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cherienymphe · 6 months

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Basic Training XVII (Peter Parker x Reader)

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, mentions of MURDER, violence, kidnapping, captivity, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, ptsd, housewife kink, cop!Peter

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @whimsicalrogers

➥ series masterlist

summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.

You stared into the darkness of the basement for what felt like too long.

It was quiet down there, but not the kind of quiet that felt comforting. It was the kind of silence that felt suffocating—taunting. It was so loud in its taunting, snickering at you and your idiocy and naivety. Even as you laid on the floor, feeling like the lowest of jokes, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret the decisions that brought you here.

Nat was your friend. Or at least, you liked to consider her one, and even faced with the threat of the worst punishment Steve could muster, you just couldn’t imagine yourself doing anything differently. You couldn’t imagine yourself waking Peter up that night and telling him you saw the redhead escaping, effectively alerting the other husbands to her presence, leading to her subsequent capture. It just wasn’t in you, and clearly none of these men—not even Peter—knew you at all if they thought it was.

The first time you tried to move, you couldn’t, and for a brief moment, you thought that Steve had injured you in his delight to toss you down the stairs like a sack of flour instead of a person. However, you quickly came to realize that wasn’t the case. You could move your fingers and toes fine, even twitch your leg, but you just couldn’t find the strength to move. You felt beyond defeated, and when you blinked, you weren’t shocked to feel a sting behind your eyes.

There was the most awful aching feeling in your chest, both heavy and hollow even though you didn’t know how that was possible. You wanted to cry and scream, but you also never wanted to utter another word ever again. You wanted to let out everything you felt since the moment you came here, but in the same breath, you desperately wanted to feel numb. If you didn’t feel a thing, then you couldn’t get hurt, and you hurt so much, right now.

Peter killed Michelle.

He didn’t help kill her, but he did kill her, and in the grand scheme of things, maybe that shouldn’t make a difference. After all, you’d still been under the impression that he did nothing while his brothers did. You’d still been under the belief that he allowed it to happen at best and helped it happen and cover it up at worst. So, why did Peter pulling the trigger make all the difference in the world to you?

Was it because you thought you were falling in love with him?

That thought had you squeezing your eyes shut, so tight that it hurt, and it was hard to hold back your sob. Your nails scraped against the hard floor as you shook, struggling to breathe as your stomach turned. Once you started it was so hard to stop, and it wasn’t long before the sound of your choked cries were filling the basement. It was a thought you’d considered before, but that was when he wasn’t a murderer.

That was when he hadn’t murdered your best friend.

How could you possibly rationalize it now? Deep down, you knew that this wasn’t your fault. Deep down you knew that there were names and studies dedicated to people in your position and the psychology behind it, but that didn’t make you feel any better. Peter had murdered your friend in cold blood…

…and you thought you loved him.

The thought made you want to be sick, and with horror, you could actually feel your stomach turning. You hurried to sit up, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth as you struggled to keep it down. The bathroom only some feet away was locked—wouldn’t be unlocked until someone came down to open it and let you in—and you didn’t think you could handle sitting in a room with your vomit just stewing in the corner.

Struggling to get to your feet, you pressed your other hand to your stomach, trying to settle it. Keeping your mouth closed, you breathed through your nose, lashes fluttering, and after some time, you slowly stumbled towards where you knew the bed to be. You didn’t care about turning on the light, finding no need, and when you sat down, your head drooped in defeat.

There was really no telling how long they’d keep you in here until they figured out what to do with you, and while you knew that Peter would try his damndest to get them to go easy on you, you also knew that they wouldn’t consider a word that left his mouth. You—and also Peter by extension—had proven Steve and the others right, and you found it unlikely they’d ever listen to another suggestion from Peter about you ever again. Or at the very least, not for a long time.

Besides, Peter wasn’t the aggrieved party.

Bucky was, and such a thought made you shudder. You’d done well to avoid attracting Bucky’s ire even though he reminded you of Steve in some ways. Although, unlike Steve, Bucky didn’t seem the type to look for any and every excuse to punish you as he’d prefer in a contrast to Peter’s methods. Bucky seemed—if nothing else—fair to you, and that’s what scared you the most.

Bucky now felt wronged by you.

So, there was really no telling what was in store for you.

You recalled the way he’d reached for you, desperately trying to get past Peter in his efforts to get his hands on you. You didn’t want to imagine what he would’ve done had he succeeded, and you swallowed as your mind went rampant with the possibilities. Your hand came up to graze the tear in your sleeve, wincing at the slight sting you felt when your finger came in contact with the skin. Some part of you knew that had Bucky succeeded, he just might have killed you in his rage, and where you once would’ve welcomed such a thought…

It only made your heart ache, now.

You didn’t want to die, and when you thought about why, your stomach only twisted into knots once again. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you keeled over, throat tight as you tried to swallow down another sob. Your chest hurt so much, feeling like someone had an iron grip on your heart and was just squeezing and twisting it to their content. When you gasped, a cry escaped with it, and the only other time you could recall feeling like this was the day you realized your friends were dead and you were all alone.

You cried until your throat felt raw, and you didn’t fight your body as it started to collapse to the floor, sliding off of the bed in a heap. Covering your face with your hands, your lightly dragged your nails down your skin, frame shaking as you rocked back and forth. Your stomach wouldn’t stop hurting, and you couldn’t stop shaking. In fear or anger or despair—you didn’t know.

You did know that this was all Peter’s fault. He was the one who decided he had to have you, as if you were some thing to be acquired instead of a human being with a life and feelings and autonomy. If it weren’t for him, your friends would still be alive, and you wouldn’t even be here. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be feeling ripped apart by how you felt about the man who kidnapped and raped you. All of this was Peter’s fault…and even still…more than anything…

All you wanted was for him to hold you.

It was hard to say how long you stayed in the basement. The darkness and silence was endless, and it felt like months, but in reality, it was probably mere days. You did know that it was long enough for your stomach to ache from more than just fear and for your nightgown to stink from more than just sweat. You didn’t think you were capable of feeling embarrassed about that anymore. After all, Peter never made you feel like it was something to be embarrassed about, but that was before you heard the sound of the locks on the basement door.

Despite your shame, you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

Until the light from the top of the stairs outlined a familiar silhouette.

You merely stared at him as he stood on the first step, yours on him and his eyes on you. You couldn’t hear any noise coming from the main part of the house, and you said nothing when he closed the door behind him. Peter wasn’t good. You knew that since the beginning when he told you that everything he did was so that he could have you, making it all okay. Peter had never been good.

So, why did looking at him now hurt so much more than it ever had?

As soon as Peter was close enough, the first thing he did was take your face into his hands. You couldn’t really feel them, realizing that you got your wish to feel numb, and that just made your chest ache more. Just days ago you were desperate to feel the comfort of Peter’s touch, and now you couldn’t feel it, at all.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured, face a mere inch away from yours.

When you didn’t say anything back, you noticed the way his face fell, lips pressed together as he eyed you. His gaze lingered on yours for the longest, thumbs just grazing your skin, and you watched the way his tongue darted out to swipe between his lips.

“We need to get you cleaned up.”

His words had you blinking, and it was only then did you notice the fresh dress resting on the crook of his arm. You didn’t ask him what day it was because it didn’t matter. You only knew what would be happening today, and it’s why the dress on Peter’s arm was so pretty. It was why you’d been locked in the basement for days. It was why Peter looked at you the way he did as he helped you stand.

“I’m so sorry,” were the words he murmured into your hair as soon as he leaned you against him.

What was he apologizing for exactly? For killing Michelle or lying to you about it? For taking you and ruining your life in the first place? Or for failing to protect you from the wrath of the other husbands? Maybe he was apologizing for what was to come, and that made you shut your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again as he brought your head to rest in the crook of his neck.

You didn’t respond—didn’t know how to—only allowing him to guide you into the bathroom after unlocking it. You couldn’t really say how you got naked, only feeling as if you blinked before finding yourself sitting in a tub of hot water with Peter raining water down over your head. He was talking to you, saying something that went in one ear and out of the other. All you could focus on was that dress on the toilet, wondering what they planned to make you do while wearing it.

When you felt the weight of Peter’s gaze, it was only then did you take note of the silence. You didn’t know if he’d asked you a question or if he simply opted to stare at you, but when his hand came up to graze the side of your face, you assumed it was the latter. Perusing you, you watched as his gaze became distracted by the shallow scrape on your arm from Bucky’s nails, and when Peter’s jaw tightened, you knew that he realized where it came from too.

“Peter,” you softly forced out, throat tight.

He gave you his undivided attention, and you licked your lips.

“What are they going to do to me?”

Your question came out almost inaudible, just barely above a whisper as you found yourself almost too afraid to ask—too fearful to want to know. When Peter’s face fell some, your own frown deepened, and when he sighed, your heart sank.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he slowly told you, and you could see that he was telling the truth.

You knew that Peter would have no say in this, you’d known that, but faced with the knowledge that was completely in the dark only served to make your stomach twist more. Only this time, you weren’t able to stop it, and it was Peter who kept you from falling as you hurried to get out of the tub. You only just made it to the toilet in time, and with nothing in your stomach to throw up, all you expelled was bile.

One of Peter’s hands were on your waist, the other soothingly rubbing your back as you vomited again. With every heave of your stomach, you shook more and more, and when you were done, you could only stare at the wall behind the toilet.

“You’re sick,” he said, tone strained with worry.

You shook your head.

“No, I’m just… I’m scared,” you honestly told him, lifting your gaze to meet his. “…and heartbroken.”

Peter sadly tilted his head, and your lips quivered.

“Why did you lie to me?” you breathed. “Why did you…? Why did you minimize your part in it?”

You continued before Peter could lie some more.

“Why did you hold me and comfort me and tell me you weren’t as bad as them when you’re much worse?”

“I’m not,” he argued, grabbing your shoulder.

