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samodivaa · 1 year ago

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Thrill me, Fulfill me

You agreed to help for one mission—now you are both lustful and carnal, affected by sex pollen—you are flint, he is tinder.

Warnings - sex pollen, smut, rough/possessive sex, Hydra past, breeding kink, choking kink, multiple orgasms

Words - 8k

(the 3D render is for this fic, enjoy :3)

The horizon tips on its side, and slowly, hour by hour, the day spills out and soon the night will spread its darkness—traveling through the countryside is a charming escape and in a chronicle of events, with the light of the days—you feel the light inside too, your human spirit wanders in thoughts as you sit on the BMW’s trunk with closed eyes. It is June, and the world smells of roses, moments like these leave a rich heritage of beautiful memories in their going—in a fortunate combination of delightful weather, Bucky and freedom—your soul feels at peace.

“I talked with Sam, he wants me to help him” There is an endearing nervousness in his voice “I was wondering if you would like to come with us”

In an instant, you reply with an annoyed face “No”

“No? Come on, you need people other than me in your life”

He scolds as he nests between your legs, fingers finding their way on both sides of your hips, drawing soft circles as they travel up towards your waist.

You arch an eyebrow at him, as if the answer is obvious “I don’t need others”

“You will love Sam, I told him about us, I mean-about us living together”

“You did, why?” you clip your words, hissing them into his face as you give a wide-eyed, searching look.

“I used to invite him over to my apartment, he started wondering why I stopped. I wanted him to know anyways”

“What else did you tell him?” you look at him with an arrested expression. His smile fades, and he finds himself staring into your eyes “James?”

It is only a brief moment, but you catch his blink of surprise at your demanding tone before he offers a tentative smile.

“I-I told him about your connections and he was hoping that-” he trails off quietly and you notice a tightness around his mouth and a dimness to his usually bright eyes.

You regard him thoughtfully and he sees the comprehension dawning in your eyes. You know exactly what he is asking.

“Did you miss the part of how I built them?” you ask, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

He huffs in annoyance “Well no, but don’t worry-”

“Oh, hey Sam, I am another brainwashed assassin and when I escaped I did it willingly, for money, nice to meet you by the way”

“I get it, but you are changi-”

You snap, pinching your eyebrows close together.

“And this is my former partner who I used to occasionally fuck at Hydra and now that we have reconnected, we are fucking and living together”

“Anything else you want to add?”

“No, that's all” you finish bitterly, furious with him for letting Sam know so much about you.

“He already met you once in Madripoor, he knows about your past. Trust me, he is a good person, he accepted me”

You let out a hollow laugh

“I am not Captain America’s best friend, James. I am nobody, I don’t even have a legal identity”

You explain in a humorous yet deprecating tone, staring into space.

“Look at me, you need to trust me” he coos, his blue eyes have a doorway to your heart, the place where his care for you resides “I know that you are scared, but you need other people in your life”

It's the caring that he lovingly gives, the passion that he shows—that convinces you every time.

“If I break your heart, I break mine, darling”

Shifting your mouth from a frown into a light-hearted smile, you let out a small chuckle from underneath your breath. His metal hand rests on the small of your back, in that sweet spot that makes you feel feminine and protected—vanity, fear, uncertainty—all such distortions within your own ego—condition you to stay silent about your own feelings. Your programmed mind-pattern still needs to heal, all you need is time, you will get there eventually.

You kiss him on the cheek, which kind of surprises him.

“Хубаво, ще дойда” (Okay, I will come)

His gaze flickers up to your eyes and he can detect no deceit, no mockery.

There are many circumstances that lead to arrogance: one is when you're wrong and you can't face it—but you decide to face it this time, because you know that your brain relies on the familiar. It is reluctant to experience the unknown, which is the very essence of your human life.

The past should have no power over the present, but it still does sometimes—anger and death are deeply rooted, your emotional thermostat is broken. Everything in you is broken—you view yourself as pieces and Bucky somehow sees you as a whole.

Inside, your soul was so cold that you hated everything. You even despised the sun, for you knew you would never be able to play in its warm presence—you were condemned to stick to the past, working as a hitman for years. Everything changed when Bucky decided to track you down. You knew he was spying on you, because you made it easier for him.

You were afraid of the aloneness that you trusted for so long, but that is the truth that you still store in the granary of your mind. Maybe you will tell him one day. Maybe one day you will let him know that he helps you abandon your corporeal prison.

"Я просто люблю запах страха" (I just love the smell of fear) you whisper—a knife-wielding lunatic.

You face the attackers in a kind of instantaneous flash and see the disconsolate eyes, which remain stamped on your heart like the hot coals of fear, the power of death is then borne out by you—the queen at the bloody carnival, not afraid to spill blood while Bucky tries to prevent hurting, killing people at all cost.

It is easy when you work together, just as in the past—but he is holding back, you are not used to seeing him fight so carefully—Winter’s brutality is non-existent.

You sigh as the last man drops dead to the ground. With a knife in his chest. Or, rather, a pair of knives in the chest.

Yes, you helped them locate the rumored Hydra base, but Bucky’s intense paleness on his face shows regret, because you still don’t mind killing—you give him a pitying smile when your eyes meet before your system is poisoned with something.

It is such a tumultuous and intemperate invasion that you forget why you are here. And then your eyes meet again, there is fascination in his gaze, menaced by some invisible danger, and you want to succumb the terrible desire to weep when you realize what it is and you look at the mysterious trembling of your hands—your gaze goes up, but Bucky is nowhere to be seen.

He knows he has to go somewhere, he heads back to the apartment and he has feelings of sorrow, regret, directionless rage, a broad feeling of impotence. The horror of this misfortune penetrates Bucky so deeply that he is close to a panic attack—as if reliving the nightmare he sometimes has—Hydra giving him the pollen back in 1990.

He wanders all through the rooms as if walking in his sleep, chewing on his quiet rage.

He knows the theoretical mechanics of the pollen and he can barely stay on his feet because of the weakness of his knees, his skin is burning and he can’t resist the urgent need to palm himself through his pants—it starts slow and will go progressively worse.

He rubs his hand over his scalp, where his long hair used to be—now shaved very close to his head and bristling against his fingers, he lowers his blue eerily crystalline eyes before closing them. He feels like he should be crying, but he couldn’t summon the tears.

—it’s all his fault. Why did he need to come to your apartment a year ago, on a beautiful August’s evening?

„I knеw that we were following me, Soldat,“ you loudly acknowledge him, drawing out the derogatory term while your back is turned to him.

Stillness wraps Bucky up in a cold embrace, a chill running down his body as he hears you speak. On the string spun of your angel voice, grief and pain drowns him. The tone drawn from memory in his dreams it’s the same, unblinking, robotic as you offer him one spare look before focusing on cutting vegetables on the wooden board.

He exhales, then he slowly enters the apartment. „It is not Soldat, it’s Sergeant now�� his breath hitches and he stops as soon as he enters the room.

There is a crack in his stoic expression, excruciating memories flooding his mind. He knew that somewhere, some day, maybe at a less miserable time, you may see each other again, but he couldn't wait any longer.

The memories are still in his mind and the pain—too ripe in his heart. The more deeply he felt, the less he was able to breath, thinking of grief, and of getting past it.

That's why he came. He needs you in more ways that he wants to confess.

„Oh? What do you want, Barnes?“ your face is carefully blank.

„I wanted to talk to you“ he starts, taking a couple of steps towards.

Shadows lick up the side of his cheekbones, making his skin gold as he slowly walks to the opposite side of the kitchen island, you hear him move the wooden seating.

„And you couldn’t just-I don’t know…have knocked on the door?“

„Sorry, I didn’t know how to-“

He says, a tremor makes his voice uneven. Bucky takes in a deep breath to balance out the embarrassment thrumming through him.

„It is easier to be loyal to past habits, can’t blame you“ you murmur, voice perfectly respectful as you think about it with a heavy heart.

You said it as a matter of fact, without the scorn and mockery, but as an accepted truth before placing the knife you have been using, on the cutting board and finally facing him completely as you step closer to the island as well, leaning forward on your elbows.

But the wintery feeling of the pollen is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring that summer's memory of meeting you.

The memory played in his head, with a hopeless nostalgia that he was completely disoriented—he doesn't care if you are heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid, grasping with incurable programming and mental problems, he enjoys spending time with you. He would rather have misery with you than happiness with any other person, because it is shared, you have a deep and silent understanding.

He was so happy when you suggested living together four months ago—he was okay with the sleepovers at each other's apartments—never was bothered with the need to rush your companionship.

The key to personal development lies in the daily routine—creating new memories with you stretches out psychological time, and lengthens his perception of both your and Bucky’s lives. When he wakes up from a nightmare he is so relieved, because he wakes to a dream, he enjoys the miracle of living with each other as much at the table as in bed.

Bucky finally lays on the bed, his head aches. He admits that he is still human, vulnerable, and sensitive—but he begins to remember how it had been when Hydra gave him the pollen and his self revolted at this, hates himself for not being able to fight it, hates himself for bringing you here.

He is sick with conflict, destructive emotions festeres in him while this sludge eats away at his insides and Bucky is acutely conscious of the swift passage of time, it will make him become blunt and callous—there is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get for him, but maybe this is what he deserves.

When you push open the bedroom door, you can’t prevent it from scraping against the uneven floor. Suddenly, in the absolute darkness of his mind, Bucky is brought back to reality. He is not surprised, for without knowing, he has been expecting you to come.

You close the door behind you as he stands up on his elbows—wondering why are you such a stubborn, blind, obtuse woman—why are you here?

Your scent carries across the room and paralyzes him with longing.

“Stay away, why did you fucking follow me?”

You stop in shock at the words he utters—they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless.

He is vulnerable, slightly paranoid. Although his voice is broken by uncertainty and his hands seem to doubt the existence of things—he tries to appear composed.

You can feel his eyes traveling up your whole body, staying on your side for a split second before moving up to meet your gaze.

“James, we don’t have another choice, we don’t have time”

You can't blame him—he is scared, scared and frozen, afraid of what he can do to you...the old primitive urge for sex. It's getting harder to control it with every passing minute—every second is lived with terrible intensity. It all flows over you with a screaming ache of pain—as you see him, the need grows even faster...and all you can do is remember and feel—the effects of the pollen—like a disease of the blood, dispersing throughout the body.

He looks like a bundle of past recollections, knotted up in a bundle of flesh.You remember what his flesh has gone through—but you also remember what he put you through that day. You feel the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation, you appear solid in front of him, but you are mimicking nothingness.

“God, I smell you. So hot and sweet”

The blank hell in the back of his mind starts to break through, spewing forth like a dark pestilence, the pollen eats away the pith of his humanity—the chaotic words pour out of his mouth as he gets up from the bed and you self-paralyze, your back hits the door—but this is the only way that will pull you both out of the plunge of—pain, need.

Your sexual attraction to him has been heightened beyond measure, as much as you try to bury it deep down in fear, the lust is getting greater than any other feeling or emotion. Every part of him is heightened to you now...his voice included.

He stops in front of you, belatedly realizing where his feet have carried him. There is no glamor, no attempt to hide it, nothing: his need taking slowly over all his senses. The unwelcomed bubble of intrusive lust, sinking into an even more heavily occluded state—you feel it too as he molds his front to yours and pins your breasts against his chest.

You are mesmerized by the tiny flecks of indigo in his blue eyes—you can drown in those eyes and it wouldn’t be the worst way to go. His beautiful features offer themselves to your gaze as you trail through them, annoyed at how attractive he looks—putting your mind into a darker cloud of irritation, waiting for him to do whatever he wants.

You feel stuffy, there is not enough air to breathe as he cages you against the door, his consciousness already vanishing and deforms itself in something primal, there is a delicious animal fire in his gaze.

“I want to taste you so desperately, it rages through me-fuck, fuck this-I want to fuck you”

His eyes are growing moist with indignation, with angry impotence, he is barely controlling himself. It is the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning— it’s hard—but not harder than his cock.

“Do it, come on” you gasp out.

“If you don’t get out of here, you know what will happen”

He explains weakly, and when you say nothing, he grabs your waist with both hands, vision already blurring. His bones fill up with foam, a languid fear, and a terrible desire.

Bucky’s control dies a slow death, shedding layers like leaves until—there will be none—he tends to be particularly rough, aggressive and possessive when given the pollen. You remember the feeling of possessiveness he had as the Winter Soldier over you, so intense it transformed into an obsession over your body.

“I'm not leaving, I need this as much as you” you say, tremulous with longing.

Bucky stares at your mouth as you speak—it looks provocative to him when you talk.

“Enough, dammit, leave”

His voice tightens, it pierces your soul—half agony, half lust.

You still have the choice of running away and finding someone else to do it, but leaving Bucky behind—you know there is not a girl in the world that can handle him, no one else has the serum, but you—your brain is ricocheting in between. It all drifts to the periphery of the mind when you meet Bucky’s eyes.

“It’s normal-” you say haltingly, your expression turns guarded.

He is livid, a sad look on his face

“We are not normal” he interrupts with a soft firmness “It’s insane to pretend we are”

You are both aware. Catastrophically aware.

“Stop talking, we’ve been through that once-”

and you look so well-equipped for this that is seems abnormal to Bucky, he is conquered by the obstinacy of you—so docile and willing to help—he wants to be emancipated for the moment from the torment of the pollen, but the guilt is still eating him.

“Do you remember the year it happened?”

"You always ask me whether I remember the stupid years, lets just-” you say with a shrug.

"It matters, it matters to me. I hate that you remember, I hate myself for what I've done to you” He explains, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with his human hand.

"James” you whisper his name tremulously “I don’t blame you for anything”

His pain is paramount and you want it to end. His pain, his guilt. You are willing to suffer for the rest of your night so that he can take the easy way out of his needs. You admit it to yourself, without bitterness—you need to sacrifice dearly on behalf of Bucky.

“I’ll lose control” What you cannot forgive is dishonesty—you would rather know the hideously unflattering truth of his devastating visions than foul evasions “If you try to run now, I will probably chase you down anyways”

With all that waiting you have lost the strength of your legs, the firmness of your breasts, your tenderness look—barely keeping your heart intact. Maddened by that prodigious talking, you shamelessly groan, closing your eyes.

“This is bad,” you whimper “Oh God, this is bad. Please, do something”

The next critical manifestation: the unbearable pain.

“Snezinka-” (snowflake)

“Stay with me” your eyes shone “Play with me, please” like those of a cat.

In that state of hallucinated lucidity—you just can’t take it anymore. Presently the need grows stronger, hesitating then no longer. The attempts to conceal the pollen’s effects don't work anymore.

“At least…give me permission this time” Bucky shakes his head, sadness vibrating through his body as he speaks through clenched teeth.

“Yes, do whatever you want” you moan, shaking, desperate for his touch.

And then you see something possessive wash over him, making your body shiver in anticipation.

“Please, I need yo-”

You say, nodding at the soul-reaching blue crystals, not looking away from him, but Bucky doesn’t let you finish as he kisses you. His lips are warm, his body is heat and muscles against you. He kisses you like a tide, gentle at first, but with the ability to drown, his fingers digging into your waist, urging you ever-nearer to him, even when it’s physically impossible to be. Then his fingers slithers over your chest, hands immediately find your breasts and he starts to massage them for his own pleasure.

His fingers curl around the edges of your soaked blood shirt, pulling and eventually tearing it away from your skin.

There is lust and there is pain, a whirling wheel—not stopping.

He wastes no time, kissing you deeply again, already missing the feeling of your skin.

“I am yours, you know that”

A simple reply, his voice cut into you like glass, his words bleeding into your skin. It isn’t something to be argued against, it’s the truth and you acknowledge that. It’s ridiculous, absurdly sentimental to think that you managed to lay a claim on him like you did in the past.

You are trying to think of something, coming up short when he presses his hips flush against yours again, the chest harness wrinkling under the tight grip of your fists, pulling him and he hems you up against the door, grinding his cock against you. You slide one hand downwards, wrapping around his hard manhood and squeeze, Bucky moans quietly and involuntarily rolls into the contact, desperately seeking relief.

“Fuck” he says, a bit too breathlessly.

„James-this is not enough“ you undulate your hips against the aching bulge.

His name falling on his ears like that sent chills down his spine, he can hear the beat of his heart, his palms belong on your skin as he closes the gap between you. Nothing is sweeter, nothing else than you—lust is spreading like quickfire in his veins, groaning in the kiss.

“I know, I know” he whispers, a hint of exasperation and affront in his tone, leaning forwards to kiss you yet again, teasingly licking at your lips as he pulls away.

Sexual perversions mix with guilt and adrenaline as his mind sees in scattered images of varying vulgarity. Bucky grips your waist and lifts you off the ground with ease, dropping you softly on the luxurious white linen bed.

You lick your lips, trying to quench the thirst for him. Your throat is dry as you watch him between your spread legs—his belt clattering noisily as he unbuckles it, popping the buttons of his jeans open, followed by the low purr of his zipper coming undone, he drifts his hands down his sides and hooks both thumbs into his jeans, sliding them and the boxers down his legs. The corners of his mouth curve upward when he notices you staring a moment too long as he removes his jacket and shirt.

You remove your own pants and then you spread your legs open, positioned right in front of his standing body—one hand toys with your breast through the bra while the fingers of the other hook in your panties and drags them down your legs fast before throwing them in his direction.

His breath stutters as he catches them with his metal arm, becoming more and more aroused with every beat of his heart that runs down his shaft. It’s becoming more painful. He starts to pump his cock, the veins bulging beneath his grip—even in his large hand, it looks intimidating, the veins in his neck tightening.

He’s quite tall with broad shoulders and an athletic physique that even his leather jacket cannot hide. Your eyes continue their upward travel to his strong square-shaped face framed with short brown hair that falls to his shoulders and deep, blue eyes.

He then craws on top of you and he cannot articulate a word, capable only of an animal sound, a strangulated wheeze that shocks him deeply, enraging him, this sudden loss of the faculty of speech that feels somehow bestial and forgotten now.

It is the impatience of the way he tears your bra from your body that really scares you: the pollen getting the better of him and you spread your legs wide, exposing your overall and the fragrance of the essences permits in the air, he smells it.

His cock nudges around your sleek mound until he gasps as he guides his sticky cockhead glides through your delicate folds. He doesn’t say anything as he slips inside you, burying himself to the hilt.

Sex with you this time is different, he has never felt this dominant, this claiming, this selfish. He is so far in that his balls are right against your pussy lips.

His greedy lips are once again on your skin, devouring everything he can—licking, sucking, and kissing, not holding back his throaty moans. He drags his lips up your throat, along your jaw, back toward your mouth. His lips are usually gentle and loving, promising long days and summer forever—but they soon turn sharp, peppermint, winter.

Animal logic. Prey. Predator… teeth dragging against your neck, living marks. The primal lust, the sheer need to claim you, quickly finding ways to express his sacred hunger to you in animal passion. He snarls out gluttonous groans against your skin as you clench and seize, pounding you harder as your body contracts. Pleasure breaks out like a wildfire, reaching around your temples; shooting up and down your spine.

You're perfect when you're underneath him, it's where you belong, beautiful face and pretty wide eyes locked onto his powder-blue orbits—curves cushioning him, your obedient body lush, muscular, but still feminine, your eyes flashing—and all he wants is to ruin you.

It's a sinful sight each time he buries the length of his cock all the way inside you, shaft slick and wet and glistening when he pulls it out. You make the prettiest noises when he shoves in deep only to pull out and slam himself back inside, you've got the prettiest expression as he grips your legs and folds them up to fuck his dick into you even harder than before.

“Don’t stop, don’t, please”

There is something raw and pleading in your voice that surpasses sexual desire, these fleeting moments of carnal craving.

