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lylian333 · 4 months ago

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~Yandere emperor x reader~

warning: read at your own risk, traumatizing, dark historical shits, noncon, force, many misunderstandings,sexual harrest , angst ,age gap, everything here is quite insane, historical au, he's fucking crazy, killing, insults, English is not my first langue(if there's any warning I didn't put, tell me)

words:2180

(this is not my art I found it on Pinterest, and in the comment section it's said that it was made by AI so💀)

Princess (y/n) Laurier has been best friends with Princess Alyssa Everett since you both were just 6 years old. You both have many things in common, such as interests, opinions, and much more.

You both would usually hang out around each other's kingdom; you don't have any issues with her except with her father, Emperor Edward Everett. He was the hottest, most handsome man you have ever met, and you still do now.

You have had a huge crush on him that felt like butterflies inside your stomach since the day you met him, but he always has that emotionless face and rarely smiles unless at his wife, your best friend's mother. You know this from Princess Alyssa; she would complain about how cold and serious he is.

You still ignore those and try getting to know him, but he just looks annoyed or just straight-up ignores you, but you ignore it and still continue liking him. Not only that, you're not the only one; it's obvious that everyone that has met him, females and even males, all drool for him.

You still have some sense in you, and you also have to respect the Everett queen and Princess Alyssa since she is your best friend. You can't just let some love ruin the relationship you both had. You can't. She is like a sister to you. She helps you when you're confused; she protects and defends you when you were getting laughed at; she is there when you needed someone the most. It's not worth losing a relationship like this, and so your liking toward his father slowly dies down.

But things change when you grow up and start having features and curves and in the end, you become a gorgeous woman, many people are jealous of you even Princess Alyssa confesses to you about it and some desperately want you. You reject all of them since none of them are worthy of you, and you're disinterested in them.

Your intense gaze and soft complexion, with your structured face and striking presence, are on par with an iconic beauty, paired with the warmth and softness in your expression, which are very delicate. You would struggle to not look at yourself when there is a mirror.

You still have some feelings toward Emperor Edward, but you manage to hide it and be able to not think about him when talking to him.

The worst thing that could have happened was that the Queen of Everett died from childbirth while trying to give birth to the heir to the throne, but it went to a disaster. It was devastating news to hear from everyone.

The emperor was absolutely devastated and even despised the child. From that moment on he would never talk to anyone unless it was part of a duty, but other than that he would ignore the servant's advisers and even his own kids, which left Princess Alyssa depressed since she had to bear her mother's death, her father's coldness, and the baby boy that her mother lost her life to.

That week she came crying to you when you came to visit her and attended the funeral of the Everett Queen death. You decide to stay at Everett Palace for a few months before going back to Laurier Kingdom.

You promised Princess Alyssa that you'd take care of her and her baby brother, and so you did. After all, back at your kingdom and your family, you have 6 siblings, plus you, and you are the third eldest, which makes you the middle You have experience with babies after the experience of you sibling that you swear are more naughtyer when you take care of them.

In those months of staying, Emperor noticed that you had to take care of the baby boy and Princess Alyass when he found you singing a lullaby for them to fall asleep.

At that moment something in him awoke, something dark, horrible, and disgusting. He knew this was wrong, but who was there to stop him? Not even himself could do that.

From that moment on, he would try getting close to you and getting to know you better; by that, he would call you into his office or into his chamber. When talking, he would get close to you, too close, to the point that he's invading your personal space by burying his face in your hair, breathing in that sweet, gentle scent, or sucking and biting your earlobe.

You knew this was wrong. You both knew this was wrong, but you guys still continued. Your brain keeps telling you to stop and that this is your best friend's father, but your gut tells you to continue. For your best friend Princess Alyssa's sake.

At one of those meetings, you confess to him that you don't want to continue these "meetings" to respect your best friend Alyssa and her baby brother Prince James.

But when he hears that you swear you could feel the air getting tense and his face looks tense as well, and with clenched fists, he looks like he could kill someone that might have been you or others.

He then pushes you onto his office desk and forcefully rips your clothes off. All you can remember that day was just horror, pure fucking horror. It haunts your dreams, memories, and everything that you see that can somehow be related to the day you and he were together.

The cherry on top is Emperor Endward sends an arranged marriage to your kingdom between you both; you pray that your parents would reject this offer, but no. Instead, they accept it and send you a letter telling you the reasons that this could help our kingdom very much and this could give you a better future and more, but all you care about is that you're trapped with him. They also added in that they would be unable to see because of the distance of the two kingdoms and that it is time to set you free.

Oh, how you wish it were true to let you spread your wings and have your own freedom.

You hated everything, mostly yourself. You hated yourself for not being more alert and not telling anyone, not even your own family or close ones; you—you can't even describe the feeling that you're feeling at that point. You quite literally were disgusted by yourself.

You cry all day long to the point where Princess Alyssa hears it and finds you, and you vomit out all the things that happened while still crying. You wish the earth could just eat you whole, make you disappear from the earth, from this world, from this life.

You keep pressuring yourself that this is your fault for days till your hair has a few strands of white hair that you have noticed.

The wedding was within the week, and you both got married and wed. That very day and night of the "honeymoon," he slams you against the bed carelessly and forcibly spears open your legs with his hand while another pins both your head on top of your head.

You whisper near your ear,True to be told, I have actually noticed that since you were just a little girl, you always had a crush on me, so technically you wanted this to happen, so don't cry like last time, dear."

Your eyes go wide when you hear that he actually noticed. He knows that you have no words—absolutely no words.

That night was as horrible and traumatizing as the night you both had together. Princess Alyssa personally tries to help you escape; even after the marriage, she still supports you, even knowing the fact you are technically her stepmother.

But she accepted you, and you were quite stunned at how she handled the situation. Even though it was like hell, she still helped, whether by holding you while you were crying or whatever she was still there. It felt like she was starting to take care of you instead of you taking care of her like how you first promised.

In one of the many attempts of you trying to escape and her helping you with it, you both were caught, and Emperor Edward decided to punish you by isolating you and sentencing Princess Alyssa to be beheaded, his own daughter.

And you were forbidden to give her any visits after the situation. You didn't get the chance to even give her the last hug or talk or anything, not even a goodbye. You even threatened to kill yourself if he didn't allow you to see her, but he just laughs at you and tells the guards to throw you inside a dungeon where there's nothing, not even a window, so you have to rely on the fire outside.

Just like that, she's gone forever. You cry for days and refuse to eat, sleep, or even drink. The king himself has to personally force-feed you so that you don't die. You even scream and beat him as hard as you can in rage whenever you see him, but he just stands there, not unbothered. You might as well think that he doesn't even care or feel anything anymore, no remorse, no nothing, just disgusting lovesick eyes looking at you.

"I just can't get enough of you, love~"

Your life goes on until you have had enough, like enough one more year of this. You seriously don't think you want to be reincarnated into another life. You desperately want to feel things instead of being trapped in the shared chamber all day long, only allowed to go out to the garden for 1 hour to get fresh air with a few ladies in waiting and your own trusted servants near you to keep being aware of you and make sure you're not doing anything harmful to yourself or escaping.

You came up with the stupidest and most shameful idea. You decide to frame yourself for cheating on Emperor Edward and confess to him that you cheated. Making up fake clues for others to notice and gossip about, but the emperor refuses to believe it, so you told him personally.

"I cheated on you, Edward."

"You must be joking, dear. How would you even be able to do that, hm?"

but you just keep repeating the sentence, "I cheated on you."

This makes him overthink and triggers him, and he ends up struggling with you to death in the process. You still keep repeating the sentence, which forces him to grip your neck even harder till you are no longer breathing—not even a single movement, just soulless eyes staring straight.

When he realized that it was too late and there was no turning back, he let go of your neck, and you collapsed onto the ground, dead. He kneeled down next to you; finally, at this moment, he felt guilty for everything. He reflected on the things he had done to you, the amount of damage. Why didn't he think about this earlier? Maybe that could help him.

No, it's your fault for cheating on him. How dare you filthy women cheat on an emperor that has done everything for her sake? To this day he still blames you, but part of him does regret not caring what you felt and thought. He only treated you like a toy, a glass doll that would easily be broken. But he just couldn't help but love you with all his might, even if it meant hurting you.

He tried to keep your body from decomposing and rotting and would soak you in water to slow down the decomposing. He even went mad and brought you to the throne room for events, dressed you properly, stuffed you with cotton to keep you looking more alive, and said to others, "My wife is doing well; look at her, she's such a sleepy head; look at her sleeping, hehe…"

Sadly, eventually, he had no other choice but to finally bury you because your body was decomposing and smelling really bad. At the funeral, he gives a speech on how she was in his life and how he can't believe she died before him from 'sickness' and oh how sad he was and how he saw her glowing up into an elegant woman and more.

Prince James also gave a speech about how you try helping out, that he always sees her as a mother figure, and how (y/n) has always tried her best. He was innocent in all of these; as well, he even balled his eyes out when he found out that you died.

At the very last moment of seeing your face, he cupped your cheek one last time.

"Oh, how much I will miss you oh how I wish that I could go with you as well, but it's fine you don't need to worry love In my will, when I die, I'm going to be buried right next to you." He says that while chuckling while feeling remorse.

omg, there are so many things I want to comment on but erm yeah this is how it is??? it could have been worse

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lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom · 4 months ago

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hii I was wondering if u could write something where daeho and reader are already in a relationship and they find eachother after the first round and maybe they are upset with eachother for going into the games.

anc if it could have a bit of fluff that would be nice!!

tyy🫶🫶🫶

At Least We Have Eachother

KANG DAE-HO X READER

Summary- Dae-ho and you both join the squid games for the benefit of the other. Neither of you know about it, until you find each other after the first game.

Warnings- Squid Games, mentions of blood, murder, and death

A/N- Thank you guys for the overwhelming support with my Daeho fic. I am so motivated right now, it's not even funny. He is such a sweet baby, MY SHAYLAAAA

Word Count- 1,192

Your debt was not something you were proud of. To be honest, it crept up on you. It started with medical bills, then Daeho ran into some Ex-Marines, who dragged him into a bad gamble.

From there it kind of went down hill. Struggling to pay bills, borrowing more money, making the wrong people mad. In other words, the two of you were in an extremely bad position.

When a strange man with a suitcase approached you on your way home, you were hesitant. In any other situation you might have ignored him and walked away. But, you had just had another invoice from a debt collecting company. Not to mention the loan shark that came up and threatened Daeho two days prior. The eviction notice was also putting a hole on your kitchen table.

The idea of following the funny-looking card, winning a bunch of money, clearing your (and Daeho) debts. It was too good to be true, you knew that deep down. At the end of the day, you were at rock bottom. Desperate people do desperate things.

So, while slipping Daeho a simple lie about spending the night with a friend... You took off to the discrete location alone. Where you were picked up by a van. You don't remember much after that.

The regret sunk in deep when you realized what you had gotten yourself into. When you awoke seeing hundreds of people around you, all in the same position, you were noticeably scared. You barely left the bed you woke in. Only to stand with the crowd to listen to the guards and sign the needed contract. It seemed too late to back out now...

The first game was lonely, intimidating, and revealing. The only reason you weren't lying head face in the sand dead, was your fear. It struck you stone-cold still on 'red light'. The ring of your ears pressured you to move forward on 'Green light.' Due to the deadly shots to other players. It pushed you to move so you didn't suffer the same fate.

You were much too nervous to talk to anyone, you saw little point in making friends at first. That was until the realization of any team games.

After the first game was officially over and you had returned to the common room, you'd taken a moment to think. To think how it would be if you were able to walk home now. How it probably wouldn't even matter if you had died, so many people were out for your head anyways. It was all looking dark, but Daeho was your light. He was always so positive, he kept you happy. You owed it to him to keep fighting.

To keep fighting for that adorable, handsome, sweet face. That same face that was currently staring you down....

"Daeho?" You questioned, just in case your mind was playing a trick on you.

"What are you doing here!" He ran over, pulling you further behind the layered beds. His grip was tight on your arm, once the two of you stopped, he seemed to notice. At that he quickly loosened his squeeze.

"W-why are you here! I-I thought you were sleeping over at-" You cut him off, your guilty conscience taking over.

"Daeho, what are you doing here?" You rebutted, frantically pushing your hair back. He knew you were nervous.

"To settle some of our debt, but that doesn't even matter anymore. People are dying, you can't be here!" He stressed over you. He did a few takes over your form, making sure you were not hurt in any way. You thought he was finished until he slowly brought his hand up. He stuck his thumb out and seared a few drops of blood off of your cheek. You hadn't noticed them before...

An argument against him was impossible to think of, but you managed. "Well I can say the same about you! You could get killed also. Where would that leave me!" He threw his head back, pressing both hands over his face. He dragged them down, an annoyed expression on his face.

"Ohhh, this can not be happening.. I-it doesn't matter, because you're here, where you were not supposed to be!" He started to fidget with his fingers, a sign he was distressed.

"Dae...I'm also here because... I got fired yesterday..." You looked down, picking at your nails. His head snapped to look at yours. "What?"

"They were... overstaffed and, apparently a younger employee could do the same amount of work for minimum wage... So, they just got rid of me..." He looked sympathetic, but still mad.

"You should have told me. We would have figured it out. You didn't have to lie."

You thought for a second, "Its not like I wanted to lie! I was trying to help us!"

"How reckless!" He said. It was almost comical!

A laugh pushed its way out, "Oh my gosh, don't act like you aren't here too!" You started to raise your voice, frustrated.

He took a single step back, hands on his hips. "You're supposed to be the smart one! I'm fun, loving, a burst of fricken light!" He said, his words contradicting his tone, not joyfully at all.

"Whatever! What matters now is that we were stuck in a death trap! The money is not even our first problem. We might not even be alive before the day is over! Or worse, you'll be dead and I'll be left to suffer!"

He gave another sigh, stepping forward and embracing you. It was exactly what both of you needed. His arms wrapped impossibly tight around you. You could only reciprocate the squeeze. His head fell on top of yours, he nestled in.

"I don't want to argue, I just want you safe... We will be fine." He said, keeping you in his grasp.