“…but you are,” you said with a frown. “At least with Steve and Tony and Bucky I know who they are. I fear them because they’ve shown me why I should.”

Peter pulled you closer, resting your head on his chest as he rocked you.

“You made me love you.”

The words came out small and choked, your face crumbling as Peter stilled, and you’d stupidly thought you had no more tears left. Your body proved you wrong, frame shaking as your chest tightened, a cry escaping you in the otherwise quiet bathroom. Peter didn’t respond right away, just holding you as you cried.

“I’m still the same person I was before you found out,” he whispered, rocking you. “…the same person you begged to run away with.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I’m not proud of what I did,” he confessed. “…but it’s why I can hold you every night for as long as I want.”

He leaned down to gently kiss your forehead, and your vacant and tearful gaze was on the bathtub, now.

“You don’t have to agree with it, even I don’t agree with it, but it had to be done if I wanted you all to myself.”

You knew that justified it all in Peter’s mind, and the part of your brain that was conditioned to normalize your new reality wanted to pull him closer, but the part that desperately missed your friends and family and old life only wanted to be sick.

When Peter rinsed you off and dried you, his fingers grazed your skin as he helped you get dressed. Soothing words left his lips that didn’t really mean much because how could he calm you against something that was unknown to him too? He didn’t even know what he was comforting you from. Once dressed, he stood before you, looking you over with his fingers grazing over yours.

When your eyes met his, his gaze softened, and you didn’t stop him when he leaned in to press his lips to the corner of your mouth. Like every touch and kiss of his, now, you didn’t really feel it, and when Peter pulled away, you felt that the numbness that consumed you reflected in your own gaze. He heaved a sigh, fingering the ring on your finger.

“I still love you,” he assured you, looking at you from beneath his lashes. “That’ll never change…and even… Even when I have to do whatever it is I have to do today, I’ll be doing it with love.”

Those words didn’t exactly comfort you, and your eyes briefly closed when he walked you out of the bathroom. The stairs were hard to take, courtesy of your lack of food and what little sleep you’d managed to get. You shook beside Peter, and you knew that it was from more than just not eating. In fact, you were sure you were going to throw up again.

The house was unusually quiet—as well as empty—and that did nothing to alleviate your uneasiness. Peter’s hold on your hand was gentle, and as much you loved to hate him in this moment, you appreciated that he walked outside with you instead of walking you outside like a prisoner. You were surprised by how early it was in the day, bringing your hand up to shield your eyes from the rising sun. Days in the darkness had them hurting from the harsh natural light.

Just as you got used to it, a familiar and intimidating voice spoke.

“Leave her right there.”

Only, it wasn’t the voice you were used to being on the receiving end of. Your eyes met familiar blue ones as Peter was forced to step away from you, Bucky’s gaze very much transparent as he looked at you. His anger and disgust were palpable, and you found that you couldn’t hold his gaze.

That was a mistake.

“You will look at me,” he sneered, hurrying over to you and harshly gripping your chin.

Behind him, you could see Peter take a step forward only to be stopped by Sam. Bucky’s fingers were painfully pressing into your skin, and as difficult as you found it, you held the brunette’s gaze. It was in that moment that you realized why the house had seemed so quiet on your way out. You noted that the only person missing was Jane, and you guessed with her pregnancy and a need for someone to watch Margaret and Sharon’s children, they decided to kill two birds with one stone.

They clearly didn’t want to stress her, and that only made you more fearful of what was in store for you.

��We’re not stupid, you know,” Bucky said to you, and you swallowed. “We expect the odd escape attempt here and there.”

You weren’t used to being on the receiving end of Bucky’s venomous gaze, blue eyes icy.

“We look forward to it even,” he confessed. “None of you will ever succeed, so it helps you realize that, and you get it out of your systems.”

You blinked back tears, and Bucky took note of them, lip curling over his teeth.

“In fact…we had been anticipating yours from the moment we let you out of that basement, but I guess you really were too docile to fight back properly,” he continued, voice growing bitter. “Too docile even to tell one of us when our wife was trying to escape.”

When you blinked again, a tear finally escaped, and you didn’t know if you were supposed to respond. Evidently you were.

“What?” Bucky wondered, roughly letting your chin go. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

Your chest heaved with a deep breath, and you started to glance around.

“No, don’t look at them. Look at me,” Bucky ordered. “After all, it was my wife who anything could’ve happened to.”

When your gaze met his again, more tears spilled over, and you sniffed.

“I’m sorry-.”

“We expect you to fight back…try and make a run for it… What we don’t expect is more loyalty to a traitorous wife than the men of the house,” he interrupted you, spitting the words out and making you flinch. “…because anything could come of that. You could kill one of us.”

“I… I’m sorry,” you said again, knowing it wouldn’t change anything but also knowing it was what he wanted to hear.

Bucky stared at you for a long time—too long—just looking down his nose at you as if he could barely stand to look at you. You were all too aware of the eyes on you, all too aware of the example being made out of you. You were in the dark about what was going to happen, now, and it made you want to be sick. However, of all the things you expected…

You didn’t expect Bucky to quickly grab your arm, twisting it—and you with his other arm—before violently shoving you to the ground. It happened so fast that when you finally cried out in pain, clutching your wrist, you were already looking up at him from the grass. He wasn’t looking at you though, hands behind his back as he stepped away from you.

“There are two outcomes for you today,” he started, making his way towards Peter who looked like he was moments away from committing murder—again. “Personally, I’m partial to either outcome…”

When you started to push yourself to your feet, the dark-haired man heard it, pausing to look at you with a wag of his finger.

“No, no. You don’t get up yet…”

Heart sinking, you sat back down, clutching your arm to you as you looked between him and Peter.

“The first,” he dragged out, resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “We finally get to see what Peter has in him…”

You froze, skin growing cold and heart dropping to your gut.

“…see if he has what it takes to make you…” Bucky turned his gaze to you, eyes glinting wickedly “…beg him to stop.”

You couldn’t stop more tears from spilling over, the realization of what this day could possibly bring crashing down on you like a wave. When you glanced over, your eyes met a familiar green pair, and Nat’s disgust and regret was plain as day on her face. She looked at you like she wanted to take your place in a heartbeat, but you both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

You couldn’t hold in your sob, pressing your hand to your mouth.

“You can’t cry, now,” Bucky’s voice reached you as he neared you. “We haven’t even started yet.”

He forced you to your feet, and his hands were the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

When you first got here, Peter promised that that would never be you. He told you that he would never, but considering the circumstances of your offense, that choice was no longer up to him. You couldn’t stop sobbing, choking noises climbing out of your throat as Bucky continued.

“The other option is two months in the basement.”

When your eyes met Bucky’s again, there was a gleam in his eye and a curve to his lips that told you it wouldn’t be so easy as choosing which you’d prefer. You didn’t even want to say that the choice would be easy if given one because while your worst fear was recreating what Margaret had to go through during your first days here…you also knew that two months down in that darkness would break you beyond belief.

Two months down there, and you were sure you wouldn’t even be yourself when you emerged.

“It all depends on who gets to you first,” Bucky softly said, making you frown at him.

When he stepped away, you swayed on your feet, but his hand met your arm again when he turned you towards the small pond, free arm gesturing towards the dense trees behind it.

“Those legs that are near and dear to Peter’s heart are going to take you as far as you can go…”

His whispered words made you frown.

“Now, don’t think that you’re getting away…” he looked at you and you slowly looked at him. “…because you’re not. Someone will catch you, it’s only a matter of who, and that determines if this pretty little dress is coming off or not.”

His reminder of one of the possibilities made you lightheaded, and you pressed your hand to your chest when he walked away.

“If Peter catches you, then Peter will do what he has been instructed to do…”

The man in question spoke up, quietly pleading with Bucky, but the older man ignored him.

“…and I was going to participate in this little game,” Bucky said, jaw ticking as he looked at you. “…but you deserve to be terrified after what you did.”

You pressed your lips together, blinking away tears as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

“So…” he backed up, a small smile on his pink lips. “If Steve catches you…”

You couldn’t stop your knees from buckling, world spinning as you caught yourself on your hands and knees. Your skin pricked, and you felt almost on the verge of a heart attack.

“He gets to put you in the basement…” a pause. “Again.”

The sounds of the world were going in and out, and once again, you felt like you were going to throw up. Both options were the last thing you ever wanted, and once you ran into those trees, you didn’t know what would relieve you less—the sight of Peter or the sight of Steve. It was sick, really, because obviously you would rather be caught by Peter, but not if it meant…that.

…and if Steve caught you, you just knew it wasn’t going to be that simple

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Bucky’s words were mocking, filled with a mixture of disdain and satisfaction, and as you looked up at him, you didn’t know who you hated more—him or Steve. The blond in question was someone you had avoided looking at since you stepped outside, bitter to see the sick satisfaction that no doubt covered his features at your humiliation.

Your comeuppance.

Pushing yourself to your feet was a struggle, and you didn’t look at Peter, too afraid to realize that he might be who you wanted to catch you, after all, even if it did mean public humiliation beyond comprehension. You felt beyond alone as you walked down the small decline, the dewy grass so nice against the soles of your feet despite the circumstances.

It was only when you got to the tree line, staring inside, did it hit you.

You were going to be hunted and chased down like some animal, and depending on who caught you first, that was what your punishment would be. Both options were enough to make your stomach flip, and for the life of you, you just couldn’t decide which was better. With a panicked sob, you forced your feet to move.

Every tree looked just like the other to you, and there was nothing in these woods to signal some kind of progress as you ran. It was crazy to think that there had once been days when you dreamed about being in these woods, closer to freedom and away from the craziness you’d been forced into. Now, however, you were in said trees and all you could think about was who would get to you first.

Bucky’s words echoed in your mind.

