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sunburn (choi san x reader — fluff, suggestive; 2.4k)
current projects...
untitled (jung wooyoung x reader — 10k written)
unspoken, undeniable, unbreakable (sanhwa x reader — first part in the works)
about requests...
i don't really take requests, but if you have an idea that you would like to share with me you can go ahead and send it! if i get inspired by it i might write something on it! no promises though.
about nsfw content...
even though i don't have any works of my own labeled as nsfw (for now), some of the contents i reblog contain nsfw subjects. please proceed with caution.
fandoms i'm most active in...
ateez, genshin impact, haikyuu, jujutsu kaisen, squid games, stray kids.
maybe burnt out depressed reader (not speaking from experience lol that’d be weird…🫣)
could be non idol au or not i don’t really have any other ideas tbh :/ but maybe this sparks some kind of idea for you XD
omg this ask… instantly fed my brain. thank you.
I hope you don’t mind that I picked San for this one. he just carries that energy, you know? patient husband, a whole temple of safety built into one man. also… yunho requests have been overflowing lately and I’ve been missing my San brainrot, so this felt like fate!! and hey, I’m sorry things are rough right now if they are, even secretly. genuinely. sometimes the world feels like wet cement and we’re just trying to wade through. if this piece gives you even a pinch of comfort or escape, then I’ll be stupidly happy. this one ended up a little shorter than normal, but don’t let that fool you — it’s packed with all the feeling. I really hope you like how it turned out!
Let Me Stay - San x Reader
Burnout hits hard. Marriage hits harder. But San reminds you that loving each other means sharing the weight, even when you swear you can carry it alone.
Pairing: Husband!San x Fem!Reader
Tropes: Unconditional Love, Comfort after Breakdown, Established Relationship Marriage, Domestic Fluff / Domestic Angst, Raw Vulnerability, Love as Action, Safe Space.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Soft Angst.
Warnings: (buckle up) emotional abuse/harsh words, fighting, yelling, burnout, work stress, overwhelming situations, crying, emotional breakdowns, marital conflict, tension, infertility, struggles with getting pregnant, body-image guilt, feeling of “failure,” stress and guilt surrounding trying for a baby, pushing/shoving, being physically rebuffed, sadness, helplessness, despair, raw grief, panic, fear, intense emotional vulnerability, tears, sobbing, moments of feeling isolated or alone, arguments about expectations and frustration
Word Count: 3.7k
masterlist
The house has been waiting.
Lights on in the rooms you use most. Not bright, not dim. The familiar, careful middle that says I thought about your eyes. There is food on the stove, not plated, not posed. Something warm. Something meant to last. Something that knows hunger is not always romantic.
San checked the clock an hour ago. Then again. Then again, with that quiet patience he has trained himself into. This isn’t new. This is marriage. Waiting without resentment. Hoping without keeping score.
He sent one text earlier. Just one.
Did it run late?
No question mark parade. No follow-up. No guilt bait. He slid the phone face down after, like he always does, like it might vibrate out of pity if he stares too hard.
He reheated the food once already. Stood there, watching steam curl up like it was thinking about leaving. He hates that it might dry out. Hates that even nourishment can suffer if it waits too long.
On the counter, half-hidden beneath the mail, there’s a folded catalog. Onesies. Soft colors. Little feet printed on cotton. He didn’t mean to leave it out. He didn’t mean to look at it again tonight. He moved it aside earlier, neat and careful, like he was tucking the thought in to sleep.
No pressure. Not tonight.
He hears the door before it opens. The specific sound of your key, fast, clipped. Like you’re already bracing.
The door swings open. You step in with momentum, coat still on, shoulders tight.
“Hello love!” San says immediately.
Your eyes flick up, find him, then slide away almost immediately. You cross the space between you and lean in just long enough to press a kiss to his lips.
A peck.
Quick. Efficient. No pause to breathe him in. No curve of a smile. No “I missed you.” No warmth lingering in the space after.
It’s automatic. Protective. A way to say I did my part.
San notices. He always does.
Something flickers in his expression, so brief it barely exists. A muscle remembering disappointment and letting it go. His smile stays. Not forced. Practiced. Gentle enough to carry weight.
“You’re home.”
“Mm.”
You slip past him before he can say anything else, toeing off your shoes harder than necessary, dropping your bag by the door like it weighs a hundred pounds. Your phone buzzes immediately in your hand. You don’t even check who it is. You just grip it tighter, screen glowing. Slack notifications stacking. Email subject lines sharp and demanding, like accusations you haven’t answered yet.
San watches you move through the space you share, familiar and distant all at once. He doesn’t say anything else yet. He tells himself there will be time.
There is always time.
San follows you into the kitchen.
Not close enough to crowd. Not far enough to pretend he isn’t there. His presence moves behind you like a held breath. You feel it before you see him, that quiet orbit he keeps when he’s trying not to spook you.
You walk straight to the kitchen sink, turning the faucet on even though you don’t need water. The sound fills the space between you and gives you something to hide behind.
