inconvenience to the man guarding your door and potentially the king as well, was impossible to best when it flushed your veins like a tidal wave.
Opening the door for a slit, cautious still to disturb as little as possible despite the growing need blooming in your chest, you peeked though, finding a dark-haired man you had a vague recollection of having seen in the royal hall standing tall and alert, guarding dutifully.
He turned to you fully in an instant at the sound of the door, leaving you no choice but to open fully when he welcomed you with a subtle bow.
“My lady. How may I be of assistance?”
You gulped, reciprocating the curtsy, attempting a grateful smile, unsure whether you succeeded.
“Thank you kindly, good sir, for standing guard and watching over me,” you whispered, lingering in your bow as to express your genuine gratitude before rising. The poor solider – and he must have been a soldier in more than a rank, given his built – would have likely been in getting his much-needed rest had it not been for you. “I was… wondering whether it was still appropriate and whether it would trouble you to-- bring me to His Majesty? Please?”
The man let a hint of a warm smile curl his lips at your request.
He was a handsome man; the raven hair contrasted sharply with his eyes the colour of a winter sky, his features sharp but softened by a stubble and gentleness of his expression – of which you had no doubt was deliberate, since you had seen his profile, hard and deadly focused on potential intruders but a moment ago.
“Of course, my lady. He… expressed the wish to speak to you at your convenience,” the man said, something in his gaze almost, almost whispering of mischief, reminding you of Natasha. “Follow me, please… and should you wish to address me other than a good sir, they know me as Sir Barnes or Bucky in these halls.”
You observed him mutely for several beats, stunned by both his willingness and the offer to address him by a familial nickname.
Surely, he had not meant that? He was a knight and a noble, one of the king’s most trusted men and clearly of the most capable soldiers the kingdom had--
And he would take you to see the king.
You willed your smile to grow despite your anticipations rising, stomach twisting in a knot as pleasant as nervous.
“Thank you… Sir Barnes. That is most kind of you.”
He nodded in acknowledgement, not commenting on your choice, and merely beckoned you to follow him.
With heart having leaped to your throat, you did.
You attempted to retain the route, one stairwell, a twist and a turn, another set of stairs – but you soon found yourself distracted by your thoughts as well as the art pieces lining the walls and the solitary guards you met patrolling the castle, greeting you mutely with subtle bows. Instinctively, you reciprocated every single one of them.
Other than that, the walk through the corridors was silent.
Had you not been able to hear your steps echoing through the walls, the thundering of your heart in your ribcage and your thoughts circling in your head, it would have been a silence of the pleasant sort, almost comfortable.
For much like the king, as you now recalled with curious clarity, Sir Barneshad a kind aura around him, whispering of him being a protector.
And much like the king, he carried himself a warrior: his manners and the kindness he was emanating was a matter of choice. He was such not for the lack of capacity for violence – you had no doubt that had he chosen to do so, he’d be able to choke the life out of your throat with one hand – but for the decision made of his own will. It was the small almost supportive smile he gave you, a flicker of mirth in his eye when he saw you in the plainest dress, that settled any worries of him hurting you.
That and his respect for silence.
The only moment he spoke up again was when he warned you of a very uneven spot in the floors; and then when you had stopped dead in your tracks, air knocked out of you as your gaze, having been admiring the interiors and art, fell on a portrait of a man and a woman.
For a several startled beats of your heart, you were rendered speechless, body completely still, unable to breathe in, let alone comprehend what you were seeing, mind firing in all directions, aimless.
What you were seeing was… impossible. It could—that wasn’t--- but-
Your mind frantically searched for an explanation, coming out empty, as the only plausible one could not have been true – and yet, it somehow had to be. It had to.
The woman in the painting. You knew her.
You knew her better than your own heart, or so you had believed.
“My lady?” Sir Barnes questioned lowly, clearly attempting not to startle you.
He did not need to worry; you doubted anything could startle you at the moment. Had the skies fallen on your head, you would have barely noticed.
“Who… who is that?”