"I know, but I just wanted to help... The man seemed so promising, that we could have a normal life again." You wanted to let your tears flow, but you couldn't risk looking weak. You had to remind yourself that there were still a couple hundred other players in the large room.

He shook his head on top of yours, "I would live in a tent as long as I was with you.... I can manage anywhere, as long as you are by my side..."

You pulled back to look at him. Your arms still wrapping around each other. "I just, I know you're not happy... I wanted to clear everything up, one day own our own house. One that we can never get evicted from." He pushed a stray hair behind your ear.

"Oh Dae, I don't care about that. I just want you." You shoved your head into his chest.

"I love you.."

"I love you too."

"What the hell are we going to do here." You questioned, peaking up from his chest slightly.

"Were going to stick together. We're going to get out of this alive." He pulled back and down to press a firm and reassuring kiss on your lips. Maybe things would be so bad after all.

Oh, how naive you both were...

A/N- Honestly, I like my first Daeho fic better. But that's probably because I am a SUCKER for emotional hurt/comfort. Anyways, I hope y'all enjoyed this one. Pls lmk how I can improve!!!

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redeemingvillains · 6 months ago

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afternoon nap - mattheo riddle

Theo was fucking annoyed.

Ever since Mattheo had started dating you it was like everything and everyone else was forgotten; on weekdays he went to the library with you to study… (to study!), at every meal the two of you spent the entire time all over each other, and now on Saturday, the day made for lads to watch quidditch together at the Three Broomsticks, he stayed back at the castle with you to hang out. Mattheo was basically unrecognizable and Theo spent the entire afternoon drinking and stewing over the fact, gathering enough liquid courage to confront him as he marched back to the common room.

He brushed past several third years who quickly got out of his way when they saw the look on his face and he shoved the door open, eyes sweeping the space before they fell on the two of you and he stopped in his tracks.

You were sitting in one of the more secluded areas of the spacious room, in the corner of the softest couch closest to the fireplace and his best friend was asleep, his head on your lap. From here he could see your fingers running absentmindedly through Mattheo’s curls as your eyes skimmed the book in your other hand and he could see the rise and fall of Mattheo’s chest - he was out.

And fuck if that didn’t make Theo just a little bit angrier, because every argument he’d had died on his lips.

Not many people knew this, but Matteo couldn’t sleep for shit, he hardly got more than a few hours a week. There weren’t a lot of peaceful evenings in his childhood and it left him riddled with nightmares and then insomnia. But here he was in the corner of the common room, people walking by, laughing and talking, out fucking cold in your lap. He looked peaceful, a word no one had ever in the history of the wizarding world used to describe a Riddle.

And of course it was because of you. Theo had tried genuinely, passionately to dislike you but you were so good. And fucking cool, and you loved the shit out of his best friend and despite how much shit he and all of his friends gave the two of you, if he was honest with himself, he was jealous of what you had.

Theo’s blustery entrance caught your attention, and you glanced up at him, eyes wide, perhaps ready for an argument, having sensed his anger when he’d left and Mattheo had chosen to stay behind. But you hoped he would save any argument until later, praying that Mattheo could sleep a little bit longer; surely Theo had to know how badly he needed it.

But instead of yelling, Theo slowly approached you, coming around the back of the couch and wrapping his arms around you in a brief but sincere hug, letting his head rest atop yours. And for a moment you were completely content cocooned between the smile you could see on Mattheo’s lips and the smile you could sense from the boy behind you.

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf, @sleepiibunniiii, @darlingshecried

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle fluff #slytherin boys

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rainb0ws-h4t · 3 months ago

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Another imagine before I dissapear again

Tw: slight yandere, stalking

Imagine you are a background character in the main plot of Twisted Wonderland. You hold no use in the story's progress, neither do you interact much with the main cast. You aren't aware of this at all, and continue to live your life as a regular student in Night Raven College.

Until a fascinating phenomenon happens that summons a magicless human from another world. Everyone gravitates towards them as they spend more and more time in Twisted Wonderland.

But who wouldn't be enamoured by their presence?

The magicless prefect of Ramshackle who is a denominator at every overblot? The magicless prefect of Ramshackle who melts down the walls of every stone cold housewarden (no Kalim‼️) of Night Raven? The magicless prefect of Ramshackle who fascinates and impresses you with each heroic act they do?

They're lively, strong, and dazzling.

Their name was a common topic in the bustling halls. Heck— some students even became fanboys of the infamous prefect, gushing about them during breaks like a teenage schoolgirl.

You honestly thought you'd just be another nameless student in the crowd of people vying for their attention. After all, you had no involvement in whatever plot was happening currently.

And you were fine with that.

With the shit they've gone through, you'd rather not get involved with any of the things they do daily. Plus, the people they interacted with either scared you to death or just annoying and loud students that you'd rather rip your ears off than listen to them yap.

Until, you've did something that redirected the entire plot entirely.

You strolled through the halls of NRC at an ungodly hour. You couldn't sleep, and frankly— just didn't want to be in the presence of other dorm mates sleeping.

You'd didn't expect anyone to be awake at this time. After all, a test was being held early in the morning. You were confident you could wake up in time for that though.

As you walked calmly through the silent halls, yu noticed a figure standing next to a window. You hoped it wasn't a teacher or anything. Getting caught sneaking out wouldnt look good on your record.

You opted to just sneak behind them quietly. Not like you were being loud anyway.

While you did so, you just happened to notice how familiar the figure appeared. So eerily familiar to that infamous prefect you've grown to admire so fondly...

*Thud*

FUCK.

You weren't paying attention to whre you were walking and tripped on practically nothing. The figure turned around, alarmed and frightened. The original alarmed expression now transitioned into confusion at the display of your pathetic state.

"W-who are you?"

Every living thing dies once in a lifetime,

You died two times in your lifetime.

Awkwardly, you attempted to stand up without looking even more like a moron. "Just another student... Strolling around.."

"And what are you doing here.?" They asked.

"Well,.. I didn't really feel like sleeping right now." The prefect nodded in response, they didn't seem intent on responding with anything else.

"What are you doing here?" You asked suddenly.

The prefect looked up at you at that, making eye contact. "I... Everything..." They kept opening their mouth and closing it. They looked so vulnerable and timid that you doubted that this was the prefect that assisted in every overblot.

"It's just so..." Tears streaked down their eyes.

Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around them and engulfed them in a big hug. Hoping that the warmth that you can provide would be enough to clear the tears.

"I just w-wanna go home... I dont w-wanna be here anymore." They sobbed, pulling you closer.

That night, you comforted the sobbing prefect and woke up with five minutes left to get ready for the test.

You're not sure if that's what stared it, but the prefect has been gravitating towards you a lot. They sat in the same lunch table as you, they strayed away from her friends more often (with only grim as a companion), walked to classes with you, and even invited you to their ever growing friend group.

Past you would've relished in the attention being showered on you personally by the prefect, but...

Everywhere you went with Yuu (they told you to call them that) was followed by a lingering feeling of multiple pairs of eyes that bore into your skin. You hated it. And that feeling only began to increase whenever you were alone.

There was one time that you escorted Yuu home, and they hugged you as a thanks. A loud thunder rang through the entire campus the second it occured. You slipped out of their grasp and scurried away immediately.

You forgot to mention but..

Yuu radiated a dazzling and alluring aura that everyone was attracted to. Whatever they felt towards Yuu was not your business, but those people they interact with always made it clear they wanted Yuu. It disturbed you in a way. They seemed so dazzled and the way they wanted to be in their presence 24/7 was borderline creepy and obsessive.

One thing you learned about Yuu was that they noticed it too. They were exhausted from keeping up the facade that they had on. And basically— exhausted from the guys that lurked wherever they went. They confessed that they felt disturbed by how erratic their behaviour was around them, but they were too frightened to say anything that might cause them to react suddenly.

You couldn't bring yourself to confess how you felt the same about them.

Those creepy ass leech twins with their menacing grins.

That rule-obssesed maniac that stopped you in a hallway and demanded you stay away from Yuu. (Rule 636? 352? Who even cares anymore?)

Some advanced machinery that circled the garden you were trying to rest in.

You swore you were nothing more than a side character in the story of theirs. You swore that if did get involved with Yuu, it wouldn't even have a lasting impact.

Now as Yuu gushed about how the boys seemed to have lessened their weird behaviour and began to act normal. You couldn't help but feel the curse that was placed over Yuu, was now transferred over to you.

You know you couldn't be alone from this point onward.

Heartslabyul Savanaclaw Octaniville Scarabia Pomefiore Ignihyde Diasmonia

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vunblr · 2 months ago

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Foundations (#1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut in the future. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms. (Bucky)

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 8.1.k.

note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok. Let’s just pretend for a bit.

Next Chapter

Two years ago.

Steve crouched in the snow-dusted ruins of the Hydra facility, surrounded by the faint hum of outdated machinery and the occasional creak of the aging structure. The air in the base carried a mix of metallic tang and decay as if the building itself was holding its last breaths. He ran his gloved hand along a table coated with frost and dust before stopping in front of a row of cryogenic chambers.

Each pod told a story of Hydra’s grotesque obsession with human experimentation. Steve’s sharp gaze scanned them uneasily and when he reached the last chamber, he froze.

Encased in cryogenic suspension, there was a small boy, no older than three, with his delicate features eerily serene within the frosted glass. The sight made his stomach twist.

Natasha’s voice crackled through the comms. “Steve, what did you find?”

He pressed a hand against the glass. “It’s a boy. About… two or three years old. Cryostasis. We need to get him out of here.”

His eyes darted to a nearby desk, where he eyed a weathered folder with its corners curled with age. Flipping it open, he scanned the documents, and his stomach churned with every line. “This- he is not a kidnapped normal human boy… they’ve been using fertilization methods here. Thirty samples and only this child lived after birth. The mother died in labor. Nat-” Steve’s voice got strained. “He’s… he’s Bucky’s son.”

The line remained silent for a moment before Natasha answered cautiously. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. There’s… documentation here, DNA confirmations. God, he doesn’t even have a name. Just a designation: A-25.”

A beat of silence passed again, heavy with the implication before Natasha’s voice softened. “What do you want to do?”

Steve exhaled slowly, his breath clouding the icy air. “We can’t just leave him here.”

-----

Back on the Quinjet, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The cryo-pod rested in the cargo bay, its faint orange light casting an otherworldly glow over the steel walls. Steve sat on a bench, with his elbows rested on his knees and his hands pressed on his face, wrestling with the enormity of the decision he’d just made. Across from him, two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stood stiffly, with palpable apprehension.

“Captain Rogers,” one of them began, breaking the tense silence. “Moving him to the tower isn’t viable. We don’t know what kind of conditioning Hydra implemented, or if the kid is enhanced. He could be dangerous.”

Steve’s head snapped up, pinning the agent in place with his gaze. “He’s a child. And from what I read; he didn’t inherit the serum properties. Whatever Hydra did to him, it’s on us to undo it. Leaving him here or handing him over to a government lab isn’t an option.”

The agent shifted uneasily. “And if he’s unstable? Wha-”

Steve set his jaw, leaning back against the cold metal wall with determination. “Then I’ll handle it,” he cut firmly. “But we are not abandoning him.”

----

Two nights later in the common room, Steve, Natasha, and Tony gathered to discuss the next steps. The atmosphere was heavy. Tony leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a skeptical expression.

“Look, I’m not saying we keep this from Barnes,” he pointed out with a little hesitation. “But you’ve seen him, Steve. He’s barely keeping himself together most days. Throwing a kid into the mix?”

Steve’s jaw clenched, and he hardened his gaze. “That’s not your call to make. He deserves to know.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Even if it sends him over the edge?”

“He’s stronger than you think,” Steve countered firmly. “And he’s not alone, even if sometimes he thinks he is. If he decides to step up, we’ll help him. All of us. That boy is his only family, Tony. Bucky deserves the chance to decide what kind of relationship he wants with him.”

----

Present.

Two weeks into the new school year, she stood at the kindergarten’s gate, greeting the kids with a warm smile. The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves, and shades of orange and gold framed the cheerful faces of the kids as they laughed and ran to their friends. Each day, they’d formed a routine, walking together through the small park leading to the school hall.

Nearly everyone had arrived when, just as she was about to close the gate, she noticed a figure approaching. Her gaze landed on a tall man with strikingly beautiful yet tired blue eyes. His hesitant steps betrayed a certain nervousness. Beside him walked a boy, the spitting image of him, with the same dark hair and soulful eyes. They were unfamiliar to her, but she knew immediately who they must be.

Thomas Barnes and, presumably, his father.

The director had informed her about the new student, explaining that, for personal reasons, the boy would start a bit later than the others. Now here they were, standing on the threshold of a new chapter.

She stepped forward with a warm smile. “You must be Thomas,” she said gently, crouching slightly to meet the boy’s gaze. Then she looked up at the man, her voice equally kind. “And you must be his dad. Welcome.”

The child hugged his father’s leg when he realized he had to go in alone. Bucky bit his lip, placing a hand on the boy’s head. “Kiddo, we talked about this. I’ll pick you up at three, and then we’ll go to Uncle Steve’s,” he said softly.

Then he gave her an apologetic look. “Also, what do we always say? Manners. You didn’t even greet Miss...”

Oh. She got so distracted by the pair that her clouded mind didn’t even consider the basic introductions. “Sorry! I’m Miss Y/n. It’s a pleasure to meet you two.”

The boy separated one hand from his father’s leg and, straightening his posture but with a quivering lip, offered his hand like a little gentleman. “I’m Thomas. I’m five years old, and… and I will be in your care.”

She shook his hand, surprised and delighted. “Well, aren’t you a little gentleman,” she said warmly.

The bell rang, and she straightened up. “Well, that is our cue. Would you like to come inside? There are lots of boys and girls who would love to meet and play with you,” she reassured. Then she looked at Bucky. “And, as your papa -Mr. Barnes- said, he’ll be here when we finish.”

“James,” Bucky said promptly, stretching out his hand firm but gently to shake hers. She felt a traitorous warmth rise in her cheeks when their gaze met at closer range. His tired blue eyes held more than exhaustion; something softer and more vulnerable lingered there, though it was quickly masked. Apprehension, perhaps? He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and yet, somehow, he was effortlessly handsome.