He gestures to the stove, the pot still warm, the care still intact.
“I made dinner,” he says. “It’s still warm.”
“I’m not hungry.”
It lands flat. Too fast. A sentence you’ve been using all week like a shield.
It’s a lie. Or a half-lie. Or maybe just the kind of truth that ignores the body entirely. Either way, it hits him. You see it in the way his hand stills on the counter.
“I can save it,” he says, quick to adjust. Always adjusting. “Or we can eat later. I just thought—”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
Your voice sharpens without permission. The words come out clipped, like you’re cutting the air between you into something manageable.
You don’t look at him. You can’t. Because you know if you do, if you see his eyes already searching your face, already worried, already open, something inside you will split right down the middle.
San nods once. A tiny thing. He tries again, quieter, like lowering the volume might make it easier to hear.
“You didn’t eat lunch either.”
Your spine goes rigid, turning off the faucet with a sharp twist.
That’s monitoring. That’s numbers and hours and watched patterns. That’s work. That’s everyone counting what you didn’t do, what you missed, what slipped.
Your chest tightens.
“Can you not keep tabs on me?” you snap, the edge in your voice sudden and bright.
It’s instant. Guilt flares hot and immediate, but it’s swallowed just as fast by the weight sitting on your chest.
The meetings that ran long. The way your boss looked at you like you were disposable. The email you reread a dozen times, trying to understand what you did wrong.
San doesn’t raise his voice. He never does.
“I’m not keeping tabs,” he says. No defensiveness. Just truth. “I’m worried.”
“I don’t need you to worry.”
It comes out harder than you mean. Like a door slammed instead of closed.
San exhales through his nose. His jaw sets, not angry, just steadying himself against something heavy.
“That’s not really your call,” he says quietly.
You turn then, finally, eyes flashing. Tired. Raw. Full to the brim with things you haven’t said to anyone.
“God, can you just—” You drag a hand through your hair, pacing once. “Can you give me a minute?”
“I’ve been giving you minutes all week.”
The words aren’t loud.
That’s what makes them hurt.
They hang there, between the stove and the sink, between the food cooling again and the space you keep widening. San doesn’t raise his voice. He never does. But this time, he doesn’t step back either.
He’s still standing there when you look at him. Still open. Still waiting.
Eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing anchoring him in the room. He looks tired too. Not burnt out. Just worn thin from loving someone who keeps slipping through his hands.
And for the first time tonight, you feel it.
The weight of how long he’s been holding the door open. And you hate yourself for noticing.
The words come anyway. Messy. Out of order. Like you’ve ripped open a drawer and everything spills at once.
Deadlines moved up without warning. A meeting that went sideways because someone hadn’t read the deck. A pause, too long, when a question was thrown at you and the room decided that meant something. Someone smiling while they questioned your judgment. Your competence. Your right to be there.
“Today was hell,” you say, and your voice is already fraying at the edges. “Absolute hell. I don’t have the energy for this.”
“For what?” San asks. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just trying to find the shape of the problem.
“Eating?” he continues gently. “Sitting down? Talking to your husband?”
The word husband catches. Scrapes. Pulls something tender and exposed to the surface. It suddenly feels heavy, loaded with expectations you don’t have room to carry.
“I don’t need a conversation,” you say quickly. “I just need quiet.”
“You don’t get quiet by shutting me out.”
There it is. The line you didn’t want him to draw.
Your words start coming faster now, clipped and precise like if you keep them small they won’t fall apart.
“I’m holding it together,” you say. “I can’t screw up, San. I can’t. If I mess up even once—”
“You’re allowed to mess up.”
The interruption snaps something.
“No, I’m not.”
It’s immediate. Reflexive. The truest thing you’ve said all night. In your world right now, mistakes don’t land softly. They stick. They get remembered. They become evidence.
San steps closer without thinking. Instinct. Muscle memory. His body knows how to reach for you when you’re breaking.
He opens his arms. Just a little. Not trapping. Not demanding. Just offering somewhere to land.
You flinch.
The reaction is sharp, ugly, louder than words.
And then you push him.
Not hard. Not violent. But firm enough to mean it. Your hands press to his chest and he stumbles back half a step before he stops himself.
You start to walk back immediately, needing space, needing him not so close when the air between you has gone thin and you’re drowning. When you feel this close to breaking.
Two steps. Three. Your back hits the counter.
San freezes.
The hurt on his face is immediate and devastating. The warmth drains out of it, replaced by something naked and hurt. Something that doesn’t know where to go.
His hands drop slowly to his sides like they’ve lost purpose.
That hurts more than if you’d yelled.
“Don’t,” he says quietly. Not angry. Wounded. “Don’t do that.”
The words sink into you like stones.
Regret crashes into you all at once. Immediate. Crushing. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t mean that. You want to reach for him, to explain, to apologize, to take it back.
But pride has its teeth in you. Exhaustion sits heavy on your chest. Your mouth stays shut, because you know if you start talking, you won’t stop. And you can’t afford that.
And the space between you doesn’t close.
It just grows.