“Doctor Erskine,” Sir Barnes replied without hesitation, snapping you back to reality where, naturally, he’d believe you were inquiring of the man. “And his wife. The kingdom owes them a great debt, Steve most of all. Which is why he’s asked the late King Stark to have them painted.”
Wife? Impossible, your mind whispered again, a nagging thought even as Sir Barnes’s words raised a hundred new questions.
A doctor? A debt? Steve – the king – in particular? Could it be true then that the man who would be King Rogers used to be very sick, owning his life to this man… and woman?
With great effort, you tore your gaze away from the painting, glancing at Sir Barnes with a silent question.
It was rude perhaps – it certainly was if you considered you had been on your way to the king, and while he did not know you were coming thus couldn’t await you at a specific time if at all, you were stalling – but Sir Barnes only smiled and sighed almost fondly.
“Doctor Erskine was a visionary – perhaps that was why him and King Stark got along so well. They both had a knack for turning mad dreams into reality… and Steve, having been sick a lot, smaller too – as you will see further down the corridor – was… he was crazy and desperate enough to help further, beyond advising us on strategy, that he offered himself to let the Doctor try to make one of these visions true… and he did.”
You blinked, trying to comprehend the way Sir Barnes was so openly speaking of the king’s former struggles, and the late king’s habits with plain admission of them having been foolish. Or not, you assumed, forcing yourself to breathe in and out as he continued.
“To this day, I am not sure how Erskine did it – and he never got to repeat the experiment as both him and his wife were killed in an attack on the castle soon after. But I am grateful for it. Maybe it was pure medicine, maybe it was alchemy, a miracle, gods, magic, the damn fairies – I don’t know. All I know is that when Steve came to himself again, he’s grown several inches taller, turned healthier than a horse and had enough muscle to be able to lift what his arms would have broken under before.”
You stood frozen, stunned and mesmerized not only by the incredible story, but by the one single word that could explain the uncanny, impossible resemblance of the woman in the painting to your mother.
Alchemy.
Doctor Erskine, may he rest in peace in heavens or wherever afterlife had taken him along with his wife, had been an alchemist.
And unless your mind was playing tricks on you, unless the gods were laughing in your face… he was the alchemist your grandmother had run off with soon after your grandfather had passed and you had been born.
Lady Fortune is watching over you, my little love, red threads of fate shall lead you onwards, your mother’s melodic voice hummed in the back of your mind, a lump having grown in your throat.
What were the chances of such? What were the odds of having ended up a gift to the king who rose from people, who had become a knight in the first place by the helping hand of the man your own grandmother had run off with?
You curled your trembling hands into fists by your side, unable to hide the shudder.
Sir Barnes did not comment on it, likely thinking you were merely letting the story sink in; but the fact you were processing was much greater.
He wouldn’t know. Much to your pain, you carried little resemblance to your mother, at least in appearance, having been likened to your father much more often. Apparently, such was not the case for your mother and grandmother; initially, you genuinely believed that by gods’ whims, a portrait of your own mother had been hung on the castle’s wall.
You gulped, mind whirling, trying to scramble for any resemblance of manners.
“Incredible… His Majesty was very fortunate to have had aid of such a gifted man.”
Sir Barnes hummed, an agreement and a protest at once.
“Well… all the more grey hairs for those of us who knew how crazy chances Steve is willing to take with his safety when it comes to fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves,” Sir Barnes muttered, causing your lips to twitch in an unvoluntary smile of both amusement and surprise at his bluntness.
You liked Sir Barnes. A knight as he was, perfectly polite with you, more than you’d deserve, and no doubt loyal to the kingdom, he was also clearly a man with a very friendly relationship to his king. It seemed their friendship had been through many years of trials – and perhaps not only those on a battlefield.
He cleared his throat. “What I meant to say is that… Erskine truly allowed for Steve’s body to catch up with how great his spirit and heart was. I know… I know you’ve been dragged here and you don’t know much of him yet, but… he’s a good man.”
You nodded without a word, gaze lingering on the painting.