He continues to trail his lips down the front of your throat and you realize that he is mouthing words against your skin “Mine. Mine. Mine”

“You feel so good every time, snezinka” he murmurs at your ear as slide to your throat and he tightens his grip on both sides on your neck, reducing the blood and oxygen to the brain. When he loosens, the rush of blood and oxygen to the brain results in an explosion of dopamine, followed by a shamelessly loud moan from your lips “I think that I love you”

“We’re drugged. That’s why,” you gaspe “Did you forget?”

Bucky acknowledges your words, they sink into him—he focuses his attention on your skin. He nibbles at your earlobe, loving the sharp intake of your breath, skin breaks out into a pale sweat and your eyes fill with tears. His trusts are ruthless.

“There is no pleasure as good as the feel of your pretty cunt wrapped around me” a dark edge creeps into his tone.

He says as he fills out pounds you, drawing a muffled scream from your throat as he starts to thrust more rapidly, setting a demanding rhythm.

Something strange starts to rage inside him, hearing you inhale sharply as he continues to kiss and bite your neck, leaving bruises deliberately and as he fucks you deeper, wanting to mark you in an entirely different way—he wants to breed you.

And you know you will wear the bruises of Bucky’s hands as you wear the scars of Soldat.

All extremes of the pollen are allied with madness, finally consuming his brain and body.

“You are so beautiful”

He says into your skin, tears welling, confused, mingling in his throat. Old wounds never truly heal, your past will never fully heal anyways. That one tear, that tiny, salty, droplet of moisture is a means of expression—joy, and torment. Although it's just a small tear, it is the heaviest thing in the world. And it doesn't do a damn thing to fix anything in this situation.

“James-” your whole body exhaled a lugubrious lament, your heart breaks for him.

His eyes are always soulful, in some way; they seem to say things that you know he's probably never say out loud.

“I know baby, I know,” he nibbles on the side of your neck “You are so beautiful, I am sorry-so sorry, I can’t stop” his growls erupt from his chest, the primal noise flooding your senses, making your insides clench around his length “I need this, I need you”

You’re powerless…utterly at his mercy and that’s what makes you cum—his voice sends shudders through your body, reacting in all the right ways to the words. The orgasm has gutted your vocal chords, and all you manage is a small gasp, tears slipping down the old salty trails as he doesn’t stop, his head lulling on your shoulder.

He leans down, nose brushing against yours as he pants, thrusts never faltering, his mouth hangs open with bliss, his cock plunging into you with skin-slapping speed and he finally reaches his orgasm, cock spurting a thick dollop of cum with each throb. He closes his eyes, because of the volcanic eruptions of fever still goes through his body—his orgasm is long, raw, reaching all his body senses.

Sex is unthinkable without roughness tonight—he is already thinking about his second orgasm—should he just cum in your mouth when he makes you fall to your knees… or if he should take you by the hair before he’s finished and fuck you into a sobbing heap before blowing his load. Of the few times Soldat has face fucked you—gagging you to near vomiting—you’ve never miss a drop of cum. He remembers it.

His hand closes around your throat and the grip tightens, slowly cutting into your skin while cutting off oxygen. It is more painful than lethal, but more erotic than painful. Your head is spinning, ears are ringing—suddenly, without warning, he withdraws completely, leaving you coughing and gasping for air. As you try to catch your breath, you feel him get up from the bed which urges you to come back to your senses faster.

In his temporary madness, an idea comes to his mind.

In seconds, he is back on top and when your vision finally clears—his lusty orbs descend to your cheeks, detailing your skin before leaning in to lick off your tears—some form of mercy which you don’t need.

He is now in that state of fire that excites you. You want to be burnt.

His eyes drift leisurely back up to your face and he smiles, nova-flare eyes blazing into your own—you look for love hiding in his eyes, in his face, and you find nothing but possessiveness.

But something is not right.

His eyes are cold and dark.And your heart stops.

He is taking you over. Staking a claim.

He slowly thrusts his hips forward, his cock pressing into your front, earning a squeal from you as he ruts back and forth dragging his length across your opening and then slowly plunges into you. You exhale, trembling as you feel the tip pressing against your opening and penetrating you. He is mesmerized by the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you, filling you up to the brim.

Bucky brings both of your wrists above your head and grips them in his metal arm, restraining you from moving them—and you tremble like a downy rabbit caught in the clutches of a wolf—he seizes you as boldly as Soldat used to capture his favorite prey—you—in the past.

A flash blinds you for a moment and you see him holding his phone—this feels surreal—leaving you breathless with an inexpressible delight of it. Bucky’s inner voice of lust speaks, it is so spontaneous and unannounced. Your mind searches for the logical thought of his action.

“Fuck, I can cum just by looking at it” He musters his primest tone, throwing the device to the side.

You whimper as your abdomen contracted painfully around his hard length at his words. He lets his fingers release your hands as his cold digits swipes back the hair from your face. Cursing, he grips the back of your neck and brings your lips to his while the metal ones grip your hip so tightly you are sure he’d leave a bruise. You whimper as he starts to fuck you, slamming you into the matress.

The usual warmth of his hands is not there. They chill your skin as they hold you close to his body, and you realize he is scared. The extreme joy mixes with the bone-crushing grief—what if you don’t want to be around him after this night? What if you condemn him, consider it with high and unjust resentment and leave him? It pierces his soul, but he can’t stop—he is half agony, half animal...the past beats inside like a second heart now.

Your soft fingers trail his face and continue to attempt a connection that he refuses to acknowledge at first—the past slips and vanishes like sand between the warm touch of your fingers, acquiring material weight, only in its recollection, because the more shared past there is in any relationship, the more present you need to be for each other.

“Let go," you whisper and he loosens the grips—he is ashamed of holding you so tightly "No, not of me," you say smiling.

You look right into his eyes, right into him as far as you can see, because you want him to hear you, you want him to hear you with everything you say—and his chest tightens as if some euphoric drug has gone straight to his nervous system—but it is not the pollen, it is you—reassuring him, leaving a psychic imprint in his mind.

It’s both a blessing and a curse to share the same trauma. And even though you are sometimes harsh, restless and despairing—he is your weak spot, you love him in your own way.

"You can hold on to me as long as you want. Let go of the past, let go of the pain" you say, giving him permission, taking him into your flesh, a clear invitation to madness.

Emotions clamp down on his heart, but he stays terribly silent. Bucky says nothing after that, only your name, as if your name is not a name but a question. He shakes his head and kisses you, long and quiet.

He grabs your jaw in one hand forcing you to look at him, tears coursing down your cheeks as he thrusts into you, making low, growling noises in his throat—a predator purring with pleasure while it devours its prey, picking up a brutal pace once again. Your legs tighten around his waist, hooking over his hip bones as he practically folds you in half, nails digging into his back, surely breaking his skin with your manicured fingers.

He groans at the pain and removes your hands, intertwines his fingers with yours, pins your wrists flat to the mattress on either side of your head. He holds himself up over your body as he fucks into you, supporting his weight on his forearms. His cock is slamming into you, balls bouncing against your clit just right, the sight of his well-muscled body, covered in a thin layer of sweat, invites you to utter depravity, it is what drives you over the edge.

“You look so good taking all of me” he pants against your throat “I will fill you again-so good”

Hard, long, deep trust that forces moans out of both of you.

You whimper and nod dumbly, screw your eyes tight as another wave of pleasure spread throughout your body in orgasmic tingles as he pulls his own climax with you. He presses his face against your neck as his hips lose any and all sense of tempo and when he finally stills, he holds himself deep inside as he leans back—with every breath, your bust heaves, sweat droplets running between them and attracting his gaze.

It pollutes his mind even more, it cripples his morality, because he is infatuated with fucking you like this again—is it the pollen at this point?

''Bear with me'' He murmurs, gritting his teeth ''I need…more” his cock slowly sliding out of your tight pussy before sliding back inside with equal slowness, sliding through copious amounts of thin lubrication and cum. Your legs wrap around his waist and prevent him from pulling out even if he wants to—your understanding, your willingness is a kind of ecstasy to him.

The blue moons in his eyes are glimmering with an emotion you can’t put your finger on. What is he thinking about?

A part of him cares about you.

But there’s a depravity in his mind right now that enjoys seeing you like this—your hair is in disarray, several tendrils scattered across your face and constricting your view of him, sweat pricks at your hairline and down your back. There is something unmistakably exultant in turning you into a mess—such a mess of cum and tears. Gently, he brushes the tendrils out of your face, tenderness in his touch—that’s the part of him that cares.

“I need you on the floor, on all fours” —that's the part of him that's deprived tonight.

You can feel the desire. The thirst. The absolute beast threatening to tear from his skin.

Soldat loved to fuck you against solid ground. He never truly left, sometimes Bucky is on the verge of cracking and showing the color of the thing beneath, but you don’t mind, you are not scared, you never were.

All he wants is for you to be filled, marked, bruised from staying up all night, taking his cock into your body until you are depleted of all your strength. Even then, he will fuck you. He doesn’t say more, but he groans as he gets up—what a sinful twist of his lips, watching you slowly get up, your legs are incapable of supporting your weight much longer.

Your cunt hurts, too—you feel his cum dripping down your thighs, making yourself position in doggy style, legs winched apart, everything exposed to his view and he goes to stand on knees behind you, eagerly holding up his cock then he lines up your hole. He twists your hair around his fist and yanks your head back, at the same time thrusting into you from behind as his fingers slide to dig into your ass.

Bucky grunts as he slams into you “Я без ума от тебя” (I'm mad about you) his balls slapping against the sensitive nub. You choke on your words, this angle allowing him in far deeper than before. You arch your back more and dig your nails into the floor, clawing at the dirty ground as he relentlessly pounds into you. Sweat drips down his neck as he watches himself entering and exiting you.

He grips your hips tightly, slamming into your snatch with ferocity. A wave of pleasure suddenly overwhelms you, and the tingling is growing stronger once more.

“Я предан тебе…ты моя девочка”(im devoted to you)...(You are my girl)

You can only mewl and gasp as you are rocked back and forth on your knees, losing your breath every time his cock hammers into your cunt. You clench around him when you hear your full name spoken in his gravelly tenor.

He molds his front to your back, spearing through your tightening pussy. He grabs your hair and snaps your head back roughly before it travels down around your throat and squeezes tight while his other palm splays across your stomach.

His lips rests on the back of your shoulder, hissing

“Очевидно, что , на�� чувства друк к други” (You can’t deny what's between us)

He carries on rutting you like an animal. Your skin slapping together, your pussy squirting around his cock as it invades your snatch repeatedly, making suction squelching noises with every thrust in of his length. It keeps on hitting your cervix, your nubile breasts swing with the force of your body rocking—you know that you will be sore later.

"You fill my heart, I fill your cunt"

But his words strike every inside your body and his honesty brings the euphoria of complete surrender.

“Enough, stop, it is too much”

You plea and nearly asphyxiate on the words as your orgasm bursts upwards from your abused cunt. A sob wracks your throat and he continues thrusting, riding your orgasm until your entire body is convulsing and you are desperately trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s arms with the last of your strength, but it's not enough compared to the strength of his arms holding your hips with renewed vigor, determined to breed you.

You catch sight of him from your peripheral vision, his eyes closed, his lips are silent, but he chatters with his fingertips, with the way his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in, the way he fucks you. And you thought that he chose that position, because he was embarrassed, but he was not—he wanted to disguise from you how much he was enjoying himself.

You have the strength to kill him, but here you are—so obedient.

His little submissive.

His expression is dreamy, floating. Soaked in pleasure—breathless, possessed, lost in the volcanic eruptions of fever, lust and delight. Your pussy cradles around his dick as he pounds into you from behind.

“James”

His name on your lips sooth a place deep inside him, and the urgent need to hear it in again pulses in his heart, making himself guilty of such a secret, he must perforce hold it—

—but he shamelessly let out a loud moan, he never felt so out of control. You are a disease worse than the pollen itself.

“Bucky”

That makes him groan like an animal, noises coming out of him that you never heard before, he was never this vocal. The groans are desperate, endless, but the sound of his name is unspeakably erotic to him. He can’t get enough of this. He will die without it, without you.

“You look too pretty when you’re getting fucked like that” he blurts out, without even thinking.

There is already a fissure in his mind and madness just rushes through. Praising him puts him on edge, it’s something he never thought he wanted or needed. You wreak havoc on his life.

He squeezes his eyes shut—to utilize the entire spectrum of the other senses, moans of ecstasy crescendos and his breaths come in short instances, each with a slight pause in between as his body is rack with his orgasm, cum is flooding out of your cunt, dripping of you onto the hardwood floor and there is a charm about it that makes it unspeakably desirable for Bucky.

In this stillness, he finally finds serenity.

All you want to do is crawl back beneath the mound blankets—he gently picks you up and you smile crookedly at him, something about your smile loosening a knot in his chest, because holding you in his arms is more natural to him than his own heartbeat.

Morning came in through the blinds cutting everything into ribbons, but the light can make the most vulgar things tolerable—you are aware of the aching hips, and your whole body hurts like hell as if you have been run over by a train.

Bucky steps out of the bathroom, freshly showered with a white towel around his lean hips. He takes a half step toward the bed, and his jaw works for a moment before he asks

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired, did you tell Sam what happened?”

“No, of course not. He is thankful that you helped us” He says and rakes his fingers through his damp hair, making it stand on end “He invited us to Louisiana”

You barely resists smiling at him “Okay”

He raises a brow “Just like that, okay?”

“If you give me my bracelet back”

You both look at the bracelet around his right hand. Then he bites his lip as he grins.

“Not happening” he says, his tone flattening and he can't help the smirk that tips up the corners of his mouth.

“Guess I need to buy a new one then” You peel back the covers, indicating for him to get in and you watch him climb next to you “With your name on it”

His palm reaches up to wrap around the back of your head, his fingers tangling in the depths of your hair, pulling you closer, his lips hovering over yours. Everything about him pleases you.

Not just his looks, but his patience and his kindness. He is an obsession waiting to happen. Kissing him is terrifying, breathing the same air makes your knees weak, a liquid sensation swooping throughout your stomach—but you've been betrayed, stabbed by every single person in your life, the body heals, but it injures the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime. You are scared of love, scared of these new feelings, scared of trusting anyone, but you are trying—that’s why you gently press a kiss to his mouth.

(Her kisses are deliberate and polished. When she kisses me—she doesn't want me. She has me and knows it.)

Bucky throws himself onto the couch next to Sam, slewing his eyes over to him.

"So you are sleeping and living together, but you are still not in a relationship?"

He takes a long sip of his drink when he hears the words, tips his head back against the couch, and decides he could…maybe live with that.

"Yeah"

Sam’s lips tighten to suppress a smile "That's a bit weird, Buck"

He chuckles, low under his breath "The part where I live with my ex-coworker or the part where we sleep together?"

James takes a deep breath, and Sam can see his blue eyes searching for his, like he is looking for an answer.

”Maybe it is what it's meant to be for now” A frown settles on Bucky’s face as he considers that “She has a lot to experience, too. If you pressure her with anything, you might lose her completely”

“I don't want to be in love, but she is making me, Sam” he sighs, a headache blooming right between his eyes. He rubs at the spot, stalling as he tries to figure out what he wants to say “But you are right, she needs to heal”

Several emotions swirl in Sam’s eyes. Worry, sadness, maybe even intrigue. But not judgment. Never. “Did she agree to go to Wakanda?”

He wets his dry lips and says the most basic truth:

“No, she is too untrustworthy, I can’t believe she even agreed to come here”

Sam sees it as hope—and he wants to put that light within his friend, too “But she did”

They can’t talk about it anymore, not when they hear you, Sarah and the kids coming back, and when your gazes meet, your soft smile and the look in your eyes, they are the best interpreter of your mind—you are truly happy, seeing you like that makes him feel like he can single-handedly vanquish an army.

He has outlasted all family, desires, dreams, his grief alone is left entire—sometimes visiting the lonely desolation of nightmares, they are gleamings of his empty heart—Bucky is a heap of ashes, but meeting you—kindled him back into fire.

Oh my goshhh thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed this project!

More of this ex!Asset AU? - MASTERLIST

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elodieunderglass · 5 months ago

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It's not really my business, but honestly it feels like it would be advisable to hire a copyright lawyer. Like I don't feel like you're in it for the money, but it might be gratifying to have the guy milking your idea at least have to formally acknowledge you. I think I'd do it just for the peace of mind to know if I've been "legally" wronged or not. Either way, hope you continue to inspire, and live out a peaceful life.

(In reference to this post about the guy who pretends to have invented “Elder Teletubbies,” specifically how he is now kickstarting DnD minis of them.)

Ha, well, it’s all a little tricky I think. I might, hilariously, post on the r/legaladvice Reddit (even though they’re all cops lol) because the only thing I want here is for him to stop selling my “transformative work,” and ideally to stop pretending he invented it (which might be difficult as he appears to fully believe his work is creatively independent.)

I think if anything, my post counts as protected commentary or a transformative work of BBC’s Teletubbies, and I think it’s stinky to profit on that stuff in general (like I’m 190% okay with buying LotR fanart on stickers ! but I wouldn’t dream of trying to publish a fic with the serial numbers filed off. Why?)

I think ultimately I’m not a grifter, I’m a grownup, and I think it’s several levels of eye roll to sell fanart of a tv show on this level. I would be embarrassed to touch money made on that. I’m too fucking scrupulous and artisanal. I have toyed with a silly original novel for funsies since 2019 but keep saying things like, “oh, people will think this is too similar to something else that already exists” as if a silly original novel I write for fun has to somehow pass a Bar of Originality higher than anything salary-writers aim for.

I’m also pretty anti-intellectual-property myself in that leftist sense where I don’t believe people should be acting as if creative works are, like, oil. Like the resource extraction angle of intellectual property freaks me out, I don’t think getting super high-horse and snotty about Magical Brain Property is entirely compatible with the artisanal temperament I personally got going on here. I am like snufkin about this, simply smoking a pipe and making a flower crown saying “poor fools! Producing works for market, and serving as the guard dogs of the market, lest their work lose value if it becomes more common!” I do not have a high horse. I am not going to post 6900 words about the importance of defending fucking… Mickey Mouse. I buy those lotr stickers on Etsy! I do have a horse, but it’s a pretty low horse.

If it was his own work I would not care about this guy doing this in the least (apart from loftily calling it stinky - but hey, nerds are common and nerds are stinky, it’s not rare) IF he wasn’t STEALING FROM MY ANTI-COMMERCIALISATION DREAM TO DO IT.

That’s the bit that PISSES ME OFF too much to ignore: that and accepting compliments for being original like 😌 yes my twisted mind did this idk lol.

Like if you asked him point blank about the artistic choices he’d be like idk my twisted mind just sees the Teletubbies this way teehee! but if you ask ME why, for example, the adult Teletubbies live in the forest I’ll explain that in 2017 I was at a major life crossroads and this dream was ABOUT that. It was goodbye to my identity as a foreigner from the pine forests, and full steam ahead to settling permanently in the fucking shire (where the baby teletubbies on the bbc show live). It was about going back to work having had my first child, and saying goodbye to my various career dreams for myself (famous scientist! Published author!) as I chose instead, finally, the responsibility of working humbly as a public servant for the actual good of society. It is about witnessing the wild and saying “I am not of it, but it is my job to be its witness and voice.” That’s why the adult Teletubbies are dancing in my native forests while I’m watching them from the English hills. This guy doesn’t know that he just vaguely heard “spooky forest cryptid” and didn’t develop it at all, I do more work than that with FANFICTION in my time off!!!

So it’s really about nebulous stuff and ethics and not something worth paying a lawyer for I think!