San doesn’t move closer this time.
That’s how you know something has shifted. He stays where he is, hands at his sides, shoulders squared like he’s bracing himself against weather.
“You can push the world away if you want,” he says. His voice is calm. Level. Worse than shouting. “But I’m your husband. I’m not optional.”
You bristle immediately. The word husband again. The claim. The permanence. It feels like pressure when you’re already cracking.
“I didn’t ask you to fix me.” Your voice shakes, so you sharpen it, turn it into something with edges. Something that can defend itself.
“I’m not trying to fix you.”
“Then stop hovering.”
His jaw tightens. Just once. A controlled thing. He inhales through his nose before he answers.
“You are my wife,” he says evenly, “I don’t hover you. I stay with you.”
Silence crashes down between you. Thick. Unavoidable.
You hate it. Hate how it makes everything echo. Hate how it gives your thoughts room to be cruel.
And then, without planning to, you go for the one place that’s already bleeding.
“Maybe if I wasn’t failing at everything else,” you say, and your voice betrays you, cracking straight through the middle, “I wouldn’t be failing at that too.”
Your hand lifts before you can stop it. A small, helpless gesture toward the counter. Toward the folded catalog you pretended not to see.
San freezes.
Not stiffens. Not tenses. Freezes. Like the air’s been pulled from his lungs all at once. You can see it in the way his fingers twitch. His lips tremble for a fraction of a second before he presses them together, hiding the quiver.
He knows exactly what you mean.
The careful waiting. The quiet hope. The tests hidden in drawers. The way every month starts with possibility and ends with you staring at the bathroom floor like it’s delivered a verdict.
“You are not failing,” he says, gentle but firm. There’s a slight catch in his voice, almost imperceptible, like he’s anchoring himself to the truth so it won’t drift away.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” he whispers, and it slips out a little ragged this time. His chest rises and falls faster than before, as if holding the words back has cost him something. “And I know this isn’t you talking.”
A bitter laugh escapes you, sharp and humorless.
“Then why am I not pregnant, San?”
The room suddenly feels too small. The walls press in. The ceiling lowers. There’s nowhere for the words to go once they’re out.
He swallows hard. You see it. The way his throat works, the tremor in his jaw. He’s hurting too. You know he is. But he refuses to let it turn into something that could cut you.
He lets himself blink once, and you see the raw edge of sadness in his eyes. Then he steadies himself, smooths the tremor from his voice, and continues, soft and sure, still yours.
“I… I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking softly, careful not to hurt you. “I wish I did. I wish I could help you. To make it happen. I… I just know it’s not your fault.”
“Then whose is it?” you snap back, breath coming too fast, too shallow. Your chest feels like it’s bound with a tight band. “Because it feels like mine. My body… it’s just—” You choke on the words. “Failing me. Like everything else.”
“Don’t say that. You are not broken,” he says finally, voice rougher now, threaded with pain he can’t hide. “Not your body. Not your heart. Not any part of you.”
You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold your ribs together. To keep your heart from cracking open.
You focus on staying upright. On breathing evenly. On not letting him see how close you are to shattering.
But San sees right through you. His eyes soften, dark with something heavy and careful.
“You don’t have to earn rest,” he continues, “or love. Or a family. You don’t have to do this alone. Ever.”
“Then why isn’t it happening?” you demand again, the words tearing out of you. “Month after month— why do I get nothing but disappointment? Why can’t I even do that right?”
“Because bodies aren’t machines,” he says quietly, keeping his eyes locked on yours. “They need space, patience, care… and that doesn’t make you any less special. We’ll get there, together, at our own rhythm — and I’ll be here, every step of the way. And I would wait a lifetime,” he continues, swallowing hard, “if it meant you didn’t look at yourself like this.”
That’s it. You stare at him, chest heaving. The walls of control you’ve built crumble. Your knees give out.
You don’t so much fall as collapse onto your knees, strength draining out of you all at once. The sob that rips out of your chest is ugly and loud and unstoppable.
Your body curls inward, hands pressing against the cold tiles, as if holding yourself upright could somehow keep the world from breaking you completely.
San is on the ground with you instantly. His knees hit hard, but he doesn’t care. There’s no hesitation, no pause. He gathers you into his chest before you can push him away again, like instinct, like his body knows exactly what to do even while his heart is breaking.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, over and over. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
His own chest shakes faintly, but he refuses to let it show, refusing to let it become about him. Every inhale is deliberate, steadying himself. Steadying you.
He’s devastated — seeing you this tired, this done, this sad — but he swallows the tears that threaten to spill, because right now, you need him more than you need his grief.
Your apologies spill out between sobs, tangled and broken.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have pushed you—I’m so sorry—”
He kisses the crown of your head, slow and steady. Your hair. Your temple. Each one a quiet promise. You hear the catch in his throat before he swallows it down.
“I know,” he says, voice cracking despite his best effort to stay steady. “I know you didn’t.”
You cling to him now, fingers digging into his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.