It wasn’t a matter of whether either of them would catch you. Both of you knew that you weren’t getting away from here, let alone from Peter or Steve in these woods. One of them was going to find you first, and even as you brushed past harmful branches and stumbling vines, you still didn’t know which choice presented to you was better. More than anything, you wanted it to be Peter to find you, but could you be okay with being raped for the whole household to see? This wasn’t like that day with Margaret…

Both Steve and Bucky wanted to make the biggest example out of you, and so the entire household would be there to witness your humiliation. However…it was one day. One hour even at the most of Peter doing what he normally did whenever you were alone…just in front of everyone else. If Steve caught you on the other hand…

Two months in the basement was a thought that actually made your knees shake, causing you to stumble against a tree. You knew—you knew—that you couldn’t handle that, and you knew that Peter knew it too. One option was just one bad day, that was all, but the other option would turn you into even more of a mess than you already were. You’d spent less than a week down there at the most, and both times were hell for you.

The second more so than the worst, and you didn’t want to unpack why that was.

When you heard a tree branch snap, you felt yourself freezing. The tree you were next to was larger, much larger than you, and you remained perfectly still as your hand rested against it. You had only stopped for a few moments, and the whole time you’d been lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t even heard any footsteps. In fact, something in you told you that you were supposed to hear the snap of that branch.

When you dared to peek around the trunk, all of your breath left you.

The sight of Steve’s blond hair and back was a stomach turning one, and just as quietly as you peeked around, you hid yourself behind the tree once more. With one movement, you could end this torture and not have to be fucked for the whole household to see, but no matter how much you didn’t want that…you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

…because you didn’t want the alternative either.

Steve terrified you beyond belief—something Bucky had acknowledged—and something in you just knew that he wasn’t going to find you and take you back to the house as easy as that. Outside of raping Margaret, you had never heard of Steve doling out any kind of physical abuse, but you had a sneaking suspicion that Steve would strike you square across the face if he could get away with it.

Peeking around the tree again, you watched him walk away, scanning the area before him for any sign of you. Your nails pressed into the trunk, and with a sinking heart, you both accepted and hoped that Peter would find you, making peace with what that meant for you. With Steve completely out of your sight, you didn’t know which way to go, and so you went forward, adjacent to the direction Steve went.

You felt like you were getting so turned around the further you walked, and you wondered what would happen if you just decided to go back to the house. You wondered how the punishment would be decided then—provided you actually made it back without being caught. The thought of being caught by Steve prevented you from remaining calm and thinking clearly.

Or maybe it was everything else that did that.

You could feel a familiar burn behind your eyes, and you struggled to swallow, throat feeling incredibly tight. You’d thought that you cried enough in the basement, but that kept proving to be untrue. A few tears skipped down your face before many more followed behind, and you took in a shaky breath.

How was it that you hated Peter so so much for what he did…while also wanting nothing more than to just return to your bedroom with him when this was over? You didn’t want to go back down there, alone and bathed in darkness. You wanted to sleep in your bed with Peter and you wanted him to hold you while you cried about the very thing he’d done that caused the tears.

You hated him, but you wanted to be near him.

You didn’t want to hate him from afar. You wanted to hate him while staring at his face every night and listening to the sound of his breathing and feeling his hands on your shoulder as he sat behind you in the bathtub. You hated Peter so much for what he did—and lying about it—but it just wasn’t the kind of hate where you couldn’t stand the sight of him, and you hated him all the more for that.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the sound of footsteps, and considering you’d gone in the opposite direction of Steve, you were prepared to meet your fate when your gaze would meet that of a familiar brown one. Only, the eyes that met yours weren’t brown…they were blue…and you felt your lips part.

You didn’t hesitate to run the other way, a scream climbing out of your throat when you were tackled to the ground. Steve’s hand was pressed to the back of your head as he slammed your face against the leaves and sticks, making you gasp, and when his arm snaked around your neck, a choked sound left you.

You weren’t surprised when he threw you to the dirt again.

“I knew…” he started, slowly following you as you attempted to crawl away. “From the moment Peter gave us that crock of shit about a gentler method, I fucking knew.”

You clawed at the dirt when Steve reached down to pull on one of your legs.

“I knew then that he was being too soft with you,” he spat, flipping you over. “I knew that it would come back to bite us.”

Steve squatted over you, one hand tightly curling around your throat, and you struggled to breathe as he slowly forced you to your feet. Your scraped at his hand, gaze tearful and pleading as Steve stared you down, nostrils flaring. His blond hair was a mess, an unusual sight for you, but those blue eyes were as cold as ever.

Steve really hated you.

“Bucky is better than me,” Steve hissed at you. “…because if Margaret had gotten as far as Nat did because of you, I wouldn’t make Peter stop until you were begging for him to put you out of your misery.”

You pushed at his hands, panicked, and he only shook you in response.

“You think he’s your best fucking friend,” Steve breathed through clenched teeth, sizing you up. “Instead of the man who owns you.”

When he threw you down, your head spun, and you struggled to right your vision. You pressed your hands to your temples as you cried, fighting the urge to curl in on yourself.

“That ends today…”

Steve’s words were spoken with finality, and you didn’t quite understand the meaning of them as you heard approaching footsteps. You heard Steve exhale, and when you dared to look up, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of Peter.

“Peter,” he acknowledged. “Love that timing of yours.”

Peter didn’t hesitate to hurry towards you, placing a hand on your head as you sobbed. As you’d suspected, you knew it wasn’t going to be that simple if Steve caught you instead, and you realized just how complicated it was going to be at the sound of his next words.

“We need to make sure nothing like this happens again, Peter,” Steve told him, and they shared a look, something unspoken between them that had Peter’s jaw clenching.

“So, is that why you forgot who she belongs to? Is that why you treated her like you used to treat Peggy on her really bad days? She’s already terrified of you. What more do you want?” he sneered at him, briefly looking at you and brushing his thumb over your cheek.

“I need her to be terrified of you,” Steve answered, hands on his hips. “I told you from the beginning that you were too soft with her. I told you what needed to be done for her to get it.”

“Yeah, Steve, alright, I get it-!”

“…but you don’t,” Steve yelled at Peter, staring at the younger man just like a brother would. “You don’t get it because if you did, this would’ve never happened.”

Steve gestured around, cutting you a scathing look that made you wither.

“She would’ve never felt more loyal to Nat than the men who run this household. She would’ve understood that she exists to serve you and the house as a whole by extension.”

You hated the way Peter’s hands slowed on your face, and when you looked at his own face, he looked to be deep in thought.

“Not just the wives and whatever they think is best, but what’s best for the family,” Steve paced. “You are going to make her understand that she’s not your friend and certainly not your fucking equal.”

You watched Peter defeatedly exhale, eyes falling closed.

“You are going to make her understand that, right now,” Steve snarled.

“Steve…”

Peter’s tone was pleading, and that was when you finally sat up, looking between them with a racing heart. You scooted back, but Peter’s hand on your arm prevented you from going far. When your gaze met his, his eyes had softened, something in them pleading with you.

“I will make you, Peter.”

Steve’s tone was scarily calm, and you glanced at him, lips shaking at the malice in his eyes.

“Do you understand me? I will not rest until I catch her slipping up again, and depending on my mood that day, I just might make you fuck her right there in the garden for all to see,” he quietly told him. “So, it’s either now or it’s later…but it is happening. You decide.”

In truth, you didn’t know why you were crying. You had already accepted that you’d rather get the bad thing over with than drag it out for two months. However, that was the thing, wasn’t it? Steve was going to make Peter do this and still turn around and throw you right down in that basement. Even though there was less humiliation involved, it still seemed unfair.

“Do this and…maybe I can convince Bucky to only leave her down there for a month,” Steve proposed, and by the tone of his voice, he knew that he’d won.

You barely had time send Steve a scathing look of your own before your back roughly met the ground.

Peter’s mannerisms were rough, and while you knew it was because Steve wanted them to be, it didn’t mean you had to like it. You didn’t think Peter had ever been rough with you, and you cried out at the harsh pull on your hair, his other hand painfully digging into your waist.

“See, you need to understand, sweetheart,” Steve’s voice reached your ears as he circled you. “That you belong to Peter. You exist as an extension of him, now. You exist to exalt him, and the only way that you will get it in your head that you’re his property…”

Peter had flipped you onto your stomach, now.

“Is if he treats you like it.”

You yelped when your chest was forced to the ground, Peter manhandling you in the way he knew Steve wanted.

“…and what better way to do that than to show you that he can and will take you wherever and whenever regardless of who is around to see it,” he slowly said, making sure he was heard loud and clear.

The humiliation of feeling Peter push his cock into you before Steve’s very eyes had you squeezing yours shut, a harsh sob escaping as Peter’s skin slapped against yours. His hand was on your throat, and you clawed at it, gasping when his teeth pressed into your shoulder.

“You don’t have autonomy over your body anymore. You don’t exist independently of Peter, and that extends to this family…”

Peter’s harsh thrusts made your toes curl, and what was once a rough entry had become much smoother. With no warning and feeling wholly unprepared for this turn of events, tears escaped your eyes, and your fingers dug into the grass and dirt. The feel of Peter’s cock pushing into your walls was a familiar one you’d grown to love, but the sound of Steve’s pacing steps and voice made you want to crawl in a hole.

You felt torn apart.

“Had you previously understood that, all of this could’ve been prevented.”

Steve sounded pleased with himself—and Peter—and the thought made you sick. When Peter pulled your head back, you winced, and you started to move away from him, wanting this earlier and regretting it now—especially since you were going back into the basement anyway.

When Peter’s lips grazed your ear, you shuddered.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you, hand painfully pulling at your hair, making you cry out again.

You recalled Peter’s words from earlier, and you knew why this was happening. You understood the hierarchy in the household, understood that what Steve said went, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that Steve would’ve absolutely made this happen for the whole house to say. You understood that this was the better alternative, but that understanding is what made you cry more.