Yes. The king so far had been hundred times kinder to you than you could have hoped – puzzlingly so, truly – and keeping a painting of those who had aided him in becoming the sovereign he was spoke of his character too. There was no arguing that and you’d inquire more of it later, hoping to get more insight since Sir Barnes seemed to be quite the source of information, as biased as he no doubt was in favour of his king and his friend. But before you’d do so, there were still burning questions you couldn’t but at least try to ask.
“And what of his wife then?” you asked quietly. “You said the kingdom owed to both of them? …a figure of speech?”
You could hear the rustle of cloth even before you turned your head as Sir Barnes shook his head vigorously, meeting your eye with gravity.
“She was his greatest assistant, helping with all, healing not only the people of the court but also soldiers and townspeople… I owe them too, since they both are the reason why I haven’t lost my arm to--- it does not matter. But what I said before referred to the transformation Steve underwent. It took two days.”
You gulped, unsure why his eyes darkened with pain, even as you recalled that he spoke of the king having to come to himself later on.
Sir Barnes chuckled humourlessly, even as fondness flashed over his features.
“We all knew it was a grave risk, the first time ever experiment always is. But once the substance spread through Steve’s body, he would-- he would bite down on his mouth hard enough to make it bleed, nails digging into his hands just as hard. The pain had to be--- it had to be beyond--- hours and hours to no end, until he finally broke and screamed in agony long and hard enough for us to consider killing him just to end his suffering,” Sir Barnes husked, the heaviness of the memory landing on your own chest, ribcage squeezed tight at the mere idea of such pain. Pain inflicted on who seemed to be but a good man,no less. On Steve. “And then she--- I don’t know how she did it. I didn’t care and still don’t. But she did it. Some kind of a potion, some miraculous elixir she managed to settle him enough to drink with her touch only – and he did settle. He was still in pain, it was obvious, but much less, much calmer. I don’t… he’s always been one resilient bastard---”
You winced at the harsh language even as it was hardly the worst word you’d ever heard. You had simply not expected it from a man who might have been most honest, but also most polite. It truly spoke of the magnitude of emotion the memory awoke in him; you could feel its force too, in your very bones, breath trapped in your throat.
“He’s always had a fighter’s spirit. But… I don’t think that this was a battle he would have won without her.”
I fear he would have died from pain alone, or at least have gone completely mad, Sir Barnes grey eyes whispered what his voice couldn’t anymore, clear as day. An icy fist clenched around your heart and dug it nails in deep at the implication, making it harder to breathe; and released it with a relief and warmth surging through your veins.
Steve had survived.
He had survived and lived long enough to encounter you, long enough to stir the strangest of feelings in you – and long enough to save you from a terrible fate by the hand of the two mercenaries. You knew he did – save you. You knew, inexplicably, that whichever fate awaited you, you were safe with him.
And perhaps… perhaps your grandmother had played the most important role in that.
Yes. It did make sense why anyone would be grateful for that.
You were too.
And you might understand none of the king’s motives to treat you the way he did, nor you knew when his kindness would cease – but if this was how Starkerbürg gained its just ruler, if the children here were allowed to be as happy as those whom you had seen earlier today, you were grateful too.
And proud of what you were now certain had been your grandmother’s doing.
The women of our family have been blessed, your mother used to say; there’s light blooming in our hearts, fire crackling in our souls. We may scorch the Earth or keep it warm and bright for generations to come. Whether she knew of what her mother had done, even if she had never told you, you wouldn’t know. But with this story… you could believe that she had been right in her whispers and lullabies.
And perhaps, whatever awaited you, you could muster up enough strength and try to kindle that fire to face it with your head held high and with the same courage you had fought off your father with bare hands when it came to it.
“Thank you… for telling me, Sir Barnes. I appreciate it.”
“Happy to serve, my lady. Shall we?”
Your gaze lingered on your grandmother’s face for a few long moments, hoping to draw some of that light and fire your mother used to speak of for yourself.
Then, you smiled at Sir Barnes and nodded.
“Of course. Thank you for your patience.”
“At your service, my lady.”
