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deliciousangelfestival · 8 months ago

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The Imperfect Couple - 11

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Series Masterlist

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Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

As Bucky stood in front of you, his expression calm, like everything was normal, a surge of anger rose within you. After everything that had just happened—after he spilled details of your private life to the press—you couldn’t believe he had the audacity to act like it meant nothing.

"You thought that telling the press about our marriage would magically make everyone stay quiet? That we’d just be OK?" Your voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. You watched as his jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.

"And now… you’re still keeping secrets." You shook your head, frustration and disbelief coursing through you. "Now it’s about Steve."

Bucky's eyes flickered with something—guilt, maybe. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke coldly, "About that. I will bring it to my grave."

His words hit you harder than any blow could have. You stepped closer, heart pounding in your chest, barely able to control the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside. "Your grave? That’s your answer?"

You laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. "How dare you stand there and act like that’s acceptable? How dare you think you can keep doing this—lying, manipulating, keeping me in the dark—just because you think you’re protecting me?"

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent. That silence only fueled your anger further.

"You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You’re so used to pulling the strings, making decisions behind everyone’s back, and pretending like it’s all for the greater good. But you’re not saving anyone, Bucky. Least of all me." Your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it—hated how much you still cared, despite everything.

He opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak.

"You think after everything I’ve been through with your family, with Steve, that I don’t deserve the truth? That I’m just supposed to trust you after everything you’ve done to me? After you let them destroy me?" Your voice rose, the pain spilling out of you like a flood that had been held back for far too long.

"You didn’t protect me then, and you’re not protecting me now. You're protecting yourself. Because you're scared. You're scared that once I know the whole truth, I’ll finally be done with you."

Bucky’s face was set in stone, but you could see the cracks forming. His silence was loud, deafening, but you weren’t done. You weren’t letting him get away with it this time.

"You think I’m stupid enough to believe that this—whatever this is—is love? You control everything. You manipulate everything around you so that you never have to feel like you’re losing. But you are, Bucky." You stepped back, your chest rising and falling with the weight of everything you were saying. "You’re losing me. Every secret you keep, every lie you tell, you’re pushing me further away."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The room felt too small, the air too thick. Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides, but still, he didn’t say a word.

"I’m glad I never got pregnant," you whispered, voice shaking. "I’m glad I never brought a child into this—into your mess. Because no child deserves to grow up with a father like you."

That was the final blow, and you saw it hit him like a punch to the gut. His eyes darkened, and for the first time, Bucky seemed truly shaken. But even then, he said nothing.

The silence between you stretched, unbearable, suffocating. You turned away from him, the weight of your words still hanging in the air, and walked out. Neither of you said anything as you left the room, but you both knew that something had broken between you—something that might never be fixed.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

As the door closed behind you, Bucky stood frozen, your words reverberating through his mind like the relentless echo of a nightmare. "I'm glad I never got pregnant."

That one sentence hit him harder than any punch he'd ever taken, harder than any bullet wound or battle scar. It was as if you had found the one part of him still vulnerable, still aching—the part he had tried so hard to protect—and you had driven a dagger straight into it.

The idea of building a family with you had always been his greatest hope, even if he had never said it out loud. He had pictured it in quiet moments, in the silence of the night when his thoughts wandered. A future with you—a family. The idea of you carrying his child, of starting something new and pure with you, had always been a flicker of light in the darkness that consumed him.

But now, that light was gone.

The bitterness of your words seeped into him, mixing with the sour taste of guilt that had been festering inside him for years. He clenched his fists, staring at the space where you had stood, feeling the weight of everything he had done—or failed to do—crushing down on him.

You’re losing me. Every secret you keep, every lie you tell, you’re pushing me further away.

He had never meant for it to be this way. He had convinced himself, again and again, that the lies, the manipulation, the control—it was all to protect you. To keep you safe from the chaos of his world. But in doing so, he had become the very thing that was destroying you. He was supposed to shield you, to be your safe haven, and yet here you were, crumbling before him because of his choices.

But you are, Bucky. You’re losing me.

The thought of losing you—of you walking away from him for good—was unbearable. He had always believed that no matter what happened, he could somehow fix things, that he could make you see that everything he did, he did out of love. But now, standing in the aftermath of your fury, he realized that he had underestimated just how deep the damage went.

The one dream that had kept him grounded—the thought of a family, a future with you—was now tainted. What was once a vision of hope and happiness now felt sour, like something spoiled and irreparable. The idea of a family with you, once so precious and sacred in his heart, now felt like a bitter reminder of all the ways he had failed you.

And the worst part? He knew it was his fault. He had driven you to this point, pushed you to the edge with his secrets and his selfishness. He had always told himself he was doing it for you, but now he saw the truth: it had been for him. He was terrified of losing control, terrified of losing you, and in trying to hold on too tightly, he had begun to suffocate the very thing he cherished most.

Bucky swallowed hard, the taste of regret sharp on his tongue. He had always been good at compartmentalizing his feelings, at shoving his pain deep down where it couldn’t touch him. But not this time. This time, there was no escaping the ache. The words you had thrown at him had hit their mark with deadly precision, and there was no denying the truth in them.

His Achilles' heel—his desire to build a family with you, to have a life with you—was now the source of his deepest pain. And as much as he wanted to believe he could fix it, that he could win you back, a cold, bitter part of him knew that it might be too late.

For the first time, Bucky felt something he hadn’t in a long time: true helplessness. The kind that gnawed at his chest, leaving a hollow ache behind.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

After the heated argument with Bucky, you retreated to your room, feeling the weight of the conversation bearing down on you. The tension between you two was suffocating, and you needed to escape—if only for a moment. Grabbing your phone, you called Greg.

“Is there an activity that doesn’t involve me being around Bucky?” you asked, your voice strained.

“After the recent debate, the two of you don’t have many joint schedules. You can pretty much do whatever you want,” Greg replied.

You sighed, staring at the ceiling. “What am I going to do?” you murmured to yourself, feeling utterly lost. Just then, your phone buzzed with a text from Hazel: ‘Can you babysit Nate for a while?’

A smile tugged at your lips, the tension momentarily lifting. Babysitting Nate felt like the perfect distraction. You quickly typed back: ‘Yes.’

An idea struck you. You decided to pick him up from school yourself, giving you something to occupy your mind. Arriving at the prestigious Catholic school, you were struck by its grandeur—stately brick buildings, perfectly manicured lawns, and an imposing church at the center of the campus. You shouldn’t have been surprised; of course, Nate would attend a place like this, surrounded by privilege and tradition.

As you walked through the campus, the sound of bells ringing faintly in the background, your eyes fell on the old church. Its large wooden doors stood open, inviting anyone seeking solace. You hadn’t set foot inside a church in years, and now, as you watched parents filtering in to pray, something stirred within you.

Your gaze shifted to a woman who emerged from a confessional booth, her face serene. She’d just finished her confession, and for some reason, that simple act gripped you. A sudden, overwhelming urge came over you.

Before you knew it, you were standing inside the dimly lit church, walking down the aisle toward the confessional. You hesitated for a moment, staring at the closed wooden door of the confessional booth, your heart pounding in your chest. Then, with a deep breath, you stepped inside and knelt down.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, your voice shaky. “It’s been five years since my last confession.”

The priest’s gentle voice echoed through the screen. “Go on, child.”

You took a breath, gathering your thoughts. “I don’t even know where to start. The first thing I need to confess is what my ex-husband—no, my husband—has done to me. All this time, I thought I was free. I thought I’d divorced him, that I was my own person again. But it turns out he never finalized the papers. For five years, I’ve believed I was single. And now… now I find out I’m still married to him.” A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “Isn’t that just the cruelest joke?”

You could hear the priest listening in silence, giving you space to speak.

“The worst part is, he lied to me. He kept this truth from me for years, letting me live in ignorance. I feel like such a fool. And now… he’s forced me into this agreement. A contract, of sorts. One year, he says. One year, and then we’ll officially be divorced. I can’t forgive him for this, for manipulating me into this situation.”

Your hands balled into fists as you spoke, your voice trembling. “He’s changed. I don’t like it. He used to be someone I trusted, but now he’s nothing but a man pulling strings behind the scenes, controlling everything.”

The anger surged through you, but beneath it, something else was there—something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

“I hate myself for agreeing to help him, for pretending like everything’s fine when it’s not. I’m exhausted from lying to myself, from keeping up appearances just to spite his mother. And what’s worse… I still care about him. After everything he’s done, part of me still cares.”

The priest’s voice was calm, gentle. “Child, do you want to quit? To walk away from this?”

You sat there in silence for a moment, your heart heavy with indecision. “No,” you finally whispered, the word almost surprising you. “No, I don’t.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips again. “It’s funny, Father. I’ve always had this strong instinct to run. Whenever I’ve felt like I needed to get out, to escape a situation, that instinct has never failed me. But now? Now I don’t understand. I could've run. I could've leave him, but…”

The priest’s voice cut through your rambling thoughts. “What feelings do you have now?”

You swallowed hard, the word slipping out before you could stop it. “Stay.”

The silence in the booth seemed to echo that single word. You could feel tears prickling at your eyes, the conflict inside you tearing you apart. “I don’t understand it. Every night, when I’m alone, I think about leaving him, and yet, something inside me tells me to stay. I don’t know why.”

The priest spoke softly, a sense of wisdom in his words. “There is a reason for everything, child. But the answer may not be clear to you yet. You must trust in God’s timing.”

“God’s timing,” you repeated, the words feeling foreign in your mouth.

“It’s no coincidence that you are here today,” the priest continued. “There is a purpose to everything, even when we cannot see it clearly. Trust that God is working in your life, even through your confusion and pain.”

“A purpose?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Sometimes, we are placed in situations not for our own understanding, but to fulfill a greater plan. The burdens you carry now may reveal a deeper truth in time.”

You nodded, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over you, even as the conflict within you remained.

The priest offered a simple prayer for guidance and peace, his voice soft and steady.

You whispered, “Amen,” making the sign of the cross as tears silently streamed down your face.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

After confessing, you stepped out of the confessional booth, feeling an unexpected lightness in your shoulders, as though the weight you'd been carrying for years had been lifted, if only for a moment. A faint smile touched your lips, the tension easing. Then, you heard the bell ring—its echo followed by the excited chatter of children ready to go home.

You waited near the entrance, looking out for Nate, but as minutes passed, he still hadn’t appeared. A sense of worry started to creep in. You scanned the crowd of children, but there was no sign of him. Your footsteps quickened as you walked around, the knot in your stomach tightening.

Then, you heard it—a familiar giggle. You followed the sound and froze. Nate was hanging in midair, swinging by his arms as two tall boys, older than him, held him up at the playground.

And then you saw him. Steve Rogers.

You blinked in disbelief, dumbfounded. What is he doing here?

The two boys—tall, blonde, and strikingly familiar—were clearly the Rogers twins, Steve’s sons. Both carried a mix of Steve and Peggy's features, but Steve's strong genes dominated; their blonde hair and sharp jawlines were unmistakably his.

An unsettled feeling stirred in your chest. There was something about those twins that always made you uneasy, though you couldn't quite pinpoint why. And what were high school boys doing, playing with a first-year elementary kid?

“Aunty!” Nate’s cheerful voice snapped you out of your thoughts. He had noticed you before you could even call out to him. He wriggled free from the boys and sprinted toward you, his small arms reaching out.

Your heart swelled as he hugged you tightly. Compared to the rest of the Barnes family, being with Nate always felt like a breath of fresh air.

“I missed you,” Nate said, his face beaming up at you.

How could your heart not melt at that?

Before you could respond, the Rogers twins greeted you politely, “Hello, Mrs. Barnes.”

You smiled at them, though unease lingered. “Hi, William. Hi, Charles.”

“You still remember us?” William asked, his voice surprisingly mature.

“Of course. And both of you are so kind, playing with Nate,” you replied, though your eyes remained cautious.

“Well, our families are close partners,” Charles added, patting Nate gently on the head. “And our dad told us to be good role models for this champ.”

“Hehe,” Nate giggled, not fully understanding but clearly enjoying being called a champion.

“See you, buddy,” the twins said in unison, giving Nate a fist bump before heading toward their car.

Then Steve approached you, his expression a mix of surprise and something else, as if he hadn’t expected to see you here.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice calm but with a hint of hesitation.

“Hey,” you replied, crossing your arms instinctively, keeping a certain distance.

Steve glanced at you and then down at Nate, who was busy looking through his backpack. “How are things with you and Bucky?”

Your lips curled into a wry smile. “Sinking ship.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Titanic?”

Before you could respond, Nate, ever the sharp listener, jumped in. “Titanic?” he repeated, drawing a laugh from Steve.

"He's a ray of sunshine." Steve chuckled softly and patted Nate’s head in that gentle, fatherly way that almost made you pause. It seemed that in your absence, Steve had grown closer to Nate, filling in a role you hadn’t even realized was vacant.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

As you sat in the car with Nate, the bond between you felt like a warmth you hadn’t experienced in a long time. Nate chatted excitedly beside you, his small hands gesturing animatedly as he talked about how happy he was to stay with you.

“Aunty, I missed you so much! It’s been forever,” he said, his smile infectious. “And guess what? I get to stay with Uncle Bucky too!”

Your heart ached a little at the mention of Bucky, but Nate’s joy overrode it, at least for the moment.

“Yeah?” you replied, brushing a hand through Nate’s hair. “That sounds fun.”

Nate nodded eagerly, and then you remembered the twins. “So, those boys—William and Charles—how do you know them?”

“Oh! I met them on my birthday,” Nate said with excitement. “They and Uncle Steve gave me huge presents. It was so cool!”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” you said, trying to match his enthusiasm.

“Yeah, since then, I’ve had two big brothers,” Nate added with a proud grin. “I always wanted a big brother—or a little brother—or even a little sister,” he said, his tone wistful. “I asked Mom, but she said no.”

He sighed, and you chuckled softly. The memory of meeting Hazel while she was pregnant came to mind. Back then, no one knew who Nate’s father was. Hazel had always kept her lips sealed, refusing to speak about it.

You recalled the heated arguments between Hazel and Caroline. Once, you overheard Hazel snapping, “I already continued the bloodline. I’ve done my duty. I don’t want to get married. Period.”

You had admired her strength, but it also made you realize just how complicated everything had become.

Thinking back, you realized you had never heard of Hazel being in a relationship. With her status and career, she could have any man she wanted. But why was she so close with the Rogers family? What made Steve and the twins come to play with Nate after school?

A curious thought crossed your mind. Could Steve and Hazel have… No, you shook your head, dispelling that notion. It was impossible.

But the curiosity clawed at you. You turned to Nate, your brow furrowed. “Do Uncle Steve and the twins always play with you?”

Nate nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Uncle Steve stood beside me when the doctor injected me,” he said, lifting his sleeve to show you the sore spot on his arm. “Ouchie!”

You chuckled, leaning over to blow gently on the spot, making him giggle. The sound was infectious, yet it tugged at something deeper within you, a swell of guilt rising as you wished you had kept your curiosity in check. Your instincts were telling you something else entirely.

No matter how close family friends could be, it seemed unlikely that someone like Steve would take the time to accompany Nate for his vaccination. Unless…

Nate's eyes sparkled with excitement as he leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Oh, and he bought me ice cream and pizza! This is a secret, Aunty.” He glanced around, making sure no one was eavesdropping, his expression filled with mischief.

You chuckled, unable to resist his infectious enthusiasm. “That sounds cool!”

Nate nodded vigorously, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “And the big brothers always ask me to watch them play basketball. They’re so cool!” He raised his arms, mimicking a jump shot, his little face lighting up with joy.

You smiled, “Sounds like a blast.”

“My favorite part is after the game,” he continued, his eyes wide with memory. “We always watch movies and eat caramel popcorn. It’s delicious!” He rubbed his belly dramatically, as if savoring the taste all over again.

“Does Uncle Steve also join in watching movies?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, hoping your instincts were wrong. Your heart raced slightly, and you felt a knot tightening in your stomach at the thought.

“Yes!” Nate replied, his enthusiasm unabated. He practically bounced with joy, his small fists clenched as he hopped in place.

You sighed, feeling a frustration bubbling up. Gosh, you hated your overactive imagination and your inability to suppress your investigative instincts.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

When you arrived home, Bucky was already there. As you stepped inside, he stood up, his expression shifting from surprise to something softer at the sight of you. But before he could speak, Nate rushed forward and hugged him tightly, the excitement radiating off the little boy.

“Uncle Bucky!” Nate exclaimed, squeezing him. Bucky’s face lit up with genuine happiness, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to Nate's head.

“Hey there, champ,” Bucky replied, his voice warm and inviting.

“I have to wash my hands and feet first!” Nate announced, darting off toward the bathroom.

With Nate out of the room, the atmosphere shifted, leaving you and Bucky alone. An awkward tension settled between you, thick enough to cut with a knife. Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, the motion betraying his unease.

“Uhm…” he began, searching for words, his gaze flicking away as if he were weighing his options.

Before he could finish his thought, you interrupted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “What made you want to support a liar like Steve?”

His eyes widened, surprise mingling with a flicker of something else—was it defensiveness? Confusion? The air crackled with unspoken questions, and you felt the tension deepen, a mystery hanging between you, waiting to be unraveled.

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ramblingoak · 11 months ago

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A Thousand Kisses

For an Anon that requested a lazy kiss with Copia.

Papa Emeritus IV x Reader

Warnings: soft, tired and kissable Copia, sfw, 540 words, not beta read (thank you to @gothdaddyissues for the dividers)

“I never want to move again.”

You grinned at Copia even though he couldn’t see it with his face buried in his pillow. The poor man had been practicing with the ghouls all day for the upcoming tour. When he finally showed up at your door it was with a hoarse voice and a stiff posture. You couldn’t even get his clothes off without him groaning every time he had to move. As soon as you had wiped off most of his makeup and made him take some painkillers he had collapsed onto the bed.

“You should really take a hot shower, otherwise you’re not gonna be able to move in the morning.”

“I can’t move now, amore.” He turned his head to the side so his voice wasn’t muffled, his bright green eye focusing on you. “I’m broken.”

“Broken, huh? That’s too bad, Papa. I’ll have to adjust my plans for tonight.”

“Pl-ah cazzo,” Copia whimpered as he rolled onto his back, taking a few deep breaths before trying again. “Plans, you say?”

“You know, just the usual.” You toed off your shoes and crawled onto the bed, moving slowly until you were resting on your side next to him. His chest rumbled like a purring cat when you rubbed a hand up and down his bare chest. “A candlelit dinner, some dancing…”

“Please don’t say dancing right now.”

He pouted when you laughed at him and you couldn’t resist shifting so you could kiss his full bottom lip.

“What about wobbling, Papa? Would you wobble for me?”

“Amore, you know that I would normally do anything for you, yeah?” You nodded before resting your chin on his chest. He managed to bring a hand up to your cheek, swiping his thumb across it gently before speaking again. “But Lilith herself couldn’t get me to wobble right now.”

He smiled softly when you kissed his palm before he laid his arm back down on the bed. Even that had him wincing and you frowned down at him.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Papa? Anything at all.”

Copia was quiet and still for a few moments, long enough you almost thought he had fallen asleep. You started to move away to let him rest but he slid an arm around your waist to keep you in place.

“Anything?” He opened his eyes and gave you a lazy smile when he felt you nod against his chest again. “A kiss then.”

“Just one?”

“Hmm, or two. Three maybe, if you feel I deserve it.”

You leaned in to give him the first one, your lips lingering on his for a couple of seconds. It was your turn to cup his cheek, rubbing at spot of white that you had missed earlier. Copia’s eyes were bleary with sleep and you stifled a grin when you realized he probably wouldn’t last till the third kiss. It didn’t matter though, you’d still give him all the tired and lazy kisses you could until he was asleep.

“You deserve a thousand kisses, Copia.”

“A thousand, amore?” He smiled against your lips when you gave him the second one, his hand idly rubbing up and down your back while he gazed into your eyes. “I’ll hold you to that.”