This wasn’t something to be understood. The man thrusting into you had killed your friends and kidnapped you, and the man before you had helped. Peter wasn’t your husband or your lover but instead your captor and rapist. Nothing about any of this was right, and in this moment, you shouldn’t be rationalizing or understanding anything.

…but you did.

You understood why Peter grabbed you with no hesitation and proceeded to fuck you under Steve’s watchful eye. You understood why being raped for all to see had briefly been the better choice to you than being sent back into the basement. You understood why Peter was murmuring sweet nothings and apologies into your ear as he roughly held you down and plunged his cock into you.

You understood it all, and you hated it.

You didn’t want to simultaneously hold Peter closer and push him away as he roughly fucked you against the grass, face to face with you, now. You didn’t want him to obey when Steve told him to fuck you harder. You didn’t want to understand that Peter didn’t actually want this because if that were true he simply wouldn’t do it, right? You didn’t want to accept that this house didn’t follow the rules of the outside world and that so long as you were here—and you would be here forever—neither would you.

“Are you sorry, now?” Steve wondered, somehow able to hear his voice over the sound of your cries. “Hmm?”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, but you knew you gave him that anyway the moment you started crying. When Peter’s eyes met yours, he shushed you, a poor attempt to make this better somehow, and his next words made you blink.

“Do you see how much worse I could be?” he whispered, too low for Steve to hear. “How much worse they want me to be?”

You stared at him, nails digging into the skin of his arm, and with another harsh sob, you nodded.

“Do you understand what I’ve been trying to protect you from?”

Again, you nodded.

Peter’s nose grazed your own.

“Do you get it now?” he sadly asked you.

When you nodded again, unable to find your voice between cries, Peter shushed you. His fingers pressed into your skin, and his hips painfully came down against yours. When his lips pressed against yours, they swallowed the noises that escaped your throat.

“I never wanted this for you.”

…and you knew Peter was telling the truth.

#peter parker x reader #dark!peter parker #dark!peter parker x reader #peter parker fanfiction #dark fic #peter parker imagine #marvel fanfiction #marvel imagine #cop au

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whorekneecentral · 7 months

Text

Sticky Fingers

Sebastian Vettel x Fem!Reader

Warnings: dad!seb, seb referring to himself as daddy, cheesy flirting, oral (m!receiving), the use of daddy in a sexual context, penetrative sex (p in v), breeding kink, hint to pregnancy kink if you squint, creampie, a touch of cum play, finger sucking, mommy kink but in a joking way.

Word Count: 2,112

Author's Note: would it really be me if I didn't start it off with my favourite dilf on the planet?? happy holidays to everyone who celebrates in whatever way you do and to those of you who don't, I hope you have a wonderful winter season!!

merry smutmas series

Your husband spends his first Christmas at home since his retirement and he went a little.. a lot over board.

It had been a long year; Sebastian had been driving you mad as much as it was nice to have him home. A full year of retirement and Seb was making sure this holiday season was the best one yet.

Last year, after he retired, you had practically already gotten everything together for the holidays. Sebastian helped decorate and do activities with your daughter but this year, he was hands on from day one. He insisted you guys get a real tree as well as decorate the whole house from top to bottom. You couldn't count how many times he had you running to the store to pick up something for him and his newest holiday project.

Your daughter was upstairs in her bed, fast asleep with her messy blonde curls all scattered over the pillow when you checked on her. Sebastian had put her to bed while you had gone to take a shower.

Usually, you'd find him in bed by now or in the living room, finally working on the insanely long list of tv shows Charles had recommended to him over the years.

Tonight was different, the house was quiet and you couldn't seem to spot your husband anywhere as you made your way through the house.

A light peeked out from around the corner, the door to the basement slightly ajar and you pulled it open, slowly making your way downstairs.

You can see Sebastian from behind, the man freezes when he hears the creaking of the stairs. "It's just me," you announced, the man visibly relaxed, turning to smile at you.

"What are you doing down here?" You asked, finally making it down the stairs. "So secretive, are you jerking off?" You jokingly asked, Sebastian rolled his eyes.

"Don't need to do that when I have you," he raises his eyebrows and it was your turn to roll your eyes.

"Whatever Seb," you laughed, "seriously, what are you doing down here?"

"Trying to wrap this," Sebastian steps to the side, revealing the massive box that was behind him. On the front was a photo of the doll house your daughter wanted.. the ridiculously expensive dollhouse that is. It's not that you two didn't get your daughter what she wanted but she had to earn it. Just because her father is who he is and the fact that he has money, doesn't mean she should get whatever she wants.

You raise her as a normal kid, not some spoiled brat who gets whatever they want.

You huffed, arms folded over your chest as you looked at your husband. "Sebastian, you didn't."

He glances between you and the dollhouse. "What?"

"Do you know how expensive that is?"

"Yeah duh, I bought it babe." He says as if he was stating the obvious, which he was.

He takes a step towards you, grabbing your arms to unfold them, "listen, I know you don't want me to just buy her whatever she wants but it's Christmas and she did really well on her first term report card, remember ?" Sebastian smiles at you, trying to justify his purchase.

You sigh, nodding. You always gave in, both he and his daughter knew as much.

You reach up, holding his face. "You're the best daddy a girl could ask for."

From the moment the words left your mouth, you could see the gears turning in his head. Sebastian's hands grab your ass, squeezing it when he leans in to give you a kiss. "I know I am," he whispers against your lips and you know he did not mean it in the same way you had said it.

Laughing, you lean back in your husband's arms. "Only you can make that dirty."

The man swings you in the direction of your couch, dropping you down on it before getting on top of you. "I'll show you dirty," he says, kissing you once again.

Your legs wrapped around your husband, holding him against you. Seb's lips are all over you, hands slipping between the two of you, pulling on the hem of his t-shirt until he stops to take it off.

"Don't look at me like that," he teases, pushing your shirt up to kiss down your stomach. "Like what?" You breathe, head tipped back into the cushions.

"Like you want to fuck me."

"I'd give you another baby right now, Sebastian."

The man freezes, looking up at you. There's a wicked smile on his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you nod, propping yourself up on your elbows to look down at him. Sebastian moves to between your legs, settling there for a minute as he presses kisses along your bare skin, following the trail from your hip, down your thighs to between them.

Your hand tangles in his blonde curls, giving it a tug and pulling him off of you before he can get to what he really wants. The man's brows furrow, looking at you. "Sweetheart," he huffs, fingers dragging along the bare skin of your thighs.

You give him a shove back with your foot, sitting up. Sebastian watches as you move him to sit and you move from the couch to the floor. Seb reaches for the pillow, dropping in front of you so you'd have some sort of cushioning; he knows even though this was your idea, you'd blame him for sore knees tomorrow.

"You're sure?" He asks, watching as your manicured nails tugs on the strings on his sweats. "Absolutely," you say, your eyes fixed on him as your hands rub up his thighs.

Seb watches as you lick your hand, his head tips back and a soft moan slips out when you wrap your hand around him, moving it up and down slowly.

His eyes don't move from you, watching your every move. His lips parted slightly, as if he was going to say something but he can't bring himself to. You lean forward, a hand wrapped around the base of his cock, the other resting on his thigh. Sebastian groans, teeth sinking into his bottom lip when you wrap your lips around him.

"God-" he breathed, his arm hung over the armrest and his head tipped back into the couch.

His eyes flutter shut when you hollow your cheeks, bobbing your head up and down. You glance up at your husband; eyes shut, his hand reaching down to tangle in your hair - pulling it into a makeshift ponytail.

You move yourself up a bit, lips still around the tip and your hand quickly replaces where your mouth was. Sebastian finally opens his eyes, looking down at you again just as your tongue swirls around the tip.

His hips involuntarily buck upwards, forcing you down on him a little bit more. "Oh fuc- baby, do that- yeah." He's out of breath when he whispers the words.

That was a reaction only you could get out of him.

It was killing him but he forces himself to pull you up off of him, your hand wraps around his cock, moving it slowly. "What?" You asked, your tongue running across your bottom lip - the sight alone makes his cock twitch in your hand; you smile at the reaction.

"I was gonna cum."

"So? I'm not complaining." You tell him, leaning forward to rest your cheek on his thigh. Sebastian reaches down, his knuckles brushing over your cheek - red and flushed.

You looked so beautiful like this.

Sebastian smiles, "I know but.. what if I wanted to try for one more?"

"One more?" You asked, brows furrowed as you looked up at the man. It takes you a moment, your husband's glance was suggestive, as if you were meant to remember something - "Oh!" You giggled, sitting up straight now. "I mean.. yeah."

"So.." he grabs your arm, carefully pulling you up. "C'mere."

Climbing onto your husband's lap, you straddle him and your hand rests on his shoulder to balance yourself. Seb reaches between the two of you, his wrist brushing against your bare cunt when he goes to line himself up with you.

The slightest touch causes you to lean into him; watching him react to you sucking him off was enough to get you worked up.

"All for me?" He looks at you, kissing along your throat.

You hum, teasing him. "Not like I can say it's for your teammate anymore."

Sebastian smiles, his free hand on your hip as you sink down onto him. Your lips parted, his name slipped from between them. As much as he loved to hear you, he didn't want to wake up the sleeping child upstairs - he kissed you, muffling the sweet sounds coming from you.

You liked to be in control up to a certain point, Seb's hands rested on your hips as you bounced on his lap, setting the pace.

After a moment, Seb's hands begin to wander; this man could never settle, not even during sex. His hands move from your hips to the curve of your spine to the back of your neck, holding a firm grip there. You couldn't exactly move, not that you wanted too, but Sebastian forces you down, gently as always, to kiss you. You bite his bottom lip, giving it a gentle pull when he feels you clench around his cock.

"You're - fuck." he moans, making you giggle.

Your hand rests on his jaw, fingers tapping his stubble covered cheek. "I'm what, daddy?"

"You're evil," he mumbles, his hand on your lower back before he flips the two of you. You end up under him, legs wrapped around his hips.