He fell into step with you again, seemingly following your lead, and even when lost to your thoughts, you could feel the strength and certainty radiating off him. All tuned to you and the rhythm in your step, he guided you so subtly you’d believe you were the one to know where to walk; and yet he followed you like a panther, an animal your mother had been telling you fables about – an elegant black beast stalking the woods in a quiet search of prey. You understood then – that if Sir Barnes was a soldier, a knight, he too, was a spy. In the empty hallway, your steps were louder than his own. Perhaps that was why he did no longer keep silent.
His voice, almost soft, was crystal clear and holding utter respect in his brief commentary of the paintings you were passing by.
A former ruler and his wife. A soldier who had laid his life for the kingdom. Several knights, sitting with King Rogers around a round table. Two doctors standing proudly by an invention that helped cured those whose disease had been believed to mean a certain death.
All exceptional people by your standards – and appreciated by the king himself as well as Sir Barnes.
His demeanour gained true warmth, however, as you were passing a portrait strikingly different from the others, made by His Majesty the King himself. A homage to his late mother, supposedly and undeniably; her features – her kindness – was something you recognized in the sharp memory of the man you met at the Royal Hall; the strokes of the brush tender, guided by true fondness of a man who loved his mother. It made sense, all of sudden, how His Majesty’s letter was an art piece of its own if this was the beauty he was capable of creating.
Sir Barnes’s voice then turned into a sigh, no less proud, when a moment later your steps faltered unwittingly and stopped altogether as your gaze fell on the painting of a handsome young man – a man resembling the king, only with softer features, smaller in frame, and with just as much determination as cognizance etched into his expression.
You recognized him instantly – and if your eyes hadn’t, your heart, stumbling in your chest over its own beats, would have.
Steven – at that time, perhaps indeed only Steven, not even a Sir yet – before he underwent the insane experiment that might have fundamentally changed his body, but could not have changed who he was and whom he was fighting for.
Where you might have trouble believing the large mass of a man you had met a few hours earlier had a soul artistic enough to capture his mother in a painting as lovely as you’d seen, the man portrayed here had a certain soft curiosity about him that spoke of the ability to see beauty in the world of chaos and ugliness – and grasp it in his hands like clay and build a better world out of it.
You could not know – you knew so little of him – and yet you knew this.
And all of sudden, it felt as if you knew his very soul.
Reconciling the two men filled you with understanding you could not quite explain; but it moved your own soul so unexpectedly your hand twitched to clutch your chest when you could feel something in the depth of your ribcage shift and blossom in intangible warmth.
Somehow, the man in the portrait was just as beautiful as the one you were about to face again; and as surprising as seeing the smaller form of him was, that shift in your ribcage seemed to have already happened years and years ago, this very image as if having glimmered in the blue irises you had met hours ago.
They were both the king: a man with a spirit of a fighter, locked in a small frail frame, a fighter with a heart of an artist; and an artist with a soft soul, a good man locked in a body that could bring half the continent to its knees. With mind and teeth enough sharp to do so, with arms strong enough to wrestle injustice out of its reigns in the name of protecting the innocent; with hands capable of gentleness suited for cradling an injured baby bird.
You had spoken with him but few words, had seen him but for minutes, saw the portrait of the man he once had been just now; and yet, something in your veins whispered you had known him for decades. You must have, for you knew all your assessments of his character were true.
“My lady?”
You blinked one time too many, returning from your haze, moments passing by as you realized Sir Barnes was addressing you; still in such polite and yet completely ridiculous manner given your social standing that you nearly laughed.
You shook your head, eyes barely tearing away from the painting.
“Apologies, I… was lost in thought. His Majesty was smaller in frame indeed… but I can see the spirit you were talking about right there.”
“It is a very good portrait,” Sir Barnes agreed, the warmest note yet in his words, his gaze so intense you could almost feel a hole being burned into the back of your head. “He keeps it around to remember where he comes from… what he comes from. A reminder that he rose from people and to always rule as such.”
Your heart fluttered with affection which had no place to be there, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of your lips.
“A wise man with wise motives then.”
Slowly setting off again, you were no longer surprised Sir Barnes simply followed suit. He hummed in agreement, muttering under his breath, too low for you to understand.