But thank you so much for this, I think the thing that gets most perennial about it is the TOTAL GASLIGHTING of the “outside world” of the rest of the internet like, fully believing they invented this, and they DIDNT. They’re so wrong on the internet and they don’t know

#adult Teletubbies

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oceandolores · 1 month ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 20

dbf!joel miller x female reader

"You poor thing, sweet, mourning lamb. There's nothing you can do."

summary: negan show you his true colors

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, pedophilia, cannibalism, human trafficking, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 20

masterlist!

previous | chapter 19

next | chapter 21

The chill seeped into your bones, spreading slowly through your veins until you felt almost numb, the dampness clinging to you like despair itself.

Every heartbeat was a labor, each breath a painful reminder of the ache that pulsed through you, but worse than the physical pain was the yawning emptiness in your chest—the thought that you might never see Joel again.

It was a raw, hollow ache, a sharp pang of grief you couldn’t push away. You knew that you were on the edge, slipping closer to oblivion, but there was one last thing you needed to do, one final message that could reach him if somehow, in a miracle, it found its way.

Weakly, you took a scrap of paper you’d found buried under debris, your shaking hand struggling to hold onto the pen as you pressed it to the paper.

With every ounce of strength left in you, you began to write, letting your soul spill out in those last, broken words. Each line held the weight of the love you’d carried, a love too big, too deep, to die even in this place.

You thought back to that very first meeting, back when his voice was a gentle lull that wrapped around you, soothing away years of pain. He had been your only light, your guiding star in a night that had grown so, so dark.

You loved him fiercely, with a loyalty born of survival, a love that had grown in the cracks of your brokenness. And even now, at the end of it all, that love was unbreakable.

"To my love, Joel," you began, words blurring as tears welled up, spilling over the edges of your bruised eyes.

"I don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but if you do, know that you have been everything to me. You gave me life in a way no one else ever did. For every moment, every touch, every look, I thank you. You loved me with a love I had never known, a love that carried me through this world when I didn’t know how to stand on my own."

You paused, gathering strength, your chest rising in shallow breaths, and continued, letting the words flow with the quiet intensity of a prayer.

"I never blamed you, Joel, not for anything. I know about the things you did, the choices you made. And I want you to know that it's okay—I understand. You were trying to protect me, even if it meant walking through the fire. You did what you had to do to keep me safe, and I could never judge you for that. If anything, I thank you for it. You are my protector, my guardian, my love."

The memory of him, every part of him—the way he’d pull you close, the warmth of his hand on yours, the steady beat of his heart as you lay together in the quiet—flashed through your mind.

"I pray for you, Joel. Every night, every moment I have left, I pray. I pray for your peace, for your strength, that God may keep you safe and lead you out of this darkness. I know I’m not there to hold your hand, but you have my heart, and it’s with you always, no matter what."

You could feel your own heartbeat slowing, your strength fading, but you forced your fingers to keep moving across the paper, etching the last of your soul into each word, a final testament to a love that would outlast even this.

"If you read this now it means I found you. I found you just to tell you that I made it real far, Joel. I never blamed you for loving me the way that you did. And while you were torn apart, I would still wait with you there, no matter the cost."

The weight of your words pressed down on you as you neared the end, each sentence a painful goodbye.

"Don’t think about it too hard, honey. Or you’ll never sleep a wink at night again. Don’t worry about me or these green eyes, baby. Just know that I love you. And I’ll see you when you get here."

A single tear slipped down, leaving a trail on the ink as it dried, forever a mark of the sorrow you’d carried for him, even here, even now.

"I love you forever, Joel," you scrawled at the end, closing the letter as if it were a prayer sealed with your own heart’s blood.

You looked at it for a moment, each word a testament of your devotion, the truest thing you had ever written. And as you pressed it close to your chest, you whispered a quiet vow, hoping he could somehow feel it—wherever he was, wherever you were.

"You’ll always have me with you, Joel. In your heart, in your soul. Every breath you take, I'll always be with you. Don’t ever blame yourself. You were my savior, my love. I forgive you, and I love you. I love you. I will always love you. Always."

"Good night, my love. I'll see you soon."

you whisper as you wrote, voice trembling, as if even the air itself could carry those words to him, beyond the walls of this hell, across the endless miles between you.

It hurts, knowing this letter is a goodbye, your last way of leaving a piece of yourself with him, in case you can’t make it.

You’ve always been afraid of dying, a fear so deeply rooted that it seemed impossible to unearth. But now, lying here, battered and bruised, it isn’t death that scares you—it’s the thought of never seeing him again, of leaving this world without his arms around you one last time.

Your mind drifts back to the memories of him, the warmth of his steady embrace that felt like home, his hands worn yet gentle, holding you with a kind of care you’d never known.

Joel, with his brown eyes that looked at you like you were his whole world, like you were something worth saving, worth loving. His voice echoes in your mind, gravelly and low, calming in a way that made you feel safe no matter how dark the world seemed.

You think of the way he’d call you his "doll," "babygirl," a name that melted the armor around your heart every time.

The pain in your body fades, giving way to a softness as you sink into memories. You can feel the ghost of his touch, his arms wrapped around you, as though his warmth could chase away even this darkness.

His laughter fills your mind, and in its sound, you find a strange peace, a comfort that holds you like his arms once did.

In the silence, you let yourself feel the depth of your love for him, a love so fierce it made you feel like you could rise again, like every wound, every hurt could be forgotten if it meant one more chance to see him.

You think of the nights spent curled beside him, his breathing soft and steady beside you, each rise and fall like a lullaby just for you.

His love was the one beautiful thing in a broken world, a light that shone even now, against all odds.

Your body aches, each breath heavy, but as you let yourself fall deeper into his memory, you feel something like calm. The shadows around you blur, your mind slipping into that in-between place where pain and peace blend.

Joel is still there, in your thoughts, his face the last thing you hold onto as the darkness begins to take you. You feel yourself slipping, surrendering to the pull of exhaustion.

And with that, you let go, letting yourself drift into that soft, you need a sleep for a while, you feel his warmth surround you one last time.

***

Emma stumbled back into her apartment, her hands shaking as she slammed the door shut behind her. Panic thundered in her chest, her breaths coming too fast, her mind racing through everything she’d just seen—your face, your desperate plea, the bruises darkening your skin. She could barely process it all.

“What happened?” Jim’s voice broke through, his brow furrowing as he stepped toward her.

She searched for her phone, fingers clumsy as she threw aside bags, tossed papers, looking. “Jim, I—I found her. I found her,” she whispered, her words barely more than a gasp.

“Who?” Jim asked, reaching out to steady her. “Emma, who did you find?”

“Her, Jim. Get my fucking phone!” she demanded, desperate. She couldn’t stop now—not when she was this close. Jim didn’t ask questions, immediately helping her search through the mess scattered across the counter.

The moment her hand closed around her phone, she pulled up Tommy’s number, dialing so fast her thumb nearly missed the button. The first call went to voicemail, and she cursed under her breath. “Pick up,” she hissed, “please, just pick up…”

On the second ring, Tommy answered. “Emma?”

“Tommy.” Her voice broke, raw with relief and desperation. “I found her. I found her.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Tommy asked, voice thick with confusion. “Is Joel with you?” Emma asked. "No, where is she?"

"She’s in California. You need to get here, now, both of you. She’s… worse, Tommy, she’s in real bad shape. I don't know how long she can make it.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Tommy stammered, trying to catch up. “She’s in California? How the hell did you—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she snapped, cutting him off. “The man who took her is Negan Smith. Me and Jim are getting his address now. We’re going to look for her, but she told me to tell you—tell Joel she’s waiting. Please, Tommy, don’t waste time, just get your fucking ass here!”

The line went silent, and she held her breath, hoping Tommy could understand the urgency. Finally, he spoke, steady but heavy with something like relief and terror all at once. “We’re coming.”

Tommy clicked off the call, his hands still clenched around the phone, trying to wrap his mind around Emma’s words. California. So far away.

He dialed Joel, only for it to go to voicemail. “Dammit, Joel, where are you?” He tried Frank next, desperate, hoping he’d find him there, but no answer.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, Joel paced another faceless motel, this one in Arizona. He felt lost, like he was sinking deeper and deeper into a void where every day took him farther from you.

Each motel, each new face at the reception, each empty hallway echoed with his failure. His whole body ached with the weight of it, the guilt that clawed at his heart every time he looked around and realized you weren’t there.

The reception bell jingled as he approached the counter. He didn’t even know what he was hoping to find anymore—just some scrap, any hint of you he could hold onto.

But then his phone buzzed, and Tommy’s name flashed across the screen. Joel felt his pulse spike, something instinctive telling him this was it, that there was news. He picked up, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Hello?”

“Joel, I know where she is.”

The words struck him like a blow to the chest. His heart plummeted, hope surging painfully against the fear that threatened to choke him. “What? Is she… Is she alive?”

“Yes, Joel,” Tommy’s voice was thick, strained. “Emma found her, she’s in California. She saw her, talked to her. She’s with a man named Negan Smith.”

Negan.

That name seared through him like a brand, snapping everything into painful clarity. Negan. He remembered you talking about him, the creepy guy, the shadow he’d ignored.

Rage bubbled up, fierce and raw, as he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. For missing it when you’d been right there, telling him about this man.

Without another word, Joel bolted from the lobby and strode across the parking lot, his mind consumed with the drive to reach you, to finally bring you home.

He’d torn the world apart already, but now it felt like nothing would be enough until you were safe, back in his arms.

“Where are you?” Tommy asked, voice taut.

“Arizona. It’s a nine-hour drive to California.” He heard Tommy’s exasperated sigh through the line.

“That’s too long, Joel. You need to get there fast. Emma’s working on getting his address.”

“I’ll book a flight tonight,” Joel replied, his tone fierce, unwavering. “You call the cops, Tommy. I don’t fucking care what you have to do, just get them there. I need to get her.”

He hung up, his pulse hammering as he strode into the night.

Joel drove through the night, his heart pounding in rhythm with the steady hum of the engine. The world outside was a blur of dark shadows and streaked lights, but his mind—his mind was full of you.

Images of you flooded his thoughts: your laughter echoing softly like a melody he’d heard a lifetime ago, the way your eyes lit up when you looked at him, the warmth of your touch, gentle and steady, grounding him like nothing else could.

And now, knowing you were out there, alone, with that monster… the thought tore him apart.

Anger rose like a firestorm within him, burning hot and consuming, and it took every ounce of control not to press down on the accelerator, not to tear through the night faster, harder. He needed to be there now, not hours from now.

Every second felt like an eternity wasted. The image of Negan’s face—the face he’d missed, ignored—came to him, filling him with a fury he didn’t know he was capable of.

The man who’d stolen you, who’d dared to lay a hand on you… Joel’s hands clenched tightly around the wheel, his knuckles white with the force of his grip.

He thought of you and the memories that had kept him going this far: the nights you’d whispered your fears to him, the way you’d leaned into him when things got tough, and that look in your eyes when you told him you loved him.

The love you’d shown him was like light pouring through the cracks in his broken heart, filling him with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. And he’d failed you—he’d let you slip away into darkness when he should have known, should have seen.

In between the flashes of rage and regret, fear twisted through him like a silent, cold shadow. What if he was too late? The thought clawed at his chest, each passing mile stretching that possibility, and he cursed himself for every second he hadn’t realized the danger.

The thought of seeing you again both terrified and thrilled him—he feared the pain in your eyes, the hurt that would linger, yet he longed to hold you close, to know you were safe and back in his arms where he’d vowed to protect you.

Joel’s mind raced back to that promise he’d made himself—to shield you from harm, to give you the love, all the love you deserves. Now, he’d tear through hell and back for you, for a chance to fulfill it.

The streets stretched on before him, dark and endless, but his heart held one single, unbreakable truth: he would find you, he would take down anyone who stood in his way, and he would bring you back into his world—safe, whole, and loved.

***

Emma's nerves were already frayed as she and Jim pushed through the dim alleys and streets of Los Angeles, searching for any scrap of information on Negan Smith.

The city felt different tonight—empty and strange, almost like it was holding its breath. Los Angeles was supposed to be bustling, noisy, alive. But tonight, everything seemed quiet. Almost too quiet.

Emma gripped the flyer tighter, her eyes tracing over the worn, printed face—the photo of you that Joel’s friend Frank must’ve spread around the city.

Seeing your face printed on thin paper only made it all the more real, and the desperation clawed at her chest. She and Jim decided to split up, covering more ground quickly. Jim went downtown, and she pushed her way into a nearby bar.

The bar was a haze of dim lights and smoke, and Emma moved through it, flashing the flyer to anyone who would look her way. She repeated herself like a prayer, "Have you seen this girl? She’s missing—please, any information."

But most people ignored her or shook their heads. She was about to turn away when a voice broke through the noise.

"I saw her before,"

Emma spun around to find the speaker. A man in his fifties, dressed in a black leather jacket, his hair slicked back, eyes sharp. He gave her a slight, knowing smile, and it sparked something in her—a spark of hope or maybe just a flicker of relief. She approached him quickly, holding up the flyer.

“You’ve seen her?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He nodded, eyes flicking over the flyer with feigned casualness. “Yeah, I saw her working at a strip club downtown.” His voice was gravelly, the sort of voice that had seen a few lifetimes and wasn’t surprised by much.

Emma’s heart jolted at his words. “A strip club? Where? Please, I need to know where she is.”

“Relax,” he said, his voice a slow drawl. He waved a hand, motioning for her to follow. “It’s just a few blocks from here. Just follow me." He turned and began walking, a calm confidence in his stride.

Emma hesitated, glancing around the quiet bar. The shadows felt heavier, deeper, and she forced herself to push down the strange unease that was growing in her.

She had to follow him.

This was the first real lead she’d had. Taking a deep breath, she slipped her phone into her pocket, her hands clenching into fists as she trailed behind him.

They turned down narrow alleys and side streets, the noise of the city seeming to fade with every step. He moved with a steady purpose, leading her farther from the lights and crowds.

She could feel the sweat building on her palms, her pulse quickening as the buildings around them grew taller and more isolated. This didn’t feel right.

She looked over her shoulder once or twice, but there was no one else around. The sense of being followed lingered, like an itch she couldn’t shake.

"Where are we going?” she asked, her voice sharper than she’d intended.

“Just a little farther,” he replied smoothly, barely glancing back. “It’s right up ahead. Just around the corner.”

Emma hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to stop, to turn around, but she pushed the fear aside. She was so close. She couldn’t give up now.

They rounded another corner, and she stopped dead. The alley was empty, an eerie silence pressing in. She took a shaky step back.

“Where’s the club?” she whispered, her voice tight with fear.

The man turned slowly to face her, a small, sinister smile spreading across his face. He took a step forward, the shadows casting his face in sharp, menacing angles.

“You said you're looking for a guy name Negan too right?" "Look, this is your lucky day, sweetheart, I'm Negan."

Emma’s heart dropped as the realization hit her. She took a step back, eyes darting around for any escape route, she's trying to run, before anything else, Negan capture her and bang her head to the wall till she unconscious.

Meanwhile, Jim was scouring the downtown area, his heart pounding as he asked strangers, bartenders, shopkeepers if they’d seen you.

The emptiness of the streets gnawed at him, a chill creeping down his spine as he moved from one place to the next. There was something off about tonight, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He kept glancing around, feeling as if someone was watching him.

He checked his phone, hoping Emma had found something. Nothing. His heart hammered, a sense of dread building with each passing minute. He took a deep breath, shoving down the unease. He had to find you. Emma had to be okay.

Then, as he turned into another side street, something cold and sharp pressed against his back. Jim froze, his stomach dropping as a rough voice whispered into his ear.

“You should have kept out of this.”

And then, in an instant Negan snap his neck, everything went black.

***

A hazy fog clung to your senses as you opened your eyes, your vision flickering, swimming in and out as you tried to grasp onto reality. Pain throbbed in your temples, like distant thunder echoing in your head.

Slowly, the room around you settled into shape, and you took in the familiar darkness, the cold, damp walls of the basement—the place you had been trapped for what felt like forever.

Then, like a sharp, jarring note that shattered the silence, you heard it—a scream. It was high-pitched, frantic, echoing in the room. A woman’s voice, raw with terror, but somehow familiar.

And then Negan’s low, mocking laugh cut through the air, making your heart slam against your chest.

“Wake up, princess,” he drawled, his voice laced with twisted amusement. “Look who I got for you.”

You blinked, forcing the blurriness to subside as you pushed yourself up, still dizzy, still groggy. When your gaze finally focused, a sick, cold dread washed over you.

Tied to one of the basement’s support beams, her hands bound cruelly behind her, her ankles tied together, was Emma.

A dirty cloth gag was tied around her mouth, stifling her desperate pleas, her eyes wide and red-rimmed with terror as she looked at you.

“No, no, no…” you choked out, the word falling from your lips like a shattered promise. Emma—Negan had her.

A wave of nausea twisted in your stomach as you struggled against your own bindings, but they were unyielding. It was all your fault. Emma had come looking for you, and now she was trapped here, in this dark hell.

Negan crouched beside her, a smug, dark glint in his eyes as he watched your horror unfold. “Got you your best friend,” he sneered, his lips pulling back in a twisted smile. “Seems like little Miss Detective here thought she could play hero. Isn’t that cute?”

Your voice cracked as you struggled to find words. “Let her go,” you managed to say, your voice wavering but resolute, despite the terror coursing through your veins. “Please… let her go.”

Negan chuckled, ignoring your plea as he grabbed a fistful of Emma’s hair, yanking her head back so she was forced to look up at him. The cruel grip made her wince, but her gaze flicked to you, desperate, pleading.

It was like a dagger twisting in your chest, knowing that you were helpless to protect her, that she was suffering because of you.

“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t get to make demands here,” Negan said, his tone mocking, dripping with venom. He dragged Emma’s head to the side, making sure she could see you, as if enjoying the torment on both your faces.

“This one? She came looking for you. Sniffing around like a lost puppy. Now she gets to stay a while.”

Emma’s gaze locked onto yours, her eyes wild with fear, and in them, you could see all the questions she couldn’t ask aloud, all the pain she was enduring. Tears pricked at your own eyes as guilt crashed over you like a wave, suffocating and cold.

“You… you don’t have to do this,” you pleaded, your voice shaking, but Negan merely chuckled, shaking his head with a look of cruel amusement.

“Oh, but I want to,” he murmured, his hand still tangled in Emma’s hair. His fingers tightened, making her gasp in pain. “She thought she was clever, thought she could outsmart me. So I think it’s only fair she learns the consequences of getting involved in things she doesn’t understand.”

The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as panic clawed at you. Your heart pounded painfully, and you could feel every beat echoing in your ribs like a warning, a reminder of how fragile this moment was, how everything could break in an instant.

Your mind raced, every thought a frantic, spiraling whirlwind of despair and helplessness. How had it come to this? How had you become so powerless, so trapped, that even trying to save a friend only brought them harm?

You couldn’t breathe. The thought of Negan turning his sadistic focus on Emma was unbearable. She didn’t deserve this—none of it. She’d come to help, risking everything just to find you, and now… now she was here, locked in this nightmare with you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking as you looked up at Negan, hating the vulnerability in your eyes, the tears you couldn’t hold back. “Please… just let her go. She doesn’t deserve this. None of this is her fault.”

Negan laughed softly, a sound that seemed to crawl up the walls, filling every shadowed corner. “Fault?” he echoed mockingly. “Oh, princess, I don’t care about who’s at fault. This isn’t about fairness. It’s about reminding you that you belong to me now. And she’s just the price of your little rebellion.”