“Nice to meet you, James,” she managed, keeping her tone calm and reassuring. “Don’t worry, your little one will be fine, you’ll see.”

Bucky nodded once, briskly but slightly hesitant. “Yeah, I-I know. Alright, Kiddo,” he said, crouching slightly to Thomas’s level, in a low and encouraging voice. “You listen to your teacher and... have fun, alright? Just like we talked about.”

Thomas clung to his father’s jeans for a moment longer, small fingers clutching the fabric as if it were a lifeline. His lip quivered, and he glanced back at her with uncertain eyes. For a brief second, she wondered if he might refuse to let go, but then, slowly, he released his grip. The boy stepped toward her, tentative but brave, and positioned himself by her side.

She crouched again, offering him an encouraging smile. “You’re going to have a wonderful day, Thomas. I’ll be right here with you.”

The reassurance seemed to help. Thomas nodded shyly, though he didn’t speak. When she stood again, she noticed Bucky watching his son with an expression that tugged at her heart, equal parts pride and pain.

With a single nod of acknowledgment toward her, he straightened and turned on his heel, walking away without looking back. She couldn’t help but watch him for a moment longer than she should have, her gaze lingering on his broad shoulders as he disappeared down the path. She exhaled softly, turning her attention back to Thomas.

“Shall we?” she asked gently, holding out her hand.

Thomas hesitated, but then his small hand slid into hers. Together, they walked toward the classroom, the sound of children’s laughter welcoming them into a new day.

----

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as he strolled along the sidewalk, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. Two years. It had been two years since Thomas came into his life, and now, for the first time, he was entrusting his care to someone else’s hands, strangers, no less. It might have seemed like an ordinary milestone for any other parent, but ordinary wasn’t a word that had ever described his life.

Normalcy was a foreign concept in their household. From the moment Steve had walked into the tower with that cryo-pod and the revelation of Thomas’s existence, everything had shifted. Even in the haze of his own self-doubt and fucked up brain, Bucky had known there was only one choice to make. Despite the murmurs of alternatives offered to him -guardianship through S.H.I.E.L.D. programs, adoption options- he hadn’t hesitated.

Responsibility. He owed the child that much, even if the idea of raising him terrified him to his core. How could he possibly be a parent when he was barely figuring out how to be himself? A walking mess trying to navigate a world he no longer fit into, burdened by guilt, memories, and nightmares. But Thomas wasn’t just a child, he was his child, a fragile thread tethering Bucky to something tangible and real.

The first months had been the hardest. Thomas, scared and silent, flinched at shadows and refused to speak more than a handful of words. A traumatized child by his earliest experiences, molded by Hydra’s cruel hands, and burdened with a fragility that made Bucky’s heart ache almost everyday. He could barely bring himself to imagine what might have happened if Steve hadn’t found him in that lab.

It wasn’t a journey he could have managed alone. Living at the Avengers Tower, he had been reluctant at first to accept help from the team. Steve, of course, had been steadfast and supportive, as expected. But what surprised Bucky the most was how the others had stepped in. Natasha’s guidance when words failed him, Wanda’s ability to soothe the boy, and even Tony’s seemingly endless stream of resources, like the top-tier child therapists he’d hired without hesitation.

Thomas was lucky, in a way, that Hydra’s experiments hadn’t left him with the serum’s super-soldier effects. The organization had tried, forcing serum-adjacent treatments to awaken something dormant, but to no avail. It was a relief Bucky carried deeply, though it did little to soften his guilt for not being there to stop it sooner.

Over time, they found a constant rhythm in their lives. Bucky wasn’t perfect -far from it- but he learned how to be there for Thomas. He showed him that food wasn’t a reward to fear, that adults could offer love instead of pain, that bedtime stories were for comfort and not to kept teaching lessons until he closed his exhausted eyes. Slowly but surely, the child started to blossom, inching out of his shell, exploring the world with a tentative kind of hope.

Still, Bucky knew they couldn’t stay in the protective bubble of the tower forever. Thomas needed more: kids his age, a chance to experience life outside their small, cloistered world. It had taken time, but Bucky finally worked up the nerve to rent an apartment for the two of them and begin the daunting process of finding a kindergarten.

The search was harder than expected. On paper, the process was simple: call, inquire, and enroll. In practice, things unraveled quickly. Many schools initially expressed enthusiasm, but the moment they learned Thomas was the son of that James Barnes, things changed. “Administrative errors” cropped up, classes mysteriously filled to capacity, or calls simply went unanswered.

When Tony offered to pull strings, Bucky refused. He wasn’t about to force his son into a place where the only motivation was Stark’s money. He didn’t want Thomas in an environment where whispers followed him down the hall, or where teachers tiptoed around him out of fear or prejudice.

So, he kept searching. Two weeks into the semester, he finally found a place. It was modest, tucked into a quiet neighborhood, with no interest in his past beyond the necessary paperwork. No judgment. No lingering stares. Just a promise to give Thomas a chance, and that was all Bucky needed.

As he walked away from the schoolyard, leaving Thomas in the care of his teacher and her warm smile, he tried to shake the tension in his chest. Rationally, he knew it was the right step. Thomas deserved to experience childhood, and this was the first of many milestones.

Still, the ache of leaving was sharper than he’d expected.

----

Thomas’s first day could have been better, but it wasn’t terrible either. As expected, the transition wasn’t easy. He seemed overwhelmed by the number of children around him. Though the school was small, nine energetic five-year-olds in one room was a stark contrast to the quiet, adult-dominated environment he’d grown up in.

The morning began with a formal introduction, as she guided Thomas gently to the front of the room. “Everyone, this is Thomas. Let’s all say hello!” she announced with her ever-patient smile.

A chorus of cheerful voices greeted him in unison, and Thomas blinked, wide-eyed, shifting closer to her side. Throughout the day, he stuck to her like a shadow, quietly observing the other children. His curious gaze darted from one group to another, watching how they played together, laughed, and squabbled.

The first hiccup came when two boys got into a brief tug-of-war over a toy truck. Thomas visibly tensed, his small shoulders stiffening as he clutched the hem of her skirt. She quickly diffused the situation and offered Thomas a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Thomas, sometimes there are quarrels, but nothing to worry about,” she said softly, her voice soothing as she rested a hand on his shoulder. He nodded but didn’t move from his spot.

Flora, one of the more outgoing girls in the class, made several attempts to coax Thomas into playing with her. Each time, she would approach with a bright smile and an outstretched hand, only to be gently refused as he shook his head and clung to his teacher. “Thomas is feeling a little shy today,” she explained kindly to Flora. “But I bet he’ll join you soon.” Flora nodded enthusiastically, skipping back to her friends, undeterred.

When the day finally wound to a close, the children were picked up one by one, their parents ushering them out with cheerful waves and chatter. Soon, the classroom emptied, leaving only her and Thomas. She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes past pick-up time. Not late enough to be alarming, but enough to notice the change in Thomas.

The boy sat stiffly on a bench near the gate, his small chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. She crouched down in front of him, “Hey, Thomas, it’s okay. Your dad will be here soon, I promise. While we wait, want to learn a game?”

The child blinked at her, with glassy eyes by unshed tears and then nodded hesitantly.

She held out her hands and showed him a simple clapping game. The rhythm seemed to distract him, his and his breathing slowed down as he focused on mimicking her motions. They repeated the sequence a few times, and she rewarded him with a bright smile each time he got it right.

Then, footsteps approached the gate, and she looked up to see James Barnes hurrying toward them, with a concerned expression.

“I’m so sorry,” he said breathlessly, his blue eyes flicking from her to Thomas. “Traffic was worse than I expected-”

“Papa!” the small voice broke through as he bolted toward his father, tears streaming down his face now that the wait was over.

Bucky crouched and scooped him up immediately, cradling him close with his gloved hands. “Hey, hey, I’m here,” he murmured with guilt. “I’m so sorry, kiddo. I won’t be late again, I promise.”

As he held his son tightly, he turned toward her, ready to apologize again. But when he met her gaze, something in his chest shifted, just a flicker, something too fleeting to name.

She was smiling, kind and patient, with a softness in her expression that made it painfully obvious she wasn’t upset about waiting.

That shouldn’t have stood out. But it did.

“I’m sorry for making you wait and... taking up your time. It won’t happen again.”

She shook her head with a kind smile. “It’s alright. He was fine, really. And the game helped. Don’t worry about it.”

Bucky gave her a grateful look, softening his features just enough to show how much he appreciated her patience. “Thanks... for everything.”

She was about to respond when something crossed her mind. She hesitated briefly before speaking. “Um, Mr. Barnes -James- do you think we could schedule a meeting sometime this week? I usually interview families during the first days to get to know them better, but since Thomas started a bit later, we haven’t had the chance. If you’d like, we can arrange a time that works for you.”

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and she quickly added, “Of course, if you need to check with Mrs-”

“It’s just me,” he interrupted, firmer than intended but not unkind.

She blinked. “Oh.”

Just him.

Her expression didn’t change much, she simply nodded, adjusting quickly, but something about her expression made his throat go dry.

“Alright,” she said smoothly, “how does tomorrow at 1 PM sound?”

Bucky knitted his brows, working through something in his mind. She took the hesitation as doubt and quickly reassured him, “The interviews take place during school hours. Another teacher covers my class while I meet with parents. It’s all planned out.”

He nodded after a moment, letting the arrangement settle.

“Then it’s a date.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

Silence. His own brain screeched to a halt.

Shit.

The second the words left his mouth, he froze. Why the hell did he have to use that word? He shows up late on the first day, and instead of keeping his shit together, he throws that word in her face like some creep. What is she going to think? That he’s hitting on her? That he doesn’t take this seriously? His mind started spiraling as always, and he glanced at her, waiting for her reaction, expecting something-anything- that signaled she’s offended or uncomfortable.

But she only smiled. Not a smirk, not teasing, just… warm. Like she hadn’t even registered the slip, or worse, like she had and found it endearing.

“Alright, Mr. Barnes. See you tomorrow. Bye, Thomas! Have a wonderful afternoon!”

He nodded stiffly, turned on his heel, and walked toward the gate with Thomas in his arms. The tension in his shoulders was killing him, and his mind kept spiraling. Why couldn’t he have just said meeting like a normal person?

-----

He arrived five minutes early. Pressing the doorbell, he tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, exhaling quietly as he waited.

A moment later, a soft buzz hummed from the side gate, signaling that he should push to enter. The latch clicked open under his touch, and he stepped through, strolling into the modest front yard where tiny footprints were imprinted into the damp soil, remnants of an afternoon spent playing.

As he neared the entrance, the building’s front door swung open, and there she was, standing at the threshold to receive him.

She hadn’t expected him to be so… put together.

Her breath hitched for half a second as she took him in, her brain momentarily short-circuiting before she caught herself. He was overdressed for a simple parent-teacher chat. His hair was neatly tied into a short ponytail, keeping the strands away from his sharp, striking features. The crisp black shirt he wore, fitted just right, framing his broad shoulders like a second skin, the mother-of-pearl blue buttons subtly gleaming under the soft afternoon light. The contrast of the dark fabric against his fair skin only made his blue eyes stand out even more.

She blinked, suddenly aware that she had been staring, like an absolute idiot, at that.

Her own reflection in the glass door made her painfully self-conscious. She had thrown on a comfortable jumper that morning, warm and practical, paired with an open wool jacket she hadn’t given much thought to. Now, under his gaze, she felt underdressed.

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, she straightened her posture and smiled, keeping her voice even. “Mr. Barnes, right on time.”

His lips twitched slightly, almost a smile, but not quite. “James. Figured I shouldn’t be late twice in a row.”

She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. “Come on in. Would you like some tea or coffee before we start?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Tea, if it’s not a hassle.”

“No hassle at all,” she assured him, leading the way inside.

As he followed her down the hallway, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. This was just a meeting, a standard conversation about Thomas. That was all. She led him into the small office and closed the door with a soft click.

With him inside, the space suddenly felt even smaller, almost claustrophobic. As he settled into the chair, she turned toward the small counter, flipping on the electric kettle. With her back to him, she absently tugged at the neckline of her jumper, then glanced down, frowning as she noticed a faint smear of green tempera near the hem. Great. Just great. She tried to rub it away discreetly, but the stain refused to budge.

Forcing herself to move on, she turned around, offering a professional -and hopefully not too flustered- smile. “So, Mr. Barnes.”

“James is really alright,” he repeated. Then he asked himself if there was a rule to use the last name, and she was trying to make him notice that fact politely by still addressing him with formality.

She nodded. “Alright, James.” The name felt different on her tongue, more personal somehow, and for some reason, it flustered her to use it. She cleared her throat, refocusing. “I’m going to ask some questions about Thomas’s daily life and family status so we can start building his file.”

At that, she caught the way his gloved hands tensed over his knees. It was subtle, just the smallest tightening of his fingers, but she noticed. His expression, however, remained unreadable: calm, polite, the perfect picture of an agreeable parent sitting through a standard school procedure.

But she knew better.

Not wanting to push too soon, she offered an alternative. “Also, if you’re interested, I can tell you briefly about yesterday and today’s steps in his integration.”

Something shifted in his posture at that. Not much, but enough. A small breath in, a glance toward her, like a man bracing for news he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

“Yeah,” he murmured, nodding. “I’d like that.”

----

Bucky felt little beads of sweat trickling down his spine. Was he trying too much?

He shifted slightly, flexing his fingers over his knees as he stole a glance at himself, just a quick, discreet look. Then, at her, and then, at the tiny office around them, shelves stacked with colorful folders, walls decorated with cheerful crayon drawings.

Back in his time, people dressed better. If a parent had to meet with a teacher, for whatever reason, it was treated as a formal occasion. A suit, a tie. The respect was shown in one’s presentation. So, naturally, he thought the right thing to do was clean up good.

Now, sitting in that too-small, squeaky green chair, with that attractive lovely lady making him tea, he felt like a goddamn wedding cake doll.

Her jumper was slightly wrinkled, her open wool jacket practical and cozy, and there was that stubborn little stain on the hem that she’d tried to wipe away when she thought he wasn’t looking. She belonged in this space, warm and natural, while he looked like he had an appointment with a boardroom, not a kindergarten teacher.