“Please don’t be mad—I love you,” you cry harder, guilt twisting in your chest for being harsh with him, the one person who’s never anything but patient and loving.
A shiver runs through him, the ache of helplessness he refuses to name. He presses more kisses into your hair, your temple, your forehead, holding you close, letting you break.
One tear slips from his eye — he’s good at hiding it, but it lands anyway.
“I’m not mad,” he whispers immediately, catching your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. “I’m scared for you. Scared you’re carrying it all alone.”
You bury your face against his chest, voice muffled, shaky. “I… I don’t want to bother you,” you manage to say, stubborn even in your exhaustion, trying to shrink yourself small.
San shakes his head, a little sharp, but still gentle, still tethered to care. “You could never bother me,” he murmurs. “I hate seeing you suffer. You don’t have to carry it all alone. Not as my wife, not as anyone. You can lean on me—always.”
You cling to him a little tighter, letting his words sink in, even if your pride still trembles in your chest. His lips brush your hairline, soft, patient.
“Let me hear it,” he whispers. “Tell me everything. The pain, the frustration, the anger… I want to carry it with you. I love you, and I need you to trust me with it. With all of it.”
Your fingers fumble at his shirt. Words catch in your throat. You’re tired, stubborn, but you allow a quiet breath to escape.
He hums against your hair, rocking you slightly. “You’re strong,” he says, voice low but steady. “Strong enough to manage the world, yes—but you don’t have to do it all by yourself. I’m here. I’m always here.”
The shaking doesn’t stop all at once, but slowly, imperceptibly, it begins to ease. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t try to quiet you. He just stays, arms firm around you, breathing with you, letting the storm pass.
Even then, he doesn’t let go. Not for a second.
“Let me take care of you,” he says softly, the words gentle enough to feel like a vow.
You nod. Barely. Just enough. That’s all he needs.
He lifts his hand to your face, cupping your jaw as he tilts your head up. Your eyes meet his: watery, red and puffy, mascara smudged at the corners, brows pulled tight, lips trembling in a small pout. And still, he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
His thumb brushes a tear from your cheek.
“I love you,” he whispers, voice rough, close enough that you feel it against your mouth.
Your breath catches; something warm flickers through the exhaustion.
“I—I love you too,” you whisper back, a small, shy smile tugging at your lips despite everything.
San’s lips curve too — tiny, timid, like he can’t stop it even if he tried.
He leans in, presses a shaky, tender kiss to your mouth, sealing the words between you.
Then he rises slowly, hands still on you, steadying you as he helps you up off the floor — careful with every movement, afraid to hurt you.
The kitchen, the catalog, the emails — they don’t matter anymore. San guides you toward the bathroom with his hand at the small of your back, walking slow, making sure you’re steady. The light is soft in there, warm on your skin. He turns the tap and lets the water run until steam curls around the air, testing the heat with his fingers before nodding to himself.
You’re quiet, wiped out, eyes distant. He doesn’t ask you to talk. Just helps you out of your clothes like it’s something you’ve both done a thousand times — gentle, respectful, never rushing you.
“Easy,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles along your jaw before guiding you under the stream.
The water hits your shoulders, hot and soothing, and something in you finally loosens. He works shampoo through your hair with slow circles, fingertips pushing just enough pressure to pull the headache from your scalp. The smell of soap rises around you, familiar and safe.
His thumbs trace along the knots in your shoulders, steady and patient. You feel your body sag forward. He doesn’t say anything about it, just catches you, holds you there, keeps working the stress away like he has all night to do it.
“You don’t have to hold everything together right now,” he murmurs into the back of your neck. “I’ve got you.”
You make a small sound that isn’t quite a reply. Words feel heavy, clumsy, and he doesn’t ask for them.
When the water runs clean, he wraps you in a towel and dries you off himself, patting slow and tender, like every part of you matters. You’re exhausted to the bone, trembling with leftover tears.
He helps you into soft pajamas, careful with each movement, making sure nothing sticks or pulls. By the time he’s done, your eyes are barely open.
When you start to apologize again, voice barely above breath, he shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.
“No more tonight,” he whispers. “Just breathe.”
He lifts you with familiar strength, and your arms loop around his neck without thought. Nothing awkward. Nothing forced. His heartbeat thuds against your ribs, slow and sure, telling you the truth: love isn’t grand speeches, it’s this. Showing up on the dull days, the painful days, the days where you feel like dead weight.
He brings you to bed and settles with you tucked against his chest.
“Sleep,” he murmurs into your hair, voice warm and certain. “I’ll handle the rest.”
You try to fight it, to stay awake out of guilt, but your body sinks, surrendering. Exhaustion, grief, fear — they seep out like breath into the sheets. Your breathing evens. Your fingers finally unclench.
He doesn’t move. Not once.
He stays awake, watching the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks, the slow rise and fall of your chest. His hand rests on your back, tracing circles so gentle they barely exist, counting each inhale, each exhale, grounding himself in your survival.
At some point, he leans forward, his lips brushing your hairline, voice a quiet confession meant only for the dark:
“I married you so I could choose you every day. Even like this. Especially like this.”