You could feel the desperation clawing at you, suffocating, as if your lungs were filling with ice. Every fiber of your being ached to scream, to fight, to do anything to break free and protect Emma, but you were trapped, chained by the twisted, nightmarish rules of this place, this man.

Negan knelt down beside Emma, his hand still gripping her hair as he leaned in close, his voice soft but dripping with malice. “Now, don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll have plenty of time to talk things over with your friend here. It’s going to be a long night.” His smirk widened as he released Emma, standing up and dusting his hands off with mock satisfaction.

Your voice cracked as you begged, desperation spilling out of you like blood from an open wound. “Don’t touch her! Please, Negan, I beg you. I’ll do anything—just please let her go. Please.”

But he only smirked, a twisted, satisfied glint in his eyes. “Oh, now you’re begging? Did you already forget you killed my child?” His voice was venomous, laced with resentment that had simmered far too long.

And then his fist met your stomach with brutal force, and you doubled over, gasping as pain radiated through your body, so sharp and consuming it left you breathless.

Emma’s muffled scream echoed through the darkened basement, desperate and broken as she watched you suffer. She was struggling against her bindings, but there was nothing she could do, no way to stop what was happening.

Negan only laughed, his voice mocking, cruel. “You didn’t think your actions would have consequences, huh?” He punctuated his words with another savage kick, sending a fresh surge of agony through you.

“You… need to be taught a lesson. Acting like a fucking brat,” he sneered, grabbing your hair and yanking your head up, forcing you to look at him. His eyes gleamed with sadistic satisfaction as he added, “You know what happens to those who try to defy me?”

And then he threw you across the room like you were nothing, his rage boiling over as he stormed out, his footsteps echoing up the stairs. You lay there, every nerve in your body alight with pain, each breath a struggle.

But as soon as the door closed, you forced yourself to move, to drag your broken, battered body across the floor to Emma. You could hear her desperate, panicked breaths as you reached her and pulled the cloth from her mouth.

“Oh my god, oh my god…” Emma whispered, her voice shaking as she looked at you, eyes wide and glistening with tears. “We need to get out of here. Grab my phone. Call Tommy, now!”

With trembling hands, you grabbed her phone from her pocket, your heart racing as you dialed. Every second felt like a lifetime, each beat of your heart thundering louder in your ears.

And then, as the call began to connect, your breath hitched—a new call was coming in. An unknown number.

You answered without thinking, and your heart nearly stopped at the sound on the other end. That voice, the voice you’d dreamt of, longed for. A voice you had feared you’d never hear again.

“Emma? It’s Joel. Where are you? I’m heading to California tonight, I—”

“Joel.” Your voice broke as you whispered his name, and on the other end, he fell silent.

Time itself seemed to stop as Joel processed the sound of your voice. For so long, he had feared this moment, had dreaded that he’d never hear you again, never have the chance to hold you, protect you.

And now, hearing your voice—shaken, scared, but alive—struck him to his core. You were his heart, his soul, the person he’d die for without a second thought. Every ounce of guilt, every sleepless night, every sacrifice was for you.

“Doll,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Doll, where are you?”

Tears poured down your face as you choked out, “Joel, please, please… come now. I need you, Joel. Please, I need you.” Your words were desperate, trembling, but somehow, they made him feel stronger, more determined. He couldn’t lose you—not now, not ever.

“Baby,” Joel’s voice softened, his own panic barely masked as he struggled to stay calm for you. “Tell me, where are you? Do you know?”

“He got Emma,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “He has us both, Joel, please… he’s hurting her, he’s… Joel, I need you.”

His voice was tender but firm, a quiet strength weaving through each word as he spoke. “I’m coming to save you, darlin’. I won’t let anything happen to you, I swear it. I’ll never let you go again. Just… just hang on for me, alright? Stay strong, baby. You’re gonna be okay. I promise you, I’ll save you.”

You could hear the worry threading his voice, but his words wrapped around you, a fragile shield against the darkness that threatened to consume you.

“I’m scared, Joel,” you sobbed, unable to hold back the fear anymore, the terror clawing its way up your throat. “I’m so scared.”

“I know, baby, I know,” he whispered, voice breaking slightly as he struggled to hold it together. “But you’re strong, remember? You’re stronger than anyone I know. Just hold on, okay? I’ll be there before you know it. Don’t be afraid. I love you, baby. Just… hold on for me.”

You clutched the phone, drawing strength from his words, the promise of his love steadying you. You closed your eyes, holding onto his voice like a lifeline, but then—Negan’s footsteps thundered back down the stairs.

Before you could react, he wrenched the phone from your hand, tearing Joel’s voice from your ear.

“NO!” you screamed, reaching out, but Negan shoved you back with a cruel laugh, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Well, well, well… look who it is.” His voice was dripping with malice, savoring every second. Joel’s voice, faint but seething with fury, crackled through the line. “I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you, you bastard. You lay a hand on her, and I swear—”

Negan grinned, his eyes glinting with dark satisfaction. “Oh, you’ve got a mouth on you. I’ll be sure to let her know how much you care, right before I break her. You’re too late, Miller.”

Negan’s laugh echoed through the dimly lit basement, twisting around you like thick smoke, suffocating and inescapable. He tossed Emma's phone onto the floor with a careless flick, then turned his gaze to you, eyes gleaming with a sick thrill as he dragged you closer, his grip merciless.

Fist after brutal fist connected with your ribs, your cheek, your stomach, each strike dulling your senses as you felt yourself sinking into a haze of pain, your breaths shallow and gasping.

Emma’s voice cracked through the brutality, a desperate, pleading cry. “No! Stop it! Stop it!” Her words barely seemed to reach him, her voice like a whisper lost in a hurricane as he continued to beat you, his face contorted with a twisted, frustrated rage.

“Can you just stop disobeying me, for god’s sake?” Negan’s voice was vicious, laced with a fury that seemed to have no end. “You were so fucking good this year!”

You could barely hold yourself upright as he finally threw you back, the cold, hard floor against your bruised skin like ice on a burn.

You crawled toward Emma, each movement a struggle, forcing yourself to meet her terrified eyes as you tried to breathe through the pain. Negan’s voice brought you both back to the nightmare at hand.

“Oh, I kept this for a long time, as souvenir when I found them,” he drawled, hauling a large, worn burlap sack into view, his eyes dancing with a twisted delight.

“Wanted to show you something. You might recognize them… thought they looked good in my freezer.”

Your body tensed, dread crawling up your spine as he reached into the sack, the slow, sick satisfaction on his face a silent promise of horror.

He pulled something out, the shape grotesque and heavy, and when he turned to show you, the sight struck you like lightning.

In his right hand dangled Pastor Ben’s head, eyes frozen in a lifeless, glassy stare, his mouth twisted into a grotesque half-scream. And in his left, Jamie’s head, his delicate features now haunting, locked in an expression of terror.

Blood, dark and coagulated, clung to their severed necks like rust, framing their faces in a sick parody of halos.

“Say hello to your little friends!” Negan taunted, waving the heads before you with a triumphant smirk.

You felt bile rise in your throat, the world spinning around you as nausea crashed over you in waves.

Emma’s scream shattered the silence, a piercing, helpless cry, and her eyes were wide with pure horror, her skin pale as she trembled beside you.

Negan grinned, savoring your reactions as if they were the finest applause. “I took their heads! Isn’t it lovely?” He leaned in closer, eyes boring into yours. “This is what you’ll end up as if you don’t learn to obey.”

His words cut through the haze, sharp and venomous, and you felt a surge of disgust, a sick revulsion that clawed at your insides. You barely had time to process it before Negan’s gaze shifted to you, a dark smirk twisting his lips.

“Oh, and sweetheart… how was the meat?”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. No. No, it can’t be. Panic flared in your mind, snapping puzzle pieces together in a grotesque image you couldn’t bear to look at, and yet it was inescapable.

Every bite you’d taken, every piece of flesh that had crossed your lips—all of it now made sense in the most horrifying way.

Negan chuckled, watching the dawning horror spread across your face. “Oh, please, don’t look so shocked. The meat wasn’t them.” He smirked. “They were from some other girls… from Chicago, West Virginia. They tasted good, right?”

Emma’s face turned green as she doubled over, retching. You felt yourself recoil, the taste of bile in your mouth as every meal, every bite you’d ever taken under Negan’s watch replayed in your mind with sickening clarity.

The horror of it seeped into your bones, an all-consuming violation that made your skin crawl, like you could never be clean again.

“You’re… you’re sick,” you managed, voice trembling with disgust as you glared at him, the fury in your eyes a tiny flicker of defiance. “YOU ARE FUCKING SICK!"

Negan’s laugh filled the air, his amusement bright and mocking. “Oh, come on now—is that any way to speak to the man who’s fed you so well? You liked it, didn’t you?” His eyes glittered with a dark, twisted joy as he leaned closer, his voice a low, mocking whisper. “Every bite. You loved it.”

Your skin crawled, your mind reeling as you tried to comprehend the depth of his depravity. He was more than a monster—he was something far darker, something that defied words, something that preyed on the most innocent parts of you, staining them with his cruelty.

The basement had never felt darker. It swallowed you both, thick with the scent of rust and damp cement, as if the room itself was bleeding along with you.

Every word that left Negan’s mouth was poison, each syllable seeping into your skin, weighing down on you like the very air around you was suffocating, pressing you down with an invisible force that you couldn’t escape.

His laughter was hollow and sharp, echoing through the space like broken glass—each jagged shard settling into your bones.

Then, you felt something brush against your fingers: small, cool, metal. Emma’s trembling hand nudged a pair of scissors into yours. You didn’t know how she had managed to get hold of them, her hands bound and body weakened, but the feel of it, sharp and hidden between the two of you.

She was guiding them into your hand as Negan continued, his voice oily with satisfaction, oblivious.

His monologue washed over you like filth, each word sinking deeper into your mind, tainting you with his delusions. He was recounting the first time he had seen you, the twisted way he had painted your innocence into something dark and sick, a figure molded just for him.

“When I saw you on that porch,” he whispered, his voice dropping lower, almost tender, “I knew you’d be the one to take care of me, in ways you didn’t even know you could…”

"I'll kill them all just for you, your parents, I was the one who saved you, not Joel fucking miller!"

The cold edge of the scissors grounded you, your grip tightening around them as you worked to free Emma’s wrists. She remained silent, her eyes locked on his, fear mingling with a fragile resolve as you both waited, breaths quiet, slow.

Negan’s smile widened, his eyes narrowing as he continued, his words punctuated by a grotesque sincerity. “We could start a family, sweetheart. I could give you a chance.” He leaned in, his voice now almost a whisper. “A daughter, maybe. She could take care of me… when you’re gone.”

Your stomach lurched, bile rising as his sick fantasy unveiled itself. Emma’s eyes met yours, wide and pleading, her lips forming the barest of a silent Now.

With a surge of adrenaline, you both lunged. Emma’s hands flew to his shoulders, pinning him with all the strength she could muster. Your arms were shaking, but you held the scissors steady and drove them toward his chest—but he twisted, and the blade sunk deep into his hand instead.

"FUCKKK" Negan howled, a guttural sound, and shoved you both off with a violent rage. Emma crashed against the wall with a sickening thud, and you were thrown to the cold floor, the wind knocked out of you. You struggled to sit up, gasping, as Negan looked at his bleeding hand with a snarl of disbelief.

“You… bitch!” he screamed, fury twisting his face into something inhuman, his eyes burning with hate as he yanked the scissors from his flesh, blood dripping thickly to the floor.

He stalked toward you, his face a mask of unbridled rage. He grabbed you by the hair, hauling you up, and slammed your head against the wall, once, twice—each impact sending a sickening jolt through your skull, blurring your vision as spots danced in the dim light.

His words were coming in snarls, disjointed and raw with anger. “I’m fucking done with this! You wanna learn the hard way? I'll fucking show you the hard way so you’ll fucking learn.”

He threw you to the ground, your body limp and battered, as he turned to Emma, the cruelty in his gaze sharpening. She tried to crawl back, gasping, but his hand wrapped around her throat, lifting her off the ground with a terrifying ease.

You pushed yourself up, weak and dizzy, desperation clawing at your chest as you reached for him. “No! Let her go!”

He only laughed, his grip tightening around Emma’s neck as her face turned red, her mouth gasping soundlessly. He looked into her eyes with sick satisfaction, a mockery of tenderness as he whispered, “Any last words, brat?”

Through her labored breaths, her gaze defiant, Emma spat out her final words. “Go to hell.”

In a swift, brutal motion, Negan drove the blade into her chest. The world shattered around you, your scream tearing through the air as you watched the life drain from her eyes, her face contorting in pain before stillness claimed her.

"EMMA!"

It felt as if your very soul had been ripped out, leaving you hollow, raw, a vessel of pure agony.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, as you stared at Emma’s lifeless form, her body crumpled on the floor. Every part of you screamed, your insides twisting as though poisoned, the horror and grief coursing through you like venom.

The shadows around you seemed to stretch, swallowing you in their merciless embrace, as though the darkness itself was feeding off the horror.

Negan turned to you, his eyes dark, gleaming with a satisfaction that was worse than any nightmare. “See what happens when you disobey?” he sneered, his words twisting into the broken pieces of your mind.

You didn’t feel human anymore, nothing but a body suspended in suffering, consumed by terror and grief. Emma’s last breath echoed in your mind, a sound that would haunt you forever.

This was a hell you could never have imagined. And you were trapped, completely and utterly, with no light left to guide you out.

The tears streamed down your face, hot and relentless, each sob tearing at your throat like jagged glass. It was your fault—Emma was dead because of you.

The weight of guilt settled heavily on your chest, crushing the air from your lungs. You curled in on yourself, the reality of her lifeless body lodged in your mind, echoing endlessly, a reminder of your failure to protect her.

“I will kill you,” you rasped, your voice breaking as you glared at Negan. He still held Emma by her neck, her body dangling lifelessly, an object of his amusement.

He stepped closer, a wicked grin spreading across his face, mocking you with every slow movement.

“What did you say?” he taunted, his voice a sickly sweet whisper as he leaned in, pretending to strain to hear your words.

“I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!” you screamed, the sound raw and desperate, echoing off the cold walls. His laughter was a dark melody, wrapping around you like a noose.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he chuckled, his tone dripping with condescension, “you’re not brave enough for that. Just a scared little girl, always waiting for someone to save you.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with malice.

“See you had so many chances to fight back, to break free, but you never did, did you? You’re just a kid—a broken one. Nobody wants you, nobody loves you. Nobody but me.”

His words sliced through you, a cruel reminder of your isolation, your vulnerability. He leaned in closer, the stench of his twisted satisfaction wrapping around you like smoke, suffocating.

“You think your precious Joel will save you? I’ll kill him before you even know it.”

A wave of rage surged through you, boiling over as you shouted,“Just kill me, Negan! Just fucking kill me!”

He advanced, a grotesque puppeteer, toying with the strings of your desperation. Emma’s body dangled from his grip, lifeless and haunting, a cruel reminder of what he could take from you.

The image of her crushed spirit seeped into your heart, and you felt your resolve waver.

“There’s no fun in that, is there?” Negan mused, glancing at Emma’s still form.

“Why would I want to end it quickly when I can keep you around? Besides…” His voice dipped lower, darkly playful. “You’re already dead, aren’t you?”

"You're dead inside."

The words wrapped around you, twisting like barbed wire, leaving you gasping for breath. He crushed a piece of paper beneath his boot, then picked it up, chuckling as he read.

“Oh, look what we have here,” he said, eyes sparkling with sadistic joy. “It’s your letter to Joel. A goodbye letter. How sweet. So you’ve been preparing, huh?”

He tucked the crumpled paper into his pocket, an act so cruelly casual it made your skin crawl. “I assure you, you will never see him again.”

"Now, excuse me miss, I got a dinner to prepare," he said then walking away with Emma's body.

“YOU’RE A FUCKING COWARD, NEGAN! WHY DON’T YOU JUST KILL ME? FUCKING KILL ME YOU FUCKING COWARD!” you screamed, fury boiling over. But he simply ignored you, his grin never faltering.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he turned and shut the basement door behind him, sealing you in darkness. The finality of it sent a chill through your veins, a cold that seeped into your bones.

You were left alone with the grotesque trophies of his madness—Ben and Jamie’s heads, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at you, accusing you, mocking you.

The basement felt like a tomb, the air thick and suffocating, heavy with despair. You curled up on the cold floor, the dampness seeping into your skin, a reminder of the hopelessness that surrounded you.

Your mind spiraled, trapped in a whirlpool of horror and grief, each thought crashing against the next until you were drowning in your own anguish.

The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded. You pressed your palms against your ears, trying to block out the memories of Emma’s screams, of Negan’s taunts, but it was no use.

They echoed in the recesses of your mind, a relentless reminder of your powerlessness.

You felt hollowed out, like a shell abandoned on the shore, waiting for the tide to reclaim you. The darkness around you was alive, pulsing with the shadows of what could have been—what should have been.

Hope was a fragile thing, and in this hell, it felt like a distant memory, a whisper that barely reached you.

But as despair threatened to consume you whole, a flicker of defiance ignited within. If you were still breathing, still alive, there was a chance—a chance to escape this nightmare, a chance to honor Emma’s memory.

You wouldn’t let Negan win.

You pressed your back against the cold wall, forcing yourself to breathe, to think. There had to be a way out of this hell. You had to find the strength to fight back.

Emma wouldn’t want you to give in, to let the darkness swallow you whole. You would find a way, no matter what it took.

And with that thought, you began to plot your escape, feeling the embers of resolve ignite within the abyss of your despair.

***

The hum of the airport was a chaotic symphony of voices and footsteps, but all Joel could hear was the steady thrum of his own heartbeat, echoing like a war drum in his ears. He had just landed at LAX, adrenaline surging through his veins, a desperate urgency propelling him forward. He fumbled for his phone, his fingers shaking as he dialed Tommy's number, praying for the answers he so desperately needed.

“Tommy, I need Emma's address now!” Joel's voice was a low growl, laced with anxiety.

“What? Are you in California now?” Tommy’s voice crackled through the line, confusion apparent.

"He's got Emma too, Tommy. I--I spoke to her. I fucking spoke to her, I--I need to save her, I got no fucking time, I have to be quick," Tommy can hear Joel's voice trembling as he mentioned you.

Tommy then spelled out Emma's address, "Okay, I'll look to her place first. Have you told the cops?" Joel asked Tommy.

"I did, but Joel if they--" before Tommy can answer Joe cut him off, "I don't give a shit, Tommy, just fucking get them here to back me up"

Without waiting for a response, Joel hung up, his mind racing faster than his feet as he rushed to catch a taxi, the city blurring around him in a haze of panic and dread.

When he finally reaches her apartment, he bounds up the stairs, knocking hard on the door. Nothing. Not a sound. He knocks again, harder this time, his fist meeting the wood with mounting fury.

He can feel it, that something terrible, lingering in the stillness like the silence itself is holding its breath. Another knock, louder—and at last, a door down the hall creaks open, and a middle-aged woman peers out.

“Are you looking for the Parksons?” she asks, eyeing him with concern.

Joel’s voice is a rasp. “Yes. They’re not answering.”

“Oh, I’m the landlord. Sometimes, those two… newlyweds, you know,” she says with a weak smile, her tone teetering between nervousness and sympathy.

“Can you open the door for me?” His voice cracks with urgency. “I’m Emma's uncle. I need to see her.”

Reluctantly, she nods, fumbling with her keys as she reaches the door. But as she turns the lock, Joel catches a sickly, metallic odor seeping out. The unmistakable stench of blood. His stomach clenches, but he swallows hard, steeling himself.