He swallowed, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. Too late to do anything about it now.

"Alright," she said, settling across from him with a patient smile. "Where do you want to start? The interrogation about personal matters or how Thomas is adjusting to his partners and environment?"

Bucky barely hesitated. "The second one."

She smiled knowingly as if she had expected that answer. “He was a little introverted at first, which is completely normal for a child his age in a new group. Most of the kids already knew each other, so he’s still figuring out where he fits in.”

Bucky nodded, listening intently.

She hesitated for a second before continuing, careful but warm. “He’s also a bit… dependent.”

That made something in Bucky’s chest tighten.

“Which, again, is perfectly normal,” she reassured quickly, reading the shift in his expression. “Especially considering his background. I have no problem giving him the comfort and reassurance he needs throughout the day. But maybe, with time, we can work on building his independence a little.” She offered him a gentle smile. “But overall, James, he’s a lovely kid. Really.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, easing some of the tension in his shoulders. Lovely. Not a problem. Not difficult. Just… lovely.

She turned to retrieve the tea, and as she was about to place his mug on the table, the sleeve of her wool jacket caught on a rough splinter in the wood. The movement sent the cup tipping, and a small splash of hot liquid spilled onto her hand and the table.

“Oh, fuc-” She caught herself just in time, trading the curse for a flustered, “Oh, dear.” She hastily set the mug down, shaking her wrist slightly as she clutched her burned fingers.

Before Bucky even registered the thought, his body moved on instinct. Old chivalry, muscle memory, -maybe both- he reached out, pulling off his glove in one swift motion and gently cradling her injured hand in his own. He wrapped his cool metal fingers around hers, as an automatic attempt to soothe the burn.

She tensed.

The reaction was so small that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But he did. The slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her breath caught, the way she froze beneath his touch for a fraction of a second.

His brain caught up with his actions.

Shit.

This was something he did all the time with Thomas, an instinctive, unconscious movement, one that made sense when it was his son crying over scraped knees or bumped elbows. But this wasn’t Thomas. This his son’s teacher. A stranger, technically. And here he was, holding her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He winced inwardly, twitching his fingers slightly as if preparing to pull away, to apologize, to-

But then, she relaxed.

Just enough for him to notice. Her grip eased slightly as her fingers rested in his palm, still warm from the tea. And then, to his utter surprise, she let out a soft, breathy laugh.

“Well,” she murmured, “I guess that’s one way to handle it. Thank you,” she said, sincerily.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He wasn’t accustomed to people thanking him. Hell, he wasn’t accustomed to people wanting to share a space with him. The proof of that was in how damn difficult it had been to find a school willing to take Thomas in without judgment.

Was it always so hot in here?

The stupid shirt Steve had lent him to look presentable felt glued to his skin, clinging uncomfortably as a fresh wave of heat crept up his neck. He let go of her hand -reluctantly- and with a quick movement, he popped open a couple of the top buttons, trying to breathe. His fingers ran absentmindedly through his hair in the process, loosening a few strands from the short ponytail.

She blinked.

Hard.

His deep voice cut through the charged moment. “Don’t mention it. I’m sorry if I overstepped.” He murmured the words as he hastily pulled his glove back on, as if reestablishing some invisible boundary he had accidentally crossed.

It took her a second -maybe two- to remember how to speak after that sight.

“Oh, not at all,” she finally managed, waving her hand nonchalantly. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, so you are perdoned.”

“Oh, good,” he added promptly.

“Yeah, good,” she echoed.

And then- silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

The kind that stretched for just a few seconds too long, making the air feel thick and awkward. It was ridiculous, really. She was supposed to be having a professional conversation, and yet here she was, staring at him like a flustered schoolgirl while he sat there, stiff and unreadable, probably wondering if she had a single functioning brain cell left.

Snapping herself out of it, she straightened in her chair, clearing her throat as she grabbed a folder and a pen. Professional. Focused.

“Let’s start with the questions,” she stated, determined to get back on track. “How is the family group composed?”

A faint tick appeared in his jaw. “Just the two of us.”

She nodded, jotting it down. “Do you receive any kind of support from extended family members or close friends?”

Bucky hesitated. “I have… friends.” A pause. Then, a little softer, “Oh, um… my friend Steve is like an uncle to him.”

She froze for half a second, pen hovering above the paper. Steve.

As in Steve Rogers.

And suddenly, the fact that James Barnes -Bucky Barnes- was sitting in her tiny office, answering questions about kindergarten pickup times and playtime habits, felt almost surreal.

But she pushed past it, nodding as if it was just any other answer. “Tell me about a normal day in Thomas’ life. From the moment he wakes up until bedtime.”

The questions continued, one after another. But to his surprise, none of them were invasive.

Nothing about him. Nothing about his past. Nothing about the child’s mother.

She was only interested in Thomas, his routines, his favorite activities, the people who cared for him. What made him happy, what calmed him down, what sparked his curiosity.

And he just felt… like a normal Dad.

She tapped the pen against her lower lip, scanning the notes she had just taken, furrowing her brows slightly in concentration.

Bucky tried to keep his eyes anywhere else; on the folder, on the damn splintered table, but somehow, his gaze flickered back to her.

Her lips were slightly parted. Soft. That translucent lip gloss she wore caught the autumn light just enough to glisten innocently. She didn’t seem aware of it, of the way the movement drew attention, of how effortless it was.

He clenched his jaw. Pathetic.

Maybe Sam had a point. Maybe he really did need to -what was how he had said it?- "get some." Because sitting here, staring at his kid’s teacher like the virgin Steve used to be back in the day, was not normal.

Especially when she was just… there. In a damn tempera-stained jumper, flipping through papers, completely unaware that his brain had short-circuited over something as simple as the way she absentmindedly pressed the tip of the pen to her lip.

He shifted slightly in his seat, making the little chair squeak under his weight. He needed to get a grip.

She looked up then, extending the forms she had just filled out. “Here, read it, and if it’s fine for you, please sign it, and we’re done.”

He reached for the papers, his fingers briefly grazing hers. She was already moving, sorting through more documents, rummaging inside what looked like her purse as he scanned the form.

A moment later, he signed it, handed it back, and stood up.

The room somehow felt even smaller with him standing.

She tucked the papers into a folder, then hesitated for the briefest second before extending something toward him. A small, brightly wrapped raspberry lollipop.

He just looked at it.

She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly self-conscious. “Oh, um- it’s just a thing we do,” she explained, feeling a little ridiculous. “Teachers give a sweet to the parent who comes in for the visit. A friendly token.”

Bucky glanced at the candy, then at her.

Slowly, he reached out, taking it from her hand.

“If you feel too old to try it, give it to Thomas,” she teased lightly. “Though I must say, they’re pretty good.”

Bucky barely managed to keep his expression neutral as an entirely inappropriate image flashed through his mind involving her slightly parted lips against the bright red lollipop, swirling her tongue over the slick, glossy-

Nope. Absolutely not. He shoved the thought into the darkest corner of his brain and slammed the door shut.

Clearing his throat, he glanced at the candy in his palm. He was pretty sure the last time he had something like this was in the ‘20s, running through cobblestone streets in short, ragged pants and scraped knees. It felt oddly foreign now, a relic of a time buried long ago.

“No, it’s… it’s alright,” he muttered, tucking the candy into his jeans pocket, trying to expel the compelling thoughts swirling at the back of his mind.

Her smile lingered a moment as she straightened the papers, and again, the moment stretched just enough to make the air feel heavier than before.

She cleared her throat. “Well, the institution will be asking for another meeting in about three months to give you an update on how he’s doing. It’s the same for all the kids,” she explained, slipping back into professional mode.

Bucky nodded, adjusting his stance slightly, like he was grateful to have something to focus on.

“I’ve also added you to the parents-teacher WhatsApp group," she continued, "as a way to communicate news, the things kids should bring, upcoming events, that kind of stuff.” She hesitated, glancing at her notes before adding, “Um… it says you don’t have the app installed, so it would be great if you could download it.”

And then, silence.

Bucky barely moved, but something in his posture changed. His gaze flickered toward the small table, where his old clamshell phone rested near his keys.

She noticed.

That was not a smartphone, and it was definitely not suited for a parent-teacher chitchat group.

Before he could say anything, she quickly added, “It’s a policy here, since, well… it’s assumed everyone has it.” She smiled, small and reassuring. “But don’t worry, I can send you a normal text separately with the same information. Just… without the cool emojis, I’ll have to stick to ASCII.” She winked.

That got something out of him, a faint huff, not quite a laugh, but close. His shoulders relaxed just slightly. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Appreciate that.”

----

After a couple of months, Bucky was relieved -no, grateful- to see Thomas flourishing in his new environment.

The once-quiet, wary boy had slowly started to open up. He was more talkative now, his voice no longer a whisper but something steadier, stronger. He laughed more, flinched less. When he came home from school, he actually talked about his day, about the games they played, about Flora and Matthew, about how Miss Y/n read the best stories and always did the funniest voices.

Bucky didn’t know if she realized just how much of a difference she had made.

One afternoon, while Thomas was scribbling dinosaurs at the kitchen table, Bucky’s old clamshell phone vibrated against the counter.

He flipped it open. A general message from her number.

Dear families, our annual fundraising event is coming up! Each grade and nursery group will participate by preparing goodies to sell, baked treats, crafts, and more! We encourage everyone to take part and help make it a great day for the kids!

Bucky was already closing the phone when it binged another time. It was her again.

Don’t know about your culinary expertise, but we could really use some strong dads to help build the booths this saturday ;)

He blinked.

A just-for-him message.

For a second, he only stared at it, like his brain needed to catch up. The winking face at the end nearly made him short-circuit.

Clearly, she was recruiting him for his enhanced strength.

It wasn’t like the other parents would be thrilled to have him around. He rarely talked to them, never lingered after pickup, never engaged in small talk about school trips or birthday parties. The most interaction he got was a nod or a hesitant smile. Acknowledgment, but never an invitation.

And he understood why. He wasn’t the kind of dad people naturally gravitated toward. He wasn’t friendly like Steve, or charming like Sam. He was… him. Quiet. Intimidating. A man with too much history and too little practice in fitting into normal spaces.

So why would anyone want him there?

He exhaled sharply, glancing at the message again. Maybe she’d sent the same thing to a few others. Maybe it wasn’t just for him.

But… she had sent it. With a winky face.

And despite the self-doubt crawling at the back of his mind, he couldn’t ignore the small, reluctant warmth blooming in his chest.

Because for whatever reason, she thought to ask.

-----

When the Saturday came, Bucky was sharp on time at the open kindergarten gate, with Steve.

Not that it had taken too much to convince him. Steve, being the charitable man he was, never missed an opportunity to help. But Bucky also knew his friend well enough to recognize the other reason he had agreed to come so quickly, curiosity. Curiosity about the place Thomas spent his days. And curiosity about the “winking emote teacher.”

Bucky had two reasons for bringing Steve.

One: With two super soldiers on site, setting up the booths would take a fraction of the time.

Two: He didn’t want to come alone. Not that he’d admit it outright, but walking into a social setting full of parents and staff -people he knew saw him as an outsider even if they tried to mask it- felt a little too exposed. At least with Steve there, the focus will be put elsewhere, and he knew his level of self-consciousness will drop.

Of course, Steve suspected as much. But to his credit, he had the courtesy of not saying anything.

They hadn’t been there long enough when he spotted her across the yard, balancing a few wooden planks in her arms as she walked toward the setup area. She was focused, navigating carefully, until a rogue Lego piece nearly sent her sprawling.

In an instant Steve was there, supporting her before she could hit the ground.

She let out a startled gasp, gripping his forearms instinctively. And then, the realization showed all over her face. Because holy shit, Captain America was in the kindergarten.

“Uh- thanks,” she said, letting go of his forearms, looking a little flustered.

Steve, ever the gentleman, just smiled. “No problem.”

Then, as if remembering there were other people present, she glanced over his shoulder, and finally noticed Bucky, standing just a few steps behind, looking slightly out of place.

Her face lit up with recognition. “Oh, hey! You made it. and with backup! That adds points, you know” She grinned, tilting her head playfully. “More help means more credit when it’s time to take home the leftover cakes and pies.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s a thing?”

“Absolutely.” She crossed her arms, pretending to be serious. “Hard work should be rewarded. And what better prize than free dessert?”

Steve chuckled, throwing Bucky a look. “See, now that’s motivation.”

Bucky shifted slightly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah. Um I thought some extra hands would come in handy, anyway.”

She nodded, rocking back on her heels slightly. “Well, I’m glad you did. We can definitely use the help, some of these booths have been in storage forever, and let’s just say… they’re not in peak condition.”

Steve smirked. “Don’t worry ma’am, we’ll make sure they stand up straight.”

She snorted. “That’s the bare minimum we’re hoping for, yeah.” Then she proceeded to give them a quick rundown of what was needed: booth assembly, structural support, and general heavy lifting. After making sure they understood, she left them to it, moving to a shaded corner where a group of teachers and moms were busy painting banners.

As Bucky grabbed a plank, Steve picked up another, glancing over his shoulder toward her. Then, with a knowing half-smile, he turned to Bucky.

“So… I assume she is Tommy’s teacher?”

Bucky didn’t even look up. Just gave a curt nod, with an unreadable expression.

Steve hummed. “She’s cute.”

He didn’t take the bait. Just kept his gaze firmly on the plank in his hands, jaw tightening just a fraction.

Steve pressed a little more. “Real cute.”

This time, Bucky gave him a noncommittal grunt. No eye contact. No reaction.

"Do you think the teachers might do a kissing booth?" Steve asked nonchalantly, setting a plank into place like he hadn’t just thrown a live grenade into the conversation.

That got a reaction.

Bucky’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second before he shot him a side glance. “…Is that still a thing nowadays?”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah. Dunno if it’s as chaste as it was in our time, Buck, but it’s still runnin’. Clint told me sometimes they have them at his kids’ school.”

Bucky pressed his mouth into a thin line, gripping the hammer a little tighter.

Steve chuckled, sensing an opening. “I mean, it makes sense, you know. A lot of divorced dads…”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” Bucky cut him off, hammering a plank into place with maybe a little too much force. The loud crack of wood echoed through the yard.