A hand moves to behind his shoulder, your perfectly red nails dig into his pale skin, the marks you left matched the colour of your nails; very festive, you thought to yourself.

Seb's face is buried into the crook of your neck, kissing down to that one spot he knows drives you crazy. "Seb-" you cut yourself off with a moan when you feel his fingers on your clit.

"What was that?" He taunts, watching as your eyes close, back arched, his chest pressed to yours. His lips travel down to your chest, kissing over your tits and as far as he could go. Your nails dig into him once more, Seb feels you clench around him.

"Seb- I'm gonna, fuck-" you mumble and he hums in response, kissing along your jaw.

"Go on, I'm right here baby. C'mon, be good for me." He whispers, he grabs your hand, pulling it to rest on your lower stomach. "Can you feel that, hm? You'd look so pretty with a baby in you - fuck, drove me crazy last time."

You mumble something he doesn't quite catch but from the look on your face, you were going along with everything.

"Please Seb," your lips are on his, begging him for any and everything."

"Please what, sweetheart?" His eyes find yours, "what do you want? You want me to cum in you?"

"Let me make you a daddy again, Seb."

The man groans, your legs tightening around him. "Fuck, okay," he breathes, cheat heaving when you clench around him once more, the tighten knot in your lower stomach comes undone. You find yourself calling his name; the sound and sight of you was something Sebastian never wanted to forget. He finds himself following shortly after you, dropping down on top of you.

Seb moves off of you, pulling out in the process. A soft whimper slipping past your lips at the loss of fullness. He tsks, smiling to himself. His finger drags along your pussy, he watches how you react to his touch, pushing his finger into you to fuck what's slipping back into you.

Before you realize, his hands moved from between your legs to your lips. "Open," he tells you and you do, the man putting his finger between your lips, letting you suck it clean.

He smiles, watching in approval before you let his finger go with a pop. "Good girl," he whispers, holding your jaw when he kisses you.

Seb shifts the two of you, letting you cuddle into his side. His hand rubs along your side, your leg stretched out over his lap.

"You okay?"

"Perfect," you smile, your hand on his chest.

"Well, when we do get up-" he starts but you cut him off, already knowing where he's going. "I'll help you wrap it." You tell him, making him laugh.

"You're the best mommy a girl could ask for," he says and you make a face, laughing. "Doesn't work that way babe."

"Ew, no - I didn't mean like that, you freak."

"Oh shut up," you shook your head, reaching up to kiss your husband.

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#sebastian vettel #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel smut #sebastian vettel fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 smut #merry smutmas xoxo

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libraryofloveletters · 6 months

Text

The Right Way To Do It

Sebastian Vettel x Fem!Reader

Warnings: it's ferrari!seb of course - he's the most husband, seb's so picky and reader is over it, one childish joke about balls, seb's a little OCD about his ornaments, some playfully husband and wife bickering.

Word Count: 695

Author's Note: welcome to my holiday extravaganza series! are we shocked im starting with seb? no :) I hope y'all enjoy this as much as I as do!!

Sebastian is the most meticulous person you've ever met in your life, and yes, that also translates to Christmas tree decorating.

The 8 foot tree stood strong and tall in the middle of the window. You stood back a few feet, looking up at it in all its glory. The boxes of ornaments you had Sebastian lug up from the basement were scattered on the couches and the coffee table.

How are you ever going to get this done?

You took inventory of all the ornaments you had, making sure you had even amounts of the colours before you began hanging them on the tree.

Starting from the bottom, you rotate the colours every few ornaments. It took you a few tries and a lot of reshuffling before you were satisfied with it.

"That's not how it's supposed to go," he calls as he walks into the living room, dropping himself down into an empty space on the couch.

Kneeling on the floor to put the ornaments on the bottom branches, you shift to look at your husband. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," he nods, eating a bit of the popcorn you had made to string and put on the tree. "It's supposed to be red, gold, green. Not red, red, gold, green, red. That's messy, babe."

"Instead of nitpicking, why don't you just come do it yourself?" You huffed, turning your attuning back to the tree.

Sebastian liked to annoy you, picking at things just to raise your blood pressure. You often bit back, much to his amusement.

He liked it when you got feisty with him. He never took you seriously, not until today.

His warm hands rested on your shoulders, carefully shifting you off to the side as he started to rearrange the ornaments you had hung. "Seb, are you serious?"

"As serious as a heart attack, baby." He smiles at you, then turns to the ornaments you had scattered on the living room floor.

Sebastian starts muttering under his breath, his fingers moving 100 miles an hour as he sorts through something in his head. You looked at the man, watching in confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"Counting."

"Counting.. what?"

"Balls."

You snickered at his response. "You're counting.. balls?"

He rolls his eyes, "we need to go to the store." Your brows furrow and he senses the lack of understanding, as if you were missing a piece of the puzzle, and that you were. "We need more green, let's go."

Much to your displeasure, your husband drags you out into the cold. He promised to buy you one of those hot chocolates you liked from the stand outside of the store before you went home and that he did.

Five massive shopping bags in hand; Seb picked up anything from ornaments to throw pillows to Christmas candles.

He had a habit of losing his mind when the holidays rolled around.

After you two finally made it home, Sebastian instructed you the order in which you had to hand him the ornaments; red, gold, green, red, gold, green - in that exact order.

You huffed and grumbled, handing him the ornaments as he moved around the tree, saying that you could have done the same thing. Sebastian playfully rolls his eyes at you, reminding you that you don't have to help if you don't want to and as much as you'd love to stop, you knew Seb would get distracted and leave the tree halfway decorated.

It took an hour and a half, a trip to the store and a bit of bickering but the tree was finally done.

You stood up, watching as Seb steps off of the stool, the star sitting perfectly straight on the top. His hand rests on your lower back, pulling you into his side.

"Perfect, isn't it?"

You roll your eyes, "I would have done the same thing, Sebastian."

"Not the way I'd do it, though." He teased, nudging your hip with his. You find yourself rolling your eyes yet again, something you did often in the presence of your husband.

"Yeah, sure." Your hand resting on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his soft skin - he finally shaved, an early Christmas gift for you - you lean into your husband, reaching up to kiss him. "Whatever you say, Seb."

#holiday extravaganza blurbs 23 #sebastian vettel #sebastian vettel x you #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel x y/n #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 imagine #f1 blurb

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diejager · 5 months

Note

I love you step father könig Ang dbf horangi series! Honestly I feel like my room would be such a turn off for them both (I just can’t imagine that a dirty room with an undertale poster and anime figures staring at them would be fun). In the scenario where the reader has a dirty uncomfortable room would they just A) take them out or try and help them reorganize, or B) just take them out of their room/house?

If it scenario A moms just like “how nice that my husband and his best friend are helping my child like this, what amazing bonding experiences :)! It’s also nice that they’re helping them get rid of some of those things.”

Cw: controlling behaviour,STEPCEST, DUB-CON/NON-CON, DARKFIC, smut, double penetration, threesome, rough sex, plug, coercion, tell me if I missed any.

I’m more inclined to pick choice A, where they would take out everything and reorganise your room. They might be retired, but habits that moulded them into who they’ve become are hard to forget, it would impossible for them to die out. Clean and minimal rooms kept them up and ready, it made it easier to live when their lives were so hectic and always in motion. König’s personal belonging showed it, he rarely had any trinkets that weren’t necessary, his office bare of personal touches and his side of the room was barren, holding but his clothes, gear and work utilities. It stood out more clearly with Horangi - your stepdad’s coworker turned best friend - who lived alone, the walls untouched and the rooms decorated in a utilitarian manner. He kept what was necessary and threw away anything that didn’t directly influenced him.

So it wouldn’t be a surprise that they’d make you clean your messy room, unnecessarily hung posters, small figurines that they deemed a waste, clothes strewn around on your chair, bed and basket, and other small and big things that took too much space in your room. It could be clean if you put in the work, it wouldn’t be so crowded that it stank to them. That’s why your stepfather and his friend were holding you by the neck and telling you to clean up and make more space for the two of them to fit comfortably in your bedroom.

“Look at this mess, Schatzi,” he tone was disapproving, seemingly disappointed in your personalised mess of a room with your cherished characters and excitable posters, “I can hardly walk around without hitting something.”

“We have a lot of work to do, 애인.” [Sweetheart]

They make you throw away everything you collected over the years, forcing you to put the in a box to put away in the basement’s storage and clean your room in their image. Despite your tears and sobs, they’re unyielding, glaring down at you as if you were a misbehaving child and speak to you in a tone that broke down your dignity. Once everything’s packed away, your room has never been this bare, walls clean, your desk arranged and bed made, it was a picture-perfect sight of a minimalist room that your stepfather could be proud of. It tore you apart to put away your collection and the many gifts you had received, small trinkets that you held close to your heart, but they were uncaring to your pleas.

They shush your weeping, rewarding you with their cocks, choking down your tears with a good fucking that would take your mind off unnecessary affairs. Horangi ploughed into you, holding you by the hip to stop you from keeling over, arms and legs trembling from the force he out in his thrusts. You’re pushed into König with every thrust, throat closing around his girth when König bucked his hips, driving further down and chuckling cruelly when you gagged loudly, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks. They ravage you in your recently cleaned room before moving to the hall until you find yourself in the kitchen table, thrown over the flat wood and choking on Horangi, drooling down your chin while you wet your stepdad’s navel and his musky hair with your slick and cum, gummy walls tight and warm around him cock.

They make sure to bathe you and clean up their mess before your mom’s home, wiping away all the evidence and slotting a plug in your swollen cunt, preventing the mix of slick and cum to leak from your hole. You’re exhausted and dozing off in your bed, sleeping off your sore muscle and chaotic mind, only waking up once you’re called for dinner by Horangi. When you’re stiffly seated next to your neighbour, your mom congratulated you for cleaning your chaotic room and gushed about her husband and his friend helping you to make things quicker and easier.