You don’t hear it. But he needed to say it.
He will wait for the baby.
He will wait for your healing.
He will wait for tomorrow.
No fixes tonight. No neat conclusions. Only commitment.
The house feels warmer somehow, fuller. Not because everything is perfect, but because two exhausted people keep choosing each other in the quiet.
Love breathes here.
Because you stayed. Because he stayed. Because some promises are lived, not spoken.
masterlist
taglist: @bloomyroses @livonianmaia @keels-8
dedicated to @darjeelinglemontea because today the universe gave us your birthday and I wanted to give something back. happy birthday!! <3 (and yes, I brought hurt/comfort to the party… it’s who I am.)
✨ my taglist and requests are open right now. ✨ drop me a message! i love seeing your ideas and making them come to life. 💖
childhood crushes are actually so evil because tell me why i survived zuko once, only for the universe to hand him back to me older, broader, quieter, and even more devastating??
female reader ; established relationship ; varka and reader reunite ; morning afters (implied previous sexual activity — not explicitly written) ; banter ; mentions of alcohol (it’s varka lol) ; not proof read
There is a finger trailing along Varka’s nose. Delicate. Slow. It’s odd—fingers do not trace Varka’s nose when he is asleep. In fact, nothing touches him so gently when he is asleep in a tent all alone.
And yet, there is a finger trailing along Varka’s nose. And then there is a kiss along his jaw, and a weight against his ribs, and there is the sound of a voice that murmurs, “Good morning, my love. I’m glad you’re back.”
And Varka realizes he is no longer in a tent. No longer alone. No longer sleeping on foreign soil with only his dreams (and the occasional sip of dandelion wine if he’s lucky) to remind him of home.
“Well, good morning to me,” he mumbles. Sleep laces his voice—clings to it through that low rumble that makes you shiver against him. He smiles to himself, eyes still closed. “Good morning to me, indeed.”
“Good morning to us,” you correct. “It’s a great morning for me, too.”
“Because I’m here?” He cracks an eye open. Bright and ecstatic just like that lopsided grin he throws you.
“No,” you snort, “because there’s someone else around here who can make breakfast for once. I was getting very tired of doing things on my own.”
His lips curl into a pout.
You gently grip his jaw to turn his face and kiss it right off. And Varka is realizing that it’s a miracle he made it this long in a tent alone, sleeping at this place and that, far away from you. Far away from your warmth and your touch and those soft, gentle lips of yours.
“You wouldn’t have happened to wake me up just for breakfast, would you?” He mumbles, fingers trailing along your hips as he pulls you closer.
“Of course it is,” you tease, “in fact, now that you’re back, so is your mora. Why not just treat me to a meal at Good Hunter, then?”
“You didn’t miss me for any other reason?” He practically whines—as much as such a gruff and deep voice can whine, that is. His face tucks into the juncture of your neck, and you make room for him there. Like he belongs. (He does.)
Your fingers curl into the soft, blonde strands as you murmur, “No I think that’s all there was to it. An extra set of hands to help around the house, and some mora I can use.”
“Nothing else?” He presses.
“Nothing else,” you giggle.
He huffs. Presses soft, lingering kisses along your neck. Traces his lips and his tongue over the bruised, purpled marks along your neck from the night before. You shiver. He hums in satisfaction.
“Nothing else, huh?” He chuckles lowly. “Not this?”
“Nope. Didn’t miss that,” you shrug, “I can live without it.”
“Yeah?” He drawls, “don’t think that’s what it seemed like last night.”
“Last night you tricked me into bed with you,” you quip petulantly. “How unbecoming of a knight. You’ve forgotten how chivalry works.”
“Now, now, miss,” he pulls away to give you a dramatic, scandalized look, “if my memory serves me right, I remember a very troublesome pair of hands wanderin’ last night at Angel’s Share.”
He gives you a look. You only grin in response.
You’ve missed Varka. You’ve waited year after year with nothing but letters to hear from him. You’ve slept night after night alone. And it was worth it, of course—Varka is always worth it. You know it as soon as those eyes crack open at Windrise and his irises meet yours.
You’d do it all over again. You know that as easily as the wind blows North.
And…well, when he is so close to you, sitting right there in the seat beside you as he celebrates his return over a glass of wine, you can’t help but let your hand linger along his thigh under the booth. Crawl along the inner portion and familiarize yourself with the sheer broadness of his…everything. He is broad and beautiful and he comes back to you even larger than you remember him.
Years apart has faded your memory to vague images of how large his hands are compared to yours, and how tall his frame is next to you.
So you feel him. A little riskier than you’d care to admit, and perhaps a little too teasing in nature given the way he stiffens with a hitch in his breath, but you’ve missed Varka. And dandelion wine will always be there after he’s had his way with you.
“Troublesome?” You gasp, “I was merely remembering how you felt after so long. It’s been so long since I’ve last held you, you know.”
He softens at that. His eyes glaze with something a little more melancholy. Something a little more bitter despite the joy that radiates so easily off of him.