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netherfeildren · 2 years ago

Text

Pink : Part III : Two

Series Masterlist : Part I : Part II

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Content Warnings: Heavy angst; DD/lg dynamics; Dom/sub undertones; Daddy Kink; Jealousy; Unprotected Sex; Creampie; Inappropriate shaving; Squirting; Belly bulge; Dirty talk; Orgasm delay/denial; Overstimulation; Face slapping; Spanking; Light degradation; Rough sex; Breeding kink; Divorce; Not safe to read if triggered by pregnancy; Use of misogynistic language; Discussions of mental and emotional abuse; Cliffhanger

A/N: All tags have been updated.

Word Count: 12.7K

Rating: Explicit 18+

Read on AO3

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3. Two

“You know that feeling of… of realizing you’re a good person? It’s like– yes, I know objectively that I probably am. That I try to be kind, I try to do things that are good and right, but you know those strangely self perceptive moments where another person makes you – forces you – to realize you’re good? And it brings your whole life, your whole self into clarity, and it’s like – I am good, and I deserve good things. I am good.

But he treated me so badly, for so long. He took away pieces of me, he took away that awareness of goodness. And how could I not believe him, when he constantly told me and showed me that I deserved so little, when it was what I accepted for myself? Constantly waiting for him to turn into a man he never was, never had been and never would be. I accepted those things for myself, I let them happen. Maybe I was weak or stupid or naive or all of them combined. Maybe I was just a girl. But I thought it was hope at the time. I thought I was being hopeful and good, and now I realize that was no true form of goodness. It was only the version of good he needed me to be, a subservient and silent type of goodness.”

“And you know, I had a neighbor who– her husband died last year at Christmas, and it was so sad. They were older, always together, it was… it has nothing to do with this, but I don’t know. It was like when a tragedy is soft and quiet, and it just folds into the rest of life unheeded. Such a strange thing for someone on the outside looking in. I lived next door to them, and I’d see them all the time living their lives together, and I barely knew them, but suddenly he was gone, and I was conscious of the fact that she was over there alone all the time now. Without him. When before he’d always been there. I don’t know what I'm trying to say. It’s just that it didn't happen to me, it affected me in no way, and yet, I felt her loss keenly. Afterwards, I helped her with her cat, an old skinny thing, Jazz. She started going out of town a lot after her husband died, getting out and away, you know, that sort of thing. And I’d cat sit for her, and he was so sweet. But he was old too, and a few months later, he died also. And I remember the week he was going to pass she’d texted me and said he’d go soon, and I told her I was praying for him, thinking of the both of them. I don’t even pray, but I needed to tell her I was with her in some way. And it was nothing, a few nights going over there to feed the old boy, a few text messages. It was the absolute bare minimum I could do, but a few weeks after the cat died, she wrote me the loveliest note. She told me that she appreciated me, that she thought of how kind I’d been during those days, when I’d told her I was thinking of them. She told me that I was a good person, and that she hoped my kindness was returned to me many times over.

And I’d forgotten, you see, I'd forgotten that I was good. That I had a capacity for goodness within me, and that I deserved to be reminded of it, like all soft creatures are. We all need reassurance and a kind word sometimes, and I’d forgotten that about myself.” You glance up at his eyes, the most tender look held in them. “Do you know what I mean, Joel?” You ask, voice very small, shy and afraid, for one moment, that he won’t understand you.

But he pets your hair, cradles your cheek, “Yeah, honey. I think I do know.”

It’s a terrifying ordeal, the way the two of you fold into each other in the weeks after that first night. And yet, unstoppable. You do try, and you’re sure he does, as well. The first few days, trying to stay away, not answering his calls, no texts because he says his fingers are too big, and he can’t work those tiny fuckin’ buttons, forcing yourself not to run back over there into his arms and his bed. But then he’s calling and calling and calling, begging, making it his turn to show up at your doorstep in the middle of the night, saying all the right things like, I haven’t been sleeping, and I need to see you, and I’m suffering, I’m suffering without you, touching you in all the right ways that should be wrong but aren’t. All baby, I hurt when I’m not inside this sweet pussy. He says you make him weak, and you tell him that the only weak thing here is you, and you don’t make it much of a struggle for him when you let him in your home, in your cunt, when all you can say is I miss you, I miss you, your cock, your hands, I can’t stop thinking about you. The two of you are one and the same in all the ways it counts. And he’s not your father-in-law anymore, a chameleon now in the form of the only man who’s ever understood you, wanted you, seen you as more, as a complexity.

He makes you wonder how you could have ever thought of yourself as anything like sexless when all he makes you is hungry and desperate and wet. Fucking everywhere you can, as often as you can, never being very careful, pulling out and counting your cycle and starting out with a condom but ripping it off halfway through because I just have to feel you – irresponsible bullshit. Not having your head screwed on tightly enough to even really care. He has you on his living room floor one afternoon, whole day gone away on his cock, and the two of you lay there for hours afterwards, bare limbs wrapped around each other, soft, wet cock tucked safely inside of you where he says it belongs. “How could you have not been angry?” You ask him because you can’t help yourself. Because you want him to teach you to be wise now that he’s shown you how to be good. “That he was kept from you? That you missed an entire lifetime of being a father? I never once saw you furious or resentful. How did you do it?”

“Don’t know,” he sighs. “Dunno… I– It was, kind of, the worst thing anyone’s ever done to me, truth be told, but I didn’t have a chance to compute, to sit in any sort of anger. He was right there all of a sudden, too full of anger to leave any left over for me, and he needed me so much. He needs me so much.” And you know he’s right, and there should be guilt now, gnawing at you, but there is really only jealousy. “And he– he…” A swallow, like you can read his mind, you know what he’ll say, already nodding. “And he hates me,” he whispers into the quiet of this lovely home he’s made for himself, his words mixing with the butter yellow ray of sunshine the two of you are lying in, slanting in through the big bay window. “He hates me, hates who I am. That it’s me he found when he came lookin’.” You have to cry for him then, maybe even for the both of them, maybe even for all three of you.

“Yes,” you choke, so full of sadness for the tragedy of it all. You can’t comfort him with a denial for you’re not a liar here with him. Protection like that isn’t necessary.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart.” He hugs you so tightly, “There’s no reason to cry.”

“I can’t help it,” And return the words he’d given you once when you’d so badly needed a kindness, “You deserve more.”

He’s quiet for a long time after that, and you know him well enough now that you can hear the gears of his mind working and turning, and that makes you even sadder, perhaps, the greatest tragedy of all, this knowing, and eventually he says: “And yet, he is the son I have.” And at the end of it all, you think you are all only yourselves, and nothing can really be done about that.

And you say you want to be wise like him, that it’s your next lesson, so perhaps you should hold your tongue instead of saying: “He only just got you back, and I’m taking you away from him again. Because that’s what I want – I want to take you away and keep you only for myself. I want you to be only mine and that makes me bad. I’m bad.” Your first lesson quashed beneath the fist of your greed for a man who isn’t for you, and who you shouldn’t want, and it’s wrong and maybe even sinful or disgusting or any and all the things that are always bad. None of that matters. He’s turned you into a real person now, none of the rest of it matters.

But he understands, because of course he does, because he always has. He grips your jaw in his hands, large, strong hands, hands made for taking care of things, and tells you, not so wise seeming anymore: “Sometimes I look at myself, and it’s like I'm two feet tall. Why didn’t I meet you sooner? First? How could I have been such a coward to not go out there and search for you? I should have known you were out there, I should have sensed it. How can a man be jealous of his own son?” He turns you over then, cock hard and thrusting again, kisses you full on the mouth, and it tastes like ownership, and says, “You could never be bad. No matter what you did. You’re only ever good. Haven’t I taught you that?”

“Joel, there’s someone at the door,” peeking into the restroom where he’s just stepped out of the shower, wet and steaming, shaking his head out like a dog, towel covering all the fun bits. He’d just had you too many times already, and still, you want more. You’re made of nothing but greed now; he’s taught you how to be good, but he’s also taught you how to be greedy. You’d been strewn across his couch, eating chips and wearing his clothes and leaking his come and waiting for him to finish in the shower and come out to make dinner. He was doing steaks on the grill and baked potatoes with all the fixings and roasted vegetables, and he’d even gotten a pie and ice cream, but he said he wasn’t telling you what the flavor was, only that it was your favorite, and you can’t think how he’d know you love rhubarb, but if that’s what he’s gotten, you were going to let him do anything to you. Literally anything he wanted. Not that you didn’t already… but still, it’s the sentiment that counts, you think. He’d also said you weren’t allowed to shower, that the rule tonight was that you weren’t allowed to wash him off, and you really didn’t mind that so much. So there you were, after he’d put on Stepmom for you, and you were just thinking that Julia Roberts was surely the most beautiful woman who’d ever been born, when someone had knocked on the door, a rhythmic, friendly: tap, tap, tap, that had your heart dropping down into your stomach, and you scurrying into the master bath to frantically tell him that someone is here while you’re here wearing him all over and inside of you and what are you going to do now? He gives you a calm smile, running the towel over his wet head, giving you an eyeful of the fun bits now, and you try and not peek, you really do, but it’s really just the most exciting part on him, you can’t help yourself. His smile turns knowing, that look in his eye, “S’alright, sweetheart. Don’t fret, I’ll get it.”

“But–” you try and protest, maybe he should just pretend not to be home. What if it’s– you can’t even think of it. But then no, he’d not come here. He hates coming to this house, the proof of everything he wasn’t all in his face like this was humiliating for your ex-husband.

His smile remains, but his eyes go a little stern, “No worryin’, I’ll take care of it.” He tugs on his jeans, the man literally never wears underwear, slut, and tugs on a shirt, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he passes you, hand dragging over your belly, smelling of soap and Joel and want, want, want. You follow him on tip toes down the hall, pausing at the mouth of the living room, chewing on your lip and your fingers, about to spit your heart out with nerves as he pulls the door open.

“Hi, Joel, honey. How’s it goin’?” Pretty, bubbly, overly friendly voice you were definitely not expecting. You take a small step forward, the mouth of the hall slightly to the left of the front door so that you can see her without her seeing you, watch his profile as he talks to her. Edie, he says, and that dishwasher givin’ you trouble again, and laughs at her reply, the sound of their conversation going out of your ears as you watch him, head falling sideways on your neck a little bit, the way he laughs at whatever the woman that’s come knocking on the door of his home all friendly and comfortable to interrupt his time with you is saying, loud, bellyfull, one arm braced against the doorframe so that you can see her eyes flit every few seconds to the thick bulge of muscle there. Your face goes hot, your insides green and bitter, but he’s laughing just handsomely enough that you know it’s not real. You know his real laugh, and it isn’t this one. The woman leans forward, blonde hair and big boobs and batting lashes, but Joel shifts backwards subtly, keeping a respectful distance, and your pulse throbs at the backs of your knees and the pit of your stomach. She likes him, she’s here because she likes him, asking him to look at her dishwasher or something, yeah, sure, sure that’s the only thing she wants looked at.

“I’ll come take a look at it tomorrow. How ‘bout that? I’m sure it’ll be another quick fix like last time, but you should probably think about just replacin’ the thing at this point,'' he tells her.

“Oh, can’t you now, Joel?” She pouts, “It’s just that–”

“I’m tied up tonight, Edie,” he cuts her off, an indulgent, too charming smile on his face, and oh, it pisses you off, that smile. You turn on your heel, stomping down the hall back to his bedroom. Huffing, gnashing your teeth. The sight of him with another woman, a more appropriate woman because of course she is, it makes you sick, angry, something terrible, so, so jealous your bones itch beneath the surface of your skin. It makes you small and slanted again, wrong place, wrong time, wrong girl. Not for him, never for him, and it’s so unfair, and he is so– so… Smiling at her like that, using that tone of voice, propping up his stupid huge arm like that so that his muscle’s all defined and put on display, and you hate him and the way he makes you feel and how much you want and need him. On the verge of tears or screaming or vomiting you scramble around his room, trying to collect your clothes and your strewn panties and where the fuck is your bra and your other shoe?

“What’re you doin’?” Comes his soft, steady voice a moment later. Entirely too even for the way you feel right now. You want to hiss at him or bite him or do something entirely uncivilized.

“I have to go home.”

“Why?”

“I have something to do. I forgot.”

“Something, what? What do you have to do?” But you ignore him, rifling through the strewn clothes on the armchair in the corner – where the hell is your goddamn bra? “Look at me–” he barks, now having stepped further into the bedroom.

“Oh, fuck off,” and there’s a part of you that knows that you’re being irrational, that he’s done nothing wrong, but you feel so provoked suddenly. In need of a fight or a thrashing or something, something to make this terrible feeling poisoning you on the inside go away.

“Watch your mouth, little girl,” and his voice is so calm and so quiet and so scary. It makes you lock up one second, spin around the next to spit and hiss at him like an angry cat. You will not watch your mouth. “She wants you.” You almost stomp your foot like a child throwing a fit, but he’s entirely still and silent, taking you in with the most unfathomable of looks. “Do you know that?” And this time you do stomp your foot. “Do you want her back?”

He blinks once, and then like a lightbulb turning on, even though you’re obvious as daylight, “You’re jealous.”

“Do you want her back?” You ask again, real tears in your voice this time.

And his gaze goes soft and tender and entirely understanding, “Never.” He shakes his head.

“She looked like a fucking idiot.” You pout, childish – how will he ever want you when you act like this?

“I only want you.” But you don’t believe him. How could you? When there’s nowhere for this to go. When he deserves so much more than the options afforded to him here between the two of you. And you want to fight with him because there’s nothing to be done, no choices, no other recourse, and it’s not his fault and there’s no one to blame and no outlet for this terrible anger inside of you. You feel like you’re choking on it, being swallowed whole, that head breaking water feeling reversed so that now you’re deep at the bottom of the well of your own wanting. You turn back to the fruitless search for your bra. He’s hidden it from you, you’re sure, some evil old man ploy to keep you here trapped and braless with him. “Did you hear me? I only want you,” he says again, voice closer now.

And you think you’re mumbling or crying, something hysterical bubbling up inside of you, I have to go, I have to go, your movements manic and jerking. He grips your arm, jerking you around into his chest, face flushed with anger now, but voice still even, “You’re not fucking listening to me. I only want you,” and yanks your hand to feel the hard cock trapped beneath the confines of his jeans. This is only for you. But it’s not, not in any real way, not in a way that would let you keep him and that realization sets something off inside of you. You thrash in his hold, let me go, let me go, trying to kick him in the shins while he tries to wrap his arms around your struggling form, that rumbling chant constant in your ear, I only want you, I only want you, I am only for you. It feels like he’s burrowing beneath your skin, unzipping you, splaying your insides wide open for his gaze, taking hold of your bones, a puppet on his string. You manage to yank your arm out from beneath his grip and unthinking, a buzzing so high pitched it makes you dizzy and nauseous sounding in your ears, you slap him in the face. Not very hard, maybe, but enough that you hear the crack of your palm meeting the grizzled scruff of his cheek. The sound like a bone snapping, setting off something inside both of you even worse, more frenzied than before. He groans deep in his chest, big hand fisting in your hair and jerking it back so hard you yelp in pain. “Hit me again, do it again. I want you any way I can have you, even angry. Do it again,” he goads you on, but that mindless hand is fisted in his shirtfront now, pulling you closer to him, tear stained mouth seeking his, opening to receive his filthy kiss.

“I’m sorry,” you cry, but all he says is that he only wants you, again and again, grips you harder, makes it hurt more, and you whine and whimper and scratch and bite, a wild thing, the two of you caught up in some strange struggle of push and pull and want and fight. You can feel the hard length of his cock grinding against your belly, searching for something hot and wet to fuck into, and you hitch your knee around his hip, open yourself to him, listen to his groan in your ear, throaty and full.

“You just need a little remindin’? Don’t you, huh?” He tugs your head back, none too gentle, to look at your tear slicked face, his eyes on fire, almost a little manic. He spins you away from him, shoving you towards the bed, ignoring your whines and protests, shut up and bend over, pushing you over the edge of the bed and crouching down behind you. “You just need a little remindin’ of how to be a good girl. I know that’s all this fightin’ is. Right, baby?” No, you try and struggle, kicking your leg out uselessly to the side, but he pins you with your arms back behind you at the small of your waist, pushing his shirt up your back to expose the naked curve of your ass and the pussy you know he’ll find humiliatingly wet and hungry for him. “Just need remindin’ of how to be a good girl for me, right?” His fingers slide down to the apex of your thighs, finding you dripping and swollen from his earlier use and your current desire, all twisted up and compounded ten fold with your jealousy.

“So wet already for me, baby,” he coos at you.

And oh, he’s so annoying, and you’re so embarrassing and weak for him. “Shut up, old man,” you whine. A single finger enters you slowly, rubbing up against all the terribly sensitive and swollen places inside of you, then pulls his wet fingers from you to deliver a single stinging swat to the curve of your ass, sticky wet imprint of yourself left behind.

“Yeah, and this old man fucks you better than anyone else,” he slips his fingers gently back inside of you, “Remember that you little whore,” he says even more gently. The words make you twist and writhe, a terrible flush of lust burning through you. He feels you tighten around his fingers, groans appreciatively. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He twists his fingers inside of you, pressing hard against something that makes you feel like you’re about to wet yourself. You cry out, squeezing your eyes shut and shaking your head, refusing to answer. “No lyin’. You daddy’s little whore?”

“Nuh uh,” you shake your head, your hips moving with the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. He brushes his thumb slowly over your pulsing clit, plays you like a game.

“No?” His voice is so soft, so teasing.

“I’m not your whore–”

“You’re not? Then what are you, baby? Tell me.”

You’re right there, so close, about to come on his fingers. “I'm your baby. I'm your baby. I’m yours– I belong to you, daddy.” He pulls his fingers from your cunt, hand coming to grip your ass cheek so hard it hurts, fingernails digging into your soft skin, dragging down the smooth surface. You can hear him panting behind you, shaking, trying to control himself. He makes a gruff, rough sound in his throat, gentles his grip on you.

“You don’t think I don’t get fucking jealous?” he spits when he’s finally managed to control himself. “You think I don't think about you with my own son and want to die? That he got to have you in a way I never will, and even worse, wasted you? You don’t think it makes me sick with envy?” He brings his fingers back to play in your wet folds, feels the slick drip of you, thrums at your clit, opening you to him with a hand on your cheek and licking you from clit to asshole. Running the flat expanse of his tongue over the length of your sex and then sucking hard at the apex of nerves, hard enough that you can’t tell if it hurts or feels good or a little bit of both. He’s got you bent over the end of his bed facing the dresser so that you have a clear view of the two of you in the mirror above it. And the sight of him, massive frame crouched down behind you, huge and hulking, face buried in your cunt from behind, the curved slope of his nose, the long, thick lashes, eyes closed like he’s enjoying himself more than he’s ever enjoyed anything else in his entire life as he licks your ass and sucks on your clit. He pulls back, and you watch, almost in slow motion, as he shocks you by swatting your entire sex with his big hand, and then immediately brings his face back to lick and kiss your smarting skin. “But he didn’t fuck you the way you needed to be fucked,” he continues. “And I do. He didn’t understand you, but I do. At least I have that.” It sounds like he’s consoling himself, and you can’t help but find consolation in it as well. Your eyes move up to your own reflection, sweat slicked and tear stained, eyes glassy, wet fingers inside of your mouth because you need something to chew on to stand the terrible throbbing in your cunt on the verge of coming. He licks you again, presses his tongue to your asshole. “Did you ever get wet for him like this?” He pulls back, runs the pads of his fingers over your clit in fast, hard up and down motions, makes it feel so good it hurts, you’re right there, you’re right there, pulls away. “Were you ever desperate for him like this? Cunt all drippy and swollen and pathetic for him like you are for me, my sweet baby?”