“That’s sweet of you, thank you,” you sighed tiredly, eyes closed in exasperation at the times she spoke to you about reorganising your room and taking out things that you didn’t use. “We’ve spoke about it for years now, but she’s always been too stubborn to clean up. Did you thank them, sweetheart?”

Yo blinked lazily, lips parting to say your peace, wanting to throw a few choice words at her for acting this way, but König beat you to it.

“Ja, she was very grateful.”

Despite his words and smile, there was a hidden darkness in his eyes, a hungry and calculatrice gleam kept a secret from your mother, but clear to you and Horangi’s equally sick grin.

“I’m glad.”

She was none the wiser, smile so bright for her tiresome day at work, simply overjoyed that her husband was putting in the effort to actually know and help you.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia @spidersthere @velvetsoulweaver @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake

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otakubimbo · 4 months

Text

Will Always Find You

MafiaBoss Sukuna x WifeReader

Your thoughtfulness turned into carelessness and now you've found yourself in a predicament. How are you going to get out of this?

Content: Violence. Mafia Au. Noncurse Au. Sukuna being husband material. Reader trying to be a sweet girl.

Masterlist

Sticky: This may turn into a prequel series, idk yet.

STICKY UPDATE: I, infact, did start a series. Here, thank me later MWAH.

It hurt, everything hurt. Your shoulders were screaming in pain from the strain of having your arms tied behind your back for so long. You had no clue how long you had been there, all you knew was that anytime the door opened from the basement you were being kept it, it was to expect pain. It was the Zenin’s who took you, obviously. Naoya made sure you knew that every time anyone ‘graced’ your presence. The presence of the rival mafia’s wife, Y/N Sukuna.

It was your fault that you were caught like this, trying to surprise Urame for their birthday. They were your personal bodyguard, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to surprise them if you didn’t sneak out alone. Stupid. You had to figure out a way to get out of here, you knew Ryomen had to be looking for you but how would he find you? Fuck. What were you going to do? You were already weak from the beatings, you had already lost a lot of blood, and surprisingly they tied these knots securely. Once you were taken, they stripped you of all your weapons, even the hidden knives you had. Luckily, they left you with your clothes and jewelry, nothing you could use to assist in your escape. Your head was splitting from the pain and the attempts to plan when everything was interrupted by the bright light from the door upstairs.

“I’m not telling you shit, if this is your idea of torture it’s pathetic!” You yell towards the top of the stairs, trying to make your voice sound as strong as possible despite the pain with each word coming out. As soon as you started speaking the figure at the top of the stairs came rushing down. Everything in your body freezes, the usual lackeys would take their time, but this was different, something was different. You train your eyes trying to adjust to the light to see who was coming down the stairs. The first sight that your eye catches almost makes you burst into tears, pink hair.

“Y/N” Sukuna’s voice breaks as he sees your state. You give him the best smile you could manage. Rushing over to you, he unties you from the chair and brings you into his arms, squeezing you as if you would disappear at any moment as if he thought he wouldn’t have found you. He could feel your tears starting to soak into his shirt as you sob into him, finally letting go of all the feelings you had been holding onto. Gently pulling you make, he holds your face delicately in his hands, inspecting all your injuries.

“Ryo, you found me.” You say between sniffles, eyes slowly blinking.

“I will always find you, my love.” He says and with that, everything turns black.

The smell of antiseptic floods your senses before you even open your eyes. You could tell you were in a hospital just from that. Slowly and painfully, you open your eyes to see that you are in a hospital, most likely the family hospital. The last thing you remember is Ryomen holding your body and you pass out. You tried to move but the pain immediately shot through your body making you yelp. Sukuna, who had been sleeping in a chair at the side of your bed, jumps up at the sound of your yelp. His eyes are panicked and wild.

“Hey, handsome.” You say softly, trying to reach out to touch him but it was too painful. He grabs your hand and brings it to his face for you. Once you both realize that despite the pain you are okay, his face shifts. He looks mad, pissed even.

“I’m sorry.” You stroke the side of his face with your thumb. He stays silent, glaring at you, squeezing your hand to almost a painful point but not painful yet. You take his silence as a time to explain yourself, “I am sorry, I know I shouldn’t have gone out unguarded, but I wanted to get Urame a present for their birthday. It wouldn’t have been a secret if someone went with me. And if I asked someone else to guard me it would have been suspicious. You were busy, Yuji was gone for the day. I didn’t think one time out by myself would lead to this. I should have been more careful; I should have been more aware. I let my guard down. I’m sorry Ryo, I really am.”

He's silent for another moment, eyes still piercing, but then they slowly soften as they gaze upon you. A breath that he didn’t even realize he had been holding for so long finally escapes him and a look that you never thought you would see on his face appears. He looks like he’s about to…. Cry?

“I thought,” He started taking your hand from his face and engulfing it with both of his hands. “I thought I lost you; I thought I lost my wife.” He takes a deep breath before he continues, “I would burn this world down for you without a second thought and you need to realize that, there is no King without his Queen. You almost died! You were stupid and reckless all over a birthday gift! There are ways to be discreet and you know that without putting yourself in danger! They were planning on killing you!”

Your gaze never leaves him, “I’m sorry Ryo, my husband, my love. Never again. I promise.”

His nostrils flare while he lets out an aggressive breath, “There will not be an again because you will never be leaving anywhere with out me, Yuji, or Urame. Ever”

“Anything you say Ryo.”

“Of course, I am the King after all.”

You let out a soft giggle which makes you cough a little, your throat was dry. He quickly hands you the water that was on the table next to your bed.

“How did you find me?” You ask, after soothing your throat.

“I will always find you,” he says as his hands go to around your neck, taking off the locket he gave you when he asked you to marry him. When he opens it, it shows the pictures you already knew were in there; One of you and him on your first date and one of you and Yuji on his graduation. He pops out the picture of Yuji with his pocketknife to reveal a small device behind it. A tracker. A TRACKER!! Your jaw drops when you see it.

“Ryomen Sukuna, you put a tracker on me!” you yell, finding all the strength in your body to hit him, he just clicks his teeth while fixing your necklace.

“Of course, you are reckless. I need to always know where you are, I told you when I gave it to you that I will always be with you. “He states casually, putting it back onto you. You wanted to continue to be mad, but he was right. He was the boss of a huge mafia family, and you had a tendency to forget that he needed extra insurance for your safety. You lay back down, feeling suddenly exhausted.

“I am your husband; it is my job to protect you and keep you safe.” He says as he goes to kiss your forehead, “Now rest.”

Your eyes had already shut when you laid back down. Sukuna looked at you as you slept, a tear finally escaping his eye that he wouldn’t let anyone see. If anything happened to you, he wouldn’t know how to live anymore. If there was no you, there would be no him.

#jjk gojo #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jjk sukuna #uraume #mafia #mafia au #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #tw kidnapping #marriage #birthday #gift ideas

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trashmouth-richie · 1 year

Text

eddie x fem! reader

masterlist

w/c 7.8k

summary: things heat up in more ways than one for the roommates, thanksgiving makes everyone thankful.

warnings: NO MINORS, language, fighting, mentions of child neglect, mentions of murder

a/n: thank you to my beta readers: @jo-harrington @sweetsweetjellybean pls check out their work they are both so amazingly talented 🩵 thank you to @blueywrites for screaming with me on certain parts of this story + @fracturedarkness for helping me plan future parts for this series.

again— I’m no longer doing a tag list for this series— this week as really opened my eyes to a bunch of shit in this world and I’m fucking pissed off about it.

“Do you think it’s enough food? Last year Mike ate all the mashed potatoes so I’m just hoping there is enough for everyone.”

The holidays were always a stressful time for most people, housewives stressing over meal planning, guest lists and matching outfits for their Christmas cards—ones that coordinated well and hid the fact that they were miserable with their lazy, limp dick husbands. Poor Nancy fell into that category all too well.

She’s walking circles around her dining room table, counting the dishes on her fingers. Ham, turkey, cheesy potatoes, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, corn, green bean casserole, a relish tray, strawberry fluff, gravy, two pumpkin pies, two pecan pies, a jello mold, two dozen caramel Rice Krispie bars, a pan of iced banana bars, and one can of jellied cranberry sauce on a crystal plate.

When Nancy asked you to join the Wheeler/Byers/Hopper’s gang for thanksgiving this year, you quickly accepted the invitation, asking if there was anything you could bring. She requested you bring the dessert. So the night before Thanksgiving, you started the tedious task of keeping Eddie from eating all the icing and caramel.

“Eddie! Have you seen the caramels I just bought? They were on the counter next to the flour canister.”

“Nope! Haven’t theen ‘em,” he answers all too quickly, “you thur you bought ‘em?”

“Yes I’m su—,”

Goddamn him.

Walking into the living room you approach the metal head, splayed out on the couch, fingers shoved in his mouth picking at his teeth, “oh Eddie?”

“Mhmm?” He hums, innocently, looking at you with big doe eyes.

“You wouldn’t happen to have caramel stuck in your teeth, the same caramel I bought and said, ‘please don’t eat these they’re for the Rice Krispie bars,’ would you?”

Rose colors his cheeks, “what? Me? Not listening? Ok O’Donnell,” he says with a scoff.

“Eddie,” you say sternly, hip thrown out and arms crossed over your chest.

“Ok! Fine! They were just so fucking good! But I’m dying right now— my teeth feel practically glued together— do we have any floss?!”

“Nance, I think there is more than enough here, you and Jonathan will have leftovers for weeks, months possibly.”

Fretting, Nancy wipes her fidgeting hands on her apron, “I just want it to be perfect— you know how I am.”

Type A, that’s how she was.

“It’ll be perfect, Nancy,” Jonathan agrees, coming up behind her and holding her around her small waist, “just like you.”