Steve just smirked. “Touchy subject?”

Bucky ignored him, grabbing another nail.

"You know, Buck, I think you should ask her out."

"Shut up, punk."

"I'm serious. What’s the worst that could happen?"

Bucky turned to him, giving him a look so dry it could’ve drained the Atlantic. His next words were slow, like he was explaining something to a mentally impaired person.

"Let’s see. First of all, she’s my child’s teacher. It’s unethical."

Steve opened his mouth, but Bucky steamrolled right over him.

"Two, I can barely deal with myself most days. I can’t trust my own mind sometimes. I’m trying to put my shit together because of Thomas, but you know there are days I can barely get out of bed. So adding another person into our lives right now?" He shook his head. "I don’t think that’s a good idea."

Steve stayed quiet, watching him.

"And three," Bucky exhaled, returning to the plank, "I don’t think she’d be interested, damn I even don’t know if she is seeing someone. And I don’t want to make our interactions weird."

Steve tilted his head, giving him a look that was both skeptical and amused but, to Bucky’s relief, he kept his mouth shut didn’t press further.

-----

After a couple of hours, Bucky and Steve eventually split up, taking on different tasks. As expected, Steve had a small crowd of parents ‘casually’ gravitating around him, helping with his station while subtly asking for pictures and sneaking in questions between hammering and measuring.

Bucky, meanwhile, retreated to a quieter corner, bending some metal pipes to straighten the framework. It was a stark contrast, really. Steve walked into a place and illuminated it, drew people in without even trying. And Bucky… well.

He worked alone, unnoticed. Or so he thought.

A sudden hand on his shoulder broke his trance, and he startled just slightly.

“Sorry!” she promptly removed her hand. “I called your name, but you didn’t seem to hear.”

Bucky just blinked, “It’s fine.”

She smiled, holding up a thermos. “Thought maybe you’d want some coffee?”

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he tried to shake off the momentary stiffness. “I, uh… yeah. That’d be nice. Thank you.” His voice came out a little rough, and his eye contact was fleeting at best.

Fucking Steve. Bringing up his nonexistent love life like an asshole, and now Bucky was hyperaware of her presence. Every small shift of her stance, every little tilt of her head. It was funny -no, it wasn’t- how their roles had completely reversed.

Once upon a time, Steve had been the one fumbling, awkward, struggling to find his footing with women. And now? He was Captain America, confident and magnetic, while Bucky was… whatever the hell this was. A fucking mess.

“Thank you for coming, James. Really,” she said as she poured coffee into a small cup.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

“And thanks for bringing help with you,” she added playfully. “It seems everyone is livelier since you two got here.”

He grumbled something under his breath, bending the pipe back and forth absentmindedly, like someone fidgeting with a strand of grass.

She caught the movement and grinned. “Showoff.”

Bucky huffed, pressing his lips into a firm line to stop the small, unwilling twitch of amusement threatening to surface.

“I’m going to miss this,” she said suddenly, looking at the thermos handle. “The community here is really nice. Luckily, I’ll still be around for the event.”

Bucky’s gaze snapped to her “What?”

She blinked. “I said, I’m going to miss-”

“Are you taking a vacation?” he interrupted, unable to stop himself.

Her brows furrowed slightly. “What? No-” Then, she realized. “Oh. James… Jane is coming back.”

Bucky just stared at her, the words not quite clicking in his brain. “Who?”

She tilted her head, looking almost apologetic. “Jane. The actual teacher. I thought you knew, I’m just a substitute. The real teacher was on medical leave, but she’s ready to return now.”

The words settled like a slow drop of ink into water, spreading, tainting something that had been perfect moments ago.

“I didn’t- didn’t know,” he admitted, quietly. Maybe because Thomas had entered late in the school year, they’d missed that little piece of information.

She seemed to notice the shift in him, the way his grip tightened around the empty cup. There was a certain distress in his expression, subtle but there.

“Don’t worry,” she said gently, trying to reassure him. “Jane is an excellent teacher and person. Thomas will be thrilled to have her in the class.”

Bucky nodded, curtly, handing the thermos cup back.

In all the interactions he’d had with her, the drop-offs, their little conversations, the parent meeting, the fact that she was just a substitute had never popped up.

"When’s your last day?" he asked, suddenly very interested in the twisted pipe in his hands.

“The Friday before the event,” she replied. “I’m still going to participate since I helped organize it, but by Monday, Jane will be here.” She paused, as if anticipating his reaction. “I can assure you, It won’t be a sudden change for the kids. This week, she’ll come for a couple of hours every day to introduce herself so they can get used to her.”

Bucky gave a slow nod, gripping the metal a little tighter than necessary.

It shouldn’t have really mattered. It shouldn’t have made him feel anything at all.

And yet, the news bothered him.

Because things had been fine. He wasn’t close to her, not in any significant way, but she was a constant. And if there was one thing Bucky Barnes wasn’t fond of, it was change.

It wasn’t like he had been expecting anything more than what he already had, which wasn’t much. Just crumbs, really. Small moments of connection. Casual chats, occasional teasing remarks that made something in his chest pull in a way he ignored. The way she talked to him like any other parent—like a man, not a reputation.

But it wasn’t just that, was it?

There were other things, little details that had wormed their way into his awareness without permission. The way her voice softened when she spoke to Thomas. The way her soft body looked like it would fit perfectly against his if he just- no. The way her eyes lingered on him just a second longer than necessary sometimes, making him wonder if…

Bucky exhaled sharply, straightening his pose, forcing the thoughts back.

It was comfortable. And, somehow, warm.

And now she was going to leave.

And maybe it was stupid, but it affected him more than he wanted to admit.

Chapter 2

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #the winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x female reader #winter soldier fanfiction #bucky barnes x curvy!reader

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gutsby · 1 year ago

Text

Cabin Fever

Pairing: Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader

Summary: Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.

Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DNE. NONCONSENSUAL. I’m never ever beating the insane bitch allegations, I fear. Protector-turned-pervert-turned-unwilling-captor-kinda. Corruption kink. Daddy kink. Somnophilia. Misogyny. “It’s too big; it won’t fit” + Joel “I’ll make it fit” Miller. Captivity on both ends. Oral (f!receiving). Gunplay. Oversimplified first-time anal. Uno Reverse Drugging. Evil, inexperienced reader meets evil, feral, slutty Joel. Attempted murder x3. Russian Roulette…as foreplay?

Notes: Both characters SUCK. I condone nothing they do. Please do not take any of their behavior or language to reflect my own moral predilections. That is all 🚬😵‍💫

You were hardly shaking at all when he’d found you chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains.

He didn’t see that every day, that was for-fucking-sure.

Joel Miller barely got to see his share of happy, grinning girls on the cold and bitter frontier he inhabited. Ones that were tied to posts and clinging to life were even less common, so the sight of you there had almost frightened him at first. He’d approached you like one might advance upon a sleeping bear: with the utmost caution and a Winchester Model 70 levelled directly at your head.

He’d learned you were unarmed and defenseless in less than a second. He’d come to realize you were largely unconscious—and unclothed—even sooner than that.

He had been industrious in freeing your hands and feet from their restraints but never uttered a word as he did.

Even on the two-and-a-half mile trek back home, he hadn’t spoken once. You’d hung off his left shoulder like a pretty, frosted slab of meat, covered only with the sherpa blanket he’d secured around your neck, and dangled precariously down his back for the entire fifty minutes.

Your toes were two shades shy of onyx with frostbite.

Your limbs were hanging like lead over his chest.

A whisper of, ‘You’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise’ had just seemed ill-suited for the circumstances and his nature. In truth, Joel didn’t know if you’d be fine. You might die. The blood wouldn’t be on his hands one way or the other, but he never had liked burying bodies this time of year. He’d have to wait until April to break ground, at least.

Presently, he dropped your limp form to the floor of his cabin and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to bury anyone.

You sort of looked charming in the firelight.

He stomped off to the kitchen and began rifling for pans, preparing to defrost the icy stranger as best he could.

You didn’t die.

You didn’t wake for forty full hours, but you didn’t die.

When you stirred on the floor with warm sherpa around your shoulders and a rough calfskin rug under your ass, you thought you had died—maybe taken a pit stop in cowpoke purgatory while you were at it—but then you blinked. Breathed. Realized you were still very much inside your body and most likely still in Wyoming.

You sat up where you were and looked around.

“Da-a-d?”

You knew it was useless, calling for your father.

He had been dead almost eight months; you just wanted to double-check to make sure you were still on earth.

When dead dad didn’t answer, you tried someone else.

“Momma?”

Still no answer.

Figured, since she was among the ones that had left you chained outside in the first place. It’d been worth a shot.

You started to rise from your place, when a sharp pain in your side made you plop back down on the rug. You winced and lifted the blanket, then your old nightie.

A neat little taped-down bandage had your ribs encased in antiseptics and gauze. You frowned down at a stain in the centre, which looked to you an awful lot like blood. That circle of old fluids must’ve been twice the size of your fist and currently oozing tiny, fresh beads of blood from the strain you’d just exerted. You pursed your lips.

Least they could’ve done is kill me, not leave me here.

You’d take it up with your old would-be assassins another day, you were sure. Right now, you were parched, starving, in dire need of a piss, and reeling on the floor to grab hold of something sturdy to lift yourself. But you were as much a child then as you had ever been, swaying in place and clawing at air like someone who’d never kept their balance before. Or might’ve been drunk.

You rolled onto your good side and cast a sweeping look around the cabin. You smelled slow-cooked barbecue.

Thank fuck, you thought.

Now, if I were a juicy rack of ribs, where would I be?

The kitchen was dark and empty; the smell was coming from elsewhere. You craned your neck, tilted your chin, spotted a loft overhead but figured it wasn’t too likely to find someone grilling up there, so where the hell was it?

And who the hell was it, smoking meats and mending up strangers in the cold and lonely dead of winter like this?

You put a pin in that thought as you searched for a place to pee.

By the time you’d hobbled out of the bathroom, the smoky smell had grown even stronger. It was so pungent it bordered on vertiginous, invading every inch of the cabin with a force. Then it was leading you, teasing you by turns to venture outside. All you had on your feet were some oversized socks and two strips of medical tape.

Against your better judgment, you continued to hobble.

Out the door, down the steps, slowly, then following your nose and the first whiff of smoke you smelled to make it to the place you were almost certain you needed to be.

You trudged around a corner of the cabin’s exterior and stopped. Turned around. Cursed your own senses for being so stupid to miss the huge fucking shed spewing smoke out front—or was it the back?—and plodded on.

Your feet might have carried you a third of the way there before your powers of sight and sound eventually failed you again, and you missed another big something.

Big and beige and coated in snow—baring its teeth and snarling at the unfamiliar presence as soon as it saw you.

The next thing you knew, sixty-two pounds of Belgian Malinois had had you knocked to the ground in less than a second. You hardly understood what had hit you until it was barking and chomping away an inch from your face.

You fought hard and frantic to shove the ugly fucker off, but your bandaged hands were no match for its paws. The dog continued to tear at your blanket, nip at your ears, claw at your neck, and all around snuff out any sense of peace you might have acquired in the dozen-odd minutes since you’d first woken up. You screamed.

You yelled as loud as you could and felt yourself cower and sink lower into the snow as you fought.

Just when you tried to raise a knee—to kick the animal in the ribs or else protect your own—a sound broke out above the buzz.

A voice, clear as day:

“CUJO!”

The dog stalled on top of you a moment, just to be yanked off the next, and the closest thing afterward was a face—kinder than Cujo’s but not by very much.

It was a broad, bearded, pock-marked head with more soot to recommend itself than skin. Lips smeared with ash and grime and curved down in the single most decisive frown you’d seen in your life, the man looked to be beside himself seeing you tits up in the snow.

He gripped one arm of yours, then dropped it.

Picked a leg up, paused, then hauled you into a cradle carry as graceless as you’d ever felt it done before.

“Come!” he snapped, and it took you too long to realize that he was talking to the dog. You’d already wrapped your arms around his neck in abrupt complaisance.

He carried you back into the cabin and kicked the door open in front of you. He held you firm for a second, then, just as he had outside, changed course before you knew what to do and was shortly depositing you on the sofa.

You winced when your ass hit the cushion.

You started to sit, grab a pillow for your back or just bring your knees to your chest, when suddenly a palm was pressing flat on your front. Forcing you to lie down.

“Hey, hey!” you cried when the man started lifting the hem of your nightgown.

If he’d heard you at all, he didn’t show it. He just worked his thick, dirty fingers under the fabric and raised the white satin like he might the hood of a car. He frowned.

It was then that you noticed a blooming red splotch on your side, slowly overtaking the terra-cotta color of dried blood on the bandage and spreading out. Then a pain.

Instead of pushing the man’s hands away, you were holding them tight, wrestling that same touch which was trying to keep you from poking around the area now.

“Quit,” the man said, sedate as could be.

“Hurts,” was all you could think to tell him—and you guessed he’d already had that part down by the outpouring of blood. He shoved your hands off.

The brand new crimson hue had already soaked through the bandage. He pulled it off. You caught a glimpse of a wound that seemed to be weeping through its stitches—oozing pus and blood and a gore you could’ve gone your whole life without seeing. You would’ve liked to run a couple gentle, awed fingers over it, but as it was, your coarse and tight-lipped medic wouldn’t let you.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

“Heystopstopstop!” you implored him, feeling a streak of pain up your side as his calloused hands delved deeper.

At your latest flinch and plea, the man seemed to have had enough. Or just needed to angle your body in a different direction for easier access to the site. He gathered you back up in his arms and walked over to the kitchen, where he set you down again on the counter. Hands moved to your hips, briefly, to push you back on the surface and allow him to stand between your legs. Again, the man frowned as he peeled off your pyjamas.

Two warring fears of pain and overexposure fought like wild beasts in your brain for a second—you yelping and trying to cover your breasts in a hurry, then realizing how much it hurt to lift your arms that way when your ribs were dripping blood, then the man making the decision for you both as he pushed your hands behind your back and said a simple ‘Fuck’s sake’ to keep you pinned.

You didn’t like it.