Never, daddy. Never. Only you. You can’t lie to him when he’s got his tongue inside of you, it’s just not possible. Only me. Only mine. You press up on your tippy toes, roll back down onto the balls of your feet, “Yeah, rub that sweet pussy all over daddy’s face,” he mumbles into your skin, slurps at you. He wraps his lips around your clit once more, sucks and licks and sucks again, and your cunt goes so, so tight, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, daddy, and then just stops. Pulls away entirely, gets to his feet, leaves you to throb and shiver and beg, whole body flashing hot and cold on the precipice of orgasm. Still holding you pinned in place with your wrists at the small of your back, you watch his eyes roam along your draped form, he drags his hand down the wet length of his face, wiping the drippiness of your slick away. “Stay just like that for me,” and his eyes move to yours in the mirror, as if he’s known the entire time just how riveted on him you’d been. “What?” He asks with a crooked brow and a mean little smirk. “You think you get to come? After that little display?”

“Don’t be mean,” you whisper, staying exactly as he’d directed. Trying your best to be a good girl.

“Shoulda thought of that before, sweet girl.” He bends over the length of you so you’re eye to eye now, gets his face right up close to yours and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “You wanna pretend to fight, stand there like an indignant little girl stomping your foot and yellin’ about bein’ jealous while my come runs down your thighs still. Obviously, I’m not doin’ a good enough job of remindin’ you you’re mine, how much I want you. Gonna fix that now.” Presses another soft kiss to your mouth now.

“You’re trying to dominate me,” you whine, struggling to press against his mouth again even as he pulls back out of your reach, plants a big palm between your shoulders to keep you still.

“You bet your fuckin’ ass I am. You’re gonna do what I tell you to when you’re letting me fill you with my come the way you are. And you’re gonna like it too. You get me?”

“Yes, daddy.”

But then he goes serious, that teasing glint in his eyes flickering away suddenly. “You have nothing to be jealous of. Ever. I don’t want anyone but you. I don’t care about anything else but this.” And even though you’re sure it must be a lie, it sounds so lovely, you choose to believe him for now. You nod up at him, sniffling and crying again a little bit. “And no one takes care of you like I do,” he finally says, as if it’s a reminder, a consolation to the both of you once again.

And he’s right, as he tells you to stay put, be a good girl and not move, leaves you there bent over the bed, that chant sounds in your mind, no one takes care of you like he does, no one, no one, no one.

He steps back into his bedroom to the sight of you still draped over the bed, big eyes wet and slightly vacant, pussy red and swollen and bared to him like a wound with his name on it. You’d brought your fingers up to your mouth, chewing on your fingernails the way you did sometimes when you were anxious or overwhelmed, and when your eyes flit to him, taking in the bowl of warm water, the washcloth and shaving cream in his hold, they go wide, shocked. He arranges his things, gripping you by the hips to turn you over, pulling his shirt from you, leaving you entirely naked, and settling between your spread thighs. “Wh– what are you doing?” Voice all breathy and hitched, the thrum of your excited pulse in your throat.

“Gonna shave you bare. Then I’m gonna eat you ‘til you’re crying, ‘til you’re so swollen you can barely take my fingers. After that, I’m gonna wedge my cock inside you and fuck you ‘til you’re so full’a my come you’ll remember not to forget you ain’t got no reason to be jealous ever again.” He strokes your curls gently with the pad of his thumb, something like fondness in the gesture, clicks his tongue. “These’re so pretty. Gonna miss ‘em.”

“Oh my god,” you choke when he drapes the water warmed washcloth over your spread pussy.

“You wanna be a brat, you wanna fight and act like you don’t know I belong to you and you to me? That none of that other shit matters– I’m gonna remind you, don’t worry.”

You crane your neck, pushing up on your elbows to watch him remove the washcloth and cover the soft curls of your groin with shaving cream. When he opens the blade and brings it to your skin, the sight of the straight edged blade against you, the smooth cream as the steel reveals the bare, satin soft skin beneath, has your chest heaving, sweat pooling at the little notch of your throat – fucking gorgeous and his.

“You’re going to be so sensitive, baby,” he murmurs as he bends your leg back and opened wide, splitting you for his gaze. Delicate with the movements of his wrist as he shaves you. “All bare and slick down here, just for me. You’re so swollen already.”

You mumble something, moaning and letting yourself flop back against the mattress, he’s quick to pull the blade from you, pausing his movements while you settle, gives you a second to press the balls of your palms into the sockets of your eyes, whining Joel and daddy and please. And the trust in this moment between the two of you, that you’re letting him wield a blade so close to your fragile center, letting him do this to you as a way to remind the both of you of the power you cede and wield over and to one another, something that gives him the opportunity to inflict his will in a way that recenters you, reminds you that you’re his, his to do with you as he will, and it’s just the two of you in this space and you trust each other implicitly, it has a sense of control swelling inside of Joel, making his cock rock hard in his jeans, leak down his thigh. Control in a way there is none of in everything else between the two of you. Control in a way there cannot exist in any other aspect of your relationship. When he’s finished, he cleans you slowly with a new warm, damp cloth, then goes to put away his supplies, and when he returns, he looms over you, taking in the sight of your little bald cunt now.

Slowly, he starts to pull his clothes off, watching the quick panting of your breathing, the dip and swell of your belly, so aroused by the intimacy you’ve just shared that your pupils are blown wide and dark. “You’ve made such a mess, little girl,” he says, dragging a single finger through your overflowing slit, following the slick from your swollen clit to your asshole where it pools beneath. He fingers your folds gently, avoiding your swollen clit, your little hole winking at him wantonly. “Please–” you whisper so softly, almost gasping for breath you can barely get the words out.

“Oh, I know, sweetheart. I know you need to come so bad, don’t you?” He drags his palms up and down your thighs, up to your waist and then tugs you down over the edge of the bed and onto your knees in front of him, wide eyes riveted hungry on his cock. “How does it feel? So sensitive, isn’t it?” He’s so hard his erection stands straight up towards his belly, balls hanging heavy and full and aching. He gently drags his fingers along your scalp, feels the heat emanating from your skull. “Lick it all over, get it nice and wet so I can put it inside you.” He knows he needs to be careful now. The two of you are wide open to each other in this moment, so on edge he could come just at the look in your eyes, and you, something more than just vulnerable. He’d worried briefly, in the past weeks, if he should stop, send you away, take himself away, tell you it was too much. You were getting too attached, and although he knew it was too late for himself, that he was beyond salvaging when it came to you, he could imagine nothing worse than seeing you come out hurt from this. Could also imagine no scenario in which you wouldn’t anymore. He feeds you his cock, fisted tightly at the root to stave off his impending orgasm, slides all the way to the back of your throat until he feels his tip hit resistance, enjoying the sight of you choking on it for just a second. Good girl. “Fuck– fuck, yes. See, see how good you can be for me?” He tells you as you suck on his tip, hollowing your cheeks and running your tongue all around the wide head, tonguing his foreskin, making him hiss and bear his teeth at you while you look up at him with falsely innocent eyes. He yanks you up and against him, gives you a filthy, wet kiss, all tongue and teeth and false control, swallowing down the taste of his own precum. He’s never felt less in control of himself, of a situation, than he does right now. He has, in these past weeks, entirely lost sight of himself, of what this should and should not have been, blindly led by his cock and his heart. He’s lost all control, and Joel is nothing but weakness and want now.

Turning you in his arms, he sits at the edge of the bed, thighs spread wide and pulls you onto his lap, impaling you back onto his spit-slick cock so swiftly he doesn't even think you’re expecting it until he’s bumping against your womb, your knees hooked and spread wide over his own. Too desperate to lick your cunt again the way he’d planned. You let out a long, shocked keen, back arching, trying to escape the too big cock suddenly shoved inside of your tiny hole. Joel has to grit his teeth, take deep breaths through his nose and out through his mouth before he can speak at the feel of you fluttering and pulsing around him, “The more you whine, the harder I’ll fuck you, got it?” There’s nothing even close to a coherent response coming out of your mouth, and he was right, shaved bare like this, you’re so much more sensitive. He pulls the lips of your sex gently apart around where he’s impaling you, takes in the sight of your little hole stretched obscenely around his fat cock in the mirror’s reflection and slowly starts to seesaw his hips back and forth, watching his glossy length disappear in and out of you. “How does it feel, baby? You’re so pretty, look at yourself.” He whispers into the small shell of your ear, presses a soft kiss to the lobe, tugs on it with his teeth. He slides in all the way, pulling your hips down so that his balls press against the curve of your ass. “Look, see where daddy’s so deep inside you – can see it in your belly.” Your head lolls back on his shoulder, gaze hooded and delirious, but your hand moves down to the soft skin of your stomach, gently cupping the outline of his cock inside of you. “I’m so deep inside of your tiny cunt, baby. Look at how you’re all mine–” He starts to move again, flicking at your clit, interchanging between fast and hard and slow and so soft you can barely feel it, and your face looks like you want to say something, tell him something, scream, but can’t. And there’s so much he’d like to tell you too, all the things you deserve and probably need to hear from him, but can’t either. He feels you start to tighten up on him, the heat in your body suddenly seeming to flush higher and brighter, almost to boiling, your cunt going so, so tight it almost pushes him out. He presses inside harder, holds you in place with one hand, and thrums fast and hard at your clit with the other, focusing the tip of his cock at the front wall of your pussy, “You’re gonna come–” he grunts, holds you in place and hammers into that swollen place inside of you he’d kill to own for the rest of his life. “Fuck– fuck, you’re gonna squirt all over my cock, aren’t you? Can feel it–” Your face spasms, your belly clenching hard and tight, and you gush, letting out a pained, animal sound, voice broken and breathless, wetting both of your thighs with your come, the bed covers beneath soaked dark. Joel doesn’t stop. He wants more, again, all of you, thrums again at your clit with the pads of his fingers, changes the angle of your hips to roll you fast and hard onto his come-slicked length, pinches your clit hard, watches you squirt all over him again. Something like the sound of his name leaves your mouth in a broken cry, your chewed raw nails trying to claw at him ineffectively. “Dirty fucking girl – creamin’ all over your daddy’s cock,” his voice is gruff, not entirely his own. There’s something here – you’d told him once you’d always felt out of control. In your relationship with Sam, aware of what he was, always, of what you were and were not, and that there was something about control that was so necessary to you now. And there is something here like control, your control over him, taking hold of him entirely so he’s unsure of what it is he should and should not be, here and now, with you. He should not be delusional, he should be aware. He is not adhering to either very well.

He goes to his feet with you still impaled on his throbbing length, erection so hard it hurts, can barely stand up straight, blood pounding on rhythm to the chant of your name. He pulls you from him, watches the slick slide of your cunt walls dragging along his length, the cream of your slick left as a reminder all over his skin. He presses you onto the bed, rolls you this way and that too look at you all over, bends to drag his tongue through that drippy cunt of yours that squirts and comes so prettily for him, then back up and kneeling above you, between your glossy thighs, and thrusting into that tight cunt, grunting as you clench around him. So hard he feels the screaming tip of his cock punch against your cervix, listens to you make a hurt, hiccupy sound when his balls slap against you.

He should be gentle. He should be careful. He should be aware, not delusional, himself. He should reach back and take hold of that man he always thought himself to be, hard and cold but never cruel. Maybe not good, but always aware and never weak. He’s none of those things now here with you. Joel is now only himself. You’ve made me into a real person, you’d whispered onto his tongue. What he’d not told you was that you’d done the same to him.

You’re a gift, a gift, a gift, a gift. A gift in the way his son never was. A gift in the way that a whole lifetime lost and returned to him never was, and Joel is weak and two feet tall and made of paper, but for you. Anyways, or despite it all, still made only for you.

“Fuck me like you’re in love with me,” you say, read his mind, take hold of the beating mass in his chest. Fuck me like you’re in love with me. And maybe you don’t mean it. Maybe you’re too far gone. It doesn’t matter.

He does it anyway. Pulls back, wedges back inside the too swollen, too sensitive, too tiny cunt that belongs to him. He bears his teeth at you, grabs hold of your face so hard you’ll bruise, and fucks you like he’s in love with you. It comes to him so easily, after all.

Shoving his knees high up beneath your thighs, he brings your ankles to his shoulders, little feet knocking against his ears, he wishes for sense, he finds none, only a deeper, sharper angle. The sounds of your cries and the things you whisper in his ear he knows you should not say and he should not listen to that fill him full of things he should not feel like I was made for you and daddy, there’s no one like you and come inside me, please, please, I need it. He pulls his hips back, swings them forward, listens to the sound of his balls slap, and you beg for harder, savors the fire that pools in his belly and the base of his spine. And he thinks that he should pull out, he’s been so fucking careless with you and your future and your vulnerability, but he’s like a monster full of greed, intent on nothing but staking his claim, leaving a claim, desperate for a way to be remembered or never forgotten or never left behind. “We have to be careful,” he begs you, and feels scared and terrible for a moment, not to be trusted with a gift like this in his hands. “I’m going to get you fucking pregnant, God.”

But you’re like some siren, something taking him away from himself, and you tell him, “I don’t care, I don’t care,” voice gone so far away from yourself too, all hazy, full of bubbles and too cock drunk to be true or sane, but it lands like a gut punch anyway. And Joel tries to hold onto himself he does, he swears he does, tries to remain rational, and aware of what this was supposed to be and not supposed to be. Tells you to please, “Shut up, shut up. Please, don’t say those things to me, I’m begging you.” But eventually that siren song wins out, the feel of your cunt sucking him deeper, milking him dry, your small damp hands pulling at his hair, stubby nails dragging down the skin of his cheeks, over his back, and Joel’s weak now. Weak and full of want and greed and delusion so that all that’s left is capitulation and: “You want daddy to fuck his babies into you? You want me to fill you up and keep you forever?” But something of himself must remain because he covers your mouth, big hand wrapped around your sweaty little face before you can answer, forcing the words silent inside of your mouth, the truth you both know you’d spit out otherwise. Yes, yes, I do. And as if the idea of you carrying his child held a direct like to your orgasm, you start to come around him, overwhelmed cunt, split in two and carved in the shape of his name now, clenching around him, going so wet and hot and tight Joel’s sure he’ll never be able to leave it ever again. You reach down between the two of you, grasp the half of his cock outside of your wet clutch, shiny with your slick and jack him off with sharp little tugs, make sure he fills you with his spend full to the brim. He spills over and out, dribbles down the slope of your ass to leave you lying in a little puddle of his semen, and when he pulls out, careful to not ask you to hold all of his weight over you, he brings your fingers to your gaping cunt, “Feel where daddy’s been,” lets you play in the imprint of himself he’s left behind.

He lays beside you, steaming hot little thing worming up against him, nuzzling beneath his chin, pressing tiny kisses that tell him all the things the both of you need to hear and say, and he feels himself go cool and dry inside and out. Something terrible suddenly swelling within him. Something that reeks of truth, and you must smell it in the air as well because you share a piece of your own painful honesty with him, force him to confront it. “Sometimes I think I’m impossible to love,” in the smallest voice he’s surely ever heard.

“Haven’t I shown you how untrue that is?” Because if there’s one thing he’ll never do with you, it’s lie.

You tuck your hand beneath your cheek, and you glow, and he feels blinded by it for a moment, eyes wide and so vulnerably tender, something afraid that makes something equally vulnerable inside of him rage and beat its chest. “Is that what this is? Are we in love, Joel?”

He thinks you must see the fear in his eyes, because yours suddenly go calm, fathomless, something steady for him to hold on to, and that stench of honesty chokes him. “Yeah–” he nods, swallows, thinks of his son, hates himself. “I think so, baby.”

What can remain the same after honesty like that? After splitting yourself open and showing each other your insides in such a way? What could possibly remain the same? Nothing. The truth is laid bare, and all that’s left now. And instead of setting you free, the truth never really sets you free, it makes everything terribly fraught and frightened and fragile.

When he moves to stand, the sound of your desperation for him to make you his in an irreversible way rings like exploding shrapnel in your ears, “Do you think we’re bad?” You ask because you’ve only ever wanted to be good, but his eyes are so haunted, large and round and fathomless. His face, taking on a sudden sort of gauntness as he thinks of what to say to you after the worst has already been said. You watch the line of his throat ripple as he swallows several times, reading the real truth in his eyes before he shakes his head slowly, incongruous like a lie, “Never you,” and he does not include himself, “Never you.” It’s devastating. Devastating that the only thing that’s ever mattered, the thing that has finally made you good, is bad in his eyes.

You sit at the kitchen table, watching him while he makes dinner for you. Cold and shivery and wet between your legs in a way that’s not comfortable anymore. In a way that feels like an essential part of you is slowly dripping out, leaving you grossly empty inside. The beautiful dinner he’d bought and made for you tastes like ash wrapped in all the honesty surrounding the two of you, and you stare at each other and there's no need for more words because the truth is all right here in front of the two of you to see with your own two eyes. You want to go get dressed, but you don’t want to call attention to the seed of wrongness that’s been planted now. Are we in love? When the answer had so obviously been yes for so long already. Naive, silly girl. And you want to be angry with him. Ask him why he’d done this to you, made you fall in love with him when he’d said before that you couldn’t, when it was all so hopeless. You also want to hear him say it, say the words out loud with teeth and tongue and sound, you want to taste the words in your mouth because seeing them in his eyes wrapped in all that hopelessness isn’t nearly enough to satiate this hunger he’s stoked inside of you. You want to ask him to hold you, to crawl into his lap and have him cradle you like a child protected in the embrace of stronger, wiser arms. You want to have never been put on this path, to have never met his son, never have married him, never have met him. You want the whole terrible ordeal to be wiped from mind and mouth and memory. You want to have not had to accept it all, not have moved on, not be grateful in ways you can’t even understand for the lesson it’d all posed. You want it all to have never happened. To never have experienced the entire convoluted mess of feelings this ordeal of tearing down your entire life to make yourself anew had caused. To have never fallen in love with your ex-husbands father.

He sits in his chair, hands cupping his chin for so long, silent and staring, probably wondering what to do with you, and when he finally stands, nothing but a long, pained sigh to interrupt the terrible silence, you finally muster the strength to go find that missing bra. Crawl home, once again a ghoul in the night in need of wound licking. And it must be that very same terrible silence, the even more terrible look in his eyes that has something pressurized, set to burst, bottled inside of you because when a knock on the door sounds once again, you don’t even stop for half a thought, exploding suddenly. In his clothes and come, ripping the door open, the words on your tongue ready to spit at her that he’s already got one desperate woman on his hands that needs taking care of, and no, he will not be fixing her dishwasher or her pussy or anything else she thinks she might need him for.

But it’s not the neighbor. And you have nothing but fear lodged in your throat to spit out when you meet his eyes.

Eyes like his father’s, colder, crueler, furious and humiliated, take you in. Just fucked hair and a flannel that’s not your own, mis-buttoned, come-dryed thighs. And worst of all, his voice, like he isn’t even that surprised, like he’d come here just to find this, “You fucking whore.”

“Sam–” you’re not sure if you actually say his name, but the intention is held there, on the tip of your tongue. A plea for mercy or a shout for help or protection or something.

“You fucking whore,” and you flinch at the scream in his throat, scuffle back into the safety of the house of the man you love who is the father of the man you were married to, the man who broke you, the betrayed son. He’s shocked still for a single second, before he’s charging at you, fist not entirely raised but definitely held with consideration. And, “I knew it, I always fucking knew it,” before Joel is there, stepping between you and your ex-husuband, his son, blocking you with his body, big hand wrapping entirely around your forearm to hold you close to himself, to hold you in his protection.