Scarlet heat accentuates her rouged cheeks. “Ok ok, no kissing the cook just yet,” she says, peeling herself from Jonathan’s arms, “can you and Argyle set the card table up in the basement?”

The turkey almost melted like butter on your tongue, the gravy was rich and savory. Karen’s cheesy potatoes were creamy and the crunchy cornflakes on top were to die for; the entire meal was delicious. The labor of Nancy’s love for her family and friends showing through her craftsmanship of amazing cuisine. You hadn’t seen Karen or Ted since the wedding, being the closest thing to parents you had, you were ecstatic when Karen joined you over the hot water and soapy sink, washing the china plates.

“So sweety, how have things been going lately? Nancy said you have a roommate?” Her tight blonde permed curls shaking behind her as she scrubs the pot used to make the gravy.

Drying the freshly rinsed dish, you answer with a coy smile on your face, “I’ve been good, doing better than I have in a while, yeah, I have a roommate, uhh Eddie Munson.”

“Oh Mike’s friend? He always was so kind to him, taking him under his wing and showing him the ropes in high school,” she looks at you then, her lavender eyeshadow catching the light over the sink, “I’m happy you two are dating.”

Dating.

Dating Eddie Munson.

Scenarios fly through your mind, Eddie holding your hand at the movie theater, him behind you—his chin resting on your shoulder helping you play video games at Arcade Land, watching him write songs and play his guitar, kissing his lips sweetly, deeply— moving down his neck, his chest. His fingers on your thighs—

You’re sweating.

Head dizzy and full of visions of you loving Eddie and Eddie loving you back dance in your head.

“W-we’re not dating, just—”

How would you describe your relationship with Eddie? Roommates? Friends? Waiting for him to kiss you?

“—friends,” you say, enunciating the word slowly, rolling it off your tongue.

“Well,” Karen says, a hidden smile on her knowing lips, “I’m happy you two are just friends.”

Friends.

Such a complicated word. Because you and Eddie were more than that, but definitely not dating. The tension between you was electric, and sometimes jarring, but you went to bed thinking of him every night, hoping he would just open the door to your room, slip beneath the sheets and hold you while you dreamed.

[Two weeks prior]

The morning after you had comforted him, you woke up alone— his side of the bed still warm as if he had just gotten up. Sleeping so soundly you weren’t sure what day it was, or the time. The alarm clock on your night stand said 7 o’clock but that couldn’t be right. You and Eddie had both slept for over twelve hours, the comforting kind of sleep that lulls babies to sleep, gentle, sweet, pillowy dreams in one another’s arms. Getting dressed for work, you slip a pair of jeans on, and change into a long navy blue cardigan, headband to match. Lacing up your converse, you open your bedroom door.

Eddie’s in his room getting dressed for work when you find him. Knocking on the opened door gently, you poke your head in, his eyes lift and meet yours, a sleepy, coy grin colors his face, but it doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispers softly, stopping mid button on his work coveralls.

The black bandana around his head presses his bangs nearly flat, the soft waves of his chocolate dipped curls reflect the sun light with a honey oranged hue.

“Hi,” your voice is small and meek.

An overwhelming feeling of dread* clouds your mind. Where would this new found friendship and comfort lead you both? Maybe Eddie was regretting the entire night. You haven’t been on this comfort level with someone you were physically attracted to ever. Steve was like a brother to you. And Chad— you were never comfortable with him, your skin crawling just thinking of it. But Eddie? The sight of him gave you butterflies, his arms holding your waist while you slept was an intimacy you haven’t experienced before, and you wanted to relish in the feeling of it.

He fiddles with his rings on his fingers, rolling them around and around before his mouth opens to speak, “I’m sorry for yesterday,” he blurts out, looking down in shame, unable to meet your curious eyes.

Barely comprehending that he’s apologizing for being vulnerable, you walk towards him slowly. He notices your staggering steps and inches backward. His walls are back up, caged in with his feelings, barbed wire on the top so you couldn’t find a way in, electric fence surrounding the brick walls—the highest voltage imaginable.

“Ed—”

“Please,” he begs, voice cracked and broken, wavering on another breakdown, “please don’t… I don’t need your sympathy.”

Tears well in your eyes at his recoiling. How can a night of comfort turn into despair and hostility the next morning? Nose burning, signaling your brain that tears would be falling any second, you wipe your eyes hastily.

Eddie felt like his neck was out, exposed to the world, waiting for the guillotine’s blade to slice his skin, until the crimson of his blood spilled in the basket, severing his head, a trophy amongst the weak.

Munson’s didn’t accept charity, his whole life that's what he felt like to Wayne, a charity case, a goddamn roadblock in Wayne’s life stopping him from finding a girlfriend, sleeping on a real bed, forcing him to work overnight just for Eddie— he’d never forgive himself for the pain he’s caused him— and now you? Offering your bed to him, your fingers twirling through his hair as he came undone. Whimpering like an infant, coating your thighs with thick tears. Sure it felt nice to have someone there with him, to reassure him it was all going to be okay, sweet, angelic voice of reason. But when he woke this morning he felt disgusting, like a predator, a vicious wolf preying on a sweet innocent lamb offering herself to him because he was upset.

He didn’t want that for you. He didn’t want to taint your soul with his past.

“I’m not giving my sympathy,” you voiced into the void, whether he heard it or not you weren’t sure.

Eddie breathing heavily, trying to contain his emotions from spilling out of him, “good, because I don’t want it.”

He walks around you in a huff, the muted scent of cigarettes and cologne hit your nose, as he passes you and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door all too hard. Following him, you’re certain you are full fledged crazy at this point, like in a scary movie when the lead actress stays in the house instead of running away.

Opening the door, opening Pandora’s box, you push it til it swings wide, he’s hovering over the sink brushing his teeth, white and blue toothpaste decorate the corners of his mouth.

“Tooty,” he groans, spitting a dollop of toothpaste into the sink, “seriously— I don’t want to talk about it, whatever you have to say save it for the human Care Bear Harrington—I don’t want to hear it.” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Stones would be impressed with how still you’re standing, head raised waiting for him to look you in your eye. Refusing to break. A storm in your eyes threatening to flood. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I’m not acting like anything,” Eddie grunts impatiently, “are you ready?”

When you don’t say anything, he moves you out of the way, large hands around your arms, stepping around you and going into the kitchen.

Following him, you won't let up, his head in the fridge he pulls out the orange juice carton, drinking directly from the jug, “Eddie, you can talk to me about it, I’m a good listener.”

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, gasping for breath as he swallows the citrus liquid, “I said— I said, I didn’t want to talk about it and I meant it, I’m a grown ass man— ”

Interrupting him, not giving him time to finish you blurt, “Doesn’t make you less of one just because you’re upset.”

His teeth clench so hard they almost crack, his hands balled into fists at his sides, the orange juice container crumbling in his grasp. Years of therapy as a child did nothing to help him. And neither could you.

“Stop,” he snaps, his eyes pinched tight, a wave of fury washing over him, only seeing red. “Jesus Christ enough! I don’t need this shit right now, I’m gonna be late for work!”

He stomps towards the door, shoving his boots on haphazardly, throwing his leather jacket under his arm, the same leather jacket you had worn the night before, your perfume lingering on the inside.

The smell of you lighting his fire even more, he’s losing all self control.

“What’s your problem anyway?” he grumbles, kicking open the front door, waiting for you to follow. His eyes are wide and full of hurt, anger, crippling anxiety so deep he didn’t even know if he was breathing. But no matter how mad you looked, how many tears you kept wiping away from your lash line, he couldn’t stop.

Keys in the ignition he puts the van into reverse and yanks the wheel quickly, driving like he robbed a bank.

Anytime you try to speak he cuts you off.

“Do you like getting involved with people's lives? Why are you so desperate to know what happened? Need something to gossip about at the salon? So you and your boss can whisper shit about me again? Hmm? ”

“What the fuck are y—” you try to say, but he cuts you off again, he’s raging war on himself and on you, it’s far from over, no surrender flag in sight.

“That must be it right?” he preens, barely stopping at the stop lights as he flies to your work, tires squealing around corners, “I’m here because you need something to talk about, the well full of hot gossip of Hawkins must have run dry. Well guess what sweetheart? It’s not anything I haven’t heard before.”

He’s so clueless, so expertly out of sync with what you were trying to convey, what you were begging him to understand. The tears are free falling and you don’t stop them, screaming at him, “Eddie!”

“What?!” he barks back, chest heaving with hatred filled lungs and venomous words so toxic they’re burning your skin.

Aching soul and self doubt at an all time low you try to will the words to not shake as you deliver, “do you really think I would hold you while you were sad with any other intention than consoling you!? You were upset and the least I could do after you helped me was try to make you feel better!”

He tried to argue but it’s your turn to cut him off, holding up a hand as he fumed through his nose. He parks in back of the salon, slamming on the brakes as you both jolt forward. “Let it go, Too—”

“I care about you, you stubborn asshole!” You grab your purse between your feet and open the door and jump out.

“Just stop,” Eddie pleads, his eyes brimming with tears, “don’t.”

“I can’t,” you say back in a whisper, your voice breaking at the last syllable, you reach for the door, out of breath and holding in your sobs the best you can, “oh, and for the record— Josie was telling me to be nice to you and give you a chance— my mistake.”

Slamming the door you don’t hear him break, you don’t hear him thrust the heel of his hand into the steering wheel until it aches and burns. His nerves shooting pain through his entire arm. You don’t hear him scream and hate himself as he drives to work, his body soulless, empty, fragile.

“Tooty, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you tell Josie for the tenth time.

You definitely were not fine.

Distracted the minute you got to work, your mind raced with questions of the unknown. Hurt, confused and pissed off, you had mixed the wrong color formula for your clients hair, resulting in money down the drain from your own paycheck as you threw the mixture away and started it again, for the third attempt.