“Sorry I made you wait so long,” he mumbles. “You didn’t have to.”
“Don’t say silly things, Varka,” you sigh gently, cradling his cheeks. He closes his eyes as you press a small kiss to the tip of his nose. “I’d have waited longer. You know that.”
“I’m not sure I’d want that,” he breathes out as you press gentle kisses along his cheeks, finding the corner of his lips. “Waiting longer. Don’t know how I’d make it through that.”
“I think it’s best we don’t dwell on things,” you trace the scar on his cheek with a thumb. He relaxes slightly at the touch. “You’re home now, aren’t you?”
“Suppose I am,” he cracks a grin. “Gettin’ woken up against my will, having my mora drained—certainly back to the way things were before I left.”
You roll your eyes as he chuckles. And when he flops over and presses his weight onto you, you almost feel like the years haven’t flown by at all. You’re still young. Still in love. Still just the same you who found home in the arms of a charmingly ambitious boy. And he is still home, right here where he is yours.
“I want breakfast,” you demand with a pleading pout.
He grins. Things are back to normal—Varka is home. “Whatever milady wants,” he says through a low chuckle.
You beam. Everything is as you know it—Varka is here. “Thank you, my darling knight. What a honorable man you are.”
khaenriahn princess reader x knight capitano ; jealous capitano ; implied hidden relationship ; pre cataclysm ; royal au ; capitano is not cursed yet so his skin is supple and youthful ; banter and fluff
“There is word, my lady,” his voice says lowly. You hum, reaching over to grab at his helmet. Capitano gently captures your hand before you can, pulling it away from its path to uncover his face. There’s a fleeting frown on your lips, but it’s gone as soon as he brings it up and presses a small, delicate kiss to the knuckles through the dark cloth that hides him from you.
“Oh? What of, my dear knight?” You ask curiously. Something tells him it’s almost mockingly innocent.
“That there is a rather…determined prince seeking your hand in marriage.”
Sometimes, it feels unfair that very rarely do you get to see the face hidden underneath the armor, but you suppose you don’t need to see Capitano to know exactly what emotion is twisted in his face. You fight back an amused grin—his voice tells you all you need to know.
You’re certain he must taste his own bitterness as the words fall from his tongue.
“Such grand news,” you gasp, “and yet…you speak with such hesitation. Has this news not brought you joy, my captain?”
“Forgive me, my lady,” he says unamused, voice low and just shy of a grumble, “I value your wellbeing above all. Should a capable prince ask for your hand, I would be most delighted if that is what you accept.”
“You do not sound delighted at the idea,” you tease.
“Perhaps my lady has not given me reason to think she would be interested in such a proposition,” he mutters.
This time, his voice does, in fact, sound the slightest bit petulant—like a child who sulks after being scolded. His tone is usually one that is far too courteous. Painfully so, in fact. (You’ve spent a good number of exasperating moments insisting he be more casual with you. You reap the rewards of those efforts few and far in between). But now, he betrays himself with a flicker of frustration, far too evidently for even you to miss.
He realizes too late how childish the words must sound spoken so irritably. You can tell that he clenches his jaw, seeing the tension even under the mask as he forces himself to still the bitterness spreading through his veins.
“Tell me, my dear knight,” you grin. You can imagine the unhappy lift of his brow as you speak, “what makes you so certain I would be disinterested in such an enticing offer?”
“It seems my assumptions were incorrect,” he grunts, straightening his back before promptly adding, “forgive me, my lady. I must see to rather urgent military affairs. I shall be seeing you—”
“Jealousy is unbecoming on you, Sir Capitano,” you quip, your hand grabbing at his wrist, tugging him towards you. He stills, stiff as a statue as your hand reaches for his helmet once more.
This time, he doesn’t stop you. He allows the lithe, delicate fingers he knows so well to grab at the edge of his helmet, carefully tugging it off before his face slowly reveals itself to you. You smile, cupping a cheek before tracing your thumb along the soft skin of his face.
“I am not jealous,” he says stubbornly.
“Haven’t they taught you never to lie to a princess?” You hum, stepping closer. His lips twitch just a fraction at the edges before two strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you towards him. Flush against his chest. Tucked right against his heart. Pressed so close, you almost wonder if you could feel his heart beating through the armor if you paid close enough attention.
“You torment me, my lady,” he murmurs quietly, “I fear I cannot accept this arrangement. It would tear through my soul to watch you be wed to another.”
“Then do not watch me,” you whisper.
You have seen his eyes flicker with soft, warm affection countless times. There is beauty underneath the helmet he wears so often, beauty that not many are so fortunate to see. You see it often, though. In private, hidden moments that he affords you. In the quiet of your chambers where the maids cannot disturb you. In the corners of the palace where no one can interrupt your fleetingly lingering touches and longing gazes.
Your hands hold his face, slowly pulling him closer as you study every precious slope across his skin. The slightly jagged curve of his nose. The plumpness of his lips. The slant of his sharp cheekbones. Every feature you know by heart, and revisit in your dreams.