“You better put your fucking arm down before I break it, son.” That moment, Joel’s voice, the utter betrayal in his son’s eyes. The sound of you breaking something that you should have never ever gotten in between. It is worse than all the rest. You take him in, the sight of this man who you used to be married to, he’d always seemed so large in your eyes before, so unattainable. Something never to be fully touched, only gazed upon. Always apart, always cold. Sam’s eyes fall to the place where his father holds you, and his face spasms, something terrible. Broken and alone, a child cast out into the cold. And you want to say that he seems so different now, haggard and gaunt and whittled down to bare bones, but it isn’t the truth. You always knew what he was, your most terrible bit of honesty. You always knew, you’d just not cared before. There was never any separation, no space for you to take a breath and want better for yourself. To be under his scrutiny, something that at one time felt like admiration, but was never anything even close, it was like nothing else, like everything, a great lie. But he was too aware of it, of himself, of that power he held over you, and unlike his father, he was cruel with it. Your eyes move up to the back of Joel’s head, the hard edge of his jaw, the muscle that spasms furiously there. What would it do to you now to be under that same sort of attention, influence, admiration, but from a kinder, gentler, honest source? What had it done to you? Dangerous to risk yourself again, impossible to stop now.

“I always knew it,” he says again, “I always knew you wanted him. What? You let him fuck you?” The words in his mouth are a terrible thing, Joel says something, tells him to hold his tongue, to get the fuck out, but your eyes are riveted on the sight of his face, this man you used to be married to who’d broken you so completely, who’d stolen your very memory of yourself. He seems wholly unrecognizable now, and in a way, it frightens you, that someone you’d known for what seemed like so long could be such a stranger now. Joel’s hand is an anchor, such a comfort wrapped around your arm. “You barely let me touch you for two years, but you’ll bend over like a whore for my fucking Dad?” His voice breaks and it makes you want to laugh a little bit.

Joel shoves him backward, jerking you forward still in his hold. “Say that word one more time in my house, and I won’t be held responsible for what I do to you. And don’t fucking look at her,” he snaps, reaching up to give him a quick two tapped slap on the cheek to focus his gaze on himself. “Get out, Sam. I’ll call you later. We can–”

But unheeded or too far gone, like he needs to hear the sound of the words as a comfort to himself in this moment, Sam looks back at you, “You’re a fucking whore. I wish I’d never met you, I hate you.” Joel shoves him backwards again, harder this time so that his leg slams into the side table, overturning the lamp there into a crashing heap on the floor, so hard that when he pulls you with him it feels as if he’ll wrench your shoulder from its socket with the force of his anger. You yelp in pain, but cling to him anyways, refusing to let him go either, hiding behind the hill of his shoulder. Pushing his son away, not letting you go. It’s wrong, it’s wrong and you’d told him that you wanted to keep him, to take him away from his own son, that you were made of nothing but greed, but there’s something wrong here, inherently not right, bad.

And even yet, you can’t help the look on your face that must surely be nothing short of humiliating to Sam for the way he reddens, the little muscles in his face jerking uncontrollably. You’re done here, Sam. Get the fuck out, Joel says again, taking a step forward to herd him out, pulling you along, keeping you close. You taunt him with your gaze, can’t help yourself, “I thought I was a prude?” You say from behind the protection of his father’s body. “Isn’t that what you called me for all those years? Thought I was frigid, unfuckable, unlovable? Am I not anymore?” You ask in a small, breathy voice, falsely guileless, entirely provoking. “Have you changed your mind now that I’ve taken your Daddy from you?” False pout and mocking eyebrow.

Joel’s head snaps over his shoulder, incredulous look on his face, and Sam flinches as if struck, splintered glass in the shape of his son’s gaze, it fractures, falls back to where Joel holds you.“I wanted to talk to you,” He says to his father, “I wanted to– You’re really choosing her over me?” It costs Sam something to say this, and you weren’t expecting it either because suddenly, the game changes. His voice is child-like in its hurt, that son who longed for his father for all those years. “After everything that was stolen from us, you’re not going to choose me?” You know in that moment, he’s won.

“This isn’t about choice, son,” Joel tells him, but you hear it for the lie it is. “This isn’t about you versus her.”

“But it is,” and his eyes flash to yours, victory held in them. “She was my wife. And you’re my father, and you have to make a choice now. This is fucking sick.” There’d always been an intelligence to his cruelty, and he wields it now. The sound of his son’s name is a choked thing in Joel’s mouth. He goes rigid, a painful stillness, muscles vibrating with warring emotions. You hold your breath for it. He looks down at where he holds you, tightens his grip painfully, and then slowly, so that the three of you are sure to take in the whole procession of it, he lets go of your arm. One finger at a time, the heat of his palm leaving you, and you’re alone.

“It isn’t about choice,” he says again, and yet, one has already been made. You stand still, head bent, gaze riveted on the place where he’d let you go. He takes a step away from you, towards his son, and his voice is low and gentle and soothing now, and you’re still staring at the barrenness of your arm.

I had such potential to be good, you think. He just never saw it. But you don’t know who you mean. And you don’t think it matters anymore.

They say more to each other. Joel’s hand on his son’s arm now, pushing him towards the door, but still, still comforting for the thing it symbolizes, a benediction of choice, and you turn around to face the other side of the room. You can’t look – wrapping your arms around yourself. You don’t think you’ll run this time. Face it head on, let it be over now in full. Sam’s voice rings shrill, the sound of your name and curses and accusations, fighting a futile fight against his father’s even baritone, the sound of the slamming door, and then silence. When you turn back over your shoulder, they’ve stepped outside together, leaving you alone inside the house.

He’d asked you once what you wanted, and you can’t fathom what the point of it had been. What does it matter what I want? That’s the least significant thing here. It always was.

When he finally comes back inside, you’re dressed, lost bra retrieved, your bag packed and sitting at your feet. You’d gone into the kitchen just before, taken a peek at the pie, and you were right, and you don’t know how he could have possibly known, but he’d gotten you rhubarb. Your face is dry now, no tears and no will to cry. There’s nothing to speak of in his gaze when he leans back against the door to look at you, swallowing down words you’re sure will mean nothing in the face of all of this. And you look at him and you love him and you think, I was married to a man once and now I’m not and now I’m with his father and I love him in the way I never loved the son; and so now, I must ask myself, am I merely looking for the love of lesser man, who could have never given me what I needed, in the eyes of a man who seems to have all the answers?

You don’t think so. And yet, there are still no answers to be had, and no questions left to ask.

“I’m going this time,” In case he has designs to force you to stay, and even though there’s a light of acceptance in his eyes, he still shakes his head. Swallows and gathers his seams about himself before he says, “You aren’t leaving me,” gaze churning from warry to flinty to resolved.

“I was never supposed to stay at all. I was never supposed to be for you. You said so yourself– you said we couldn’t fall in love. That I wasn't for you.” You get to your feet, pulling your purse over your shoulder, and he rushes towards you, pushing the bag back down to the floor, taking your face in his hands hard, something like panic in his eyes and in the air and in the vibration of his voice.

“It doesn’t matter, none of that matters– Whatever was before, whatever was in the past doesn’t mean shit when it’s just you and me here together–” And you’re crying now, real, great sobs of grief.

“You were the one that said we couldn’t fall in love,” you cry again, try and pull away, but he holds you to himself, squeezes you against him, shivers like he too is crying, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I was a fucking idiot, a damn liar. There was never any other option, baby.” Most terrible of terrible truths, you’d both known if for the lie it was the moment he’d said it, even before, probably. You stand limply in the circle of his embrace. He’d said once that he’d been a coward not to go out and look for you, but you know the opposite is true. No one is more of a coward than you were for not having waited for him. For having been so desperate for love, you’d been willing to settle for the wrong kind. You’ll never be able to settle for false comfort like that again, and it’s all his fault. “You’ve ruined me now. I’m ruined.”

He pulls back to take your face in his hands again, and you were right, he is crying. “I’m ruined! And I need you to give me another chance. I demand another chance– to… to fix this. To–”

But another chance for what? To change what? “He’s your son, and I only want you to be happy.” And you know he couldn’t ever be happy, truly happy, estranged from his only child. After all, like he’d said, the theft of him had been the worst thing ever done. You wouldn’t commit a crime like that against Joel also, never.

“Baby, please, I think… I– I love–”

“Please–” You press the tips of your fingers to his mouth, silencing him. “Please, don’t do this to me now.” It makes you angry, this intent of his to trap you here with his love when there’s no room for you to stay. You turn away, picking up your bag again, but he snatches you back into himself, wrapping his big arms around your waist, crushing you against his chest. And you’d struggle if you could, but there’s so little fight left in you. “You’re the one that said – you said we couldn’t!”

“I know what I fucking said,” he spits, voice so angry it almost frightens you. “But there’s still– We have to talk, we have to–”

“What can you possibly imagine there’s left to say?”

“Everything.”

“Or nothing.”

“Look at me. Look at me–” He pulls your head back and to the side by your chin. There’s a bright flush sitting high on his cheekbones, and his eyes shift quickly back and forth between yours, searching for a way to fix this. To fix the good thing that’s now been broken. His thumb strokes the point of your chin softly, and he presses his mouth slowly to yours, eyes open to watch for your reaction. “This wasn’t a mistake,” he tells you, “We weren’t a mistake.” Weren’t. The final nail in the coffin. “I know, I know that there are so many things– that we can’t… but just– just stand here with me for one minute, please. Just give me one more second, and I’ll–”

He doesn’t finish the thought, and you let him kiss you one last time. And when he pulls back, because it doesn’t feel like it really matters, and because you just want to hear the sound of it coming out of your mouth, because you wish it was true and not the complete opposite, because you want to be as cruel and ugly outside as you feel on the inside, you whisper, “I hate you,” a full bodied lie.

His eyes shutter and flicker for a moment, a wash of hurt suffusing them. But because he’s never been a weak man and because he’s always been honest, and he’s always, always above everything else, been good, he says, “And I love you,” and there it is. You’d thought you wanted to hear the sound of that too, but now that you have, it’s more terrible than you could have ever possibly imagined. And after that, there really is nothing left to say.

Joel goes to see his brother afterwards because it’s what he always does and who he always goes to when he’s lost. When a son in the shape of a man made of nothing but childish fear and anger and hurt, had appeared one day, dropped out of the blue sky, onto his front porch, when he realized he wanted his daughter-in-law in a way no good man should. And now, that he’s admitted, because the realization had already been there, swift and uncompromising, the admittance had been all that was left, the hard going part, that he was in love with you – in love with the woman who had been married to his son, here he finds himself again. Lost and weak and two feet tall, made of nothing but hollow bones. “I’m not myself,” he tells Tommy, and then amends the lie because he’s not come here to tell lies. “She’s made me into someone I don’t recognize and wish I could be forever.” How would he get his old self back now? Impossible. You’d taken him away with you, he was only half made now, half man, half strength. And Tommy is understanding because it has always only been the two of them, and he’s always seen Joel for exactly who he is without judgement. The most honest eyes in the whole world, his brother. “I'm afraid that she’s the love of my life. I’m afraid that I’m not really so afraid at all. And she won’t even talk to me.” You’d left his house a week and a day ago, and Joel was going out of his mind, losing pieces of himself along the way, his sanity, his sense of right and wrong, his self restraint, self possession. He was about to do something crazy, he felt it gnawing and itching at his bones. He could barely remember the look of betrayal in his own son’s eyes amidst the madness of the memory of the hurt in yours, the sight of you walking away from him. “And my son. My son, my child, Tommy, he hates me. And I’m in love with the woman he used to be married to, who he hurt. And he’s a cruel and small man, and he needs me. He needs my help, and I have a responsibility to him. But Tommy– Tommy, I love her. She’s mine. And what am I going to do? What am I going to say to him? How will I ever face him again? She’s mine, and I– I can’t explain it, I can’t excuse it. But she’s mine– she’s my woman. She belongs to me. I know this as well as I know my own name, my own face.”

And his brother, his brother, his brother who always understands him, who always stands beside him, he claps him on the shoulder and says, “If anyone can find a way, Joel, it’s you. I know you can. You’re stronger and smarter than anyone I’ve ever known. And you don’t abandon yours.” And so Joel must believe him because Tommy is his brother, and he knows him, and he knows that even though he’s weak now, even if he must let himself be weak now, in the face of all of this, Joel is not truly a weak man where it counts.

You and Sam had only ever spoken once on the topic of children. It was, from the first moment broached, a non possibility, not even half of an option. Devastating, but now, all this time later, almost like a grace from God. You’d wanted a baby so badly, more than anything in the whole world, and he would not give you one. He’d said your desire for a child was incongruous with your cold nature, how frigid you were.

And you’d been so long, caught in the who am I, in the what am I doing. You never stopped to ask why. Molded into a bad shape, but mute and deaf to the intricacies of what had carved you so. You’d needed to destroy yourself entirely, tear down everything around yourself, and then recreate yourself and everything else in your life in a new image. Perhaps, then, you’d finally have the chance to be good.

Your husband’s father had given you this. Joel had given you this.

And Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel. How to tell him that you’re sorry? That you’re vile and cruel and yes, even cold sometimes, but for him, for him you can find it in yourself to be soft, something to be forgiven, you hope. His son had called you a prude, and then, his father’s whore. Did it matter what the truth was? You weren’t so sure. Did you want Joel because you were a whore? Because your own father had never loved you, and you were thus desperate to fill that void left by lesser, crueler men? Did it matter? You hated the idea that this desire for him had to have been born by consequence of another man. What about what you wanted? What about the fact that it felt good when he was inside of you? When he gave it to you rough and hard and when he told you that you belonged to him because you did, because it was the truth. What about the fact that you were in love with him? That should have counted more because you said it counted more. And then that was it, nothing more to the thing of it. So what if he was the father of the man who’d been your husband? The man who’d stolen all of your surety, your passion, yourself. Sometimes, retribution feels fucking good. So what about it? And then, and after all, you were in love with him. So what did it all matter after that?

People liked to say that sometimes a bad thing is worth it if it feels good enough. But what if you didn't think it was bad at all, and what if it didn’t just feel good enough? What if it’s actually everything, the best thing you’d ever had in your whole life? And what if it is simply and solely, or maybe even also, who cares, who cares, what if it is simply because it’s Joel? Joel who is beautiful and strong and good. Maybe even perfect in a way that you need.

He’d told you once that he’d never had the chance to be angry, that it had been stolen from him, the worst thing ever done to me, he’d said. You know that you could never do that to him. Never hurt him in that way. And there might be so many options. Choices. Truths. Yourself. Finally, you are only yourself. Good in the way he’d shown you to be. In a way that did not bow to anything but the sort of goodness you needed. But Joel; above all else, Joel. He is the first choice, and everything else seems inconsequential after that. What is goodness worth in the face of all he’s given you?

So, you sit now, within the basin of your empty bathtub, no more leaky kitchen sink echoing through your empty apartment, he’d fixed it weeks ago, and peer over the lip of the tub. And there, blinking up at you from the face of the skinny pink and white stick, is your answer to goodness. It had always been within yourself. And you think, if it must be just the two of us now, then let it. After all, your father has finally taught me how to be good.

End.

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#pink fic #Joel miller #Joel Miller x reader #Joel Miller x you #Joel Miller/ reader #Joel Miller/ you #Joel Miller smut #Joel Miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us au #Joel Miller au #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters

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navybrat817 · 2 years ago

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The Silent Treatment

Pairing: Dark!Andy Barber x Female Reader

Summary: You attempt to give Andy the silent treatment during dinner.

Word Count: Almost 500

Warnings: Implied NONCON/DUBCON, implied kidnapping, delusion, Andy Barber (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: The Basement Spouses Writing Challenge Week 4! Character: Andy Barber. Length: 250-500 words. Prompt: "You think I care about you? Cute." ❤️ Written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You made no attempt to eat your dinner as you sat at the table with Andy. You also hadn’t spoken a word to him since he got home. He warned you before he left for the day that he’d be home late, but you were still in a mood the moment he walked through the door. You greeted him with a kiss as expected, but you didn’t extend any additional warmth.

What had he done to deserve it?

Andy took a bite of his food with a hum of dissatisfaction. “I thought takeout would’ve been a good idea since I had to work so late, but this is kind of terrible,” he teased, looking to you for a smile that you didn’t give him.

Your silence was the most eloquent reply you could provide.

Clearing his throat, he pushed some of the food around on his plate. “Did you have a good day?”

You replied with a shrug before you stared off at the wall behind him. It was the first time you noticed that the floral painting he had hung up was slightly crooked. It was fitting considering he tried to put on a front of perfection, but something was off.

His sigh brought your attention back to him, watching wordlessly as he ran his fingers along his beard. “Honey, I’m trying, but you have to meet me halfway.”

Lifting your chin in defiance, you watched his blue eyes flash as you slowly shook your head. You weren’t in the mood to be nice today. You were tired.

“So, that’s it? You’re giving me the silent treatment? That isn’t how our relationship is going to work. You-”

“Our ‘relationship’? There is no relationship, Andy,” you finally spoke, bitterly laughing at his stricken expression. “What, you think I want to be here? You think I care about you? Cute.”

You flinched when his fork scraped his plate, his jaw tight as he pushed his chair back. You should’ve stayed quiet. Why had you opened your mouth? “I knew I let you out of the basement too early,” he said more to himself than to you. “That’s my fault.”

“Andy, please,” you whispered as he rounded the table to grip your arm. The plasticware and plate wouldn’t do any damage if you fought. He never left anything sharp around you. “Don’t send me back down there.”

“You haven’t learned yet,” he said, your body trembling when he kissed the top of your head. “But don’t worry. You will.”

You tried to apologize as he dragged you back down to the basement. Just as you had given him the silent treatment, he ignored your pleas as he pushed you into the dingy mattress and took what he wanted. Later he’d remind you that he chose you to be his perfect wife and he’d eventually let you back upstairs to try again.

Until then, he’d keep you in the prison he created until you learned to love him.

You'll learn eventually, right? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Andy Barber Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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perpetuelledaydreaming · 1 month ago

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Cruel intentions | chapter twenty-six

summary: wake-up call for you and Tony.

warnings: mentions of depression & suicidal thoughts.

listen to: This is me trying - Taylor Swift (playlist here)

word count: 2.3 k

series masterlist + read the next chapter early on my ko-fi!!

You're jolted awake. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, but before you can process anything else, pain rips through you—sharp, electric, all-consuming. It surges like lightning through your body. For a moment, it's the only thing you know. It's the only thing that feels real.

The next thing you can remember—the eerie calm that came as your body began to let go. It was quiet, almost peaceful, so at odds with the panic you're feeling now. You aren't supposed to be alive. You aren't supposed to be here.

Heaving a deep breath, your body screaming as you catch a glimpse of someone from the corner of your eye.

"I shouldn't be here," you protest, your throat hoarse and dry. It is the only thing you can think of; you didn't deserve to be here.

Tony's eyes widen as he stares at you, stunned. You aren't supposed to be talking right now; the doctors said you weren't supposed to wake up.

And then he hears you repeat it.

"I shouldn't be here,"

Tony swallows hard, his throat dry as he watches you struggle for breath. His voice is barely a whisper.

"Did you… did you do this on purpose?"

It's the first thought that surfaces, the only one he can grasp as he stares at the cuts decorating your face. The question feels wrong the second it leaves his lips. For a moment, his mind betrays him. He doesn't see you like this—broken, battered, barely holding on. Instead, he sees you at ten, cheeks round, curled up in a bed that once seemed too big for you. The memory slams into him, unforgiving, and with it comes the guilt.

Because back then, he thought he was doing the right thing.

Now, he isn't sure of anything at all.

You furrow your eyebrows, forming the same lines on your forehead that appeared when you were just a baby in his arms. It twists something profound in his chest.

"What?" you ask, confused. It's obvious you were attacked—your body is a roadmap of proof that something tore into you. The very idea that you did this to yourself is absurd.

But Tony doesn't look away. He stares, waiting, and slowly, understanding creeps in.

And you aren't sure.

It was you who chose to give Harry the time. It was you who went alone to Oscorp. It was you who didn't tell anyone what you were doing. You made the choice, knowing it could be the last thing you ever did.

And you had been ready. Ready to face the consequences of your actions, even if it meant—

"You're going to be moved to a facility in Europe," Tony says, his voice cutting through your thoughts.

Your stomach drops. "What?" you ask. "Dad, no."

"You need proper care. You need distance." His jaw tightens. "I'm not giving you a choice."

And everything seems like deja vu. You've been in the same spot before and replay it so many times in your head that it feels like you've lived it a thousand times.