You didn’t like it, and you let him continue, because you knew that you didn’t know shit about doing this yourself.

Joel must’ve fixed your dressings fourteen times before turning you loose. He’d had you perched atop his counter like goddamned Prisoner-of-War Barbie, all riddled with bumps, bruises, and lesions galore, looked your body up and down just once, and nearly grew sick at the sight.

He’d disgusted himself by feeling as aroused as he was.

Shortly thereafter, he’d toted you off—before the blood could rush down to his dick and start to swell—shrugged your gown over your torso, and stepped away. Simple.

Then you’d had to go and throw a wrench in his plans.

“What if I need to pee?” you’d said as soon as Joel started up the stairs with you in his arms again.

He had meant to drop you off on the bed in the loft, out of sight, but it seemed you were more concerned about the prospect of traversing the steps up and down for potty breaks. Joel had audibly huffed above you.

“I can leave a bucket.”

“Yu-uck.” The latter word had been given two syllables to show the full extent of your disgust, like a child might do.

And that was how you’d ended up here: snug in his bed on the ground floor, curled up in more layers of flannel and wool than you could count and staring blankly up at the man who was standing cold and aloof off to the side.

Your eyelids were growing heavy with sleep.

He figured they would be.

Joel picked up the glass that sat beside your empty one on the nightstand and drank, watching you all the while.

“D’you know my momma?” you asked, voice sounding extra small coming from the depths of your cocoon.

Joel finished his drink in four big gulps.

“Sure hope not,” he said once he’d set it back down.

By the sight of the scars he’d found littering your hands and back alone, Joel was able to surmise you’d come from a pretty rough, ragtag group. Maybe even Raiders. Knowing folks like that simply never struck one’s fancy, so he’d been honest. You might’ve argued, or laughed, if you hadn’t been nabbed so tightly in the grips of those first stages preceding sleep, so instead, you nodded.

“Figured,” you mumbled.

7:11, Joel read on the clock. You’d finished your drink at seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Judging by your size, it wouldn’t take long at all for the medicine to take effect.

‘Medicine,’ Joel thought, sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ‘drugs.’ One was meant to rehabilitate, rejuvenate, bring new life to your worn and weary bones. The other would just knock you cold and keep you there.

On second thought, those were definitely drugs Joel had just slipped in your water before giving it to you to drink.

As your eyes blinked from closed, to open, to closed, then open but slightly less open than the time before, and closed again, he felt a sick sense of accomplishment twist in his gut. If only his former-nurse friend could have seen what he was doing with those morphine sulfate tablets he’d traded for—he likely would’ve slapped Joel across the face. And Joel would’ve smiled all the same.

Yeah, okay, drugging the unsuspecting and defenseless female he’d just saved from death’s doorstep two days ago didn’t look great on paper, he would fully concede.

But this was all in good fun.

Great fun, even.

For him.

“Sick fuck,” Joel muttered as he started to undo his belt. The button and zip were taken apart just as fast, and with two steps, he was standing at your bedside—his bedside—and tugging his trousers down his legs. He took his cock in his hand and glanced over at the clock.

7:15.

He nudged your shoulder.

7:16.

Peeling layers of blanket away from your body.

7:17.

“Hey…honey?”

A lot more nothing from the girl sleeping in front of him. He shrugged his jeans to the floor, kicked them off at his feet, and moved onto the bed. You just looked so sweet.

Joel tried working around the fabric of his boxers but got impatient pretty quick. He hauled those off, too.

Soon, his beefy, bare, and surprisingly tan legs were bracketing your hips as he stroked himself above you. His eyes roamed the lax and tranquil features undeniably characteristic of sleep, and he pumped himself faster. Really, there was no need for theatrics or enhancements now—he was already hard as three tonnes of steel—but Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the build-up.

You were no longer in danger of dying, thanks to him. You were slowly but surely on the mend, no thanks to Cujo at all, but many thanks to him, Joel Miller, the man who had pried you off of that post, pulled you out of your chains, ushered warmth back into your limbs, and stitched up your side out of the goodness of his heart.

Any objective onlooker could see that you’d availed yourself of his medical attention and aid without ever asking, so why should he request access to you now? This was the way of the world these days, anyway. Sex was no longer so much a question as it was an answer in most scenarios—a mere transaction, wherein the physically weaker of two parties was forced to capitulate. Not within the four unsullied walls of Jackson and a few other pockets of homestead communities here and there, but on the whole, absolutely. Jackson was down the road a ways away and sufficiently far enough from Joel’s cabin for him to be disentangled from their rules. What mattered now was obtaining what he was owed.

Still, the man hesitated a half-second longer above you. He jerked his cock even faster and felt his stomach start to clench. Was that? No—nerves were fucking juvenile. Getting close to cumming from just the sight of you alone was for chumps. Joel Miller was no chump.

He lifted your nightie and lowered the head of his cock to rest between your folds. Then he shifted his knees so that he could rub himself gently against your warmth.

Joel Miller was a monster, but he was no brute. He also understood female anatomy well enough to know that, well…wetter was better. He started moving his hips.

You exhaled through your nose. Nothing major; you probably hadn’t even felt him long enough to whine.

Joel planted a hand beside your head—a preemptive warning.

“There…” He liked to talk as though you could hear him. Like you might be semi-conscious and dimly aware of what he was doing to you then, “Right there…ah, baby.”

He never did catch your name.

That was no matter. So long as you stayed put and made a nice, wet, pretty little hole for him to fuck, you would be fine. By the feel of your folds alone, he could tell you’d be a fun thing to use. Soft and snug and plied with drugs, you could do, and be, anything he damn well needed.

Or maybe nothing at all, he thought without humor.

Joel brushed your cheek with the knuckles of his free hand and watched you turn away, making a face. He snagged your chin and tilted it back to him, sharply, before gliding those fingers down your chest, then your tummy, then your hips, then dipping between your legs. He found your clit and pressed it with a deliberate touch.

“Hey,” Joel whispered, again, as though you might hear, “You’re gonna stay still and let me do this.”

Your nose scrunched in response, thighs clamping together. Joel pried them apart with one push and continued sliding his cock back and forth. He grunted.

“Gonna let me take what’s mine, hear?”

You didn’t hear much of anything, he suspected, but he asked the question all the same. At least now your legs were staying open and he could rut himself gently into that space without having to keep them spread. A first, gentle ‘mmph’ sounded from your lips, and he was glad. He kept thumbing that spot he knew you would like and rubbing along the seam of your cunt with his erection.

Then Joel felt a weight on his shoulders. Remorse? No. Anxiety? Perhaps. This felt more like a fog, though, seizing his muscles and seeping gently between the grooves of his brain. He gave his head a fierce shake.

“Hold still,” he said, more to himself; you hadn’t moved.

Joel fisted the base of his cock and angled the tip toward your entrance, caring much less whether you were ready or not now that his desires had grown stronger.

He was met with resistance on trying to push in. He dug his fingers in the pillow beneath your head and scowled.

“Quit…clenchin’…like that. Ain’t…fair to me,” he huffed.

He was one to talk.

Now, he’d been with a staggering number of women, experiences ranging all across the spectrum, but even the tightest, most untouched pieces of ass he’d ever tapped had given way more than this. Your walls were unyielding, refusing to give him entry. Joel cursed and rutted his hips in a rough, entirely unsuccessful, thrust.

You hummed in response, eyes still closed, one hand fumbling mindlessly for something to hold. Joel seized it.

“Not lettin’ you off that easy, darlin’, I—”

“Fuck,” you breathed, followed by a low whimper.

Joel froze. Had you heard him? Felt him just now?

Something about the uncertainty laden in those questions sent his mind into overdrive, heart beating a wild cadence in his chest. He realized then that his mouth had gone dry, his vision was skewed just slightly on the outskirts. And his cock was throbbing.

“Ya like that?” Joel seethed, not thinking, still rubbing, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

“Uh-huh.” Softly.

You little slut. He knew it all along.

Whatever it was that kept your body from being coupled with his was almost immaterial to him now. Joel’s mind was swimming with desire, cock dragging in desperate, fitful bursts between your legs, never penetrating but still wringing massive jolts of pleasure from that place.

With the way he was feeling now, Joel could cum from just fucking your thighs. And that was alright.

You were moaning underneath him. Even…smiling?

“Fuck, baby, you look so pretty.”

Joel had never called a girl pretty before and meant it. But he hardly knew how else to describe you now with how good and sweet and fine you were making him feel. A strange warmth sank into his chest, making it harder to breathe, and then he was panting above you, as if he were really inside that dripping wet spot. He was close.

“Such a pretty…sweet…fuckin’ thing for me.”

That red, raging, leaky cock of his was almost a blur between your legs, he was thrusting against you so fast. Joel thought for one frightening second that it might be his skull that would explode instead, so high was that pressure between his ears, but his fears were promptly put to rest as the first rope of cum came stuttering out. Then another. Then another. Then another.

By the time he finished, he could’ve sworn he’d left a hundred spurts on your tummy. When Joel glanced down and saw a sea of opaque, sticky white, he groaned.

Then he fell. Fully collapsed at your side with his brain in a tizzy of wild, heady feelings and sank into himself.

He hadn’t even fucked you, and he felt like he had.

He lifted a hand to wipe away his spend, but he couldn’t.

He would get to it in the morning, before you stirred, he thought. He thought. He didn’t have the chance to think much longer at all, as darkness started hedging him in.

He slept.

It was 7:57 when he woke.

The man had no real way of knowing that, though, seeing as he was greeted with a nickel-plated revolver between his teeth the second he opened his eyes.

You were straddling his torso, gun pinched between two calm, bandaged hands. You frowned when he jumped.

“WH—” he started.

“Shut up.”

“ST—”

“I said shut,” you cocked the gun, holding it tighter, then shoving it even further inside his mouth, “the fuck. up.”

The man obeyed.

‘Joel M.’—you’d read the name etched on the butt of his pistol before picking it up some twenty minutes ago.

“Pretty fuckin’ thing,” you mocked the man’s Texan drawl as you wiggled the barrel even deeper along his tongue, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

The man’s eyes widened.

How dumb did he think you were?

Offering a semi-clear liquid that should’ve been water; he hadn’t even waited for the morphine tablet to fully dissolve before handing it over to you. Fucking idiot.

You were more disturbed by the fact he’d thought you stupid enough not to notice than him actually trying to drug you. The latter was almost to be expected from predatory, execrable men like him, but the insult to your intelligence? Unacceptable. You’d remedied that affront fairly quickly, though, swapping his glass with yours the second he hadn’t been looking, then nestling into his bed and playing pretend for what had felt like an eternity.

You’d been awake the whole time the man touched you, not knowing what the hell was going on but feeling like you had to stay still. Let him finish. Out of fear, at first, then curiosity, then some strange and unfamiliar sensation that you couldn’t quite describe as anything but a pleasurable itch between your legs. You let the man continue, hearing him grunt and groan and swear up a storm before he shot something hot all over your tummy. By the end of it all, you knew it was wrong, and you knew it was dirty—though you weren’t sure exactly what it was that he had done—but you wanted to learn more.

Which was probably why you hadn’t just shot the old pervert right between his eyes the second he’d stirred.

You shifted atop this ‘Joel M.’ and frowned once more.

“Why’d you stop?”

Gun still wedged in his mouth, Joel’s voice sounded garbled as he spoke, “Wha-agh-at?”

You retracted the metal just long enough to pose the question again. When you had, he still looked stunned.

“Answer me,” you barked, and feeling your patience lapse, got straight to pistol-whipping the motherfucker upside his half-grey head, “You DUMB, or somethin’?”

The man sputtered again.

“No, no— I don’t— dunno what you mean.”

He sounded dumb. You would need to spell this out.

“Why did you stop rubbing me like that?”

If anything, the clarification only seemed to baffle him further. He opened his taut, bearded mouth, then closed it, then eyed you up and down with a look that said he was considering something. Then he stared at one spot.

You glanced down at it too.

“And what is this, anyway?” you asked, swiping one finger at the mostly dried moisture on your stomach, “Why’d you spit this stuff up all over me, huh?!”

“I ain’t—”

You raised the gun as if to hit him again. He jolted back.

“I didn’t mean— shit. Shit, I just…came on you, ‘s’all.”

“Came?”

The word hung in the air like a grenade, waiting. Mr. M was already bracing himself for the impact, it seemed.

“Came?!”

That bracing served him well, because in the next second you were lifting the weapon even higher and eyeing him with the most pointed, putrid look of disdain. You’d never been one for letting grenades go untouched.

“Ejaculated!” Joel hissed, lifting a hand to shield himself, “Felt— felt so good I just couldn’t stop and I-I-I came.”

You paused.

Came. Felt good. Couldn’t stop.

You had felt good when he’d rubbed you. You had not wanted him to stop. But then he had. And you were mad. You’d never been touched that way in your life, and now you were feeling fifteen hundred emotions at once.

Were you supposed to ‘come,’ too? Why did he stop?

“Why didn’t you let me…ejaculate, too?” The words felt foreign and strange on your tongue.

For the first time, you saw one side of Joel’s lips twitch. Evidently fighting the urge to turn them into a smile.

“Girls don’t really…do that,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Why? Ain’t ever had your pussy rubbed on by a man?”

You shortly landed the blow you’d been holding over his head, splitting the skin along his brow with one hit from the butt of his gun. Joel jumped again, then moaned.

“Crazy bitch!”

“Creepy fuck.”

Your eyes narrowed with loathing, unable to comprehend how a man so vile had just made you feel so good. Your stomach was twisting in knots while Joel rubbed his forehead, pawing helplessly at the gash you’d just left.

“I saved your life,” he grumbled, low, “You owed me.”

“Did I?”

Abruptly, and without really thinking, you were sinking the muzzle of the gun into the spot you’d just cut, mouth kicking up in a smile at the sounds of pain it elicited.

“Did I, Joel?” you cooed.

“How the— the fuck do you know my name?”

Momentarily, you yanked the revolver from his face and tilted it to show him his name carved into the bottom.

“What’s the ‘M’ stand for? ‘Molester’?”

“Means ‘mind’ your fucking business,” he spat.

You probably would’ve hit him again had it not seemed as though he were trying to sit up just then. You slid swiftly from his frame—just to take a step off the bed, gun still pointed at his head. Then you backed away.