The door swings open, and the sight waiting within is a nightmare come to life. The room is in complete disarray, shattered glass and scattered furniture telling of a struggle that couldn’t have gone quietly.

And to the horror.

Jim stands—or rather, he’s been arranged to stand, stripped of flesh, skin turned into a macabre canvas, his body held upright on a broom handle speared through him from his base to his throat. He’s frozen in a ghastly semblance of life, his hollow eye sockets staring blankly ahead, his mouth agape, still stretched around a piece of paper lodged between his teeth. Blood pools beneath him, glistening under the dim light, each drop a fresh echo of brutality.

The landlord lets out a piercing scream, stumbling back in horror, and Joel, teeth clenched and trembling, growls, “Call the fucking cops.”

The woman ran back to her apartment to call the cops, Joel’s jaw tightens, his expression hard as iron. This is no crime of passion, no ordinary act of violence. This is a message.

He steps forward, tearing his gaze from Jim’s body only to focus on the note lodged in his mouth. He reaches up, his fingers brushing the edge of the paper. His heart is racing, each beat a heavy thud echoing through his chest. He’s seen violence. He’s waded through blood and death and destruction, but this… this is personal, a wound carved directly into his soul.

With a deep breath, he pulls the note free, his eyes darting across the letters scrawled in familiar handwriting.

Your handwriting.

"To my love, Joel, I don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but if you do, know that you have been everything to me. You gave me life in a way no one else ever did. For every moment, every touch, every look, I thank you. You loved me with a love I had never known, a love that carried me through this world when I didn’t know how to stand on my own. I never blamed you, Joel, not for anything. I know about the things you did, the choices you made. And I want you to know that it's okay—I understand. You were trying to protect me, even if it meant walking through the fire. You did what you had to do to keep me safe, and I could never judge you for that. If anything, I thank you for it. You are my protector, my guardian, my love. I pray for you, Joel. Every night, every moment I have left, I pray. I pray for your peace, for your strength, that God may keep you safe and lead you out of this darkness. I know I’m not there to hold your hand, but you have my heart, and it’s with you always, no matter what. If you read this now it means I found you. I found you just to tell you that I made it real far, Joel. I never blamed you for loving me the way that you did. And while you were torn apart, I would still wait with you there, no matter the cost. Don’t think about it too hard, honey. Or you’ll never sleep a wink at night again. Don’t worry about me or these green eyes, baby. Just know that I love you. And I’ll see you when you get here. I love you forever, Joel You’ll always have me with you, Joel. In your heart, in your soul. Every breath you take, I'll always be with you. Don’t ever blame yourself. You were my savior, my love. I forgive you, and I love you. I love you. I will always love you. Always. Good night, my love. I'll see you soon."

The words blur in his vision, his fingers trembling as he clutches the note. It’s like a knife twisting in his chest, the blade digging deeper with each word, carving into his mind, into his heart.

No, it can't be, no, you can't be gone, no.

“No…” he mutters, his voice strangled. “No, no, no…”

He feels his stomach drop, the words blurring as his heart races, his chest burning with every shaky breath. Rage, heartbreak, a helpless desperation—it all crashes down on him, layer by suffocating layer, the letter slipping from his hands as he chokes out

"NO! NO! NO!"

His roar echoes through the room, rattling through his entire body, as if he’s trying to break open some hidden door to whatever darkness holds you now. The weight of loss is unbearable. You are gone—or so he thinks.

Then, in the stillness, his eyes catch something else. A second note, hastily pinned to the wall. The writing is hurried, yet taunting, every stroke sharp, every word a threat.

If you want her body, come to this address. P.S. Negan xoxo.

Joel’s fists tighten, rage flooding through his veins, cold and unyielding. He knows it’s a trap, knows Negan is luring him in like a lamb to slaughter.

But he doesn’t care. Because if there’s a chance—even the smallest, faintest chance—you’re alive, he will take it. He will hunt Negan to the ends of the earth.

His pulse pounds in his ears, driven not by fear, but by a brutal, vengeful need that has now taken the place of hope.

In his mind, he sees flashes of all he’s lost, the faces of everyone he’s ever failed. This time, he won’t let go. He can’t.

This isn’t just about vengeance; it’s survival—the survival of what little humanity he has left, and you, the last spark of it he’ll ever know. And if that spark is gone?

Then he’ll burn the world with Negan’s ashes.

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supreme-leader-stoat · 2 months ago

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Response to your reblog before I peace out.

The argument of the immorality of abortion is built on the assumption that life inherently has value. Lives do not have any inherent value, because they are the result of millions of years of naturally occurring processes. These natural processes do not have any inherent moral value; attempting to assign one would involve invoking some sort of "god" that exists beyond the material, observable, provable world we live in, rather than some logical, clear, and distinct notion such as the one attempted to be shown. For these reasons, abortion is morally neutral.

On that note, the morality and legality of abortion are thereby a human notion, with a logically valid -though not logically sound- argument in either direction. The argument presented says that "no human life should be purposefully ended by another human being. Because that's murder." In short, they believe that murder is necessarily and inherently immoral. That's all it is though, a belief: There is no wholly logical ground to stand on with regards to murder being universally bad in all scenarios, because of its' moral neutrality as I proved above. In other words, the morality and legality of aborting a fetus is wholly subjective.

"Do you actually have an issue with my argument that a fetus is a human being with the right to life, and ending their life is murder[?]"

Yes I do. A fetus is not survivable beyond the confines of the womb for quite some time; in fact, not until right before the fetus is due to become a baby and be born, that ever-reliable 8 month mark after insemination. As such, considering the fetus is unable to survive without constant connection to the pregnant person, it stands to reason that this is an extension of their body at this point, rather than a separate entity. If one intended to claim it still was at the stages before a fetus can survive independently, then consider this implication: Parasites rely on being attached to living beings in order to survive. This includes humans. Therefore, following the earlier claim that "a fetus is a human being with the right to life, and ending their life is murder," a parasite attached to a human is also a human being with the right to life, and ending their life is murder. Therefore, it is more reasonable to claim that for most of the pregnancy cycle, a fetus is not a separate entity from the pregnant person, and by extension, "ending its' life" is not murder.

"Babies are people, too, and have the same right to life as an adult."

This is true! Because babies are not fetuses.

Just thought you would want to read this, because anti-choice rhetoric can be very harmful in shutting down the agency of pregnant people and their ability to dictate their own lives. Knowing the direction that restrictions of this kind have gone in the past, those restrictions will not stop after the illegalization of abortion. Please consider who this harms and who this helps before spreading closed-minded rhetoric of that kind.

Either morality (God-given or otherwise, because there are many secular arguments against abortion) exists or it doesn't. There is a line in the sand or there is not. If you truly intend to argue that lives have no inherent value beyond what we assign them, then not only are the two of us operating in completely irreconcilable ethical frameworks, but yours collapses under its own weight; harm, agency, all these things mattering hinges on the idea that humans and (to a lesser extent) other forms of life have inherent worth, inherent dignity, that causing the former and undermining the latter are wrong in and of themselves.

If there is no objective standard on which to hang our arguments, then everything becomes subjective; all that matters is what we value on a social and individual level. And if that's the case, why would I ever bother to value the opinions of you, a stranger on the internet, over my own? It would be unfair and wrong of me not to consider other positions, to try to see things from another person's point of view, but why should I care about fairness or rightness?

Equating an embryo or fetus to a parasite is fallacious and incorrect. Ignoring that by the scientific definition parasites have to be a different species from the host, and that a pregnancy is a two-way street that also provides benefits for the mother, embryos and fetuses are simply living out the natural development cycle that literally every other human being on the planet has gone through. The biological principles at play in parasitism and human reproduction are fundamentally different.

I could keep going. I could match your arguments with my own about how anti-life rhetoric is a slippery slope to eugenics, about how I could just as easily twist your arguments around to make social parasites out of the elderly and disabled; but in this case it's pointless, because I can't even get you to sit down and agree upon simple principles like "human lives have value" and "murder is bad" or even "there is such a thing as objective morality."

#there are pro-choice arguments that I'm willing to give credence #none that have successfully convinced me to become pro-choice‚ but I can acknowledge that they're well-reasoned and made in good faith #but you've somehow stumbled upon the one pro-choice argument that I can give NO credence;#that it doesn't really matter anyway‚ that there's nothing either supernatural or philosophical beyond the material world worth considering #that all questions of morals and ethics ultimately boil down to nothing more than a matter of taste #but the question in that case always becomes‚ “So why are we even discussing it? Why does it matter so much to you that I'm wrong?”

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matan4il · 6 months ago

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Hello! What kind of power does the recent ICC statement hold, and what kind of precedent will the arrest of Netanyahu and other several high ranking members of the Israeli government set? I'm genuinely frightened, as I can't imagine that the consequences will be anything but utterly disastrous

Hi Nonnie!

Honestly, I've read and heard so much about this topic, I will do my best to convey what I've been exposed to and processed, but keep in mind that I am not a legal expert.

First, I just wanna point out that for the time being, the ICC's chief prosecutor Karim Khan has only asked for arrest warrants against Hamas' leaders and Israeli ones. They've not been granted yet.

Second, a short explanation on the difference between the UN's two international courts.

The ICJ (International Court of Justice) is where states can be "judged" and "be sentenced," with some judicial outcomes having more real life consequences than others. This is upheld through conventions these states are signed on to (apparently, this is somewhat problematic, because it means the judges are not necessarily using established laws, rather they go by loose and open to interpretation statements that exist in the conventions), while the ICC (International Criminal Court) can only be used to prosecute individuals, not states, for their own crimes that they personally committed or oversaw.

The ICC's record in actually bringing major human rights violators to justice is... rather poor. It's not very good at getting these leaders extradited, so the court can put them on trial (because it's really easy to not travel at all to avoid extradition, especially for a wealthy tyrant who got rich from their war crimes, or to only travel to countries the criminal has reason to believe won't extradite him... shall we talk again about South Africa not extraditing Omar al-Bashir when he was on its soil, despite being responsible for countless murders in his country of Sudan?) and then, even on the rare occasion when they do get a leader extradited and put on trial... more than one ended up being exonerated by the court. Most people prosecuted there are NOT brought to justice.

In the case of Israel, it is NOT a party to the Rome Statute, which established the ICC. It initially wanted to join, but then had reason to believe the ICC might end up being used to wage political warfare instead of justice. I think seeing this proves Israel was right. BTW, the US ended up not being a party for the same reason. The ICC can only investigate and prosecute for 1 of 4 possible crimes (genocide, crimes against humanity, war crimes and crimes against peace. This means if you want to prosecute someone at the ICC, you HAVE to accuse them of one of these crimes, giving people motivation to make false accusations if need be), and only if that person's own country is "unwilling" or "unable" to do so.

That means Israel has several reasons to point out that the ICC's chief prosecutor is abusing his power: Israel not being a party to the Rome Statute means he has no jurisdiction over us (which means Israelis prosecuted will not even "get to" appear in court and plead their case, because as subjects of Israeli law, they can't recognize the court), it has not yet been established beyond doubt that any of the aforementioned crimes has actually been committed (how do you prosecute someone for a murder that might not have been a murder?) and lastly, Israel as a democratic country has an independent judicial system, which is both willing and able to investigate and put on trial its leaders (this is demonstrated by the fact that several of our past leaders have been put on trial, some even found guilty and imprisoned, and that our current prime minister, one of the two Israeli men the ICC is targeting, was and still is on trial in Israel, and is under threat of imprisonment).

On top of that, there's of course a few more signs that point to the prosecutor's behavior not being "kosher." For one thing, there's the fact that by requesting arrest warrants against Hamas' Sinwar and Israel's Bibi and Gallant, Khan created a moral equivalence between Hamas, the antisemitic, genocidal terrorist organization, which we KNOW carried out on Oct 7 (as well as before and since) war crimes, crimes against peace and crimes against humanity, and the elected leaders of a democratic state, waging a defensive war started by said genocidal terrorist organization. There's also the fact that Khan was supposed to come to Israel for the stated purpose of collecting evidence, but he canceled the trip, and made this move instead. What is he basing his request on, if he hasn't completed the measures that he himself thought were necessary to have a proper idea of what's happening here? This is also a precedent, because this is the first time ever when a democratic state's leaders are prosecuted by the ICC, something that as an idea shouldn't happen at all, since democratic countries have judicial systems willing and able to prosecute their leaders.

Now as an idea, if the ICC prosecutes individual Israeli leaders, not states, that shouldn't have an influence on Israel as a country. In reality, it does.

Because the prosecutor's move creates this false moral equivalence between Hamas' leaders, men responsible for insane death tolls for both Israelis and Palestinians for decades through their violent, extremist, genocidal antisemitic ideology and corresponding actions, and Israel's leaders, who are waging a defensive war, in which Israel is providing the enemy controlled territory with water, electricity, humanitarian aid, does its best to differentiate between civilians and terrorists, and even has a legal team to make sure all orders and struck military targets comply with International Humanitarian Law. This moral equivalence plays into every anti-Israel lie and dehumanizing propaganda, and enables the antisemitic wave we've been seeing around the world, so this is def gonna affect Israel for the worse, not to mention Jewish communities everywhere.

But it will also have consequences for Israel as it's painted as more and more of a pariah. "Why did you overstep your own jurisdiction and prosecute a democratic country's leaders?" will get twisted around to "this is proof that Israel is not a democracy and is committing war crimes!" which will make many wanna stay away from us, even though they'd be wrong. If Israel does become more and more shunned on the international stage, not because of actual crimes, but due to public perception, then this can hurt its financial, commercial, scientific and cultural ties. Basically, anything that requires international collaboration can be hurt, and the people who will pay the price will be the regular people in Israel. Ironically, this might also come back to bite the regular Palestinians in the ass. The Palestinians have never done anything (not under Hamas and not under the Palestinian Authority) to develop their own financial system, independent from Israel, so when Israelis will suffer financially, so will the Palestinians. The regular ones, the Hamas leaders and terrorists will continue to enjoy the donated money and stolen humanitarian and financial aid.

Lastly, the ICJ in its case against Israel (submitted by the same South Africa which has failed to extradite al-Bashir, and which enables its own political party guilty of genocidal chants) might be able to now quote Khan's request as "support" that Israel is committing a genocide. Just notice the possible loop between these two courts. The ICJ will take years to decide on this case, but in the meantime, can decide on provisional measures, which will punish Israel as if it has already been found guilty. The ICC, as an idea, is supposed to rely on the ICJ's findings and not prosecute anyone on a crime that hasn't yet been determined to have happened. But by requesting these warrants anyway, the ICJ can rely on the ICC to justify even further provisional measures against Israel.

This is a mockery of justice, a political weaponization of courts against a democratic state whose greatest crime is being misjudged based on the same ignorance and hatred that in the past have led to the type of genocide (against Jews) that these courts are meant to help prevent.

(for the record, several states have condemned the prosecutor for its moral equivalence of Israel and Hamas, but they also seem to understand that this blatant violation of some core principles regarding how the ICC is supposed to operate means that one day, that court can be used against others, too)

Footnote: Khan has never prosecuted anyone for crimes committed in other human-created disaster areas, including Bangladesh, Myanmar, the Philippines, Afghanistan and Venezuela, despite investigations there, and to the best of my knowledge has never ordered investigations into other areas where HUNDREDS of thousands have been murdered, such as Yemen and Syria, or regime leaders whose states sponsor global terrorism, like Iran.

Yeah, one day people are going to look back on this and try to figure out how the ICC and ICJ went so terribly wrong.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

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iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 8 months ago

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For full headcanons: What do you think a lazy day with the M6 would look like? Say that somehow MC and their love interest have a free day all to themselves to just relax.

The Arcana HCs: Lazy Days with M6

Julian

He's been looking forward to this. Did he tell you that he would try to sleep in? Maybe. Does he succeed? Unfortunately not

However, not needing to head straight out the door to the clinic means that you get to sleep in and wake up to the sight of your relaxed doctor leisurely sipping some coffee in bed next to you

As much as Julian savors the delights of domestic life, he's quick to get a little stir crazy. How about an outing together?

For a dramatically roguish nerd like him, an "outing" could mean getting dragged to a leech convention, watching a play, doing something legally not-so-recommended, or visiting a library

Either way, since the point of the day is to be lazy, he's more likely to want to head home come evening rather than stay out

Does he enjoy social time? Sure, but even more than that, he cherishes you. He can meet you for dinner at the tavern any day, but he doesn't get every evening completely free like this

Dinner is peaceful, intimate, and slower than usual because he insists on eating by candlelight which means not being able to see your plate very well

The way his eyes feast on you instead of the meal makes up for it

Asra

Nobody can match this magician when it comes to lazy days

They. Are. Sleeping. In. They aren't even going to think about getting up until the sun is high enough to fill the room with golden light and the street outside your window is bustling with activity

Even then, the tranquility stays. There's no part of the day when the pace picks up. He'll move with you slowly from the bed to the kitchen with a sleepy smile, prioritizing snuggles over cooking

And that's how the day goes - lazing from the cushions to the kitchen for more tea and snacks, trading silly stories and engaging in the occasional tickle/pillow fight between books

Asra will start at least one experimental craft, only to put it down halfway finished because focusing on you is way more enjoyable

Right around sunset, they'll need a change of scenery. That will most likely take the form of taking you by the hand and pulling you into their oasis for some prolonged snuggles and whimsy time

However, being predictably unpredictable, there is the 25% chance that he'll decide he doesn't want to keep a lazy pace all day after all, and pull you out into the darkening streets for an adventure

Either way, it ends back in bed, gazing out the window at the stars

Nadia

Oh, she needs this and she's been planning for it for weeks

Everything is set up ahead of time. All pressing matters have been dealt with, and she's delegated responsibilities so that unless the world starts to end, someone else will have to handle it

She is going to indulge in every relaxing moment she's been putting off and she's going to do it without lifting a finger and you are going to join her for every blissful moment

She rarely has time to sleep in and hold you, so she is taking her fill

Breakfast appears at the door to her chambers when she rings her bell, and after sitting you in her lap and taking turns feeding each other, she's drawing you into her private bath all set up for spa day

With her mind carefully blocked off of work, she'll turn her attentions to you. How have you been doing? What's been on your mind? Tell her something about you she hasn't heard yet ~

Since you can't spend all day in the spa, she does take a couple hours in the afternoon to herself in her tower. Your company is delightful and refreshing, but even she needs a moment alone

Dinner happens on the veranda, just the two of you in a nook hidden from view, lounging on cushions and savoring a slow night

Muriel

Lazy days ... kind of happen whenever one of you needs them to happen. Living self-sustainably in the woods has its perks

At the same time, there's some daily duties that just can't be skipped - feeding the chickens, drawing water, etc

Lazy days are what happens when one of you looks at the other of you and you both know you need a break. A day without all the added routine tasks, a day to just breathe for a little bit

Lazy days start by spending the day before getting ready to rest

Waking up is one quick trip to throw a bucket of feed at the chickens before darting back inside to warm up next to the veritable furnace that Muriel becomes under a blanket

Breakfast happens late, sitting by the fire instead of at the table, slicing the loaf of bread between you as you want more and toasting it idly while Inanna steals the crumbs

If it's a chilly, rainy day, you spend it adding logs to the fire from the pile you built up yesterday and curling up with each other under the furs. On sunny days, you might lie down outside

Maybe you talk, maybe you sleep, maybe you work on a craft - but it passes in peace and quiet and grounded, steadfast love

Portia

Does Portia need a lazy day? YES. Is Portia good at lazy days? Not. At. All.

Sometimes existing in Portia's presence means idly wondering if she subconsciously found the secret to perpetual motion and she's very busy trying not to forget it. She just never stops going!