Anger sparks in your chest, hot and immediate, even if you feel weak. "So you get to decide again?" you snap. "After everything—"

"I can't watch you kill yourself," he interrupts, his voice suddenly loud. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides as if he's trying to hold himself together. "I know you're angry at me, you're so angry, but you're being self-destructive. I know a thing or two about that, and you have so much more to live for."

Tony is barely breathing, and for a moment, you recall his panic attacks.

"I just can't watch you do this to yourself," he says, and it sounds like he's breaking.

"I didn't do this to myself," you shoot back, but it lacks conviction.

Tony exhales sharply, shaking his head. "I found out what you were doing. Without my knowledge."

You go quiet. Of course, he did. He probably hacked your files—with Harvey's help, it wouldn't have been that hard. Overriding Happy's security might've taken them a couple of hours.

Then, a new thought settles in, cold and heavy.

"How long have I been here?"

Tony doesn't answer. You swallow hard, days probably. You wonder where Harry is.

"Dad, there are people in danger. You have to—"

"No. No," he cuts you off, his voice rising. "Don't bring that into this. You were bleeding out. Do you understand me?" His breathing hitches. "I found you covered in blood, gashes so big I was scared to hold you."

"Dad—"

"You should have never been involved in this." His voice cracks. "It's all my fault."

A bitter laugh escapes him, but there's no humor—just regret.

"Iron Man. The Avengers. It was all a mistake," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "You should have never—"

He stops, and for the first time, a soft sob breaks through.

"Dad?"

"You shouldn't have lived like this," he whispers, his eyes red-rimmed, unfocused. "If I never became Iron Man… you wouldn't have gone down this path."

And suddenly, you see the guilt he's been carrying all these years. The weight of every battle, every decision, and every moment led to this.

"You think this is just about Iron Man?" Your voice shakes, but it's not from weakness. It's from years of emotions you've swallowed down, years of being told no, pushed aside, and feeling like you were never enough. "You think this is just about me getting hurt or thrown to jail?"

Tony exhales sharply, his jaw tightening. "That's not—"

"You pulled me away," you cut in, fists clenching at your sides. "You decided for me. You didn't ask; you didn't let me have a say. You just—ripped it away like it was nothing."

"You were a kid," Tony argues.

"I was your kid," you snap, your chest burning, "and I wanted to be like you."

Tony's expression falters, his breath hitching slightly.

"You didn't believe in me," you continue; it tastes like poison to say it, to finally hash it out. "You didn't think I could handle it, that I was strong enough, smart enough. You kept me away like I was something you were ashamed of, like I would shatter anything I touched even though you knew I was right. You didn't let me near, as if I would break myself too. But that's not who I am. That was never who I was."

Tony scrubs a hand down his face, looking away. "It wasn't about you not being good enough or that I questioned all of your decisions," he mutters. "I almost lost you; we almost lost you. It just showed me what I knew. Knowing exactly what this life does to people,"

You shake your head as you lie in bed, breathing harshly and looking away. "That wasn't your choice to make," you answer softly.

"You think I don't know that? Do you think I don't replay it in my head every damn day? You're right—I made that call. I pulled you out. And yeah, I let you hate me for it because it was easier than watching you get hurt. Because I thought if you resented me enough, maybe you'd stop trying."

You turn your head towards him and see him for the first time in what you believe was a while. Truly broken like when you first woke up years ago, there are no cuts or black eyes, but you see the deep purple bags under his eyes and the red-rimmed eyes. You see your dad again, swallowing hard, and you feel something twisting deep in your chest.

"I never stopped trying."

"I know," he says, his eyes weary. "And I hate that I made you feel like you had to do it alone. That I made you think that proving yourself meant going behind my back, taking on something like this without backup, without a damn plan." He shakes his head. "Do you know what it was like finding you like that? Seeing you—Jesus, kid, I thought you were dead."

For a second, he's not Iron Man or Tony Stark. He's your dad.

And for a moment, you're not angry anymore about not being an Avenger or someone who's trying to carry the weight of the guilt and resentment you felt. You're his kid, and for all your anger and resentment, it all goes away.

"I was scared," you admit quietly, barely above a whisper. "I was so sure, so ready to face the consequences of my choices, but then I didn't know if I would make it." Your breath shakes. "And all I could think about was you, Pepper and Morgan."

Your voice doesn't let his name out of your mouth, and you're scared to say it.

Tony presses his lips together, forcing himself not to break in front of you. "You shouldn't have had to go through that," he says. "I should've—God, I should've done better by you."

Silence stretches between you for a moment, thick and unspoken words settling in the space between you. Then, you see him move—just a step, barely noticeable, but enough. It's almost involuntary how your hand lifts, hovering in the space between you, hoping that he won't pull away this time.

And he doesn't.

Tony steps forward fully, his gaze steady, and he quickly grabs your hand, holding it tightly as if afraid that letting go would mean losing you again. His grip is firm but warm, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like he's memorizing the shape of your hand like he's making sure you're here. A shaky breath escapes you, and suddenly, the tears you've been holding back brim at the edges of your vision. He sees them, and without hesitation, he closes the distance, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

It's such a simple thing.

And yet, it undoes you. The weight—the anger, the resentment, the exhaustion—melts away, dissolving into something lighter. The guilt still lingers, quiet and persistent, but you feel something else beneath it for the first time in a long time.

Safe in your father's arms.

Like you did when you were little, falling asleep to the hum of his voice. Like you did when Peter held you, when you didn't have to be strong, just had to be. You allow yourself to lean into it for the first time in forever.

And Tony holds on tighter

"If you want to do this," he says, his voice softer but no less firm, "then you're going to do it right. With the right tools, the right training, the right team."

Your throat tightens. "You're serious?" you ask, looking up.

Tony nods, his expression a mix of softness and steel. A faint, hardened smile tugs at his lips, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I've been trying to protect you by keeping you away. But maybe the only way to protect you is to support you." He swallows hard. "I won't stop you anymore. But if you're going to do this, you do it with me. With us."

Your breath catches. For the first time in a long time, something shifts.

Because he's not just letting you in.

He's finally seeing you.

"I don't want to do it alone," you admit, the words cracking slightly as they leave your lips.

Tony exhales, a breath so deep it's like he's been holding it in for years. "Then you won't."

And just like that, the space between you begins to close.

But there's still something there—something your heart refuses to forget.

"Peter—" His name gets caught in your throat as you force yourself to look up at your father. "Does he know?"

Tony shakes his head. "He hasn't answered his phone. I tried to reach him, but… I think he needs time."

You swallow hard. "Dad, I hurt him. I don't know if—"

"You don't have to worry about that right now," Tony interrupts gently. "You just have to heal."

"How long have I been here?"

"A week."

Your stomach drops—a week.

"And Harry?"

Tony's jaw tightens. "MIA. No sign of him."

Guilt sinks its claws into your chest. "Dad, this is my fault. I let him go because I thought—"

"I know what you thought," he says, voice softer now. "I know you meant well."

"I need to—"

"I know." His tone is firm, but there's understanding in his eyes. "But I already gave the police everything we know. They'll handle it. You have to rest before we even think about training again."

"Please, Y/N," he sighs, exhausted. "Let your father rest, just this once."

You hesitate. "Okay," you finally relent. "I'll try to sleep. Thank you… for everything, Dad."

Tony gives you a small, weary smile before leaving the room.

The moment he's gone, you move. Your body screams in protest, pain radiating from every inch of you, but you grit your teeth and push forward. You grab your phone and glance at the medical chart beside your bed.

Broken ribs. Deep lacerations on your back and abdomen.

Shit.

You really could've died.

But your mind isn't on your injuries.

It's on Peter. On the possibility that he isn't coming. He might be done with you after everything you put him through.

And then there's Harry.

You know him too well. Well enough to be sure that by now, he's already bribed the police, already gone underground, already taking more girls for his experiments.

The friend you thought you had is completely gone.

Your fingers tremble as you take your earpiece.

"HAPPY?"

"Miss Stark," comes his steady and calm voice. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Thanks," you say, trying to steady yourself as you watch the sun setting on the compound. "Do you have any news on Harry Osborn?"

"No, Miss. He's in complete blackout since you last saw him."

You clench your jaw. "He's probably in a bunker. Can you show me the last known locations? Maybe I can go through some points."

"And the police?"

"There's no evidence they're even looking for him."

Of course not.

You inhale sharply. "Great."

There's a pause before you steel yourself and ask, "HAPPY… what do I need to do to get out of here as soon as possible?"

"As soon as possible, Miss Stark?"

"Yes." Your grip tightens on the phone. "I have unfinished business."

***

author's note: it's been over two years and I'm forever grateful if you're still reading this!! We are just missing one more chapter and the Epilogue!

***

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***

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#spiderman series #spiderman headcanon #peter parker #peter parker x stark!reader #peter parker headcanon #peter parker x reader #peter parker fanfic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker avengers #peter parker fluff #peter parker series #peter parker angst #peter parker smut #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x stark!daughter #peter parker x you #tom holland fluff #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland imagine

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buggyboba · 8 months ago

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hi love, i saw you said your requests were open and id like to ask if you could write something about dhawan!master, where he and the reader are married and he fusses over her lots and makes sure she has everything she needs and all that fluff. if not dont worry and have the best day:)

Lazy day? AN: of course! Hopefully this is okay~ It's kinda edited, and not super long, but here you go love! Tw: none words: 900 ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You were his, there was no doubt about it. He wasn't sure how you did it, how you managed to claw your way into his hearts and nest there between the beats of anger and chaos. How you had managed to fill his senses, his very thoughts with your presence, how you managed to chip away his armor, your affection filling the cracks, and numbing the sharp edge of everything that had gone wrong, how could you be so right?

He had married you, knowing that he couldn't let you go, not when your very being quieted the chaos that swirled in his mind. He wasn't used to feeling the things you made him feel, and he was by no means perfect, but he knew if he wanted to keep you he had to treat you like a queen you deserved to be. After all, you had managed to capture his attention, managed to dig through everything to find him beneath the layers of disguises he put on and personas he clung to.

He had planned to take you to see the moons of Rolandos, you would get to see the beautiful moons, you two would have a beautiful dinner, he would whisk you back to the tardis, ravage you until you were exhausted and sleeping, and then go back to the night market and do what he needed to, maybe pick you up a priceless necklace, or a new ring. That was the plan, but when he saw you looking so down it quickly changed, He was going to make sure whoever or whatever made you look so glum suffered for it.

He wrapped his hand around yours and pulled you to him, his deep honey-colored eyes piercing into yours with a certain intensity. His other hand resting on your lower back. “Now now why the sad look, love?” His voice barely above a whisper as his eyes scan yours. “I haven't forgotten anything, have I?” He said looking up away from you briefly running through his thoughts.

“No, no.” Your soft chuckle and gripping his arm and shoulder with your hands brings him out of his thoughts and he leans forward peppering your face in kisses, being rather affectionate. He knew he hadn't always been the best, hell he was pretty sure he was the worst at showing genuine affection. However, he would not allow his wife, his love, the one and only good thing in this universe, to continue to be sad.

“It's nothing, Kos,” your voice told him it was most certainly something, though his hearts did an odd thing at the nickname. He had shared his name with you, and you had treasured it, knowing how much a name meant, you hardly used it though preferring pet names, so when you said it he frowned.

“Oh it certainly isn't nothing.” he frowned and moved to lead you towards the couch he had dragged into the tardis specifically for you when you had mentioned his tardis could use more seating. “Don't move.” He said and cupped your cheek for a moment before He sat you down and moved to go get you a cup of tea, and a few different snacks that he knew you liked and kept a ready supply of them for you. He came back grinning when he saw you still sitting where he told you to, he came over quickly with the tea and snacks, which you took.

“Are you feeling up for a trip?” He asked as he sat next to you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as he moved you closer to him, letting his fingers trail in a soft circle against your shoulder, down to right before your elbow, and back up in an absentminded but soothing motion. “I was thinking sightseeing, dinner, maybe dessert….” he hummed a bit, kissing your cheek softly, before nipping at your jawline. He forced back his frown when you shifted and shrugged a bit. “What’s wrong dear?’ he asked, letting his fingers tip your chin back so you would look at him.

“Just feeling down is all, I don’t really want to leave the Tardis right now,” you explained and he hummed, nodding in thought.

“That’s fine,” he assured, he had all the time in the universe, he could always come back to this day later and go do what he had planned. “We can stay in, make dinner here, watch something, lay in bed, anything you want until you are feeling better love,” he said his voice calm and soothing, genuinely concerned for you. He watched you nod and grinned a bit leaning forward to pepper your face in kisses, like you tended to do to him. “I mean it Love, anything you want today, and it’s yours.” He grinned as he pulled back to inspect your face. He knew you knew he meant it too, anything your heart desired he would obtain for you, he had the means and the motivation. He was determined to turn your mood around, after all, no one was allowed to make you feel anything but adoration, he would make sure of it.

He scooped you up with ease, and headed to the bedroom, putting you down on the bed he kissed your forehead, "Get comfortable." he said as he moved to go fetch your tea and snacks from the couch, before bringing it back to you. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed by you, "we can watch your favorite movie, I'll even stay awake for it." he grinned a bit.

He was going to make the day better, whatever it took, and then maybe there still would be time to go to the night bazaar, but for now, he had to ensure his wife's needs were met, which he would do happily.

#dhawan!master x reader #the master x reader #doctor who x reader

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hauntedhokage · 1 year ago

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PART 12: Early Mornings

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

SUMMARY: You enjoy morning coffee with Bakugou, making some plans for future days.

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It’s always difficult to pull yourself away from Eijirou after long nights of socializing. He was a talented extrovert but events like that always exhausted him, making him clingier than usual when you went to bed and impossible to wake up the following morning. You remembered curling up on the couch with Eijirou after showering and changing, and must have dozed off while Katsuki was in the shower because you woke up in Katsuki’s bed with Eijirou while the blonde was nowhere in sight. It was interesting that you’d ended up here, but not surprising. Keeping his babygirls together was important to Eijirou, and Katsuki had the bigger bed, so it was the natural spot to collect.

Rolling out of the bed was difficult, the strong arms kept trying to pull you back into the bed until you eventually broke away from them and landed somewhat gracefully on your feet. The pathetic sleep whine that leaves him is quickly muffled by him rolling over onto his stomach and pressing his face into the pillow that you’d left behind. It’s tempting to curl back up around him and get another hour or so of sleep, but there’s a conversation that you’d like to have with Katsuki without your shared boyfriend hovering around with a shit eating grin on his face.

And you find the blonde in the kitchen, standing in front of the coffee pot and pouring what looked to be a second mug of coffee.

“Morning,” you greet softly, closing the distance between you as he nods his own greeting.

“I thought you’d be up soon, so I made more coffee. I just don’t know how you like yours, and didn’t want to make it something you wouldn’t like.”

It was a thoughtful gesture, and you explain how you like your coffee as you fix it to your specifications. He's taking mental notes, you know him too well at this point to think otherwise, and you try to move with enough space that he can see what you’re doing.

“C’mon.” He tilts his head in the direction of the living room, and you follow him from the kitchen but continue out to the balcony, not missing him grabbing the blanket left on the couch on his way.

The bench on the patio was large enough to fit three people, but you sit close to Katsuki and are grateful for the blanket that he puts over both of your laps when the cold morning air settles on your skin. You don’t know quite what to say, but you feel comfortable enough to trust that you didn’t have to say anything - just being beside him in this moment was enough. To have him invite you to share this personal time meant a lot, but you know they’d tell you that you were putting too much on it.

“How’s your wrist feeling?”

“Much better. I think your kisses might double as a painkiller.” He’s exaggerating, but you’re glad to hear that he wasn’t in as much pain as he had been last night. “Your feet okay? You were walking kinda stiff towards the end.”

“Those shoes suck, but I’m good now.”

He nods, and you both take a drink of your coffee in near unison while continuing to stare out at the skyline you could see from the balcony.

“Thank you for fixing my shirt,” you finally comment after a couple moments of quiet, looking over to see those amber eyes fixated on you. “You didn’t have to, especially after the way I yelled at you that day. That wasn’t very kind of me, and I’m sorry for treating you like that.”

“No, I deserved a lot of that. I didn’t explain myself well enough, and made you feel like shit because of it and that wasn’t fair to you. You’ve always been enough, y’know? For him, and-” he pauses, his free hand carefully coming to rest on your cheek as his own tint a soft pink - because of the cold weather, you’re sure. “And for me, too. And I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t.”

You know better than to ask if he means it, the one thing Bakugou Katsuki didn’t do was say things he didn’t mean to make people feel better.

“Do you want to do something tomorrow night? Just the two of us?” The question doesn’t feel surprising coming from him, but the way his hand stayed on your cheek certainly was. It was warm though, you weren’t going to complain.

“Like a date?”

“We can keep it friendly, if you want.”

“Is that what you want?” It wasn’t, and he knows by the look on your face that you knew the answer too. “Because I’d like for it to be more than just friendly.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, gently pulling his hand from your face to hold in your own as you murmur, “Last night was a lot of fun, and I’d love to spend more time with you.”

He only nods, and you know he’s not going to say anything soft in return at this point so you’re happy to just sit in silence with him. It was still comfortable, and that was what mattered most to you as you continued drinking your coffee.

“I talked to Deku about your idea for how we can stop fight night before it starts next year. We both think a sanctioned tournament similar to how UA had the sports festival would decrease a considerable amount of the activity on the streets.”

You don’t remember when you’d talked to Katsuki about that, which leads you to believe that he’d listened to one of your rambles about crime reduction tactics or maybe Eijirou had said something about it. Either way it felt incredibly validating to hear that three of the top five pros thought that you were onto something and would possibly take your idea higher up.

“Most of the arrested parties had no known gang affiliation, it just makes sense to provide some outlet for people to let the edge off and get paid for it if they do well.”

“The research you did on that was very detailed. I didn’t think you had the energy for that between your own work and taking care of us.”

“You read through my research?”

“You left it out and I was curious. You were really going to take that to the Hero Commission?”

“The Commission, the Mayor of Tokyo, maybe even see if the Prime Minister’s office would at least look at it. It’s unnecessarily dangerous for the city and the people in it, and the heroes working to stop it. Last year was bad, this year was worse, and it’s only going to escalate unless something is done to address it.” The way he was looking at you was something you don’t think you’d experienced directed at you. You’d seen the undivided attention and intent thinking face be directed at Eijirou, marveling at how your boyfriend didn’t crack under the pressure of the blonde’s intense gaze, but to have it directed at you made you realize just why Eijirou handled it so well. Being on the receiving end didn’t make you feel small, or as if he was trying to pick apart your argument - in fact, you felt the opposite. The way he looked at you made you feel like you could kick in the door to the Prime Minister’s office with no consequences, you even felt like he’d help.

“You care a lot about this. For the city and the people in it.”

“We’ve seen the country fall apart before due to unchecked quirk aggression, I’d hate to live through that twice.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, carefully pulling your now empty mug from your hands to sit on the table beside the bench. “But I doubt you want to talk about work on your day off.”

“I don’t mind it, I like talking to you.”

“When we go out tomorrow night, no work talk.”

“What’s the penalty if we slip up?”

“I’m sure we can come up with something agreeable for us both.”

You nod at that before turning as movement catches your eye from the other side of the window. Eijirou had finally rolled out of bed, bright red hair a mess as he slowly moved around the living room looking for something. It only takes a second for Katsuki to catch on to what you’d seen, and he watches with the same fond smile you wear as you both watch your boyfriend try to figure out where his lovers had gone.

“Let’s go save him from his misery,” Katsuki suggests, and you nod your agreement while letting him help you up from your seat. The blanket is carefully wrapped around your shoulders before he grabs the empty coffee mugs and leads you inside. He offers to cook breakfast while letting Eijirou steal a couple needy kisses, then it’s your turn to be needily kissed on and cuddled while Katsuki sets to work.

“Can’t believe you left me, baby.”