One by one, rapidly, you unloaded the bullets from the cylinder, maintaining a safe distance from the man all the while. You watched him blink and try to get some thing from his eyes, but he didn’t seem keen to move.

You left just one live round inside. You made a point to spin the cylinder and, again, aim it straight at his head.

The man was blinking even harder. Rubbing now, too.

“I feel…” Joel murmured.

“Drugged?” you returned, “Yeah, that must suck.”

A set of wide, irate, and horrified eyes met yours. His mouth hung open in a stupid look of shock. Trying to piece the last bits of this fucked up jigsaw puzzle together and growing angrier by the second.

“You fuckin’—”

Joel’s words were cut short by the weight of your body barreling back over his. Graceless, you imagined, but still nothing close to something you cared about now. You planted your knees on either side of his ribs and grazed the tip of the six-shooter down the length of his nose.

“Tell me,” you said, “How’d you make it feel so good?”

Your hips twisted for effect, jostling the man’s own parts beneath yours and clearly causing some effect in him. The muscles in his jaw jumped up as he gritted his teeth.

“You know damn well, slut,” Joel griped.

Without another thought, you squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The man’s whole body lurched underneath you. Trembling with the realization that you’d left just one lone bullet for him—and he didn’t know which chamber.

As far as foreplay went, Russian Roulette was probably a first, even for a man as wanton and depraved as Joel. You smiled sweetly and made another gyration with your lower half, which prompted him to grip you. Tight.

“What? Ya want me to fuck you, is that it?” he growled.

“I thought it wouldn’t fit.”

“I’ll make it fit.”

“How?”

Try as you might to conceal it, your gaze likely betrayed a hint of sincerity as you made that last inquiry. Joel’s eyes flickered between yours, searching for something there, and just when those glossy brown irises had found it, they stopped. Blinked. He shook his head, incredulous.

“My mind ain’t…right,” he said, slowly, “But I— I know you know what I mean by that, sweet pea.”

Something in your tummy fluttered at the sound. You gripped the pistol tighter to get rid of the feeling.

“I don’t,” you answered.

Again, Joel was stumped. For the first time, though, there appeared to be some sympathy behind his eyes. Or stupidity. Or just a shit ton of morphine coursing through his veins as he tried to make sense of this situation.

As if to confirm an idea in his drug-addled brain, he lowered a hand between your legs and hovered there a second. He watched you; you watched back but didn’t move.

Then slowly, almost clinically, Joel slipped two fingers underneath you and found a soft, pulsing warmth—far wetter than the last time he’d touched down there. When he pulled his hand away, both fingers and half of his palm were glistening with a fluid. You let out a startled cry at the sight of it and nearly dropped your gun.

“What is that?!”

Joel looked to you, equally awed—for different reasons.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’s it all…sticky?”

You couldn’t even try to hide your horror at the thought of that weird, syrupy stuff leaking out of you. It was strange enough feeling it come out of a freak like Joel, but from your own body? He had to be fucking joking.

“It’s normal.”

“Like hell it is— you— STOP!” The last fragment of your sentence was swallowed by a scream, leaping back when Joel moved his fingers toward your face.

“What? You’ve never seen this?” He sounded like he was teasing. You could shoot him for how smug he sounded.

In very small amounts, you’d seen stuff. Blood every month. Bits and pieces of bodily secretions that, to you, had always seemed gross. But never this. Never big, sticky globs of…whatever the fuck this was. You continued to back away on the bed, gun still tipped toward Joel but now trying to put some distance between your bodies. You didn’t know how else to act.

You did know you wanted to scream when Joel stuck his fingers in his mouth. Bile might’ve jumped in your throat.

He sucked the dew clean off the digits, then wriggled them to show what he’d done. You felt the urge to vomit.

“That came from— from— why are you eating it?!”

Joel grinned. Big.

You weren’t sure why, but he looked psyched to be alive in that moment, and not just because of the narcotics.

Before you knew what was happening, he’d pushed you flat on your back, hips pinned underneath his hands as he moved over your body. He didn’t even try for the gun.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were just fuckin’ with me,” he chuckled, palms sliding under your nightdress. When you felt the residuum of wetness from his spit and your slick stuck together on his fingers, you wanted to squeal.

But you didn’t. You tried propping yourself up on elbows until Joel was sliding your one and only article of clothing over your head, then beckoning you down on the bed in front of him. You watched his gaze flit down to your side.

“Still hurt?” he murmured, tracing over the bandage.

You shook your head no, though it did, a little. At the moment, it seemed the pain was the furthest thing from your mind as you saw Joel slide down your body and try to take up residence between your thighs—with his face planted right there. You kicked his shoulder in protest.

“Quit!” you cried, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“You quit,” Joel returned, yanking them back.

Then you felt you had no choice but to brandish the gun, taking the thing between two palms while you pointed it again—as if he needed the reminder.

“Fine. Why don’t you keep that thing aimed at my head while I give you some?” he muttered. The subsequent ‘See if I give a shit’ was silent.

“Give me some what?”

“Head.”

Head. You’d never heard something phrased that way. Joel’s head was down there, sure, practically grinning from ear to ear as he hooked your legs over his shoulders, but certainly he didn’t mean to do a thing as drastic and dirty as—

“JOEL!”

“Hm?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.

You tried to shy away, but he held you down.

“Joel, I— I pee out of there,” you hissed, “Why the fuck would you wanna put your mouth on that?”

As if your groans of disgust and vehement attempts to get away weren’t enough to deter him, you watched Joel’s tongue dart between his lips and down to yours. The sick fuck was actually licking your folds, tracing the tip across that warm, sticky place and moaning into your skin. Holding you tighter when you pleaded for him to stop. Then, with the hand that wasn’t prying your legs apart, he reached down and started stroking his cock.

Again, it felt dirty and wrong. Beyond the fact that this man was a perfect stranger and easily decades your senior, you were repulsed by the sight of his lips and his tongue and his spit mixing up in that messy, wet place you still didn’t quite understand yourself. You didn’t know much about your body, but it had never once occurred to you to be kissed down there. Joel was roaming every contour and crevice with his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he liked it.

“I hate it,” you whined, feebly.

You knew you could’ve easily blown the man’s brains out, but some small part of you was still plagued by curiosity. ‘Hate’ was just the first word that came to mind when you were faced with something that made you scared.

“It’s weird,” you tried again. This time pressing the gun to the top of his bobbing head while you grit your teeth, “And wrong.”

At that, Joel stopped.

His eyes flickered to yours, all glass-like and hooded.

“Why? Practically lickin’ ya clean here,” he said, starting to grin to himself as his words came slightly slurred, “There’s nothin’ wrong about this, sweet pea.”

You felt something flutter between you. He felt it, too.

“Like when I call ya that? ‘Sweet pea’?” he said, pausing to flick his tongue over the spot that had just stirred at his words. He watched you fight back a whimper.

“No,” you choked. You pinched your eyes shut, unsure whether it was pleasure or pure revulsion overtaking you—or both.

Suddenly, you felt Joel’s hand smooth over your thigh, still warm from when he’d been stroking himself below. He placed an affectionate kiss to your belly and grinned.

“Is that what this is? Feel guilty about feelin’ this good?” he murmured, “Think it’s…dirty, what we’re doin’?”

At length, and just barely visible to him, you nodded.

“It is dirty,” you corrected him quietly.

Then you saw that stupid pseudo-sympathetic smirk tug at the corners of his lips, and just when you thought he might nudge his way back up your body—to do what, you weren’t sure—he sank between your legs. This time, he made sure to hold your gaze as he re-assumed the position. His palm continued to rub at your thigh, as if to distract you from the rough brush of his stubble or the fact that his mouth was hovering so dangerously close.

“Sweet pea,” he rasped, “Ain’t nothin’ dirty about this.”

As if to punctuate his words, Joel dragged his lips down your slit to press a kiss to your centre, eyes never leaving yours.

“Not here…”

He pointed with his tongue, moving it deftly between your folds. You gripped the sheets, trying to ignore the pleasure that the simple act wrought through your body.

“Not here.”

He kissed your clit. You squeezed even tighter.

“Not on my tongue, on my fingers, anywhere, y’hear?”

You were about to answer—maybe tell him he was supremely full of shit, then flash the gun in his face—when Joel shifted onto his knees on the bed. He moved slowly and as calm as he ever had, motions languid while his mind was likely steeped in the morphine by now. He snagged one of your ankles. He slid his hand up the back of your calf and tugged you down to the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, right between your legs. The warmth radiating from his bare lower half was immediate, almost suffocating from where you lay. You didn’t like it at all.

You refused to meet his gaze, grip tightening on the gun.

“Joel…”

When that warmth at your front shifted inward, though, you hardly had a say in what your reflexes did or didn’t do. You jumped when you felt the head of his dick slip past your pulsing core, closer to the other hole below it.

“Not here, either,” Joel continued, grin still evident from his tone.

Before you could even think to ask what he meant to do ‘here,’ Joel moved one of your legs up, tilting your hips, and pushed ahead with just the tip of his cock. Not breaching it fully, but nudging—prodding at that hole.

For the first time, you let out a moan.

You hastily clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle it.

“Aw, honey,” Joel murmured, “Did that feel good?”

His words reeked of condescension. You scowled at the ceiling.

“No.”

You felt him push a little further—this time making the head of his dick notch into that tight ring of muscles.

No, the word rang through your skull once more. Your curiosity was shortly supplanted by disgust—how the fuck could you let this creepy old man, this stranger, press into you like that? Talk to you like you were dumb? You seized hold of Joel’s pistol with both hands and aimed directly for his chest.

“Stop doing that,” you growled. When the man’s grip on your leg only tightened and you couldn’t writhe away, you lifted the other and tried kicking him in the gut. Of course, Joel caught your foot midair, and it never landed.

“Just givin’ ya options, darlin’,” he said, easy-going. Not seeming to care about the firearm pointed his way.

Fuck it.

You squeezed the trigger again.

Empty chamber.

If Joel flinched, you didn’t see it. He did, however, knock the gun right out of your hand the next second, sending it tumbling with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind you. You tried to leap back for it, but your arm was quickly pinned. Joel cocked one silver-flecked brow.

“You done?” he asked, almost bored.

Your last—and only—leverage taken away from you, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger. And desperation.

“I don’t wanna do this,” you cried, trying to squirm away.

Joel didn’t move his cock, but he did hold you still. Blinking with indifference and a fair bit of drug-induced dissociation, it seemed, from the far-away look in his eyes. He pushed both of your legs so they were folded up to your chest, and ignored your whimpers when he did. At length, he pulled out just enough to smear some of your wetness down to the hole he was trying to fuck.

“You want this,” he countered gently.

“I DON’T!”

Joel continued as though he hadn’t heard you, and moments later, you sensed another slick something pooling against you. From your position beneath him, you could see a bead of spit slip from Joel’s mouth and stretch into a thin, glistening string all the way down to the space between your thighs. You watched him rub the saliva in with his fingers, almost meticulous as he did it.

Then he eased his hips forward an inch, wedging himself back in your ass. He groaned when he felt resistance—and a sharp clench of your muscles.

“I can teach ya…show ya everything…there is to know.”

His words somehow made it out through ragged breaths. That broad, tan chest was heaving with every labored pull of his lungs, and you could tell he was feeling good.

You might’ve been able to say the same for yourself, were your mind not singly occupied by the desire to escape. Still at war with yourself, wondering how it would feel or what you might see that first time, all the while despising the man who seemed hell-bent on forcing it.

He might’ve saved your life, but there was no fucking way he’d get to use you like that and stay breathing.

You were raised better than that.

You could do better than anything this man had to offer.

You resolved to kill him as soon as the drugs knocked him out—just like you’d had planned from the second you woke up on the floor of his cabin that afternoon.

Of course being chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains for some well-meaning stranger to find you had always been part of your mother’s—and the rest of the Raiders’—grand plan. Having this stupid, horny sap take you into his home with the hope of claiming you as his own was just the icing on top.

Now you had a reason to kill Joel and steal all his shit.

At present, he fed another inch of himself inside you and grinned when you let out a startled cry.

“Atta girl,” he said, smirking, “Feelin’ okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Will do.”

Then, as if to prove a point, he bottomed out, sheathing his cock to the hilt in spite of your cries. Your hands fisted the sheets, and you tried to pull off. It didn’t work.

In fact, all it accomplished was giving Joel more room to thrust back into you. And pull out. And shove back in. The snap of his hips was like cruel and excruciating clockwork, completely unhindered by your words or your gestures or your pleas to stop fucking doing that Joel, it fucking hurts! If anything, the sounds of your censure only got him harder, and with it, made it that much easier to fuck you rougher. His eyes shone with pride.

“What’s’at, sweet pea?” he hummed, strokes coming into a steady pace.

“It’s too…big…doesn’t fit,” you whimpered.

In response, Joel glanced down to see the spot where your bodies were joined. He pushed even deeper.

“Yeah?” he said when you yelped, “I think it fits just fine.”

Motherfucker, you wanted to wail, but then your neck craned sideways—your mouth trying to find purchase in anything you might grit between your teeth—and the only thing that escaped your throat was a sob. You tried burying your face in the comforter, only for Joel to yank it back.

Cupping your chin and pinching both your cheeks in a single, punishing squeeze as he continued to fuck you, “What’s the matter, darlin’? Too much?”

You groaned and clenched your jaw, head jerking away.

Per usual, Joel was undeterred. Even smiled.

“My pretty girl need somethin’a bite, huh?” he hummed.

He probably knew you wouldn’t nod, so he went ahead and decided to oblige that one need he saw anyway. Snagging your nightie, Joel raised a hand to your face and proceeded to push the fabric inside your mouth.

Just as he started to lift his hips to deliver another thrust, he had to stop. A sudden, sharp ‘FUCK!’ left his mouth, then a groan, and his hand retreated fast.

You’d bitten him.

You were grinning just a little, and you’d bitten him.

Joel promptly slapped you across the face. If you weren’t so fucking amused by the sight of his bright red fingers, you just might’ve winced. Instead, the smile stayed on your lips, the slap barely registered, and, to your utmost disbelief, something else had just then started to form.