You smile lightly at the thought of his jealousy, as guilty as you should feel for teasing him. Your knight—and you, his beloved princess.
“Do you wish to marry a prince?” He asks, leaning into your neck, breathing in your scent as his nose trails up your jaw until it reaches your cheek. Your breath hitches. His lips quirk into a smile.
“I wish to marry someone who owns my heart,” you say breathlessly, “prince or not.”
“Perhaps what you need is someone who is far more capable of carrying the weight of your heart. You possess rather discerning taste—it is not easy to please you, my lady.”
You huff, glaring at him from the corner of your eyes as you ask, “do you mean to call me difficult?”
“Among other things,” he chuckles. There’s a light, teasing trail of kisses pressed to your skin, leading straight to your lips. Capitano knows exactly what he’s doing, though—he stops just at the corner of them, making you pout as you try to lean in and close the gap.
He grins smugly, pulling away just enough to create distance between your mouths.
“You should not toy with a princess,” you say, displeased.
He hums, rubbing the small of your back as he counters, “and you should not toy with the heart of a man devoted to you.”
“Forgive me, my dear knight,” you murmur, gently bringing his face closer as your hands cradle his face once more, “I shall not torment you with such teasing again.”
“I am most grateful, your highness,” he fights back a chuckle.
Jealousy is unbecoming on someone as noble as the captain of your military forces. You like the way it looks on him just a little, anyway. Love the way his posture is more rigid and his voice is sharper when forced to consider the possibility of your heart yearning elsewhere. Enjoy the way he holds you tighter and closer as cool armor steals your warmth.
“Shall I tell this prince I am not interested?” You ask with a knowing look.
He hums thoughtfully, a smug smile playing on his lips as he replies, “no, I think I’d rather witness the expression of his highness when he realizes his charms hold no sway over you—a rare defeat for a man so certain of his allure.”
“Someday I shall marry you, my dear knight,” you whisper. Finally, with a softened look, he leans in to kiss you. Slow. Delicate. So gentle, it almost feels like you are one whisper from the wind away from falling apart.
“I look forward to it, my lady. Not even celestia could stop me from claiming your hand.”
————————
The last line is a big rip if you know what I mean 😔
THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.
Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader
Summary: You always call Bob darling in private... until you accidentally slip up and use the nickname in front of the rest of the Thunderbolts.
Warnings: Mentions of food/drink, reader is mentioned to not be mentally ready for a relationship and has a bit of a moment at the end struggling with their thoughts/struggling mentally in general.
Word Count: 1.3k
A/N: Thank you all so much for the amazing response on my first Bob fic 🥹 For my second one, this was actually the first idea I had for Bob but it took a bit of workshopping to get right. I ended up being really happy with it. I love writing the Thunderbolts team dynamic. I also put a little easter egg in there for anyone that's read all my other Joaquín fics since February this year. I hope you all enjoy! 💗
Bob had been called many different things in his life. There had been a series of insults from his family and people he’d hurt during his time as an addict. Walker always called him Bobby, which he hated. Valentina called him by his full name, Robert. He had other names like Sentry and Void when he was using his powers. But none of those could ever come close to his favourite from you.
Every time he hears the word darling come from your mouth, directed at him, he thinks it might be the closest he’s ever come to true happiness. He wishes every time that he could bottle that feeling up and keep it for when the days are especially tough.
“Darling, can you pass me that book?”
“Darling, how are you doing after that mission?”
“Darling, do you need me to do anything for you?”
The only bad thing is the fact that you aren’t his. It’s a mutual decision, though, so he can’t be mad. You’ve been in mutual like for a while now. But both of you have known that entering into something serious when neither of you are mentally ready for something like that would just be foolish and end up with one or both of you being hurt. Your friendship always mattered more than the possibility of your futures together.
But the nickname still stuck and Bob was glad for that.
He never cared that it was just in private. In fact, he rather enjoyed the fact that it was just for the two of you. That, whenever he was alone with you, it was almost a guarantee that he was going to hear your voice speak that gorgeous word.
He cared for the rest of the team so deeply, but the moments when it was just you and him were his favourites. When you’d be laying together on the couch, both of you reading the same book and having to wait till you’d both finished the page before turning to the next one. When you’d be in the kitchen together, Bob washing the dishes as you plated up some kind of masterpiece for dinner. The quiet times, when everyone else was asleep and you and Bob would stay up trading memories like they were the worlds greatest secrets.
The level of comfort he got in your presence surprised him, but he accepted it quickly.
It’s why, when you enter the room, he knows that you’re there. He relaxes almost instantly, just from sensing you getting closer. You reach out to rest a hand on his shoulder before you stop yourself, resting it on the top of the chair that he’s sitting on instead.
There’s still a little hesitation when it comes to touch between the two of you. Both because neither of you want to cross the invisible line you’ve both drawn, but because of Bob’s powers too. He still isn’t fully in control.