Lazy days happen when you and the Countess gang up and make sure she has 24 hours of a clear schedule when she's on the verge of burning out and is in desperate need of a reset

The day starts by dragging her back into bed and telling her she's not allowed to make breakfast until she's slept as long as possible

Breakfast itself consists of trying to help her snap out of "work work work must get the next task done" mode while you brew some tea. The most effective way to do so is to put Pepi in her lap

After that, the day is delightful. Spending the rest of the morning and early afternoon lying on a picnic blanket in the garden, reading books and eating snacks and watching Pepi chase butterflies

The evening always involves visiting Mazelinka for family time. (It's also the best way to make sure Portia doesn't have to cook)

And nighttime - nighttime is for fireflies and pillow forts and kisses

Lucio

Lucio likes suggesting lazy days every day

Which means that, when the time does come to have one, the first word out of his mouth is "FINALLY."

He's been ready to take a slow day for weeks!! He needs this!!

Sleeping in is essential. If you try to get him out of bed before noon when there isn't a reason to he will start a riot

Went out the night before and maxed out his budget buying all the pastries on sale at the end of the day. Breakfast consists of him wolfing down sugary flaky dough at 1 PM, without leaving bed

He got them for you too - which is how you're presented with the sight of him beaming, shirtless, sitting in a ray of afternoon light with the sheets rumpled around him as he holds out a bite for you

The sugar high is enough to make him antsy. Yes, this is a lazy day, but lazy days are supposed to be enjoyable, and is a day even enjoyable if you haven't gone out to enjoy yourself?

Luxuriates in taking twice as much time to do his eyeliner

Saunters around the square of wherever you're visiting with your hand in his, pointedly ignoring the board of job requests

Stays up super late to savor every last moment of the day off

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana game #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

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moonrisecoeur · 9 months ago

Text

compliance (how to brainwash your boyfriend) — leon kennedy

author’s note: this was written with re4r!leon in mind bc that’s my boyfriend! angel said so!! i have… so many hypno ideas, some considerably more palatable and some that are Much Worse, so pls let me know if you want more! also this is based off of an audio i listened to once by everdistant-utopia on reddit! the headset concept is kind of (extremely) goofy but i was into it idk. again, i'm aware that mind control isn't real and this is a silly ass concept. i had fun doing it anyway. no leons were hurt in the making of this fic. sorry for not posting it sooner even tho it was done i was extremely embarrassed lol. pls ignore any typos. love you!! thank u!!

wc: 5k

content: sub!leon x fem!reader, afab reader, oral reader receiving, orgasm control, mention of feet for like two seconds

warning: this is dark content. please do not read if the following topics are sensitive to you: noncon, hypnosis, mind control. i dont endorse or encourage this type of behavior irl, its just a fantasy!

—

as you walk down the street, you walk by a flier that’s sitting on the sidewalk. you don’t stop to read it, but one word caught your eye. mind control. it was probably something stupid, something completely made up by some lunatic who thinks mind control is real. mind control is maybe, technically real, in the ‘just relax and close your eyes, breathe deeply and let yourself be at peace’ kind of way. definitely not the ‘put on this headset and let me rewire your brain to make you my pet’ kind of way.

but… would it really hurt to look at the flier? you turn around to see it’s still there, and, against all your better judgment, you decide to walk up to it and pick it up.

it’s dirty, wet because of the rain from last night. even still, you can read the description of the advertised product clearly, along with some more info like a website and contact info for the designers. you take a brief moment to wonder who in the hell comes up with that stuff.

introducing you to the ultra brainwasher headset 3000! perfect for all of your mind control needs! simply place the device over the subjected head and choose what you’d like to do with them. need an obedient housewife? in search of a new pet? want them to be madly in love and obsessed with you? all of that and more is possible with the ultra brainwasher headset 3000! visit our website and order the headset today!

you blink. this is insane. who would do this? who would make this? why would anyone want to make someone do any of this against their will? you feel sick to your stomach as you crumple up the flier and toss it in the nearest trash can.

because that’s… that’s not consensual. that’s wrong in every possible way. unless they gave consent to be, what, turned into an ‘obedient housewife’? that’s really what it said? there’s just no way that’s right. how is that legal to sell? what even was that flier doing?

this feels like the kind of thing that would be sold on the black market, not openly advertised to people on the street. what if some lunatic saw it and just started brainwashing people? no one could stop them, it’s not exactly a crime in and of itself, and any crimes committed would be a little difficult to report if the ‘subject’ was too mindless to notice or to say anything.

whatever. you threw the flier away, you did your job as a good samaritan by tossing it so someone much much worse than you wouldn’t get a chance to look at it, and thus, you can forget all about the headset. pretend you never saw the flier or knew it existed and carry on with your life.

except, you can’t really. it permeates your thoughts, seeps inside of your subconscious until you begin to hypothesize that the headset wasn’t the real hypnosis, it was seeing that flier. you know you must be delusional. it’s not real, you’re not really mind controlled from just reading the flier, but… would it really hurt it buy it? you had the money for it and it’s not too expensive at all.

you hate yourself for it but you look on the website, just as hypnotic as the flier was, and you see multiple variations of the headset. some more suited towards different outcomes for ‘subjects’ and some just different stylistically.

you find the one you were looking at earlier. the ultra brainwasher 3000. it’s a stupid name, you’re aware. it just doesn’t really matter because who’s gonna know that you own this? you’ll keep it, maybe try it out on yourself to see what it’s like. you won’t do anything crazy, maybe like, hypnotize yourself to not be able to sit down until all your household chores are done, just for the day. the ultra brainwasher 3000 claims to have this functionality, and you’re… more or less, curious.

you order it and spend two weeks in absolute hell, making sure your boyfriend is never home alone when the package could arrive. you’re not worried he’d open it and see the device. he doesn’t look through your stuff, but the packing sticker ‘brainmelting industrial company’ would…. catch his eye for sure. try explaining that to your boyfriend, especially because even if you’re a good liar, you’re not to leon.

but, you get it, and it’s perfect because leon isn’t home right now, and you get to play with your new toy for a little bit. the box is smaller than you expected, only including the headset, a charging cord, and a set of instructions.

as you’re reading, the thought only just now hits you. it’s surprising that it’s taken you this long to have this idea, given how it would be someone else’s first instinct.

“should i…” you murmur to yourself, looking around nervously to see if anyone is in earshot, “… should i use this on leon..?”

i don’t know, should you use a mind control headset on your poor boyfriend that was just sent on a mission to save the fucking president’s daughter? maybe not.

you don’t know how it took you this long to come up with the concept. i mean, the flier did mention making someone your obedient housewife, but… they never said that someone had to be a girl…

it’s gross or actually more disgusting, honestly, how excited you get at the prospect of doing this to leon, but you decide that yeah, fuck it, you might as well brainwash your boyfriend. truthfully, what are the consequences? besides… ruining your relationship, betraying his trust, destroying him as a person… eh, it’s only temporary, right? there’s ways to make it only temporary.. and there’s no way he’d remember..

you fiddle with it, curious of all the different things you could do to him. the headset didn’t have presets, you could make up literally anything you wanted him to believe. you could make him the obedient housewife, but you could also make him a servant, maybe even dress him up all pretty as a maid. you could make sure of his loyalty and commitment, make him be so in love with you that even the thought of being with another woman makes him physically ill.

he gets home later that night, worn down and tired and exhausted in every possible way. and you know you’re going to have to put on your best acting skills. you’re not sure if you’re ready to do this, but you’re gonna have to be, so you press a sweet kiss to his lips, one he lingers on for just a moment too long. his lips chase after yours as his eyes open back up slowly, looking at you through his pretty lashes, an eyebrow raised, “what?”

you can’t help but adore him, his bluntness and gruff attitude, yet how soft he touches your waist as he pulls you closer. leon is nothing if not gentle and sweet, and you love that about him, “nothing, i just… i just wanted to look at you,” you say, and it reminds you just how easy leon is. just a couple of words and his eyes get a little glassy, his heart leaping out of his chest just a bit.

it sometimes helps that your boyfriend has been through every form of hell since that day in raccoon city, so sometimes just sweet words and little gestures get a bigger reaction than you’d expect. he’s traumatized and broken down, so the love you give him matters so much more.

in short, he’s easy. he gives in quickly and doesn’t like to fight, not with you. gives you everything you want, doesn’t protest, doesn’t ask for much besides your attention and love.

“you always stare at me,” he says awkwardly. god he’s so not charming that it makes him effortlessly likable.

that’s what’s so sucky about the idea of hypnosis. do you lose the person he used to be? sure, a mindless househusband would be great, helplessly obedient and passive and hardworking, but does this override his actual personality? that’s a bit too scary.

you make an effort to soak in these parts of his personality, enjoying every inch of his pretty little mind. you decide that no matter what you do to him, you can’t ruin him completely. you’d miss his heart, rough and guarded but nonetheless yours.

“i wanna try something,” you murmur to him, your heart pounding a little more than it should, “do you trust me?”

“of course i do,” he says. your heart almost aches, he trusts you so implicitly.

“close your eyes,” you say, and he complies easily.

you step away to grab the headset, and he’s so sweet and good that he doesn’t even peek. you take a deep breath, and commit to it.

you place it on his head, and he grumbles, but doesn’t object. poor thing. doesn’t even realize what’s happening to him.

—

the setting on the headset that you chose wasn’t anything flashy but it was labeled ‘semi-permanent’ and it stated that the subject would not remember anything from the moment of hypnosis to the moment they wake up next. so, all and all, even if you felt horrible, the damage wouldn’t be permanent, and leon wouldn’t even remember what happened.

truthfully, it felt like nothing could go wrong. it wouldn’t alter him too much, just… make him helplessly obedient for a couple hours. you could turn up the intensity if you wanted to, if it wasn’t quite enough to satisfy your curiosity.

you decide that it’s now or never, especially since being lost in your head while your boyfriend is cluelessly wearing what looks like a vr headset is kind of… odd.

you start the application, waiting for it to begin on his end.

“what are you up to?” he asks innocently, probably still not seeing anything while it loads. the question sounds like an accusation, but it’s really not. leon genuinely just wants to know what’s going on. it’s hard not to, but you don’t answer.

you notice the exact moment that it starts because grunts out of nowhere and his whole body tenses, and he clutches onto the fabric of the couch cushions, using that sense as a way to ground himself during an overload of audio and visual stimulation.

you reach to grab his hand, and his grasps yours tightly, desperately, as if physically pleading with you to make it stop.

you whisper to him, “shhh, nice and easy,” you’re not even sure if he can hear you, but you still feel the need to speak. you’re not sure if it’s your voice or your touch but he relaxes just slightly, his breath raggedy and tense. he’s trying like hell to keep himself together, but it’s so overwhelming that it’s hard for him to think, “hey… it’s okay. you’re okay, just… let it happen.”

a pathetic little whimper escapes his throat as his body goes slack, jaw hanging open and arms hanging limply by his sides, “wha… why?” his voice sounds small, weak, and if you weren’t so cruel, you’d immediately take it all back and apologize and just face the consequences.

but you’re too far deep to back out now, even if leon’s pitiful demeanor is almost swaying you to stop, you know you can’t. not now.

“i… i thought you…” he whines, body tensing and spasming as he tries to put some form of coherent thought together, “wha… why..?” he whimpers again, pathetically broken down in just a matter of minutes.

you sit there with him, holding his hand, waiting for the process to be done, and once it is, you take the headset off.

he seems agitated, but doesn’t seem to know what at. his muscles are tense, but he doesn’t make any sudden movements.

“hey,” you mutter gently, and he almost flinches at the sound, looking at you with those wide deer eyes again, scared. you reach out to touch his face, fingers caressing his cheek.

the cogs in his brain turn as he processes what’s happening, and the agitation seems to evaporate and become replaced by a sense of calm and relaxation. he looks into your eyes, and it seems like he’s deciding something.

“leon?”

“yes? how… can i serve you?” he asks, jaw dropping at his own words. he’s so stunned at what he’s saying and how he’s acting yet he can’t help it.

“…address me as… ma’am,” you say, and he shivers, eyes closing tensely as he tries to figure out what the hell is going on, “and go get me something. how about… a cup of coffee? yeah, let’s start there.”

it makes sense that he’s fading in and out, the programming would probably need more time to settle in before it was done and his personality obviously wouldn’t just disappear, but it was still a little bit heartbreaking to watch him fight the voice in his head that is desperate to obey you.

as he disappears into the kitchen, you sit where he was sitting on the couch to take a moment to think it all over.

leon has never been the most… dominant man. he has his moments of aggression and tension that turn into a roughness that his soul seems to often carry, but it’s never controlling. he’s not demanding, he asks nothing of you besides gracing him with your presence.

but due to his past, submission also doesn’t come easy to him. he likes to think he would lean more sub, just because he’s so malleable to your will, so easy to convince. anything you want is yours, and if you want his dignity laid out in the palm of your hand, then it’s yours to keep for eternity. he just struggles to fully give up control, especially since you know he’s not really had much of that in his life.

you kept his personality intact for the most part, but… he just seems so different. he responds pretty much the same, talks the same, acts the same. something just doesn’t seem right.

“here’s the coffee you asked for,” he mutters when he returns, his voice gruff but soft at the same time. he’s… definitely conflicted. the implanted urge to obey you mindlessly and the natural urge to protect his self-respect are fighting in his head. you watch curiously to see which will win.

leon has been through hell, and you can always see it when you look into his eyes. he’s been controlled by the government, a puppet on their strings, since he survived that night in raccoon city. he must be used to a lack of control in his life. but now he’s your puppet, and you have no interest in using him as a killing machine. you have… different plans for him.

“thanks,” you whisper, and he nods, quiet but obedient. just how you wanted him. he stands there beside you, not really knowing what to do with himself as you take a sip, “rub my feet now.”

“..what?”

“you heard me,” you say. and he did.

something in his stomach sinks at the command, a feeling of urgency to do as you say fills his entire being, but it just feels so wrong to him. you’re never this brazen, this demanding.

“come on, leon,” you say, almost condescendingly, pointing to the floor right in front of the couch, “on… your… knees.”

he breathes shakily, but kneels down in front of you, avoiding eye contact as he gives you your damn foot massage. there’s turmoil in his head, easily seen by that deer-like look in his eyes as he stares wide-eyed at the ground. despite his roughness, he’s always had these soft, fragile eyes, reminding you of who he really is. it would be truly heartbreaking to watch him go through this if it also wasn’t incredibly attractive to put him on his knees and order him around.

leon has always been relatively compliant, but now it’s on a whole other level. anything you ask for, despite some inner conflict, he’ll do. you wonder just how far you could push him, but… you don’t decide to test that just yet.

for a few minutes, or however long it takes for you to finish your coffee, you sit there with him. his touch is good but not very skilled. he gets the tension and soreness out though, and you’re sure you could train that into him over time.

“take off your shirt,” you say, and his throws off his t-shirt easily. it lands in the corner unimportantly, and your smirk radiates confidence and something else much more sinister, “stand up, bend over in front of me.”

he closes his eyes tightly, clearly fighting that inner battle but the part of him desperate to get away and to not obey you is losing. he slowly rises to his feet and does as you ask. he places his hands on the coffee table, legs spread slightly like he already knows what’s about to happen. funny, because he doesn’t seem to know much of anything right now.

you stand up, hands touching all over him but particularly grasping at his ass, pulling down his sweatpants and boxers and enjoying the way his muscles flex, tightening and hardening when you grab him, “you never let me spank you,” you muse, almost annoyed, “i get it. you get nervous with power play and letting me dom you or whatever, but i always wanted to hit it just once. just to satisfy the curiosity of what it would be like.”

your hand pulls back and slams against his butt with a loud smacking noise. he gasps, breathing out shakily after the hit, “i… i’m sorry, ma’am.”

“but now that we’re here… and i’ve already got a taste, i don’t think i ever want to stop. so, from now on, no more of that. if i want to slap your ass, i’m going to,” you murmur, “and you will not try to stop me or convince me not to.”

“i.. i…” he whimpers, and for a second you pause, nervously that the real leon, somehow deep down, heard that, “… yes, ma’am.”

“good,” you mutter, slapping it again, feeling the hit in your hand as you pull away, and if you can feel it so clearly then you’re sure he can, “now, be polite and say ‘thank you’. thank me for teaching you how to correctly behave.”

“tha… thank you, ma’am,” he whispers, eyes shutting slowly as his deep inner need to resist is weakening.

“i own you now,” you groan, grasping at his hips posessively, mouth pressing open kisses to his bare shoulder, “no, i… have always owned you. owned your body, you just didn’t realize it.”

he nods, incredibly turned on. his body aches to be claimed, to be made yours.

sure, leon has always been yours, but his body has been purely his. he’s… cautious with it. he’s been more or less just too busy for romantic partners, but somehow you snuck your way into his life and he happily lets you stay. he just… is slowly learning to trust you with himself.

he can do easy, comfortable, casual sex. what he can’t do is hand himself over to you like this, helplessly obedient, submissive in every possible way. as much as leon doesn’t have the energy to fight, tired and worn down, fighting is all he know.

your nails drag against the skin of his torso and back, leaving pretty red lines wherever they go, “no more fighting. no more stressing about it. all you have to do is be mine, unequivocally.”

“i… i am..” he mumbles, and you tilt your head, eyeing him curiously. he notices, shying away, “i… i am yours. unequivocally. you can… you can have me.”

manhandling has always been a little difficult, considering leon is all muscle and he’s a sturdy guy, but you spin him at the hips to face you, and he’s effortlessly moved, “can i… have your body just as much as i have your heart?”

“yes, i… yes, ma’am, it’s yours. do whatever you want with it, ma’am,” he says, a slight daze in his eyes, clearly he’s not all the way there. he's trying. he’s still so soft, so tender and malleable, so leon.

you lean in to press a kiss to his lips, and he melts into your touch, hands grasping him roughly, in a way that might hurt anyone else, but leon is strong. sure, your touch is bruising him, but… he doesn’t have enough

of his mind left to be bothered.

lips trail down his neck and shoulder, but move back up to his ear, sucking on his skin in a vampiric manner. you whisper to him, “you’re gonna only focus on my pleasure.”

“i… i am? i… i am…” he stutters, god it’s so damn cute.

“of course you are. you’d rather eat me out than have an orgasm yourself, wouldn’t you? if i was a crueler person, i would find a way to mind control your orgasms away completely. that way you could… focus on my pleasure, but i’m not that mean.”

he shudders, your lips pressing to the sensitive spot underneath his ear, teeth dragging down his skin, teasing him, taunting him.

“you wanna eat now?” you ask, lips pressed to his collarbone now, and he moans out an affirmative. you suck a hickey against the skin right atop of the bone, admiring the redness, the way you get to watch it turn a disgusting shade of purple. one that should make you nervous to have done to him, only turns you on.

instead of ordering him into his knees this time, you just push him, easily putting his head between your legs. his hands come up to hold your thighs, steadying himself as you half-stand half-sit on the counter. he pulls your pants down enough , but can’t even be bothered to take off your panties, just pushing them to the side.