“We’d never leave you,” you mumble into his neck, placing a gentle kiss to the warm skin as footsteps pad across the living room floor. “Never ever.”

“You were together?”

“Mhm, just on the balcony. Never too far from our baby Eiji.” Your assurance is met with a kiss to the top of your head, and you feel your body rock with Eijirou’s as Katsuki gently nudges him while telling you there was more coffee on the side table for you.

It’s a few minutes before you’re given the room you need to actually drink the coffee Katsuki had brought out to you, so it’s colder than you would have preferred, but you’re amazed at the fact that he’d made it perfect for you. He was good, much better than you were at paying attention to details like that and committing them to memory so quickly.

But he definitely cared a lot about getting things right.

#the way im posting this while on facetime with silver and she doesn't know #hheheeheheheheh #alp #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou imagine #kirishima x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou imagine #katsuki bakugo imagine #kiribaku #mha fanfic #bnha fanfic

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penvisions · 1 year ago

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of beskar and kyber {chapter 20}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader)

Summary: The push and pull of memories and power emulate the waves you watch from your balcony as you seek more and more solitary time with the wedding looming closer.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, angst, we meet readers betrothed and he needs his own warning, reader's mother also gets her own warning, kidnapping, reader is being kept against her will, hostage situation, use of narcotics, use of drugs, sedatives, self-depreciating thoughts, ptsd symptoms, medical trauma, past medical trauma, feelings of inadequacy, sexual themes, sexual content (not detailed), non con touching, unwanted advances, emotional manipulation, unnecessary display of possession, memory loss, controlling family dynamics, marriage set up, sold into marriage, din pov and reader pov, lemme know if i missed any other big ones!

A/N: this marks the middle of the maldovan arc! we've got two / three more chapters before we delve into season two events with our dear tin man. my feelings have been all over the place but hopefully i channeled them well into this chapter for y'all ♡

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Din was used to situations dissolving quickly from what he thought they would be, shifting into quick successions of movements and scenarios his instincts allowed him to maneuver with ease.

But the sight of you covered in nothing but bubbles from a foaming wash, bent over the side of the large communal bath had been something he wasn’t prepared for. Especially since the last time he had been intimate with you had turned out disastrously. His own emotions and devotion to something that wasn’t you tainting the moment and turning it from heated excitement to sour devastation.

The bubbles only reminded him further of the time before that, when you had been propped over his lap, both of you bare and exploring each other’s supple and scarred skin for the first time in the dim candlelight of a bath. It had been…thrilling to see the way your eyes had been overtaken by the pleasure he pulled from you, the sounds you had made…Maker, it had been such a good moment and he wishes you felt that same comfortability around him again. He knows you must to an extent, because he doesn’t see you exchange words beyond pleasantries with anyone around the palace but him.

But even so, with your memory restored he was fully aware that you might not want to be with him in that way ever again. He would have you as you wanted him to, even if it was in no ways at all. His want for you to be comfortable, to be your own person far exceeding his own desires. He only wished you were to stay beside him, his protectiveness over you never waning and increasing as the days continued on, the same he was beginning to feel over the child. You were all three bonded.

And then the sudden appearance of your fiancé, the man who got to hold you and kiss you free of worries was there in the same room as you clad in nothing but a towel with your hair weighted down and damp. The touches he had seen up until that point had been nothing but fleeting, the touches he had witnessed next everything but, setting his blood to boil. The harsh way he had pressed himself to you, trailed his fingers over the sensitive skin between your legs he knew the feeling of all too well, the way he had been rough with you enough for you to cry out. It had been something he was unequipped to handle. His mind had gone blank as his vision hyper focused into stark lines and too bright colors as if he had activated a sensor for his helmet with the touch of button.

The quiet way you had followed him back to your room in a flowing robe with ad’ika cradled in your arms had been another thing he hadn’t been prepared for. The version of you he knew was strong, a fighter, not one to let such things slide. Serving well deserved justice to those who picked on you and those around you, on those who deserved it. The you in front of him now? She was scared, on edge, hesitant. And he didn’t like it at all.

“Mesh’la, you don’t have to heed his command.” He hears the way his voice is strong, but it isn’t for him.

No, all of his strength is for you. A flame he tries to keep healthy and bright even as the situation is something he’s quickly realizing may be far too deep for him to help you escape from.

“I do have to, he – he’s to be my husband, he has to be happy with me. My…my mother would do something if this was to all fall apart because of me.” His heart steels, you need him. You need him now more than you ever had, even back at that compound he happened across you in the largest stroke of luck and sheer circumstance he’s ever experienced.

You had unwittingly helped him, you and the child, to realize that while he devoted his life, mind, and body to the Creed and his way of life: he also needed something for himself. He had been…lonely, if he was completely honest with himself. Leading a life chasing after credits and determined to work any job, hunt any quarry, commit himself to more and more and more in order to achieve the goal of helping to perpetrate his kind long after the world had merely watched on as they were picked off one by one, scattered among the stars in a heartbreaking way.

You had helped him to realize that in order to do so, he needed a little bit of saving himself. And he’d be damned if he didn’t try to help and return the favor now that you needed it in more blatant ways than he ever did. He wanted to return the favor, he wanted you back in his arms, aboard his ship, laughing and sharing bits of food across a table that wasn’t a table. You had been blossoming into someone he felt intense emotion for, love for, someone he yearned to be back by his side and in his bed, whispered words of affirmation and the same love back to him beneath the sheets and in the darkness of his personal quarters. He missed you even with you standing a few feet away from him. Because the person standing before him certainly missed him, even if you didn’t realize it.

“Then leave.”

“Maker, I can’t do that. I don’t even know who I am.” The look you give him is so unlike any other he’s ever seen and it clatters inside his ribs, the urge to move forward and embrace you. But it would be a line crossed, to do so.

“But I do.” He decided to use his words instead, to try and hold you up.

“You what?”

“I know you. I know who you are.”

“From before?” The hope that curls around the simple question almost pulls the truth from him, he’s unsure why he falters in voicing it.

“From…from now. I know you, mesh’la, and you deserve better than this.”

“He’s…he’ll hunt me down. I know it, in my very bones I know it.” The words seem so matter-of-fact, as if you were aware of them subconsciously. The fear and life of solitude you had led because of the very notion of people being after you something your body remembered even if your mind could not. He recalls how isolated your home in the desert had been, how hard it had been to even find the humble building. How it must’ve been a mere shadow of the life you had lived up until that point, but one you had willingly created in order to avoid further conflict and loss.

But yet, here you were standing in front of him having lost everything that made you who you were.

“I’ll protect you.”

“Aliit, you have a child. You have a wife.” And there’s the anger he’s seen flare in you before, the will to not put up with things you didn’t agree with.

“I’ve told you, I do and I do not. She…she is much like you. In a situation she can’t control.”

“Then go save her.” You make it sound so simple, so easy a feat. If only you realized…but when you repeated the words with solid frustration he felt something brim over the top of his chest.

“I’m trying to!” He lets his own frustration get the better of him and he realizes his mistake when you cower. His own flames of anger and anxiety dousing yours to nothing but shadow and smoke.

“Apologies, I…shouldn’t speak so plainly with you. You are working, probably trying to earn credits to fix your situation. I apologize.” You won’t look at him, avoiding his eyes as he tries to catch them across the room. He’s messed up again, and now his punishment is delivering you to the door of the man who is about to do whatever he wants and you’re going to let him. To appease your mother, to fall in line with what you’ve been forced to believe are your duties.

“Mesh’la,” He steps close to you, now in the doorway to the large closet. His words trail off as you turn with a blank face so reminiscent of how you used to look at him. The robe is untied by your hands and falls to the ground. He averts his eyes, not wanting to impinge on your privacy even as you expose yourself to him.

“You heard him, he commanded you to dress me yourself should I not want to. Practically gave you permission to touch me, is that why you don’t want me to go. You want me all to yourself?” Digging into one of the elaborate boxes atop a shelf you throw whatever was inside it at him. It’s all lace and thin straps, a bright baby blue that looks like the shine of starlight on his armor when he polishes it in the cockpit of the Razor Crest. It makes him sick, stomach churning at the connection.

You’re breathing heavily, shoulders shaking and eyes tinging pink as he sees the tears you’re trying to fight off shine in the whites of your eyes as he dares to look up from the floor where the garment had fallen. “All men are the same, doing whatever they want. Taking whatever they want. At least this way I get something out of it, even if…even if it feels like it’s all wrong.”

Your words trail off, the power behind them waning as you refuse to break the connected gaze from him.

“It is wrong, he’s not…he’s doesn’t love you.”

“No one loves me.”

He freezes, taken aback by the conviction in your words even as you speak so quietly, your face still schooled into an expression of no emotion.

“No one’s come to my side after my accident. It’s as if…I had no life before it, no one who was by my side. It’s why, it’s why I’ve taken what my mother says as truth, there’s no evidence to suggest otherwise. Even if it does feel wrong.”

His chest aches, his heart crumbles and settled heavy in the pit of his stomach. He’s failing. He’s completely failing at his task of saving you. He’s making it worse, and he thinks again that maybe you’d be better off without him here mucking things up if you’ve accepted this as your life. You just said so yourself that it seems to be a good set up, better than anything you even remotely recall. But…it would be a betrayal to leave you in the hands of a woman who tormented and tortured you, manipulated you to her will alongside a man who was beginning to show his true colors.

He had. He had come to your side the second he had figured out where you were. But…but maybe it was too late. Your memories warped too much for him to bring them to the light. He thought…he thought he had seen glimpses of clarity in your eyes as he and Cara fight to keep you away from the mind flayer, from the doctor who was the reason for your lack of awareness.

“You have a wife.” You whisper, as if it was the one lie you were being fed that you didn’t want to accept.

“I do and I do not.” He repeats, unable to string together any other words as he sees the way you’re trembling. He’s about to throw the whole plan of slowly getting your memory and mind strong enough to tell you the truth, to blurt it all out in the hopes that it helps you to understand, but you’ve lost the spark of your old self as quickly as it had come to life and he’s missed his moment. Again.

“You have a wife and I…I cannot have you the way- you are not mine to want.” You seem to pull yourself from your inner musings, digging through another pretty package of ribbons and silk. The matching set is a soft pink and you pull on both pieces before bending to retrieve your robe. “Please escort me to Prince Cala’s room.”

The walk to the prince’s room had felt just as damning as the one he had taken to hand ad’ika over to the Imps.

Din begins to slip more Mand’oa into his conversations with you, hoping for recognition. Hoping to right his wrongs of that fateful night in which you had laid with another man. You didn’t talk of what happened, though he doubted he would be the first you would turn to should something of that caliber occur. He doesn’t ask, knowing that in the deepest part of who he was, he wouldn’t be able to handle the knowledge of your answer should you give him one.

He was being put on patrol of the grounds every morning, his night shift of watching over your hall given to others, never the same person. Probably due to Prince Cala’s command that no one is to get too close to you. But he traded with those who were given the post, giving away what little credits he had accumulated from being ‘employed’ by the palace and anything they voiced wishing they had. Cara making the trips into the city markets to retrieve whatever it was they wanted as she was shifted to duties to prepare for the wedding that loomed closer and closer.

The whole ordeal was reminiscent of his younger days, made it feel like he was back in training or just thereafter as he worked whatever and however many jobs he could get in order to prove for the covert. Though he was significantly older in years, the issue of not getting enough sleep only seemed to upset ad’ika. The child had become increasingly fussy, lashing out in the only ways he knew how and unfortunately one of those ways was slamming doors and throwing food.

The arrival of foreign people of all species to the city and to the palace in particular signal the days of your relative freedom coming to an end. Endless discussions of hushed plans are shared between him and Cara, as they realize they don’t have the currency of time on their side any longer. If there was one thing Din wanted to prevent, as if he truly had any control over things, was the binding of your person to another.

Two weeks, they had only two weeks and the days begin to fly by with no signs your memory returning.

Until he’s suddenly sat across from you one quiet night and you speak words of Mando’a back to him.

Ner kar’ta. Your voice sounds so sweet, so cherished in its damning innocence as you look to him with confusion in your glittering eyes.

Din’s moving from his seat beside you, kneeling before you in a way he never had with another. His hands holding yours and he revels in the warmth of them in his own. He carefully asks if you know what you just said, if you realize the enormity of what just happened, what had just fallen from your lips. He fills his heart swell when you say you think it means exactly what it does.

The words he’s only whispered to you once before as he lay bleeding and struggling to breathe, are repeated lowly. No longer a desperate plea for you to leave him behind, but an affirmation to bring you back to him.

He’s sure he’s far too focused, something he knows you don’t like, direct attention, deliberate attention.

But you’re looking back at him with the same sharpness in your eyes even as they remain partially shrouded, hope filling him and making his heart quicken as he searching for anything, for everything in them so close.

But then the door to your room, to the sanctuary you had both found is suddenly opening and the woman who had caused this entire ordeal is stepping over the threshold with a raised voice full of thinly veiled distrust and aggression born of fear.

Tension fills the room, your mother in the doorway while you and Aliit remain beside the small lounge set up of chairs, small sofa, and low table. The soft atmosphere between the two of you shattered as the woman barged into your room at far too late an hour. Making you wonder how often she had done so before your sleep had become hard to maintain. What was she doing checking on you under the cover of dark, midnight skies and twinkling stars? A pinch in the crook of your elbow, the column of your neck both flare to life and you worry for the things she could’ve done to you while asleep, before Aliit had taken over the post of night guard.

The rattling of fine porcelain trills, the cups of tea on small serving saucers Aliit had prepared in quiet seeming to irritate your mother as her eyes dart from the set up to the man behind you, to you. A glare marring her beautiful but aged features. Her skin pale unlike yours, though you were seeing underneath the mask you were realizing she always had carefully in place. Hiding and covering things she didn’t want others to see, didn’t want to reveal.

“Stop doing that!” She snaps, dominant hand pointing harshly at you and your body reacts far quicker than your mind. A hand of your own raising up and waving broadly, manipulating hers to lower to her side.

“Tell me.” You demand, patience gone and emotions focused. She sees something in you, at that moment, something that causes her to take a step back and it makes you feel powerful.

“You and the Prince were on holiday. Off on some crowded planet to enjoy in each other’s company as you shop and attend a gala in honor of the news of your engagement. Someone high up in the ranks of the New Republic happy of the coupling. Some startled you as they approached to congratulate you, always so jumpy, even as a young girl. You tripped over your dress, hit your head on the corner of a table.”

“Why don’t I have a mark from the fall?”

“What planet were we on before that allowed me to get the attention of Prince Cala?”

“We were home, darling. K’ath. He was interested in the armor we sell in the wharf.”

“You don’t let me make armor anymore.”

“No, Prince Cala wishes for you to learn other skills that are fitting for royalty of this planet.”

“I don’t mind that, but I wish to reclaim the one thing I can recall from before my accident.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I said no, San! I don’t know where this is all coming from, Maker you must be so confused. So out of it you’re manifesting things that simply aren’t true. This is your life, darling, this is it. What we had before…it was not what I wanted for you. But this – this is what you deserve. A nice place to spend your days with no stress, with no worries.”

“Leave.”

“Darling-“

“I wish to rest! Both of you leave, right this instant!” The rattling of the porcelain is loud, followed by a rather startling pop as the glass of one of the windows cracks.

“Remove your mask.”

Din keeps his eyes trained on hers, reading the woman with an intensity that only seems to fuel her distrust of him. He knows he hasn’t done the best at keeping his emotions in check while scouting out the palace and trying to remain close to you, he does. It was a task he hadn’t been prepared for in the slightest, something he realizes and feels shameful of. You needed him to be able to keep his head and to go about this mission as if it was any other, you needed him to be able to act as he always does: stealthily, calculated, levelheaded, deadly focused. But he wasn’t, his heart and emotions getting the better of him in a way that could be detrimental to your well-being, to your life, to his and to ad’ikas.

His pause, the twitch of his bare fingers upsets your mother further.

“There are people, someone in particular that may come after her.” She doesn’t budge, keeping her stance in front of the man back at his post outside your door. The moonlight filtering into the lantern light hallway barely enough to see the ire and suspicion in her expression. The slight resemblance to you unnerves him, the reality of this woman being tied to you by blood and fate too heavy a thought when you were so kind and good to him. “Remove your mask, Aliit.”

He doesn’t want to. He can’t. And certainly not for someone as ingenuine as your mother. But…for all the beskar he donned and had been able to share with you, for all the weapons he had in his cache to protect you, for all the skills he had developed over a lifetime, none of it had been able to prevent you from being taken away from him. His Creed had allowed for it to happen, even if it by way of inadvertency. So perhaps…perhaps the display of his face would be the one thing that had jumpstarted this entire situation would be able to salvage it. To give him the time and chance he needed in order to stay and work on allowing out to heal enough to know the truth.

Holding his breath, Din reaches up to unclasp the pin keeping the flowing piece over his cowl. It falls to the right side of his face as braces himself to lower the cowl with steady fingers, though his mind is anything but calm.

He never wanted to show his face, let alone to someone so unfounded in their own beliefs, if the woman had any. She wasn’t deserving, but you….he had been struggling with the desire to show you. But she was premature in her gloating victory, because she waves a hand at him just as he’s beginning to pull the fabric down. He stills, worried he’s been found out but that doesn’t seem to be the case as the woman’s stern face breaks.

“Oh, good. I was worried for a second.” She smirks, knowing she had won the heated exchange, the power of her command being heeded going to her head in the worst way. “No Mandalorian would be foolish enough to throw away their very Creed for someone like San. Maker, I love her. But she’s such a fool sometimes, a little misguided. No idea how she even caught the attention of the person who was supposed to bring her back to me. Must’ve used her body, since her head seems to be empty.”

Resisting the urge to snarl and show just how deep her words cut, Din just nods at her, bowing his head slightly before resetting his coverage over the cowl. An insult to him, he could internalize and ignore. But an insult to you was stirring his instincts to protect, to shield, to kill.

“What is the meaning of this? Sending my handmaidens away and ordering guards to follow me around from now on,” Prince Cala is sat on the edge of your bed, two guards on either side of the bed. It’s early, the sun barely cresting over the horizon and the sky shifting slowly from dark to light as it does so. Alit has to still be on the other side of the door where your mother had ordered him to remain for the rest of his shift, overriding the royal man’s direct orders.

“My dear San, I’ve sent your handmaidens to tend to things for the wedding. The ceremony will be in a week’s time.” He curls a hand around your wrist, bringing it up to kiss along your knuckles and down the inside of your arm. His lips are soft, but his touch feels wrong, it feels charged: changed. “You’re mine.”

He’s suddenly hovering over you, knees on either side of your waist and pinning you beneath the covers as he brings his face close to yours. His handsome features twisted into a smirk that made your insides lurch. His hands bring your own above your head, pressing them into the plush pillows and gripping far too tightly. Trying to squirm is useless as he lets all of his weight press into you, pushing the breath from your lungs and cutting off the shout you were about to make.

“That guard of yours is to be sent to patrol the city streets, he’s not to come near you again.” He repeats his possession of you, his lips beginning to trail hard kisses down your neck. His breath is hot and sticky against your skin and you try to close your eyes tights in an effort to make the moment go by quicker.

One of his hands trails down your body, boldly giving your chest a squeeze over the thin covers before it’s gone from you completely. But you don’t get to revel in the touch of him gone because there’s a metallic clink you hear the clicking of a syringe just moments before it’s plunged into your still trapped arm.

“No.” You can’t help the venom and distrust that seeps into your voice, the feeling of being trapped, of being herded consumes you and it’s ugly how it sticks uncomfortably to your insides. You had already partook in countless meals and cups of tea, strolls through the gardens and around the different buildings and halls of the palace. All in the name of entertainment for the guests you didn’t want to interact with. The feeling of being on display, of being paraded around annoying you beyond anything else had since you had woken up in that infirmary bed.

You didn’t like the attention, how direct it was. How people fawned over the tone of your skin in comparison to theirs, how they felt entitled to reach out and caress your skin or face when complimenting you or the dresses you wore.