“Morning, darling,” the word slips out before you can stop yourself. It’s so normal these days to refer to Bob like this, but always in private. Never in the dining room of the Watch Tower where every other member of the team is having breakfast.
Bob is none the wiser to your blunder. He gets that same starry look in his eyes as he always does when he looks up at you, standing behind him. He wants to reach out, wrap an arm around your waist and tug you onto his lap, though he wouldn’t have the confidence to do such a thing even if his powers weren’t an issue.
He always melts a little when he hears you call him darling.
Across the room, you hear a groan.
“Oh, hell no,” Walker says, dropping the spoon back into his bowl of cereal. “You two are not doing that. Whatever is happening here, I don’t care, but we are not listening to you two call each other darling. Especially over breakfast.”
“What’s so wrong with a bit of young love?” Alexei exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air as he looks at Walker across the table. “This is good! Love heals the soul, there is nothing wrong with love!”
You frown. “Okay, who said anything about love?”
Alexei and Walker ignore you and continue to bicker.
You catch Yelena’s eye from across the room where she’s sat by the window, but she just shrugs her shoulders and goes back to staring out at the skyline.
“I would’ve thought you’d be all right with seeing affection, Walker,” Ava says, entering the room behind you. She’d obviously overheard the noise from the hallway. “You are married, even if you’re not together right now. Are you telling us you never called your wife something like that?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t make everyone else listen to me!”
Bucky, who has been watching everything the whole time from the corner of the room where he’s sitting, coffee in hand, huffs out a laugh. “You guys think this is bad? You should be glad you’ve never spent time around Joaquin Torres when he’s away from his girl.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee, not bothering to explain any further about the new Falcon.
You take advantage of the moment of silence that Bucky has caused to attempt to fix the situation. “Okay, no more talking about love or who is and isn’t allowed to call each other nicknames. Can we just drop it? It was a slip of the tongue!”
“Only if you explain why you said it,” Walker says.
“No,” you reply, pulling out the chair next to Bob’s and sitting down in it. It’s all you offer in way of an answer to Walker and he seems to surprisingly give up on fighting you on it.
You glance over to see that Bob is still looking at you, his eyes glistening and a small smile on his lips. The sight of it makes you smile as well. “I am never calling you that in front of the others again… even if it was just a slip of the tongue, that was mortifying.”
Bob smiles again and nudges a drink that’s sitting in front of him over towards you – he’s prepared your favourite and had it waiting for when you arrived. You try to ignore the feeling that rises in your stomach at the small act of kindness.
“But when it’s just us?” He inquires.
“You know it’s different then.”
You pick up the drink and take a sip of it before leaning back in your chair. Walker and Alexei have started bickering over something else. Yelena is still looking out the window, Bucky is in the corner with his coffee and Ava is exiting the kitchen with a drink of her own. It’s a fairly mundane kind of morning for a group of people meant to be the ‘New Avengers.’
There’s a sudden feeling that rises in your chest at the thought of your new status as an Avenger. It’s uncomfortable, unwelcome. You still don’t know how you feel about it, even many months later. It should be a good thing, but then why does it fill you with dread?
Bob can see the change in your expression and he’s quick to act. He reaches over and taps the table in front of you to get your attention. You pull your eyes away from the window, where you’d been staring, and meet his eyes instead. They instantly help to calm you.
“Quiet time?” Bob asks, nodding towards the door that leads into the hallway.
It’s like a code word between the two of you. When one of you needs to get away from the others or you start to get a little too wrapped up in your head. Two words that put you instantly at ease.
You nod and Bob wastes no time in standing up from the table. You follow him, leaving your drink in the dining room and walking out of the room with him, ignoring Walker as he calls out, asking where you’re both running off to.
“Thank you, darling,” you mutter, once you’re just outside the room.
Bob turns to you with a small smile on his lips. “Always.”
Thunderbolts is such a found family film, am so fond of them
Like the first glimpse of this is that they were so quick to save Bucky; Ava picking up his arm, John lifting him onto Alexei and Yelena opening the elevator door; Ava didn’t view the arm as a weapon after years of it being used as one, John and Alexei didn’t think twice about saving Bucky despite their rocky relationships, Yelena instantly had the plan in her head.
They became a family so quickly, understanding each other’s quirks and downfalls as well as celebrating each other’s strengths (them sat in the back of the van complimenting each other’s weapons, them able to recognise and play to each other’s fighting styles).
When Bob said something like “the highs are so high but when it’s low……” I had tears in my eyes. One sentence, that I myself have said so many times but hearing it caught me so off-guard.
If anyone finds the movie’s ending stupid, all I can say is this: sometimes you just need enough people to care. You just need someone to force their presence in your life. You need to hear, over and over again, that you are enough - not because you’re not listening the first time someone says it, but because your own voices are much louder and much more recurrent. It’s someone bringing you back to a consciousness that helps you realise you’re not as worthless as you actually feel… as useless. And sometimes, having that helps so much that it will get me through the day without a black silence echoing all around me. And that’s what Thunderbolts does. That’s why it actually matters beyond being in the MCU and being a movie.