“can.. i, ma’am?”

you chuckle, not really expecting him to be so polite, “go for it, sweet thing.”

he leans in, pressing a teasing kiss to your clit, just once, before his tongue meets your folds and he licks and sucks like tomorrow won’t come but he’ll make sure you will. he groans into your pussy like he’s the one being pleasured, and that honestly seems like a fair comparison. sure, he was physically pleasing you, but even just the act of giving oral is making his head spin with a satisfaction he has never felt before. he could get high off of this.

leon has always been good at giving head. much better than just good. he’s incredible. it’s the one thing where he can fully just zone out. if you’re too lost in your own pleasure, then you can’t focus on him and how he’s feeling, and there’s something oddly safe about the feeling of being, for all intents and purposes, alone with his thoughts. eating your pussy just comes so natural that it’s second nature.

but now? he can’t get lost in his thoughts if he doesn’t have any. doesn’t mean he’s enjoying it any less. he’s enjoying anything you ask him to do. you could tell him to go fold your laundry and then clean your bathroom and do your dishes and he’s do everything diligently and he’d be satisfied the whole time. god, maybe you do really want a househusband. besides, leon could use the emotional break from his job. he’s content enough serving you.

he makes you cum sooner than you expected, but it’s literally just because he’s that good with his tongue, and when he moved one his hands from your thigh to press two fingers into your cunt, fingering you in thick circular motions as he sucked on your clit, you were gone.

he continues, wet fingers gushing in a fast rhythm as you orgasm, grinding against his mouth, using him completely for your own pleasure. it was always a secret fantasy of his, and now it’s reality, even if his mind isn’t all the way there and the only thoughts running through his head are is she pleased with me? did i do a good job? do i deserve her praise? i should do better next time. i should serve her better. i only want to serve her.

and now that he’s completely helpless, servitude being the only concept he can comprehend, and you come down from a high so intense it took you a second to remember that leon was waiting patiently for your next command, next order.

“put… put me on the couch…” you gasp out in heavy breaths.

he’s strong, and he helps to guide you to the couch, body still part paralyzed from such an intense pleasure. you lay there, still breathing a little heavy.

“go get dressed and cleaned up…” you mutter to him, “and then come back out here and cuddle up next to me.”

he does as you ask, finding his clothes and getting dressed again, and then when he approaches the couch again, you reach out your arms for him. the smile he gives you is almost too real. too… really leon. you still feel that twinge of nervousness in your gut, but then he lays against you, head tucked into the crook of your neck, and you know he doesn’t know. for all that he’s good at, leon’s not a great actor.

you reach your hand up to run your fingers through his hair repeatedly, soft and soothing motions to lull him into a state of compliance.

“you’re mine,” you whisper, hoping he’ll confirm it back.

of course he does, softly, no longer feeling conflicted, “yours, ma’am.”

“you’ll be obedient and submissive from now on,” your voice is soft but carries a dominance he doesn’t quite think he could ever escape nor would he ever want to.

“i’ll be.. obedient and submissive.”

“you’ll only focus on my pleasure,” you say, knowing he’ll repeat it back obediently just like the ones previous, but you feel his rock hard cock against your leg and as much as you want to shove his cock inside of you in an instant, you can’t help but want to control him like that. keep his orgasms just out of reach until he goes mad from the teasing and edging you plan to do to him. keep him nice and horny and desperate, just how you like him. if he wasn’t submissive enough for you before, he is now.

“only yours, only ever yours, please…” his voice is soft and meek and god if you wanted to you could find a mind control that was permanent and just… leave him like this forever. let him take care of your home and future kids and do your household chores and tasks. keep him completely obedient, god it would be…

“you can’t resist,” you whisper, leaning into his hair,

resting your head against his in a soft intimate moment, “i can’t resist, ma’am.”

you nod gently, and after a moment, you sigh, running your fingers through his hair, “i’m.. i love you, leon. sorry about all of this..”

“… why are you apologizing, ma’am?” he asks, tilting his head slightly even in your grasp to show confusion. he really is just like a little puppy sometimes.

“you know.. about the mind control.”

he shrugs, the most unbothered happy smile on his face, “oh, that’s.. that’s okay, i’m fine with it. i.. already belonged to you.”

“but that was in a more… romantic way. an ‘i belong with you’ kind of way. not the kind i did to you,” you say, just a tinge of guilt holding you back, but you push it aside, “it’s nothing, don’t worry about it. i just.. just know i love you. even when i’m ordering you around.”

“i’ll remember that, ma’am,” he smiles up at you just a little softer, just a little more like his true self, just a little more leon. that heavy feeling of guilt in your gut will never quite go away, will it?

you fall asleep on the couch together, knowing or maybe just hoping you’ll wake up to leon not remembering anything. hopefully he doesn’t piece together that he has no memory of you giving him that hickey and those bruises on his hips were definitely not his job's doing.

—

you wake up to a fond smell of breakfast and a bright morning, sitting up off the couch as you look at your phone. leon’s not laying there next to you, which is odd but not completely uncommon. sometimes he goes out in the morning to work out or disappears in the middle of the night when he’s needed somewhere, but most of the time, and today included, he’s just in the kitchen.

you find him there, standing in front of the coffee pot, and you walk up to him to wrap your arms around his midsection, softly burying your face into his back to shyly hide from his gaze.

“awh, morning lovebug,” his sweet raspy morning voice says to you, a hand on your arms, holding you tight so there’s not even a chance you could let go, “missed ya yesterday. did you sleep alright?”

“...mhm,” you hum, pressing a sweet kiss to his shoulder blade.

it’s a sweet moment, full of love and warmth and tenderness and you could have almost forgotten what you did to leon last night had the smell of coffee not been hanging in the air. but hey, at least he doesn’t remember what really happened, though he’s kind of confused just how he forgot how he got all of these bruises and scratches.

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ratcash-wasgud · 9 months ago

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this is my first time requesting here and im so nervous since the idea itself is so cheesy. could we have a modern au loser mizu who listens to "pasilyo" (a filipino song about wanting to get married so badly to someone; i highly recommend listening its so addicting!) and immediately thinks of her crush. thank you sm!

hel lovely!!!!! omg this is such a cute idea...it would be a shame if someone...have added some smut....hm...

anyways i kept this short, just to not overdo the vibe hihi

and you were right, it IS addicting. mwah.

Peonies

"I told you, I don't plan on doing that. Stop trying to play matchmaker, Mama." Mizu grumbles into the phone as she agressively spreads butter onto a slice of toast.

Her mother called her up again, which is always...well, a bother. She just nags her about settling down, even if she's still in college, finding a good boyfriend, getting married, having kids and basically giving up on everything she ever wanted. This is the reason she could never come out to her mother.

These talks always makes her hate the idea of marriage. Why would she ever tie herself down? Plus, it's a stupid old tradition. Plus, it's not even legal where she lives. It's just dumb to even think about it.

"No. I'm just busy." Mizu shrugs as she bites into the toast, still holding the phone up to her ear. Her mom keeps scolding her about ruining the family's name if she refuses to get married.

After about ten agonizing minutes, she hangs up. She lands on her bed with a groan. And just when she thinks she found peace, her phone lights up with a notification. It's a text from a groupchat called Tea Party with Eeyore, which has Ringo, Taigen, Akemi, and you in it.

ringo: omgomg look!

ringo: *a picture of you holding up a full tray of freshly baked pinagong.*

ringo: she helped me with my pastry of the week!!!

taigen: what even is that?

ringo: it's a type of fillipino bread! i learned it in baking class today.

you: we even made a whole playlist of fillipino songs to listen to while we bake :DDD

*you sent the link to the playlist.*

ringo: yup. we got into the mood, if you will

akemi: ringo, sweetie, that could have douple meanings

ringo: oh

The name is a dumb inside joke from that one time Akemi came up with the idea that having blue as a main color and being grumpy is enough for her to be just like Eeyore. She remembers you laughed so hard when she contined this line of thinking and matched Taigen with Tigger, because they're both annoying It's only because of that she doesn't mind this whole thing. She loves your laugh.

Mizu had a crush on you ever since she met you. It wasn't a hard crush to develop, honestly. You were kind for no reason, had eyes with stars in them, always full of energy while wearing the brightest smile she ever seen. You were just generally lovely. She was sure Taigen also had a crush on you at some point, which always irritated her, even if she never planned on making a move.

Mizu was content with the way things were. She was silently loving you from afar while you shined your bright light on her withouth even noticing. You made her happy if you didn't know.

She rolled over to her side, and tapped on the link you sent to the playlist. You had great taste in music, so if you were able to vive to these songs, they can't be that bad.

Then as the playlists starts playing, she hears a couple notes of an electric guitar, and she lightly shivers. Pasilyo was the first song. She never heard about it, but the melody quickly captured her.

She stared up the ceiling and she imagined you and Ringo listening to this song. She imagines you accidentaly spilling flour all over yourself, getting some on your face as you laugh, and she imagines her hand softly wiping it off. She imagines you sitting infront of the oven, staring at the growing pastry dough as it bakes, and having that bright and excited smile on your face when you succesfully decide that yes, it has gotten bigger since the last minute you checked. You'd look at her with big doe eyes when she tells you that it's time to do the dishes afterwards, singlaing how much you don't wanna. And of couse, she'd wash them instead of you, without hesitation. You'd hug her from behind as she does them, and hum the song in her ear, rocking your hips with hers playfully while your soft cheek is squished against her shoulder.

She sudenly wonders if that's how married life would look like with you. Damn, Mama has gotten into her head. But she doesn't mind it if it's like this. Would getting married really be horrible if it was with you? She decies on a firm no. You'd be the loveliest bride.

A bride she'd love to tie herself down to.

You'd stand there, at the altar, wearing all white and holding a big bouquet of daisies, camellias and lakspurs...maybe even peonies.

Yeah...definetly peonies. There would also be peony petals on the floor, scattered across, and one in your hair. Behind your ear...or one holding up your veil.

You'd smile when you see her on the other end of the aisle, like you see your future in her eyes. Your eyes would focus only on her, and your hand would squeeze hers for comfort as she says her vows. She'd kiss you with all her might in that moment. She'd pick you up and carry you away while you both laugh into eachothers faces.

She'd wake up to you every day of the week. To your soft cheeks squiched up against the pillow, your hand around her, and your breathing tickling her skin. She'd never want to get out of bed. She'd wake up hours earlier just to cuddle your sleeping form.

When you'd stir, you'd look into her eyes with your still hazy ones, and plant a good morning kiss on her forehead. In return Mizu would kiss your cheek, then your nose, then your jaw...then your neck, then your chest...

She'd put her hands on your breats, softly squeezing them as she teases them through your thin pajama top. She'd want it to be casual, domesticated, but still so, so exciting to make love to you.

She'd slowly get on top of you, and get lost in the way you're looking up at her. She'd slowly lift your top, and press her knee between your legs. Oh, how'd you tremble. You'd look up at her all needy, she'd have no option but to help you.

Her tongue would softly curcple your nipple, dry lips wrapping around it to trap it, all for herself. Her hand would slowly find it's way inside your pajama pants, long fingers sliding through your lips. She'd toy with you slick, because she knows it's there because of her. She'd bathe in the feeling of your clit pulsing for her before sliding her fingers inside, massagnig your inner walls. She'd coo in your ear, because you're just so precious when she's inside you like this. You turn into a ragdoll, and you can't do anything but whimper for her. You'd depend on her, especially in moments like this.

She'd give it to you every morning. She'd never hesitate to obey every command your body gives her.

Then she'd watch you make breakfast with your ears still red from getting taken by her so early in the morning. You'd sit in her lap while you'd eat breakfast. She'd feed you pieces of her bacon, and you'd give her bites from your egg. She'd give small pecks to your soft lips, to kiss away droplets of coffee.

She gets torn out from her daydream though by another text. She looks at it through half lidden eyes.

ringo: we made too many :(

taigen: that's what u get for always going overboard

you: mizu !!!

you: do you want some? i think you'd love pinagong!!!

Mizu smiles to herself as she reads the text. Maybe she isn't fine with how things are right now. Maybe she does need to make a move.

mizu: yeah

mizu: omw.

Maybe...she could stop by the flower shop and get some peonies.

Just maybe.

#blue eye samurai #bes mizu #blue eye samurai mizu #bes x reader #blue eye samurai x reader #mizu x reader #mizu fanfic #fanfiction #bes smut #smut

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widowsofchaos · 9 months ago

Note

could you please do prompt 168 with carol x fem reader? if you’re comfortable writing that of course:)

𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐭

synopsis: Trying to find peace at your job’s gala, but a familiar haunting shadow finds you once more.

pairing: dark!Carol Danvers x brown!fem!reader

ao3 // modern au // 5k words.

warnings: dubious wlw smut (forced stimulation, vaginal fingering), stockholm syndrome, toxic established relationship, domestic violence, mention of childhood abuse.

a/n: Carol’s outfit reference. title is a reference to the song, Mary by Alex G. requested 168. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” from this dialogue prompt list. dog metaphors, because I must write pain. Channeled my inner amy dunne for Carol. I’m sorry that I’m just finishing this 2 years later, but I hope whoever requested this, I hope you see this! <3

“She became the parent, the lover, the friend you’ve always craved for—- and yet, here you are,”

The truth can sting, just the sharp tip of a knife, flickering at the raw flesh. Poking and prodding till there’s small plots of ichor forming.

“——broken…” Her index finger arched, halting her words, still a vivid memory, “…. but not beyond repair.”

A scoff escapes.

“What is love without hate, I guess.” Unconsciously it spewed from your lips, the vowels felt like acidic vomit. A pregnant silence arose.

That all knowing head tilt, with those observant eyes—- always earned uncomfortable tension within you.

“Love isn’t meant to be confused with hate.”

The cigarette burns slow between your clenched fingers, nursing three fingers deep. Brown liquor swishes against the carved rocks glass, its clear silver grooves twinkles under the gala’s vermilion hues.

Fragments of words compulsively knock against the walls of your brain; as you mull at the gala’s open bar. A scorned woman who just wants peace, and quiet. Lingering stains of hurt that can last a lifetime settles to silence for once in a long time.

Showered an ugly duckling with affections, and built the pillars of security. Growing up in a childhood filled with anxiety and fear of attachments, lingering stains of abuse from the very beings who birthed you into this world.

She cleaned you, bandaged the scars, and assured you that she was the only one who adored you—- persisted that she was the only one who would.

Now, fighting violently in the legal battlefield of divorce, these past weeks have been mentally exhausting —- all whilst handling the burdening responsibilities of your profession.

Your very mind and hands helped craft this sophisticated gallery.

Your boss, Mr. Laufeyson, opened a new exhibit in the National art museum—- Norse history, one of his niche fixations. A man birthed on Norwegian soil, but raised in the monarchal land of England.

An established man who often seeks to explore the rich culture of his ancestors with much sophisticated adoration, and esteem. The Norse exhibit is now the largest section of the institution, with vast collections of rare artifacts protected behind hard stainless glass.

He breathed down your neck for long weeks, you had the task of restoring each piece that had been brought in, nearly breaking your damn back from all the hovering.

A gala bustling with a sea of middle-class folk, and self-proclaimed aristocrats of New York. You sought solace at the open bar, smoking a stogie—- and slipping into the whiskey.

It wasn’t a preferred choice, but it helps give a quick kick to your nerves. Seeking solitude away from pressures to gallant with faux professionalism, and an particular noisy friend, who should be presenting the Norse gods section.

Earlier, she was pestering with a thousand questions flying by the mouth —- if you ever gave thought to rekindling with Carol.

Dissociating into a mindless static, flickering at your clear square nails, as your cigarette burns slowly. At first, the mention of this exhibit with your boss months ago sent you into a frenzy of joy, but now—- it’s a dreadful experience.

All you long for is to start your weekend, to cuddle with your daug—-

“What an incredible scent you have—-”

Oh God, no.

“—- is that Histoires de Parfums, 1969?”

Fuck.

“I haven’t been around that perfume in a long time.”

It’s as if she can smell you a mile away.

A sensual, purring voice whispers near you. A shadowing silhouette eclipses the shimmering ceiling lights from your peripheral vision.

Your lips wrinkle, restraining the foreboding tears of frustration. Tightly nodding, swallowing a sob. Your breathing becomes heavier.

A hum, “It really smells wonderful.” With precision, the shadow sits onto the empty seat beside you.

“Thank you.” A forced smile curls at your mouth.

“With that scent, I’m surprised you’re not being hounded by the men here tonight.” A subtle wordplay, are you looking for anyone tonight?

As if your mind has forgotten all the bad, and reminisces on the good, all the fun, all the beauty that once blossomed.

“It’s not men I'm looking for.” You whisper, snuffing the cigarette into a provided ash-tray. A creamy hand strokes your knuckles, and your skin shivers under your blouse.

A jolt to your groin, and your breath hitches. All she can do is just touch you, and it’s as if you can get on your knees, and forgive her for everything.

“Why?”

You can see that pearly grin, from the corner of your eye, teasing and twisting.

“They’re too easy to hunt?”

You exhale a chuckle, eyes still trained onto the glistening counter.

“They bore me.”

“So—” Her voice lulls as a moan, “—- see anyone worthwhile?” Her fingers curl around your glass, twirling it by the rim. Your lipstick stain faces her direction, and bold as always, she lifts for a sip. Connecting the lip stain to hers, her eyes never leave yours.

It’s not tacky, nor forceful. How she moves is as if it is her nature.

Your eyes gaze over your shoulder, taking a full look. Finally, to drink in the force of nature that is your estranged wife—- Carol.

Her blonde tresses cascade on her shoulders, milky breasts on display. A pristine, black dress, that cuts and splits at the chest hem, polished nails, and clean skin. Her dress halts near her knees.

“Well, I have my eye on a blonde tonight.” You say timidly. Tenderly, your eyes glance fleetingly, a quick trace over Carol’s bodice, nearly losing your composure.

A pregnant pause.

That pretty pink mouth stretches smugly, as if the cat that got the cream. The hooks caught the flesh.

“You like blondes.”

Her tone lingers as an open question, guising the truth.

“Just one in particular.”

Sinking now, the hooks are tugging.

“Really?” Carol leans, her eyes hooded. “Which one?” Pretending to scan her eyes across the ocean of people.

But your eyes remain fixated on her. As if you were a lost puppy, just gazing at its human. Lucidly, influcating between the spaces of yearning, and guilt.

How at ease Carol is, as if nothing was wrong. The charming woman, the woman you thought she was. The woman she wanted you to think she was.

“The one in the black dress.” You say softly, and defeated brown eyes.

Carol’s eyes gaze back at you from the corner of her oculus, downcasting with a mirth, humming a chuckle. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” She shakes her head, an enticing warning.

A dangerous but delicious fruit hanging at your reach. She wants you to take the bait, urging you to—- to get you back in her grasp, and if she does, she won’t let you go.

This game, a cat and mouse play, is all too familiar. Playing as strangers, attracted together by lust, and curiosities—- the type of curiosity to feel the other’s flesh, subtle carnality. Act out, with playful words, pretend to be different people.

It slowly suffocates you, a twang in your chest, a reminder that this isn’t normal.

She isn’t normal.

Carol can be an array of personalities, she can be the doting wife, the whore in bed, the mother—- she can be the bitch with a violent mouth. Different faces for different folk, no one knows her true self, and she’s good at it —- real good.

So, when you tried to seek help from friends, they couldn’t believe it, nor did they want to. You’re not surprised that Carol snuck into the gala—- your co-worker, Maria, who you thought was a true friend —- the matchmaker from hell, let her in, unknowingly allowing the terror onto you.

But, that’s no surprise. Maria has been Carol’s right hand since their days in the Air Force.

None of your friends believe you—- and, it’s hurtful to admit, you’re too scared to speak about all the hurt Carol made you endure over the years.

Barely spoke of the discomfort Carol used against you, and all your shared friends thought you misinterpreted. All saying that Carol is just head-strong, and that you two are perfect together.

Carol feeds the fire with a ‘She’s just going through a tough time.’

Boundaries aren’t respected, everyone trying to push you back together, inviting Carol in social events —- to the point where you didn’t go out anymore, and just drowned in work.

“I like challenges.” Carol softly leans in, her breath fans the bare skin of your shoulder, “All the more fun when I win.” Her voice drops low, to a wispy whisper.