Head pounding, you feel energy flow through you, something so foreign yet familiar. The same energy that had filled you back when you had confronted your mother a few nights ago. The very same that clattered porcelain and shattered glass though you hadn’t even been looking at either of those things, they were merely in the same expansive room as you. You had tried to focus, in the quiet solitary of that same room, your room, the only place you were truly left alone for only the hours of the night as Aliit dutifully looked over you from just inside the doorway.

His eyes watched you without giving you impression he was doing so with purpose as you tried and succeeded in harnessing it to move random objects around the room. It was…a powerful feeling to wield such a power.

It fills you now, as your mother turns to face you and you clench your fists at your sides to quiet the thought of using it against her. Something in your mind warning of you letting her know that you are conscious of it now, her reaction to seeing you unintentionally wield it telling you it was better kept a secret.

“Excuse me?” Your mother demands from where she has begun to lead you from within your quarters, she’s quick as she grabs at you, your hands twitching with the urge to push her away the second her fingers are curling around you.

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you.” You flinch away from her, her touch far too tight around your wrists. It was as if you were shocked, your body recalling memories you couldn’t consciously do so and you feel the weight of metal heavy around your wrists in her hands around you, around your ankles and neck. Pulling you down, zapping you of any wherewithal for the body you inhabited. You close your eyes against the feeling, mind conjuring up the darkness of a room that feels far too familiar, that is filled faintly with the scent of salted air and willows native to your home world. “I wish to be alone in the week before I’m to be someone else’s.”

Breathing deep, the feeling of the air around you shifts to that of an arid land. Dry, bone-shattering heat suffocates you, your body too exhausted and dehydrated to even produce sweat. The cotton feel of your tongue thickens in your mouth as your head swims with the influence of narcotics and sedatives. The hush of a door opening blinds you even in your mind’s eye, a lone figure silhouetted in the front of the room you feel is so real around you.

A modulated voice speaks out, calling your given name and it startles you. The figure standing in front of you is swathed in shadows, making you believe it’s the one you had done your best to hide from until that very point. But the figure moves, revealing he’s not donning all black nor breathing with the assistance of a compressor.

He’s not the one who expertly wields a blade made of the same energy you feel coursing through you, red and blinding as it buzzes menacingly. The feeling of a handle is strong, the weight of it in your hands as the red spurs to life to form a weapon of your own. It diffuses to white and you feel a sense of calm, of kinship, of connection with the figure in front of you that you now know is armored in beskar.

Your eyes snap open and you seethe at the sight of your mother in front of you, of her still touching you, looming closer. She’s the reason for your feelings, every single one of them. The realization slams into you and it hurts. Your breath catches, lungs burning as you feel like no air is enough to breathe. You’re pulling away from her with more vigor, even as your mind swims at the lack of oxygen to function.

She’s the one who had first shackled you, keeping you under her control with the guise of hiding you away from those you had run home and away from. Their reach endless and their efforts never ceasing.

She was supposed to be a safe haven, someone you could return to after years of being separated. She was supposed to be someone who looked after you, protected you. But she had enslaved you instead, following in the footsteps of those you had run from though her power over you had been in the form of sedatives and metal so heavy it was debilitating. Not the same as the livelihood of someone you feel in your heart, someone who had since passed, someone who had given you a reason to live, taught you all he had to teach, cared for you with all the love he had to give. Donning the same metal you feel around your body, damning you where it had once saved you. The same metal you feel curling over your shoulders, a gift from someone truly good, who exuded care and honor. Someone who was associated with the one who had hunted then set you free.

Someone you could feel very close by. Accompanied by two others that called out to you in their familiarity as you stand in front of the woman who claims to be your mother even as she controls and tears you down to nothing more than errant thoughts she easily manipulates without a second thought.

“Darling, this is highly inappropriate.” You mother frowns, refusing to let you go, as if she knew the hold she had on you had crumbled away. “The medic should’ve…he should’ve fixed this.”

“Nothing’s wrong with me!” The commanding sound of your voice like a stranger’s in your own ears, someone who you don’t recognize. The windows of your room rattle, the tapestries float into the air, that power you feel deep in your very bones all around you, ready and willing to be harnessed.

“There is, San, you’re having delusions. The same thing happened to your father, that’s why I sent him away.” The woman insists, her knuckles whitening with the force she’s holding to you even as you step back, trying to get away from her. You raise your hands to push at her.

“That’s a kriffing lie!” You can’t help the burst of energy that flows from you, knocking you both to the ground. She’s yards away from you, her hands scrambling for something that had been flung from her pockets. A remote. Before you could even think of what it could be for, she’s pressing the button down in the center of it and your vision blacks out as something bright and burning flows through your veins.

Lethargic, your body is heavy as you leave the infirmary. Even as you move as silently as you can, mind humming with paranoia of being seen, of being tended to, of your mother. All you wanted right now was to see Aliit, to feel the calm only his presence seems to bring you. Especially as the wedding draws near the palace compound become crowded with guests invited by the king and queen, far too many of them displaying New Republic badges and pins. Something that was spiking adrenaline and worry in you for reasons you didn’t know. They had once been helpful, you thought, as the war raged on and landed on the shores of K’ath, their aid had helped to keep the economy afloat and food on the table.

But now, the mere mention and sight of their affiliation sent your instincts into a hum, the feeling of needing to run settling deep in every muscle of your body.

The room you were in was small, but done up as a bedroom. Colorful tapestries and a four post bed complete with a headboard that had metal rings fastened at the top that unnerved you the longer you gazed up at them from where you lay against the pillows.

The guards are playing some sort of dice game, gathered at the end of the hall when you peek out of the door to the main part of the infirmary. A flash of lightning brightening the scene for you to see as clear as if it was the middle of the day, not well into the night at the only source of light was the lanterns fastened to the walls.

As you round the last corner to the hallway that held your bedroom, the safety of which you were seeking out, thunder rumbled outside. The storm was picking up, the rain falling down in sheets when you pass by a window. The wind shifts and the rain lashes against the windows in a manifestation of your heightening anxiety.

Just as you step into the hall, lightning strikes something far too close. The sharp crack of it hurting the very nerves of your body. The tall, wide shadow in the hall that turns to face you distorts from vague darkness to shiny metallic. The figure is swathed in beautiful armor for a the briefest of moments until the hallway is thrown back into darkness.

But it happens again as the lightning begins to stream down from the storm clouds as heavy as the rain.

The light of the lanterns bouncing off the polished surface of the glinting armor as the man begins to walk towards you. The dark visor across the sporadic flash of a helmet blends into the darkness, making it hard to gauge exactly who it is beneath. It’s overwhelming, the streaks of blinding light through the windows, an assault on your eyes and mind as you try to right yourself from where you must’ve leaned into the wall.

Thunder sounds and you realize you had tensed up, muscles protesting the steps you so desperately want to take, just a few yards to the door. To your room, to safety.

You feel a harsh current flow through your body again, sending you crashing to the floor as your words turn into a scream. Thunder drowning out the sound as it echoes in the hall, rain beating down against the windows. The figure now only a few feet away rushes to your side, catching you just before you could crumble completely. His arms are strong around you, cradling you as you thrash and convulse as more currents strike through your body, no longer a distant occurrence outside of the windows. Seemingly in time with the lightning lighting up the sky in blinding flashes.

But it’s not armor that you feel against your body, it’s the soft give of flesh beneath flowing fabric. Heart thudding at the realization, you realize that the armor hadn’t alarmed you, it had calmed you in its fleeting appearance. It had ben familiar, it had felt like…it had felt like something that had been missing from you the moment you had woken up in a bed and city you didn’t recognize. The presence of a shadowed figure you had tried to fill with the prince, only for it to not fit snuggly together like puzzle pieces. It felt so similar to how Aliit’s presence soothed you.

It must be him, you think as you feel yourself slump against the ground, the figure holding you lowering you both to the ground as the storm raged on. As you gazed up at him through bleary eyes, the silver armor glinted, the darkness of a visor glittered in the flashing light, and then it was clouded by the backs of your eyelids as you felt another current ravage your body. Behind them, you see the crisp image of the armored man standing atop a ramp leading to a ship, a small green figure in his arms as he turns to you and your heart jumps, the prickling of tears sharp as you realize what’s been missing all this time. What’s been hidden in plain sight beside you this whole time.

“San, it’s okay. It’s me, it’s-“ His voice is unmodulated, no vocoder distorting it. But it’s him and your heart swells.

“Din.” You breath out, eyes snapping open and finding his own. The man you loved was staring back at you, his helmet, his armor, all of it was gone to reveal a sliver of his face to you.

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bluebellhairpin · 1 year ago

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Erwin Smith X Wife!Reader

Summary: The aftermath of your first murder opens a whole new door on your sexual escapades with your husband. He is more than eager to help you figure out if you like it or not. (word count; 3.4K < )

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. NSFW - Porn with almost no plot. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT (if you don't like it, don't read it) Cannibalistic themes (Both in the literal sense and as a love metaphor). Sexual themes and Smut (Oral - receiving. Blood kink (menstrual specifically). (Unprotected sex + penetrative sex but focuses on the oral more.)) Reader; has female anatomy, has periods.

Listening to: 'Dinner & Diatribes' by Hozier - "I'd suffer Hell if you'd tell me... Scarcely can speak for my thinking of what you'd do to me tonight."

Series Masterlist || AO3 Link || Masterlist || Ko-Fi

“Then I examined my own heart. And there you were. Never, I fear, to be removed.” - Jane Austen, 'Emma'

You didn’t realize quite how serious Erwin was. You didn’t even know how you thought about it. You didn’t really think much about it anyway.

Admittedly, despite how lust-filled your mind was in the moment (and perhaps the memory was tainted? But who were you to argue) you couldn’t help the feelings that swelled in your lower belly at the thought of your husband between your legs for something so unusual.

Something so many thought was untouchable, or dirty.

At the time he seemed very enthusiastic about it - his words rang through your head still days after. It was like your heart was clutching to them like they were the last pearls in a jewelry box.

“The things I would do for a chance to be between your legs while you bleed life right into my mouth.”

You realized that it must’ve been pure coincidence that it hadn’t come up before.

Sure, certain aspects would probably have produced more questions that, at the time, he would’ve been unable to answer. But now you knew his habits, his tendencies, the unnatural appetite he had towards human flesh - now he knew you supported them, he had no reason to hold back. He had no reason to hide just how carnal his desire for you ran.

So he didn’t.

The kitchen island where the sink was, allowed you to look out over the dining room and patio outside. Erwin was out again tonight, so the dishes you washed up were all your own from the day - despite how quiet it was, your mind was loud.

You were wondering why killing that cashier wasn’t bothering you more. First murders were meant to be the most memorable. Perhaps your lack of reaction - the numbness you felt where grief or shock should be - maybe that was your reaction.

But you held no pity or remorse for the woman who still lay unbutchered in your freezer downstairs. You believed whole-heartedly that she deserved it.

With the last plate put on the drying rack, you pulled the plug from the sink and watched the bubbles fade away. You knew exactly where your next stop was. It wasn’t even seven, but bed had been calling you all day - if only to curl up somewhere warm to alleviate the aches and pains that came with the first few days of your dreaded period.

The lock on the front door clicked, and with a shudder it opened and closed again to welcome your husband home. He was early. Again.

Oh how you enjoyed his company. You always had, he knew just when you needed the peace of quiet, when you needed space for yourself, he knew when you needed a warm body pressed against your own, and he knew when you needed to be sedated with a warm womb of cum. He could read you like a book - he had a vast collection of those, but if you asked he’d say his favorite always had been you.

With his shoes, jacket, and briefcase put aside, he walked over with a tired smile and a quiet greeting. Erwin came up beside you, ignoring your wet hands as he took one in his while the other found its home around your waist.

“How has your evening been?” he asked, mouth firmly pressed to your temple in some sort of kiss between words.

“Slow,” you sighed, leaning into his side, “Lower back has been a pain.” You could almost hear how Erwin’s eyebrows creased in concern.

“What for?” he said, leaning back partially to get a good look at your face. “You know I prefer you doing strenuous things with me around, then you don’t hurt yourself.”

You tsked him, shaking your head with a light smile.

“Honey it’s always like that when I’m on my period.” You could see it on his face, how he processed what you’d said. How his eyes darkened and his grip of your waist drew you in slightly closer.

“Oh?”

His voice was soft, curious, but the look in his eye told you it was nothing but innocent. He was far too sly for that. Far too devious. Had a far too large bloodlust. The way his eyes were flicking lower wasn’t telling you that he wanted a kiss - no, he was eyeing a place much lower.

And, currently much messier.

“I know that look.” you said, and your hand curled up around the still-fresh collar of his dress shirt. “Didn’t know what it was about less than a week ago, but now…”

Your words trailed off, quiet. An unspoken understanding went though you both - he of hunger, you of curiosity. What would it feel like to have your husband feeding himself full of the blood that slipped out from your cunt?

You felt yourself shift, an ache started to build between your legs, and your breathing became more apparent as your chest pressed against his. Erwin’s arm snaked around your waist, a firm hold taken in order to safely turn and cart you away without having to separate. Nothing was even happening yet and you knew exactly how much he didn’t want to part from you - you felt quite the same way.

It didn’t take long for Erwin’s mouth to attach to your neck after you’d been laid on your bed. Your legs had already spread to accommodate his hips, and the slow - barely there - drag of his clothed crotch on yours.

He was filled with as much lust as he was hunger. Erwin could feel it, deep in the very marrow of his bones that he’d need all night for his feelings to fade. The more he thought about it happening - how willing you were to let him do what he most truly desired - the more his need grew. And his need to return the favor grew too.

Erwin would bleed himself dry to fill your cup, carve the flesh right off his bones to make sure you were never hungry again. But that would have to wait. You had much to do together before that time came.

As he felt you whimper under his tongue, while his teeth slowly sunk in and out of your shoulders and neck, his hands wandered. He felt light headed at the thought of what lay waiting for him beneath your clothing. The mild summer air had left you in almost scraps of clothes even though you’d been inside all day, he had to steady his breathing just so he didn’t tear them completely apart.

He knew you liked these shorts.

Erwin’s hands found their way under your shirt, slowly pushing the fabric up over your stomach and chest until you had to raise your arms to let him take it off completely. He - unfortunately - had to break away from your delicious skin to do so, however - fortunately - the sight he was left with made his cock swell again.

It wasn’t something he’d never seen before, he’d seen all of you many times, almost had the sight committed to memory. But this was different. The way he saw your chest rise and fall, eyes half-lidded, and body completely trembling under him. He could see how badly you needed him, it was spoken without words.

The blood running through your veins, the breath in your lungs - he felt like he could see your very heart beating in your chest and it drove him wild.

He couldn’t help but lean down and claim your lips in a long, deep kiss. You groaned into his mouth when he rutted into your covered cunt again, and he broke away to see your lips swollen and glossy.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked. “Because sweetheart once I start on you, I doubt I’ll want to stop until you stop bleeding.” His voice was soft, but even he could hear the edge added by his own desperation to get started. However the way you were looking at him - something wasn’t quite right. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“No.” you replied, breathless.

“But something’s wrong.” he took your chin in his hand, gently trailing his thumb across your lower lip. “Tell me.” he said, casting a spell to demand your words to fall right into his palm.

“It’s so…” you started, shifting under him - still from arousal - but trying to find the right words while your brain was covered in a fog. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not - it’s so - you don’t have to.”

“But you want me to, don’t you?” he asked. His other hand moved, trailing down your body to press down on a spot just above your clothed slit. “I can feel it. Right here.” Oh his lips he felt your breath leave your mouth in a hushed huff, and felt how your hips chased his hand as he pulled it away.

“Yes, I - I really would like to try. Just this once. You don’t have to again.”

“Honey, remember who you’re talking to.” He said, making sure you were looking into his eyes as he spoke. “I already know that once this is over I will be completely filled with longing for the chance to do it again. To me your womb is always ripe for the taking.” With his words his hands both took hold of your hips, slipping under the cloth, ready and waiting. “I’ll ask once more. Are you ready for this?”

You looked up at him with a soft smile, and Erwin knew that look in your eyes - the one that could be filled with cartoonish pink hearts, almost unfit for such a scene as this.

“Yes.”

You found out very quickly that Erwin left very little room for you to move.

On a normal day, he would eat you out and urge you to do with him as you pleased. You could hump his mouth and grind into his nose as much as you wished, often he begged for it. Right now, however, that was not the case.

You couldn’t even do so much as start to lift your hips off the sheets. Erwin’s arm lay slung over your hips, pressing you into the mattress in a show of strength you’d only seen him muster when working as a butcher, brutally and in your basement.

With a curl of his fingers inside your cunt, you keened once more with your heels digging into the crisp fabric adorning Erwin’s back. You tried to move, to rut further for more, however it only made Erwin stop. He pulled away, and your head lifted off your pillow to look down at him.

“Try that one more time and I’ll give you a real reason not to.” You then thought of how alike Erwin could’ve been to a predatory animal hunched over a carcass.

He was all dark eyes and ruffled hair, with a string of your slick and blood threading his chin to your pussy. From you he truly was taking what he wanted, and he wasn’t even going to let you stop him from having his way. It almost frightened you, how easily he was holding you down. But he had never done it before - how he must have held back in times like these. Now though he was letting go - all for the taste your blood brought.

It made your chest heave, and your cunt clench onto his fingers. That made him grin - because of course there was no way he wouldn’t notice how tightly you were gripping his digits - and his once pearly white teeth were stained pink and red, yet to be licked clean by a greedy tongue.

“Of course you’d like that. What a dirty thing you are. You never cease to surprise me.” he said, then lent down to lick you from where his fingers nestled in your heat up to your clit, long and slow. “But I don’t want to hurt you, not right now. So don’t move.”

You swallowed, nodding. Your head fell back and he returned to his meal. Between his thrusting fingers and the way his lips suckled on your clit, you wondered just how far he could go while devouring you. How far he would go. Even how far you’d let him.

You couldn’t lie and say none of it appealed to you. Maybe you were more fucked up than Erwin was, with how a strong rush of heat went to your core at the thought of him stripping your bones clean of their marrow with his need. His fingers curled to just the right spot to push your high ever closer, and you had a moment of clarity before it all came crashing down.

How romantic it was that your husband was so truly consumed by his love that he had to physically feast on parts of you in order to sedate himself.

After a moment, as your eyes slowly stopped fluttering behind your eyelids, Erwin’s hand slid around your waist to rest on your back, and as he moved himself to kneel on the bed he pulled you up and into his lap. Your legs were pulled so your knees pressed against each side of his hips, your thighs spread wide over his own. His other hand was still snug inside your cunt, slowly scissoring, pushing and pulling, teasing enough in your post-orgasm bliss to leave you open-mouthed and moaning into his neck.

If he kept it up, your lips would be drooling all over his collar as much as your slick drooled all over his thighs.

With a squelch of your cunt, you caught Erwin’s eyes casting themselves lower, and he pulled back. His eyes were fixed on the hand that had crept out from between your legs, and the way his lips parted in awe made you curious. What could render him so speechless?

There, sitting really quite innocently in the space just below Erwin’s pointer and middle finger, was a clot.

They weren’t unfamiliar to you. Lumps of tissue and blood that passed each month like clockwork had left you curious too - you knew what they were and they never worried you, it left you in awe at the way your body worked more than it disgusted you. However Erwin was being unreadable. It made you start to shift away.

“Don’t.” Erwin said, grip on you vice-tight in warning. So you chose to wait. To watch and see what he would do next.

He took the lump between his fingers, prodding it, spreading it over his palm. Inspecting it with curious fingers and eyes. When his hand stilled, your eyes flicked back up to his face, watching as his eyes softened to a dark wonder, and as his tongue wet his bottom lip.

He brought his hand to his mouth, licking it clean - clot, tissue, blood and all. His eyes closed, rolling into the back of his skull. It made a strange lump form in your throat, and your core clench with some sick sense of want. But how sick could it be if you both wanted it that bad?