Pleasure, in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuckin’—” Joel snarled.

“Shit,” you finished, eyes rolling back.

You couldn’t help it. Joel was rutting into you relentlessly. That brief hand bite detour had only stoked the flames of his hatred—and arousal—and now he was practically splitting you in half with the force of his thrusts. He slapped you once more for good measure.

“Oh, that you fuckin’ like?” he seethed, cheeks flushed, “Can’t get off with my…tongue on your cunt, but a slap— and my cock buried deep in your ass gets the job done?”

“Uh-huh,” you answered softly. Mindlessly.

Really, there were no two people more fucked up than you in this moment, you thought. Joel growing harder with each desperate objection of yours, you going all soft and hot and bothered the second he slapped your face and fucked you rougher, and together, the two of you letting out grunts and moans of pleasure while the bed shook like an earthquake just shy of a 9.5 on the Richter scale. Were you not already planning to slit the man’s throat after all of this was over, you just might’ve wanted to marry this Joel M for how wonderfully he fucked you.

You let him know as much when you seized his forearms.

Bouncing into his thrusts, you bit your lip and finally met his gaze. Joel’s eyes were trained in somewhat of a daze, pupils all but swallowing his irises as he fucked you.

“Like being daddy’s little cocksleeve, huh?”

Only the sentence was slurred so bad you could scarcely make out half the words. You nodded just the same.

“Like it when he fucks you in the ass?” Joel panted.

You nodded again.

That pleasure in your belly had worked its way up to a full swell—and whatever it was, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it now. You gripped Joel’s arms even harder as his chest swayed into you, then sank further and further until your fronts were pressed flush to each other and your ankles were hooked tight around his back.

It almost felt intimate. That coarse, weathered, sweat-coated face spattered with patches of grey seemed to you nearly handsome as his lips hung limply in an ‘o.’

Joel’s cock dragged back and forth between your walls at this new, snug angle, and moans fell out of you both.

“Baby.” His voice was hoarse. Strained.

You couldn’t quite make sense of the expression above you, but there was an unmistakable, muted desperation lurking somewhere beneath it. Joel rutted into you quicker, balls leaving rapid smacks against your ass with every thrust. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were making fists in the sheets on either side of your head.

“Joel—”

“Jus’ lemme use you.”

Words so low they were barely audible as he panted.

“But—”

“Daddy’s…almost done, sweet pea. Just take it.”

You were surprised he’d had it within himself to be so soft. A peculiar sort of haze hung over his face, the pace of his hips picked up even more, and suddenly those plush pink lips were hovering a mere hair’s breadth away from yours. Mumbling. Rambling on and on about how wet you were, how perfect you fit him, how nice and sweet and tight your body felt as he fucked you stupid.

That sensation in your own stomach grew even stronger.

Unsure of what to do, you pressed a palm to his chest.

“Joel, I…I feel funny,” you whispered.

Joel hummed. Didn’t slow.

“I know.”

He knew?

“What’s it—ah, fuck.” Your words broke off in a whimper.

Instead of proffering a verbal response, Joel just slipped a touch between your bodies—thumbing sloppily between your folds to earn a couple more high-pitched moans. Your legs tightened around his middle.

“Joel, s-stop!”

It felt so good it almost hurt. He didn’t stop.

“S’just an orgasm, baby,” Joel panted, “You’re okay.”

And, in spite of his own impending climax and the effect of the drugs likely reaching a fever pitch inside him, Joel managed to slide his other hand beneath the back of your head. Cradled you to him while he fucked you into the bed and made you come unraveled with his touch. You tried to writhe away, but he was used to the drill by now—he just fucked you harder and rubbed you faster.

Whatever he wanted would come soon. You doubted there was anything you could do to stop it, but you tried.

Without thinking, you grabbed hold of the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck and yanked on them hard.

“Joel, I can’t— I can’t,” you keened.

The hand at the back of your head held you firm.

“You can,” Joel returned, tough but surprisingly calm, “Give it to daddy, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”

What exactly ‘it’ was was still unclear. You just knew you felt good and warm and full—about ready to burst. When you felt tempted to give his hair another tug, Joel’s eyes met yours, and they were soft. Insistent, still, but soft.

Dilated as all hell and probably swimming in clouds of a delirious, bleary haze, but always soft. Almost tender.

“Be a good girl and give it to daddy,” Joel slurred, slow, “C’mon, sweet pea…cum for daddy, please.”

For the first time in that short, rough, utterly deranged time you had known this man, he was begging you. Pleading with you, now, as his body grew overwrought with pleasure and just needed release. You needed it, too, not even knowing how you would get it, but the force of his thrusts, the warmth of his body, the look in those warm, bare, powerless eyes—you fucking loved whatever it was that could make a man like that so weak.

You had to strike while the iron was hot. You slid back.

Joel didn’t notice, too focused on your face and the feel of your body to see when you’d reached for the gun.

Just as you took hold of it, a jolt of pleasure tore through you. Your heels dug into his back, and you nearly lost control of the pistol. Joel groaned in your mouth, begged you once again to cum all over this cock, make a fuckin’ mess of it, baby, please, and you could only whine, grip the metal tighter, and raise it slowly to the side of his head while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

The peak of your pleasure had come into view. You felt it.

You nudged the muzzle through those soft, slick, salt-and-pepper shaded tufts of hair near the edge of his temple right when the first throes of euphoria seized you.

“FUCK!”

You squeezed the trigger.

#NEED DARK!JOEL TO TAKE ME TO HIS PENTHOUSE AND FREAK ME IN WAYS UNIVERSALLY CONDEMNED BY POSTMODERN FEMINISM #IT'S SOOOOO BAD Y'ALL #this might be too niche but i hope at least one person enjoys LOL #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller x you #dark!joel

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imreadng · 2 months ago

Text

simon was able to leave the base early. you didn't know. — hurt / comfort . tw depression

20:38. 2 days before the date of his expected arrival.

ghost had been on a long deployment. it was one where he had to limit contact with you as much as he possibly can. during the time period, he had only managed to call you twice, where the first one was him letting you know that he had safely arrived at base. there was nothing else after that — no calls, text messages, nor voicemails sent to your phone. nothing else... until nearly a week ago when he shared the date for when he would be coming back home.

this wasn’t the first time ghost had gone on deployment where contact is restricted. it was a common occurrence, and the both of you doubt that this one would be the last of its kind. despite the hardships, the loneliness, and the uncertainty of it all, the two of you persist. having to endure the difficult days alone is nothing if it means being able to hold each other at the end.

as ghost stands in front of the apartment door, he feels a slight tug at his chest, and a pit starts forming in his stomach. he couldn’t give a name to what he was feeling. was it apprehension?

he did forget to tell you that he would be coming back early. once he got the permissions needed to leave the base, he was swift in gathering his items to shove in his duffle bag. when the thought came, his phone’s battery had already died, and he was just a few steps away from boarding the plane. he could only hope that you wouldn’t mind his quick arrival too much.

ghost turns on the overhead light of the dark foyer. it was action that did nothing but deepen the pit that threatened to turn his blood cold. as he drops his bag to the floor with a grunt, his gaze wander to the shoes that sit on the racks. you should be here, and yet the whole damn apartment is pitch black.

he pushes down the growl from within his throat. with his heavy boots still on, he trudges to the living room. a part of him wishes that you would be around the corner to scold him for getting dirt all over the place. instead, he was greeted by the mess of blankets and pillows on the sofa.

you’re not here.

he makes his way to the kitchen, his movements precise and deliberate. he flips the switch and finds himself staring at the dirty dishes that pile in the sink. by now, his brows have already furrowed, and he fights the urge to clench his jaw.

you’re not here either.

he passes by the bathroom door, but no light can be seen through the gaps. his mask starts to feel a little too tight, as if it’s restricting him from breathing in the oxygen in the air. he makes quick work of taking the bloody thing off his head and his sweat goes to smear across his forehead.

there is one last place he hadn’t checked.

the door to the bedroom slowly creaks open. the room is softly illuminated by the glow of the moon that seeps through the window curtains. his eyes move to focus on the lump that lay on the bed, and his breath shudders.

simon calls out your name. his hoarse voice cut through the excruciating silence that dares to suffocate him in each passing second. it was a sound so raw, so vulnerable, he might as well set his heart out with both of his hands.

he watches as the bundle shrinks in on itself, burrowing further into the mattress. the action, although minuscule, brings him slight relief. with calculated steps, he walks across the clutter on the floor, where he would soon reach the bed. the soft breaths he heard gave a sense of tranquility, but the deep sigh that followed not long after carried a weight to it that can only be described as exhaustion.

glimpses of the past flash through his mind — glimpses of the routine you both have settled into. he is reminded of the times you would wait for him in the living room so that when the door opens, you can run towards his hulking frame with your kind smile. the house would be clear of any mess, and you would feed him your meals made with all the love and care you have for him. laughter would echo in the room as he cuts off a piece you have unknowingly burnt.

“i swear i can cook better than this!” you'd exclaim, and he would shake his head, refusing to pull a stupid grin at the predicament despite the chuckles he disguised through gruff coughs. he wasn't being smooth at all.

“sure you can, lovie,” simon would reply, and the face you give him out of annoyance would make his eyes soften just the tiniest bit. “never doubted y’r skills, and will never do.”

was there something he wasn't aware of? him? someone who was supposed to be attentive to all of your needs? he has to stop his arms from tensing, the muscles pulsing with the burning urge to release the anger he has for himself, the disappointment. he should’ve been there for you, and he doesn’t know how, but he should’ve.

when his eyes go back to focus on your form, all was silent yet again. there was no more of the reprimanding, no more of the questioning. in the end, you remain unmoving within the sheets of the bed. he wants to touch you, to feel the fight inside of you.

“didn’t know you’d be home early.”

a weak voice mumbles out from under the covers. for a moment, simon could only stand beside the bed, refusing to move a muscle. it’s unusual for him to hesitate at any situation, especially when he works such a dangerous job that a single pause could either mean life or death. when it comes to you, he discovers that he falters at the smallest uncertainty. hurting you is the last thing he would ever want to do.

simon lowers himself on the edge of the mattress as you clutch the blanket wrapping you with clenched fists. you’re so close yet so far. he allows himself to rest, to take in the sight of you in front of him. with a careful hand, he reaches out for your warmth, longing to feel your touch. when you start to stir in the sheets, he pulls away and tries his best to ignore the ache coming back in his chest.

you push yourself up to sit on the bed with your gaze away from his. there was a growing tension in the air, one that’s keeping the two of you from uttering a word. for once, he couldn’t tell what you were thinking, even more so what you were feeling. if there’s one thing that he knows, it’s that the look in your eyes is making his stomach want to give in.

“i’ll clean the place,” you whispered from underneath your breath. it was barely audible, but simon was able to catch each and every word.

“just…” you pause, and he tilts his head up to get a better look at you. “just let me sleep for a few more minutes.”

your heavy eyelids flutter as it battles with fatigue. another sigh escape your lips. before you could slide back down to hide under the covers, simon wraps his strong arms around your body and — in one swift motion — pulls you onto his lap.

if you hadn’t been all worn out, you would’ve gasped at the sudden change in your position. you don’t even remember what you did today that could make you so tired. did you even do anything at all during the past month? and yet you’re here, unable to leave the bed.

you push at simon’s chest as a weak attempt to protest. he brings you closer to him, and you want to shake your head for how gentle he has been. you don’t deserve this, you think. you couldn't even give him a proper welcome home with the usual dinner meals and a clean house. he does so much and all you had to do was the bare minimum. you wish you could hide yourself so he wouldn’t have to see you in such a state. if he can’t see you, he wouldn’t be able to comfort you. he wouldn’t be able to hold you with his soothing touch.

“‘s okay. no need t’ worry ‘bout tha’, sweet’art.”

the deep rumbling in his chest sends a shiver down your spine. the close proximity doesn’t help, with how his words practically vibrated through your entire being. you want to tell him that no. it’s not okay. everything’s not okay. but then he coos at you, as though he’s lulling the persistent noise in your head to go take its slumber.

your eyes start to feel warm. soon, it stings. the next thing you know, there’s tears falling down your cheeks in wet streaks. a hand goes up to caress your hair, and you could only choke out sobs in response. you shut your eyes close and desperately cling onto simon’s clothes for any semblance of stability.

“im sorry, sorry, ‘m sorry—” you stammer with shuddered breaths. you try sucking in a large amount of air, but it leaves you coughing for dear life instead. simon’s free hand goes to rub at your back, and you could vaguely hear him telling you “none o’ tha’, lovie. none o’ tha’.” his lips meet your forehead and he murmurs against your skin with a “breathe f’me, sweet’art. c’mon.”

you wheeze and you hiccup and god, its so hard. keeping your consciousness is a strenuous task when the air won’t even enter your lungs. it nearly makes you panic, but simon… oh simon. he’s so good to you. he doesn’t let you go, no matter how much you squirm and whimper in obvious distress.

it wasn’t easy trying to breathe, but you do it anyway. through the struggle, you quiver with trembling gasps, and you fight the urge to choke on your own tears. simon, in spite of his rough fingers, strokes the hair away from your face in a way so soft, it’s as if he’s handling delicate porcelain. it was a touch that whispered his utter devotion, his promises of protecting you.

the desire to push him away becomes a faint memory. it was one you’d cease to remember as you lay limp in simon’s embrace, completely exhausted. you can feel the throbbing pulse in your heart slowing down, and for once, it doesn’t feel as heavy.

simon lightly brushes a hand below your arm, trailing against the skin until it reaches your fingers. he intertwined them with his, a grasp that’s tight yet tender all the same, a hold that tells you he’s never letting you go. he rests your head on top of his chest and hugs you closer to him, lowering the two of you so that you’re both laying in bed. it’s warm, comfortable, and you almost doze off to the gentle rise and fall of his body.

“don’t ya worry ‘bout anythin’ right now,” simon hums, and your eyelids droop to the sound of his gruff voice. his grounding presence puts you at ease and finally, you can sleep with only the weight of simon’s palm on your back. with him, you are reminded that life still has its good bits. because even if simon may never consider himself as someone who is good, he is a good man to you.

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