Her body heat engulfs you, and your eyes droop with haziness for a slick second. You can’t—- not again. No matter how intoxicating she can be, how delicious, it’s not worth your peace.

You’re too drunk for this.

“This cat is too tired to entertain.”

“Who said you were the cat?” Carol’s brow arches, halting you in your step. Carol’s infliction hardens, from the corner of your oculus, you can see the clench of her jawline. That pretty mouth morphed into a restrained frown, the same one you see before a punishment.

An offense has been made.

“I didn’t realize the roles were switched.”

The mask slips.

It’s always her way, her rules. Because no matter how clever, how coy the mouse can be, the cat always wins.

“You’re getting brave on me?” Carol asks.

And now the mask has been dropped.

“I think it’s best I leave.” You quickly collect yourself, a bit wobbly from the alcohol. Leaning against the counter to regain your composure, trying to stand upright.

Not this time. You won’t fall for her charm.

Carol sucks her teeth, “You’re seriously going to leave? Aren’t you tired of this childish bullshit?” Crossing her arms against her chest, lips wrinkling into a scowl. Carol talks as if scolding a child.

Your body twists in a haste, “My bullshit?” Your teeth are gritting harshly, hissing. Angry eyes pierce over the hill of your shoulder, fingernails digging into the leather of your purse; if not the leather, her eyes preferrable.

But this is a place of work, no matter how elegant the night is, you will scream if you have to—- just to escape her. You click your tongue, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I mean I’m usually amused by your brattiness,” Carol laughs sarcastically. “But, now it’s gotten too far.” Her fingertips graze your arm, toying with you, soft and playful—— her fingers grasp your arm in a clutch, earning a whine.

Her eyes are hooded, nearly tugging you downwards. A whine bubbles at the pit of your throat, too terrified to even move.

“You have to come back home.” Carol says, a strain to be sweet, but it’s as if a monster tries to be human. “I miss you.” She purrs, but her eyes … are cold, and agitated.

You remain silent, closing your eyes shut, gliding down in your seat. “Carol… have you signed the divorce papers, yet?” Your eyes stay glued to the sticky counter.

Carol chuckles, “You’re going to try to talk business to me, and you can’t even look me in the eye?” Her baby pink polished nails thump against the bar, thump thump thump.

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“And neither do I.” She sips her drink, smirking into the cup, “But it seems my wife likes to play games.” So light, so sarcastic, chastising you as if this was a running joke on your end.

“Carol, for fucks sake.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, “You made me go crazy.” You bite on those words, full teeth. Fingers curling into makeshift claws, vowels spilling as acidic vomit.

“Controlled me, like I was your puppet.” Your fingers curl and slither in gesture. “Manipulated me against the world, against our friends.” Your mouth opened again, the words weighing heavy against your mouth, but a hum interrupted.

“Look up at me when you talk.” Carol says, your eyes peer up through your lashes, owlishly. “If you’re going to lie, you might as well make it convincing.” She licks her lips, tasting the remnants of her liquor.

“I —- I—” you can’t find the words to even respond. You stare at her incredulously, she will never admit to it. Even now, she has you questioning your own sanity, if it was even worth fighting against her.

It’s not worth screaming about it. Not anymore.

“I have to go.” Swiftly, you stand up, with a bated breath.

“That’s how you talk to the mother of your child?”

Stiffening, as the hairs that align a cat’s spine, “Don’t you dare!” Your index finger pointing, shouting in a hush. “Stop using Kamala against me—” your voice wavers, throat nearly choking a sob, “You did enough of that in court.” Big brown eyes sheening wet, the last nerve shot.

Trying to maintain a level of calm, eyes fluttering back and forth around, seeing if anyone has witnessed your outburst.

“I don’t even have to do that,” Carol’s open palm gestures to your rigid stance, “she can see perfectly fine how erratic you’ve been.” Carol hisses, making your nose scrunch up.

Kamala adores — idolizes— Carol. So memorized by her strong, willful mother, since she was a waddling baby.

You haven’t dared utter a bad word about Carol in-front of Kamala, fearing to shatter the fragile bubble you curated as a shield for her. You wouldn’t let her witness the court meetings, especially the negotiations of joint custody.

By every fiber of your being, you’ve tried to make this separation as discreet as possible—- but Carol has been a devil, bulldozing those efforts. To make you appear as the bad parent.

You can’t stand her lawyer, Carol hired one who hails from Hell’s Kitchen—- fitting since he’s a thorn upon your rib. Subtlety bringing up your mental health, questioning your abilities as a mother —- no doubt, Carol was chewing his ear off about your past.

All Kamala knows is that her mothers are splitting up, with foreign lawyers, and that she now has to split weekends—- those pained brown eyes, her puffed cheeks, it kills you deeply—- all the guilt weighs on you, it feels as if you’re to blame for all the problems.

“You’ve taken so much from me, Carol.” You lean in, kneeling at her eye level. “My dignity, my peace— shit— even my sanity.” Your body anxiously fidgeting, breath quickening.

“But I will not, let you take my child away from me.” Your fingers dive into your purse, fumbling with irate, snagging the last cash you had—- with the finality of this conversation, slamming the money onto the marble countertop.

You carried Kamala, incubated inside you for nine months, fed her from your breast—- you will not lose her, not over your cold dead body.

“Goodnight, Carol.”

Sharply, you turn on your heel, leaving Carol without turning back. Walking with a gait, faking confidence, but truly at your core, a gnawing sense of uneasiness.

The corridor stretches as a miniature maze, the more you descend out of the gala, the less crowded it is. Turning left and right, trying to find the exit.

The ambiance is of grainy gray, the tinted blurred windows are foggy with the night’s shadows.

The echoes of clicking heels are faint, your mind doesn’t register, as your own feet and mind are stuck on auto-pilot.

“There she goes again,” an agitated voice snags your attention, brows furrowing, “always acting like the little victim.”

Not granted the chance to realize, in a flash, just as quick as you turned your head, rough hands grab you by the curve of your shoulders, throttling you against the chilled wall pavement.

Earning a hiss, and a gasp, stinging pain births and stretches along the muscles of your spine. Quickly, your fingers fruitlessly try to claw at Carol’s, but all it does is make her more enraged.

Carol thrashes you once more against the wall, and another for good measure; airy gasps of pain escapes you, tears beading at your lashes. That militant discipline seeps from her pores, it’s not a stranger to you, the rough edges of her touch is a familiar bruise.

“It may have worked with the rest of the world,” Carol barks in your face, nose to nose, “but it’s not going to work with me.”

Sniffling, your chin wobbles, trying to restrain a sob that burns your throat raw.

Carol hums, that tut of a sympathetic mother, “Look at us.” Her thumbs rubbing your shoulders, pressing on the blooming bruises. “I don’t like it when we fight.

Eerily, she influcates from predator to savior, “You always get erratic, and you know it upsets me.” Leaning in, her pink lips press a kiss on a falling tear.

“Where’s my special girl?” Carol whispers. Fear is beating inside of you, buzzing as tv static. Staring at Carol through your hooded lids, terrified, and confused.

Carol purrs, awaiting for an answer.

“I’m here.” Barely a murmur, you speak softly.

Carol thrives off of her aggression. But it’s not the traditional masculinity that some women possess in their personalities. She feels it’s the only gift her father ever gave her.

“It’s very cute that you try to fight me.” Carol mocks, her knuckles stroke your cheek. Carol hums, her eyes tracing over every facial feature.

“Let me see if she missed me.”

A string of no no no slip from you meekly.

One of Carol’s hands graze over your shoulder, twirling her fingers into your hair—- gripping between her fingers tightly. To then cup the nape of your neck, her thumb pressing slightly over your pulse point.

As she has you pinned by the scruff, her other hand flows down your cavlices, to your clothed breast—- she snags the collar to expose skin.

Groping a handful of your tit, she mutters still so soft, traveling down the path of your navel—- with a quick precision, Carol snatches your groin; more like clawing.

A sharp gasp escapes you, and all she does is laugh.

A quick glance at the end of the hallway, praying that nobody turns the corner. Carol snickers. “Afraid someone will catch us?” You exhale a huff, nose flaring.

“I remember you used to be quite adventurous.”

“That’s when I was young and stupid.”

Her eyes narrow, pinching your vagina in her hand even tighter. With her knee, she wedges her thigh between your shaky legs, spreading you more open.

Slithering her hand through the stitched fabric, her knuckles stroking your sensitive skin. Your breathing becomes heavier, and all she does is smirk.

Moving your panties to the side, Carol’s makes herself home to your body. Ashamed to feel yourself grow wet, and Carol moans.

“It seems she missed me.”

All unbridled frustration hits the hilt, you cry in a stretched whine, thrashing in her hold. In need to escape, you wanted to go home, away from her.

All these weeks of trying to flee from her, do the right thing to gain custody, to live a good life, give your daughter stability —- all of it goes down the drain by her simple touch.

Beating on her arms with fists, slapping and trying to knee her in a weak spot. Carol’s eyes darken—- as if she’s bored of the insolence.

Carol pushes her weight onto you, pinning to the wall. And her fingers don’t cease on her assault.

“I hate you.” You choke on a wail, your head tilting up as a child.

“I’ve saved you.” An expert circular motion of her fingertips, sending a jolt to your bundle of nerves.

“Who else can say that?” Carol leans in, her head tilting, as her lips meet your cheek.

Softly, she kisses you, caressing and grazing against the skin of your cheek.

“I took care of you, and you just want to leave?” Carol’s pink tongue slithers between her lips, licking and nibbling. Boldly, her fingers dove between your folds, playing with your wetness.

“You wanted a savior, baby, I’m it.” The bridge of Carol’s nose traces yours, humming at the wet sensation of your tears. “You were nothing before me—-” another finger plunging inside you, “—- and you will be nothing after me.”

“I — I — would rather be alone.” You say with a stammer, lips wet with tears. Mouth curling into a brave scowl, regaining some bravery, “I’ll be fine.”

Carol’s face leans a little back, tilting her head mockingly. “When I say nothing after me, I mean it—-” Carol’s teeth bare as fangs, “you’ll be buried six feet deep, before I let you go.” Her fingers grip the nape of your neck, tugging you in.

“No one can ever have you.” She whispers.

Your eyes are owlish, you don’t doubt her…. her time in the boot camp was extensive, you felt her trained strength many times—- she loves like a knife. Many bruises healed over the years.

Not brutal beatings, but very handsy.

A glimmer of fear suffocates you, your body keels as a leashed dog.

Her fingers slither against your peach fuzz, slipping between your mound, toying with your wetness. Splitting your velvety folds apart, Carol vulgarly strokes you with her fingers sloppily, staining the hem of your panties.

Carol grinds herself onto your thigh, you can feel a wet spot pooling at her silk panties. Your fingers are digging into her forearms. A rough dance of humping and grinding, both reaching for a high.

Your wet walls can’t help but suck her inside, clenching tight. Fiercely plunging in and out—— it’s been some time. Since the last time, you were touched. It’s bordering on painful, a bit tight.

You did entertain another for a while. A woman you met at a bar. Short dark chestnut hair, a soft posh english accent, a bold yet cheeky mouth. She said her name was G’iah, you never met anyone with such a name.

Despite the attraction, the idea of offering yourself physically was too overwhelming. But, the emotional energy was wonderful. It was a breath of fresh air.

You just couldn’t bring yourself to love another.

Skin screaming for touch, yet your heart is trying to fight back. The flesh only reminisces the good, but all the hurtful memories are chained to your mind.

Carol’s mouth ajar, hovering over the meat of your cheek. Your face scrunches, eyes tight, a whine boils at your throat. She breathes a chuckle. She always finds amusement in your misery.

Carol loves to play God—- the Old Testament God. In the carnal sense, and in spite. Worship her, and only need her, obey every command, but commit a sin—- and she shall see to it, that her pettiness will rule over your life.

Her fingers spread, your slick connects to her fingertips, flickering the gossamer thin threads between her expert fingers, diving into you.

Her teeth grazes your cheek, her warm breath cascading against your mouth. Torn between closing your thighs to stop her, or thrust your hips into her hand.

Carol’s tongue slips out, and kitten licks your parted lips. Her pink tongue licks your canines, inhaling your breath. Sweet scent of liquor coats your tongue, Carol suckles into her mouth, moaning at the taste.

A lewd pop comes from Carol pulling back on your tongue, as her fingers curl harsher. Bordering on pain, the pleasure is electric. Pulsing through you, as her thumb toys with your swollen clit.

Her moans are animalistic, you can feel her pussy splitting, a sensation of silk and waxed bare skin. Her clit is grinding fully onto your thigh. It feels so damn good.

A part of you wants her to cum on you. To use you.

Carol’s face tilts away from yours. Her brown eyes swirl with malice, narrowing for a split moment. A smile stretches.

“Kamala would be so hurt to lose her mommy—” Carol’s words earn a mean eye from you, but all she does is laugh humorlessly. “How could you abandon our child?”

Like a stab to your heart, Carol just twists the edge deeper. Her fingers still deep inside you, clenching in need for her to finish— to get you right at the precipice.

“I would never leave Kamala,” you speak with a strain, a rough slice at your throat. “I love her.” Bordering on pleading, your eyes water-sunk.

“Then why do you make her cry?”

“What?”

“Every night she asks why her mom isn’t home,” Carol leans more of her weight on your belly. Her fingers fucking you harshly, hitting that sweet spot so perfectly. Your juices are now soaking down her hand.

“She cries till she falls asleep. She thinks you hate her.”

Torn between rutting your hips into her palm, grinding and fucking her fingers as if it was one of Carol’s toys —- and the need for space, to free yourself from these clutches.

Salty tears fall to your wrinkling lips, shaking from silent tears.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Carol says, her voice smooth and affectionate. Her lips pouted, “We can be together again.” Her shiny blonde hair kisses her lashes, in the grainy city lights, she looks innocent.

“Don’t you want to be a family again?”

She pushes her fingers further, slowly playing with your clit— and then stops, edging you. She can feel your spongy walls nearly spasming. Carol knows how to play the strings of your flesh.

Damn her.

“I do.” Your voice gurgles in a sob.

You know she’s tricking you… and you enjoy it.

In some deep seeded—- an absolutely fucked —- part of you, relishes in it. Because it’s all you know. But, it’s that glimmer of tenderness, the kisses, and honeyed words that pulls you back in.

Back to mutilate yourself on her knife over and over again. And isn't that what love is? Carol would say, time and time again, after the dust settles from her fits of rage.

Wet squelching floods your ears, echoing throughout the empty hallway. Your hand trails to her waist, gripping her dress, roughly grazing the smooth skin of her waist.

Legs entangled, and Carol’s thrusts are getting faster, sloppy. Her moans are getting high-pitched, away from primal and more girlish.

You cling to her, in this moment, you just need to feel anything. And you know she needed it too.

A burst of euphoria, hanging onto each other, as if both would fall apart. Carol felt it, how you spasmed on her fingers. Clenching so tight, trapping her hand for a moment.

Bated breaths dance against each other, hair flying by the breeze of huffing. Yours are gasps of relief.

In a desperate plea, you reach for a kiss, but Carol pulls away.

“I hope you learned something …” Carol hisses, her fingers stroking between your slippery folds, agitating your over-stimulated clit. The meat of your thigh quivers, tailbone pinching as you try to mesh into the wall, far from her.

Carol takes her fingers out, leaving behind an empty feeling—- like a void. Without blinking, Carol unabashedly suckles on her two fingers, tasting you.

“I hope you make the right decision.” Carol whispers against her tips. Pulling her warm weight off of your bodice, a chill sweeps against the tepid sense of your belly.

Carol hums for a moment with a stony face. She tugs on the collar of your dress, the top of your bosom exposed —- it was a stiff gesture.

Without a word, Carol posed her spine, and walked away, a snide side-eye.

Leaving you behind with an ache between your thighs, love bites across your chest, and fresh bruises. Left behind in the chilled hallway, and in wrinkled attire —- as if you were a used whore.

Your head falls, crying into your chest. Your fingers pulling your dress down, your inner thighs tender. Your fingertips touch the wet spot Carol left behind near your knee.

A pause.

It’s wrong, but you crave her taste. Suckling your fingertips into the cave of your mouth.

You can still smell her fragrance lingering—- and yet, you crave it, hoping it clung to your dress.

Timid footfalls carry you through the high-end residential hallway. Bated breath, and in wrinkled clothes, you lift and loosely drop your luggage in your grip. Pacing back and forth, trying to salvage any scrap of courage to knock.

Your head is bowing down, chin to chest. A stop in-front of the door. The reasoning motivating your surrender blurs—- is it for Kamala only, or is it also that a loyal dog who always forgives?

A silent white flag has been waived.

A lonely dog always comes back.

Dull steps creep closer, syncing with the beat of your heart. One unlock, and another follows. Defeat seeps from your pores, a bone-rattling warning siren echoing in the rush of your ears.

The door knob slowly twists, as if she’s mocking you. But not a second more, the door creaks open. Green eyes blink back with mirth, and a smile.

No words are needed.

Carol hums, stroking your hair, fingers gliding down the terrain of your neck, guiding you inside by the nape of your neck.

Awaiting on the bed is a silk nightie, and skincare, curated by Carol’s choice. Pristine, wrinkled-free silk. Not one flaw in sight.

She knew you would come back. A cocky woman, and yet she’s never wrong. A stir of irate coils in your belly, but it’s snuffed before it can disrupt.

In the dark, you tip-toe down the hall. Elated and relieved, it felt like a century crept by, but it was only a week of separation.

Weekends weren’t enough. You needed to see her everyday.

Brown fingers slowly grasp at the knob, twisting open. The white walls are adorned by the flash of a night light that glows small stars glimmering against the ceiling.

A room of action figures, anime, music posters and a wall dedicated to her drawings. That familiar scent that never really went away, that baby smell that clung to her as an infant.

Kneeling into her bed, curling under the blanket. Legs curling underneath you, knees bent, as you caress Kamala’s scalp, furling her hair behind the shell of her ear. Your brown fingers melt into the onyx shine of her tresses.

Her sleepy cheeks puffed, she looks like a sleeping cherub. Silently, tears cascade against the hill of your nose, staining the pillow sheet.

For months, you’ve tried to conjure ideas on how to run away from this life with Kamala, but all your ideas end up in the possible reality of being arrested with charges of kidnapping, and never seeing your daughter again.

The truth of the matter is -— you will crawl skin bare in the deepest parts of hell just for her. Suffering silently in these marital ruins, for the sake of being able to raise your only child, is what you will do.

You don’t know what you want with Carol —- you don’t have anything else to offer as a wife, besides submitting your entire being as a sacrificial offering.

It’s all she ever wanted. Wholesome love is seen as a defect in Carol’s eyes, a trait taught to her by her father. Control over everything is what brings her peace. And being cared for is what brings you solace.

The only person in the world Carol doesn’t unleash her wrath upon, who she adores entirely, is Kamala. Never once has Carol raised her voice, nor her hand at Kamala.

It’s disturbing, to see Carol be so genuine in her affections.

But, you’re ever so grateful. Despite being a masochist, under all the rubble harboring in your cavity— is a little girl suffocating for tenderness. For anything, just for someone to hold her.

Carol is a peculiar creature, and yet she has driven you to the brink of madness over the last stretched months, because she can’t bear to lose you —-- that has to mean something, right?

But as you lay here, wallowing in the dead silence, staring at Kamala slumbering —-a thought came to you; a lingering fear. Paranoia gnawing at you, chewing away bit by bit.

You wouldn’t want Kamala to suffer like this one day.

#widowsofchaos wrote this #carol danvers x reader #dark Carol Danvers x reader #carol danvers x female reader #dub non con #dark elements #lesbian Carol Danvers

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