His now mostly clean and wet hand met your body again. Both hands found a place on your ribs just below the sides of your breasts and trailed down. His eyes opened, meeting yours, but you couldn’t help but watch as his jaw moved, cleaning over his teeth as if sucking the last of you to his tongue and down his throat.

His throat which was now stained inside and out with your blood.

Something about it made you sigh wistfully, relaxing to his touch and threading almost limp arms around his shoulders. Waiting to be cleaned and put to bed. Unlike you, Erwin could always read you - he knew what you were thinking, and the smile on his face told you clearly that you weren’t on the same page as him.

“Do you think we’re finished?” Erwin asked, pushing his crotch into yours, uncaring about the mess of slick and blood he was getting over his once pristine slacks. “I’m not planning on stopping until we’re both spent, and as you can feel, I’m nowhere near done yet.” His hands found home on your hips and pulled your spread legs closer so your core was flush to his hard cock.

“Erwin…” you said, breathless as one hand found the soft hairs on the back of his neck. His nose bumped into your cheek, mouth landing on yours for one soft moment when your voice trailed off.

“What is it?” he asked. His voice was soft, despite the hard and slow back and forth his hands guided your hips. It made your heart swell as your breathing hitched and you pressed yourself closer still - to his cock, his chest, his hands and face, anywhere he’d let you be.

“I’m aching for you.” you replied, shifting in his lap and working your hands down to start tugging his shirt out from where it was tucked into his pants. You mouthed at his jaw and neck, tasting all sorts of yourself on your tongue. His arm pressed you closer, wordlessly stilling your movements. ‘Calm’ he spoke, ‘be with me here, in this moment’.

“Tell me what you want from me.” he said, taking your cheek in his palm, “Anything. I am all yours.”

“I just need you.” you said. Like a key to a lock, his hold loosened, and your hands returned to their previous venture - getting as much of Erwin's clothes off as quickly as possible. While your fingers wandered, your mouth returned to licking his throat clean of your slick mess. “Fill me. Use me. Lay me here and do what you like, just don’t leave me empty.”

You could feel his groan resonate from his chest to yours, the hardness pressed to your pussy jumped. In a moment he kissed you, sharing a taste of him, you, and a twang of iron.

“Whatever you wish for sweetheart,” he murmured to your lips, shifting as he spoke and kissed you so he could add a third - undressing - to his growing list of things to do all at once, “I’ll give you everything and more.”

Somehow, among the mess of his lips on yours, he shed his clothes and had laid you back down onto the bed. He seemed almost content, despite you writhing beneath him for more, to just get his cock wet grinding into your cunt with your legs wrapped snug around his hips.

“Erwin please, stop teasing.” He pulled away from your mouth as you spoke, a hand resting beside your head while the other stilled your thigh.

“I know, I know, just,” He said, taking in a deep breath when his eyes dropped lower, “I’m going to need a second.”

You followed, taking in how his cock was tainted with his pre and your slick - and a sheen of pinky-red that bled into his dirty blond pubes. From how angry and hard Erwin’s cock was, and the flush on his cheeks, you could put two and two together.

“Are you gonna cum that fast just because there’s blood down there?”

“‘t’s your blood.” he replied, eyes screwed shut as he took in a deep breath and opened them again - seemingly recomposed.

“Still.” You smiled, reaching a hand up to coyly curl your fingers at the longer hairs near his ear.

“Don’t.” He warned, catching on to your internal plot to tease him further, brows furrowed and bottom lip sticking out in an almost-pout. You licked your bottom lip, getting a flavor of salt and metal, before kissing him again.

“I think I will.” You said, squeezing your legs around him, nudging his cock closer to your waiting pussy. “You being so turned on by it is kinda turning me on.”

Erwin only scoffed - mumbling something about how perfect you were - before kissing you again, deeply, and shifting his lower body so his tip caught on your clit before sliding lower. He entered slowly, letting you stretch around his girth, even though with all the fluids down there making it easier than usual. He seemed to be wanting to take his time, and despite how needy you were before it felt too good to complain.

You were more than happy to lay back and let him have his way with you, and he was more than willing to let you.

#cw blood #erwin smith x reader #erwin x reader #erwin smith x you #aot x reader #attack on titan x reader #snk x reader #erwin smith smut #erwin smut #aot smut

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obxsummer · 6 months ago

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okay i know i said chapter today but i really wanted to fluff it out and give this the time it deserves so we aren't rushing to the end. snippet now, full chapter tomorrow?? s4 spoilers below!!

Sarah frowned at the memory. The days of peace and hoping for the celebration you and JJ could have were long gone, but she hoped they could find a way to change that. If anyone deserved that happy ever after feeling, it was you and JJ.

Biking back to Poguelandia was quiet, and Sarah was thankful for the time to think. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the pink tests in her bag and her heart was racing just thinking about it. She was nineteen, John B was almost twenty, but shit they were still young. This wasn’t what she imagined when she thought about having a family. Not in an environment like this.

Sarah tiptoed her way back up the stairs, noticing all the doors were closed except for the one to your room. A tiny part of her was relieved and she peeked in to see the balcony open, curtains blowing lightly with the wind. Closing your bedroom door behind her, Sarah made her way out to where you were resting in the hammock with your eyes closed.

“Hi,” She whispered quietly, not wanting to scare you.

You blinked and smiled up at her. “Hi, you okay?”

Sarah bit her lip in response, hand searching blindly in her back for the boxes before she held them up for you to see. “Um… can you-can I do this, in here? With you?”

You nodded, pushing yourself out of the woven hammock to meet her in the doorway, grabbing her hand in yours. Sarah tossed her bag on your bed and followed you into the connected bathroom, forcing a deep breath into her lungs.

“I’ll wait, out… on the other side of the door?” You asked carefully, not sure if she wanted you in the room or not. When she nodded, you squeezed her hand. “Whatever happens, it’ll be okay. I promise.”

“Yeah.” Sarah nodded in agreement, but it was obvious she was trying to convince herself more than you. You attempted to give her a reassuring smile, but it probably didn’t help considering you were just as nervous for her. She closed the door quietly after that.

You paced the floor for a moment, wanting to give her the space and privacy she deserved while also fighting the bile in your throat. What the fuck happened now?

And where the fuck was JJ?

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heartfeltlonging · 2 years ago

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How You Deserve (KÖNIG)

I really don't know what to say for this one, I just zoned out and was liked.. yeah *starts drooling* That says a lot about me and my life I guess. Sorry I never got to any requests, I had to worst writers block. I probably wont do any requests for a bit (I'm saying this as if people will see this) Just a little blurb, I suppose ^-^

Warnings: NSFW. MDNI, AFAB?, (let me know if theres anything I missed)

"Liebe.. sweetheart!" The thick Austrian accent filling your ears as you crawled your way up the bed. The plush of the mattress sinking down with your added weight, on your hands and knees slowly moving up towards the top of the bed. "L-Let's think about this, think about where we are.. what if they hear us?" He said the last line in a hushed voice, backing away from your lustful state. With a loud thud! His back hit the headboard and his body was forced against yours.

"Ko~nig~" Your tone laced with desire, low and desperate as you pushed your chest into his. Despite the loud cheering from his coworkers in your shared living room, you took no precaution as you kissed up his neck. Small whimpers leaving him, quiet of course, as to not alert his friends. The kiss grew more heated, more wanting, while your hands rubbed his erection through his jeans. His grip found its way to your waist, soft but powerful.

"Schatz, theyre in the other room! If they see, well-" His eyes trailed down to your disheveled body, the desire very apparent in the way you looked. The sight made his cock twitch with anticipation, even though every logical part told him this was a bad idea. His lingering glance took a moment too long and you began to whimper. On the brink of begging as you moaned in his ear, teasing him, tempting him..

Grabbing your neck and pressing your back into the mattress, shock coated your features. Obviously you thought you were in control, obviously you thought this was your game... Leaning down to whisper in your ear. just like you did to him, he let out a soft groan. Rubbing his cock into your drenched panties beneath your dress.

"Fine, you want to act like a slut? I'll treat you just how you deserve.."

#cod mw2 #konig smut #cod smut #call of duty

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deliciousangelfestival · 2 months ago

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Let's Play Pretend - 7 | bodyguard!Bucky

Character: Bucky Barnes x singer! Female reader

Summary: You just wanted to hide here and find peace from the mess that wasn’t caused by you. But then, your hot neighbor bothered you. As if that wasn’t enough, the enemies you hated found you too.

PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4 , PART 5 , PART 6 , PART 7 , PART 8 , PART 9 , END.

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I published my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

You stared at the photo in front of you.

It looked… intimate. Too intimate.

The way you and Bucky were captured—faces close, eyes locked, his smirk lingering—it almost looked like you were about to kiss. Was this really what it looked like through the camera’s lens?

Because in reality…

Last night,

The moment had been peaceful—just two people enjoying a quiet night in the park. The earlier tension had faded, replaced by a rare sense of ease. City lights shimmered in the distance, and a soft breeze rustled through the trees.

Then, out of nowhere, Bucky spoke.

“There’s another way to relieve stress,” he said casually, stretching his arms behind his head. “Works for both the body and the mind. I’ve never tried it myself, but I’ve heard it’s 100% effective.”

You turned to him, intrigued. “What is it?”

Bucky smirked. “Sex.”

Your eyes widened.

Then— SLAP.

His head snapped slightly to the side, his cheek instantly stinging. He blinked, bringing a hand to his face. “Yup. I deserved that. That was way out of line.”

You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Why did you have to ruin the moment?”

He grinned, rubbing his cheek. “But… this is the first time you’ve said ‘no’ today.” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Even though it cost me my perfect cheeks.”

You let out a small pfft before shaking your head again. He was impossible.

Standing up, you dusted off your clothes. “Let’s go back.”

Bucky stretched before standing as well. “Yup.”

The two of you had walked side by side toward the car, the comfortable silence settling between you again. Neither of you noticed the faint click of a camera from the shadows.

So that’s what really happened.

But now, looking at the printed image in front of you, it told a completely different story. From an outsider’s point of view, it wasn’t just a lighthearted moment between two people—it looked like a couple teasing each other, laughing, touching. Even the slap appeared more like a playful caress. No wonder Selena had stormed in like she had caught you doing something illegal.

Still, her dramatic entrance was a bit much.

“You’re overreacting,” you said, crossing your arms.

Selena blinked, momentarily thrown off by your calmness.

“I was just worried,” she admitted, lowering her voice. “I don’t want you getting dragged into another scandal.”

You sighed, appreciating her concern but knowing there wasn’t much to worry about. “Thanks, Selena. But I think…” You glanced at Bucky, who had been leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, watching the exchange with an amused smirk. “I can manage.”

Selena hesitated, then let out a small breath. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. I’ll make sure this picture is wiped off the face of the Earth.”

Before you could respond, Bucky casually picked up the newspaper and studied the photo. “Why bury it? Your boss did hire me to be her boyfriend and protector, right?”

“NO!” Selena snapped, her eyes narrowing.

Selena’s voice rang through the apartment, sharp and full of conviction, making both you and Bucky flinch. She took a step closer to you, her gaze locked onto Bucky with pure disdain.

“She deserves someone so much better than you!” she snapped. “An A+ actor, a politician, a CEO—that is the kind of man on her level.”

Bucky simply raised his brows and made an exaggerated ‘O’ with his mouth, nodding like she had just given him the most profound revelation of his life. He didn’t bother rebuking her, which somehow made the whole exchange even more ridiculous.

You sighed. “Selena.”

“Yes?” she answered sweetly, her entire demeanor shifting as she looked at you, suddenly acting like a docile kitten.

“Be quiet.”

She clamped her lips shut immediately.

You crossed your arms. “Is there anything else you wanted to say? Besides barging into my apartment unannounced?”

Selena straightened, as if remembering why she was there in the first place. “Oh, right. I came to discuss your first live performance tomorrow.” She pulled out her tablet, her voice turning professional.

Bucky, who had been watching silently, noticed something different about you today. Your posture, the way you handled Selena—there was a newfound firmness in your tone, a quiet authority. He smirked to himself. Looks like you’re finally growing a backbone.

Selena continued, “So today, you’ll be heading to the studio for practice…”

As she spoke, you realized something strange—Bucky had been unusually quiet. For someone who always had a snarky comment, his silence was out of character. You glanced at him and found him lounging on the couch, headphones on, eyes closed as if he wasn’t even in the room.

When you finished discussing the details, he finally spoke without even looking at you. “I know you’ll break a leg tomorrow. Like always.”

You nodded in acknowledgment.

Selena, sensing that you weren’t going to say much else, checked the time and stood up. “I think I’ll head back to the company.”

“Alright,” you said simply, already leading her toward the door. You didn’t try to stop her, didn’t offer unnecessary pleasantries.

Just as you were about to close the door behind her, she suddenly stopped it with her hand.

“I’m sorry for overstepping today,” she said, her voice softer now. “It’s just… I only want the best for you.”

You studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you, Selena. I know you mean well.”

Her expression brightened slightly, as if she was relieved to hear that.

“But,” you added, your voice firm, “remember, there are boundaries.”

Selena’s smile faltered, her fingers tightening on the doorframe for a fraction of a second. Then she forced a small, polite smile. “I see. See you tomorrow.”

“Be careful on your way home,” you said before finally closing the door.

Without your knowledge, Selena walked to the elevator, but just before the doors shut, she cast one last lingering glance at your door, her eyes unreadable.

The moment she was gone, Bucky removed his headphones with a dramatic sigh. “Wow. The air suddenly feels so much fresher.”

You rolled your eyes. “She’s not that bad.”

“She’s just…”

“A controlling freak?” he finished for you.

“Hey,” you protested. “She’s my new manager. I’ll give her time.”

Bucky scoffed, leaning back. “Yeah, sounds like my former handler. Kept an eagle eye on me 24/7, but when I was getting tortured, he conveniently looked the other way.”

You blinked. “Hold up. You keep dropping these absurd stories like they’re casual conversation.”

Bucky shrugged. “Everyone has a different life. Something about her does feel… off. I can see it.”

“I know her story,” you admitted. “She was bullied when she was younger. Then she saw me as an inspiration, someone to look up to. That’s why she worked so hard to get to where she is.”

Bucky let out a dry laugh. “Don’t be fooled by a sad backstory.” His eyes darkened slightly, memories flashing through his mind. “I’ve dealt with ‘tragic pasts’ before. Nearly got me killed a few times.”

You frowned, taking in his serious expression. Unlike before, when he always had a teasing remark ready, this time he meant every word.

And that made you hesitate. So you choose to end the conversations.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

You arrived at the studio hours before the show started. Rehearsals went smoothly—nothing out of the ordinary. The lighting crew adjusted their setups, the band warmed up, and the producers made sure everything was in place. You ran through your performance multiple times, fine-tuning every detail.

Now, the real show was about to begin.

Before your performance, you were invited for a brief interview with the show's two female hosts. You sat comfortably on the plush couch, your hands resting on your lap as they smiled warmly at you.

“So,” one of them started with a playful glint in her eyes, “before we get to your much-anticipated performance, let’s talk about these.”

A large screen behind you lit up, showing several photos—paparazzi shots of you and Bucky. In some, he was walking closely beside you. In others, he had his hand on your back, guiding you through a crowd. The last photo showed the two of you sitting at a park, deep in conversation.

The audience reacted instantly with curious murmurs and excited gasps. The other host smirked, leaning forward.

“So… should we start calling him your new boyfriend?” she teased, wiggling her eyebrows.

You blinked, caught off guard for a second, but then chuckled. “Well, we’re close.” Because it’s true. The two of you live together, and he stays close to protect you.

The moment the words left your lips, the hosts exchanged knowing glances before breaking into a fit of giggles. The audience followed, their excitement growing.

The hosts exchanged looks and giggled. “Ooooh,” one of them teased.

“Very close,” the other added, winking at the camera.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Not like that.”

Bucky, who had been standing off to the side, watching from behind the cameras, let out a low chuckle at your response. But as his gaze drifted, he noticed Selena standing in front of him.

Something was off.

Her body was rigid, her shoulders squared too tightly, and her fists—clenched at her sides. She was trying to control it, but Bucky saw the slight tremor in her fingers. A flinch, a tension that had nothing to do with stage nerves.

His expression darkened slightly. She’s not just controlling, he realized. She’s obsessed.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he kept his focus on you, keeping a mental note of Selena’s reaction.

Back on stage, one of the hosts grinned, clearly enjoying the moment. “Alright, we won’t push you too much about that,” she said, winking at you. “But now, it’s time for what we’ve all been waiting for—your live performance!”

The audience clapped enthusiastically as you stood up, giving them a polite smile. You walked to the center of the stage, ready to sing—only to notice something was… off.

Your band was already in position, but—where was your guitarist?

Your stomach twisted slightly. He was here during rehearsals. Why was he missing now?

The murmurs behind the scenes grew louder as the production crew scrambled. You caught snippets of their frantic conversation.

“Where is he?”

“He was just here—what the hell happened?”

“Are we switching to playback?”

“We can, but it’ll look weird if the rest of the band is still standing there!”

You turned to Selena, expecting some kind of explanation, but she wasn’t even reacting. Unlike everyone else, who was in a state of panic, she stood off to the side, perfectly calm. Almost too calm.

Your brows furrowed. What the hell?

Then your eyes searched for Bucky. He had been watching earlier—where was he now?

Just as your pulse started to race, a sudden sound filled the air.

The familiar strum of a guitar.

You spun around, eyes widening.

Bucky was sitting on a stool, an electric guitar in his lap. His fingers moved effortlessly over the strings, playing the opening chords of your song. His expression was unreadable, but there was the slightest smirk tugging at his lips.

The entire room fell silent for a split second before the producer let out a relieved, “Go, go, go! Start now!”

You were still in shock. “Bucky…?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly and mouthed the word.

Sing.

You exhaled sharply, pushing aside the lingering shock, and gave a firm nod. Then, without missing a beat, you lifted your hand and signaled the band to start.

The drummer tapped his sticks together—one, two, three—and the music filled the studio.

It was flawless.

The band fell into rhythm effortlessly, as if you’d all rehearsed together a hundred times before. And Bucky? He played as though he had always been part of the band. His fingers moved seamlessly over the strings, his posture relaxed yet precise. Every chord, every transition—perfect.

You stepped toward the mic, the weight of the moment melting away as you sang.

The audience swayed, captivated. The hosts exchanged impressed glances. Even the production crew, who had been panicking moments ago, now stood in awe.

And through it all, Bucky played.

Like he belonged.

As the final note echoed through the studio, the audience erupted into applause. You lowered the mic, catching your breath, feeling the adrenaline pulse through your veins.

The two female hosts practically bounced toward you, their faces lit up with excitement.

“That was amazing!” one of them gushed, gripping your arm. “You absolutely killed it out there!”

The other nodded eagerly before her gaze flicked toward Bucky. She squinted, then suddenly gasped.

“Wait a second… isn’t he the guy from the photos?”

The first host’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, he is!”

You parted your lips to respond but hesitated.

Before you could say a word, Bucky simply smirked and winked at them.

The two women let out a dramatic squeal, laughing as they exchanged knowing glances. The audience chuckled, clearly entertained by the exchange.

You sighed, shaking your head, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

After the show, you made your way back to the dressing room, still buzzing from the performance. Bucky followed, his usual calm demeanor in place.

As you reached for your water bottle, you turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you could play the guitar,” you said, genuinely surprised.

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “You never asked.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Wait a minute… you were listening to my song earlier, weren’t you? When you had your headphones on?”

“To learn more about the client,” he replied smoothly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “Well, thank you. You were a great help.”

There was a brief moment of silence between you—one that felt different from before. A shift.

A newfound trust.

Bucky tilted his head slightly. “I did you a favor.”

You frowned. “Oh? So that’s how it is?”

“Ssh…” He pressed a finger to his lips, his tone playful but serious. “It’s for your own good.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. What is it?”

He met your gaze, his expression turning unreadable. Then, after a pause, he said it.

“Fire your manager.”

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