Sensing an opportunity, you cleared your throat, hoping your voice wouldn’t shake with your nerves.
“What of his other motives? He’s rewarded the men who brought me, generously, I assume. He’s said he wished to see me, he’s had me brought to luxurious chambers where I clearly do not belong, he’s treated me more than most kindly, as have you… is that all, too, to simply remember where he came from?”
For I doubt it is, a voice finished in your head, uncertain and shaky – and yet convinced there was no foul play in the king’s motives even as you had rouble reconciling the good man you seemed to know in your very core to someone who would approve of and reward the behaviour of the two men who’d hurt you.
You had no idea of what his motives were then. And as much as you attempted to not feel afraid, it would be foolish to ignore just how surreal and fragile the whole situation was.
Sir Barnes’s sigh sounded almost like a chuckle – enough to draw your gaze to his face, his expression as conflicted and amused as his voice.
“Gods help me if I knew what’s going on in the punk’s head most of the time.”
You straightened, not deaf to what he was saying, trying your luck further.
“But you do know why he treats me so now then… why?”
“It is not my place to say, my lady,” he replied with a smile, as respectful and polite as one could when denying someone – a lady, no less.
The notion was utterly absurd still – and you resisted the urge to huff in frustration in a very unladylike manner indeed, as you had felt you had had some of the answers you were yearning for at your fingertips, only for them to slip out of your reach.
It was not your place to huff, however. You were too aware still just how blessed you had been so far. And how easily it could all crumble in your hands should you press too hard.
You gulped.
“I see. I shall not press then… but--- could you… good sir, could you perhaps call me by my name?” For I feel utterly stupid when you do not call me so.
Your request was met with a radiant smile, Sir Barnes’s bow subtle as he never ceased to walk. Had you attempted the same, you would have probably twisted your ankle.
“Of course. I shall do so if that is what you wish. And should it make you comfortable, you truly may address me as Bucky.”
You stopped but for a moment to return the courtesy and bow as well, albeit much deeper – for he was the one deserving respect for the standing he had earned. There was a slight scolding in his eye blending into mischief as you did so – but he did not speak a word of it out loud, simply falling back into step with you when you started moving again.
“…I do. Thank you, Sir Barnes—Bucky,” you corrected yourself, earning what could only be described as a grin, your cheeks burning at the familiarity. “I am… starting to believe my wishes for some reason are… held in high regard.”
“They are.”
“But why?”
Bucky’s delighted grin bled into a hearty laughter you did not quite understand beyond feeling he was not laughing at you, even as you realized you had held your promise not to press and pry for but a literal minute.
He did not seem offended by that, however.
“You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? Good. The gods heard me out at last.”
He offered no further explanation.
Even if he had one, perhaps he would have no time to share it – for you were just about to reach a pair of guards in front of what had to be the doors to the king’s private chambers.
The sudden anxiety returning to your stomach – along with warm anticipation – made you waver as the guards, gods help you, bowed low at your and Sir Barnes’s presence.
“My lady,” one of them spoke, skin dark and eyes bright, voice formal but not unkind. “His Majesty is expecting you. You shall enter freely, at your convenience.”
You nodded in acknowledgement, yet again too aware of the absurdity of the scene and offer, your smile tighter than your chest.
“…thank you, good sir.”
It was the same tight smile you gave Sir Barnes – Bucky – as he encouraged you to walk in with ease, as if you weren’t about to meet your fate. You sent a quick prayer to all the gods above, to Lady Fortuna, to the damn fairies as Sir Barnes had said, to all higher power you had ever heard of, and quietly asked the guard to let you in – hoping the fiery spirit of your grandmother and your mother’s gentleness stood by your side, as you struggled to hold your head as high as you had promised yourself you would.
Part 3 (final)
S.R. masterlist
Here we go! I hope you enjoyed 🥰 If you did and have the time and energy, comments and reblogs are love 💕 I know we had more world-building and emotions than Steve, but Steve personally didn't fit int this already long chapter - he's a large, impressive guy. Next time it's all him and his lady 😌
I hope April has been kind to you and will blend into even a kinder May. Sending love 💕