At 10 o’clock you were folding towels in the back when you realized you had bleached an entire load of darks. The once rich black towels were now faded with splotches of orange.

Eddie’s words had ripped through your heart, hurdling themselves into the deepest parts of you that were sheltered away from anyone, taking up solace in your forbidden soul, hollowing it out.

By noon you were crying while rolling a client's perm rods into her hair, having to step away multiple times before Josie gently told you enough was enough and that you should go home for the day.

Not wanting to call Eddie and get a ride you decided to walk the half mile through town back to your home on Cherry lane.

Kicking a rock with the toe of your shoe for most of the walk home, you mull over the events of the day. Wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your cardigan as you tread along the sidewalk.

[Thanksgiving Day]

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me to Nancy and Jonathan’s? It’ll be fun!”

Eddie is leaned against the driver window of his van, his finger tracing a smiley face into the dust in the dash. “I wish I could, but Wayne and I go fishing every year on Thanksgiving— it’s a tradition.”

Every year since Eddie was ten years old, Wayne took him fishing on Thanksgiving, starting early in the morning and going until sundown, ending the night camping beneath the stars, cooking their daily catch for supper, “save me a piece of pie okay?” he finishes, ruffling up your hair, a shit eating grin on his lips.

Feeling horrible that your car was still out of commission, Eddie had let you borrow the van for the night after you dropped him off at Wayne’s. “And you’re positive it’s okay if I take the van?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Eddie’s laugh spread across his cheeks, the black beanie he has on his head inching closer to falling off every second, “Tooty,” he breathes, his brown eyes dipping into yours, “take the goddamn van and have a good time—and hurry up, you’re gonna be late.”

[2 Weeks prior]

🎶 it was the third of June another sleepy dusty delta day

I was out choppin’ cotton and my brother was baling hay

Bobbie Jo’s tune was ringing in his ears all day— no matter how loud he cranked the radio in the shop, no matter how many times he tried to hum a different tune— her -* words rang through his mind like silk, coating his skin and implementing old memories he didn’t want brought up.

He was filled with fury. A ticking time bomb. It should have been no surprise when Sean and Aaron started poking at him, how unhinged he would become.

“What’s got your panties in a twist, Munson,” Sean sneers, changing the oil on the Ford truck, “your little girlfriend finally figure out you’re a fucking loser?”

Eddie had already thrown a wrench across the shop out of frustration when he realized he forgot his lunch. He slammed the hood of a blue minivan on his fingers right after morning break, and now Aaron and Sean were starting in on him.

His breath erratic, trying to breathe through his nose to calm himself down but failing. His misery over taking his nerves. He grunts through barred teeth, “We aren’t dating,”

Sean perks up at the news, his wiry mustache splattered across his top lip like a squashed caterpillar, decrepit and sparse. “Oh shit, so she’s single, huh?”

“Damn,” Aaron chimes in, his hands cupped around his junk as he shakes it back and forth between his greasy hands, “what I wouldn't give to be balls deep in that pretty little mouth, that’d shut her up for good.”

“You’re skating on thin ice, fuck rag, I’d watch my mouth if I were you.” Eddie’s shoulders are tensed, adrenaline at an all time high. Fight or flight screaming through his blood racing through his heart and speeding up his heart rate.

“Whatchya gonna do about it, freak?” Sean spits pushing Eddie in the chest, “ ‘Name the time and place’ yeah motherfucker? How about right here right now?” Standing toe to toe with Eddie, but a foot shorter he peers into Eddie’s face, egging him on.

“Ever since you moved in with that whore you’ve been such a little bitch about everything— I mean I get it, honestly— Chad always said she had the sweetest p—”

Sean chokes on the last word as Eddie’s fist connects with his cheek, his rings would end up leaving bruises in their shape on his skin for weeks to come.

Sean throws a punch at Eddie but he is quick to dodge it, years of fighting in the trailer park giving him an upper hand. Blood spews from Sean’s mouth as Eddie upper cuts him in the chin, his tongue almost split in half as he bit down from the impact.

Eddie is blinded momentarily as Aaron socks him in the eye, a deep purpling plum colored bruise that took weeks to heal. Stumbling backwards his back hits the red sun faded tool box, Sean came swinging a crow bar out of nowhere and hit Eddie in the ribs, a groaning thud as the sound of his bones shatter in his body.

Behind his back, he reaches for whatever is closest, a wrench wrapped tight in his fingers gets thrown in the air at Sean, hitting him in the throat and knocking him over onto the smooth concrete of the shop floor, gasping for breath.

Aaron tackles Eddie, sending him into the air compressor, four fists are swinging and bodies shifting as they both struggle for dominance. Eddie’s lip is cut and his eye is swollen almost shut. Aaron’s nose is dripping blood on Eddie’s shirt as he punches him in the same place that Sean hit him with the crow bar. He’s able to get a knee up between Aaron and himself and twists his body to get above him, and when he does he lays punch after punch into Aaron’s swollen bloody face.

With each rocking fist connecting with flesh, Eddie has one thing on his mind, you. He thinks about the foul way they had disrespected you. The way you had cried when you told him you couldn’t stop caring about him. How he was close to losing you because he couldn’t open up and let you in. How terrified you must have been for all those years when you were scared and alone, nobody there to hold you and comfort you. And while he’s pummeling Aaron into a bloody pulp of cracked teeth and swollen eyes, it finally clicks for him.

The fight didn’t last long, but was effective enough to get Eddie suspended for the rest of the work day— and Aaron and Sean got a nice week's vacation with no pay.

Eddie’s knuckles are coated in a mixture of blood and spit. His jaw aches as he drives home with one eye open, it’s the clearest he’s seen in a long time.

[Thanksgiving]

“Fish ain’t bitin’ much are they?” Wayne and Eddie have both cast and reeled in their rods multiple times with zero luck. The small boat Eddie had gifted Wayne with for Christmas 3 years ago stood at still waters of Lover’s Lake, both men chilled to the bone.

“Nah, they sure aren’t. Probably no fish left in here after the summer you had.”

Since Eddie had graduated, Wayne dropped down to part time at the plant and went to dayshift. A true dream for him and for Eddie, offering to pick up most of the bills, a silent thank you for all the years that Wayne has taken care of him when he didn’t have to, but did anyway— the only caring person in his life, until you.

The wind whips through Eddie’s hair, tugging the curls out from the confinements of the cotton stocking cap snug on his head. The once crisp autumn foliage is soggy like forgotten cereal in a bowl of milk around them from the previous nights rain, chilling the usual humidity from the air and adding a depth of ice in their veins as they shake and shiver in their jackets, Eddie in his leather jacket, Wayne in a weathered faded khaki canvas coat.

Ruddy hands with silvered rings light two cigarettes, passing one to a pair of calloused, aged hands. Inhaling deeply and blowing warm smoke in the whispering winds of the quiet fog around them.

Wayne runs a rough hand over his sunned scalp, itching the small patches of hair left, as he readjusts his tattered cap, letting the nicotine settle into his bones and soothe the stubborn ache in his jaw, like ointment on an arthritic joint, “you ever gonna bring that girlfriend over to meet me or you keepin’ her alls to yourself?”

“What girl?” Eddie says quickly, coyly, blowing smoke into the space between the two of them, hiding his mouth with the curtain of his curls, opening the coffee can full of mud and worms, pushing another worm on the end of his hook.

Wayne hadn’t talked to him about girls since he was fifteen when he walked into his room and tossed a box of rubbers at his chest and grumbled, “use ‘em,” under his breath.

Irritation blooms against Wayne’s brows, “boy, don’t play dumb with me,” he cracks at Eddie, a false stern voice in his gruff voice, “the one you’re dating you little wise ass.”

“I’m not dating anyone, Wayne.” Eddie says, pretending to be preoccupied with the tackle box full of neon fishing lures and bobbers. He runs his thumb over the rough cracked surface of the faded red and white bobber, the same one Wayne gave to him when they started fishing all those years ago. The memory brings a smile to his face.

The gruff scoff from Wayne’s throat suggests bullshit to his ears from his nephew’s mouth, a noise Eddie has heard many many times in the two decades he had been living with Wayne, one that told him that he better tell the truth, and right the hell now. No matter that he now towers over Wayne, he’ll always be his boy, the wide eyed boy with a mountain of guilt on his shoulders, his son.

And as Wayne always knew— the more he poked and prodded, the more Eddie would clam up. They sit in comfortable silence, the slight breeze rippling the water on Lover’s Lake, rocking the small fiberglass boat and swaying the two Munson men gently.

How could he describe the relationship between you and him? Not dating, but hopefully more than friends. He didn’t have many friends that he’d willingly let help him battle his inner-most demons. In fact, Gareth and Jeff were still left in the dark about it. The breeze continues to grow frigid and burrows itself between the layers of his clothing, freezing his skin and peppering it with goose bumps. The chattering of Eddie’s teeth remind him of Steve’s birthday when he offered you his jacket, and opted to freeze the rest of the night just so you wouldn’t be chilly.

It’s simple really, he admitted it to Steve, but somehow admitting it to Wayne was worse than the hit from the box of condoms against his chest.

He says it all too fast, out of breath, and barely audible. But he says it. And a smile spreads across the weathered leather of Wayne’s face, pulling his mustache up, a glimmer of a sparkle in his eye, “see, now was that so bad?”

[2 weeks prior]

His knuckles ache, and he’s not positive if it’s from the blows to Aaron’s face or the way he’s gripping the steering wheel. His realization while busting open Aaron’s cheek made him eager to get home. Eager to clean himself up before he went to pick you up from work.

The house is silent as he walks through the garage, his angry hurtful words bounce back to him off the kitchen walls, the counter. The orange juice was still where he left it, crumpled and misshapen.

He truly was an asshole. Hurting the one person who cared for him other than Wayne. He sits down in a chair and unties his boots, blood splattered on the toes. Peeling the sweat stained work coveralls from his body, he tosses them down the steps to the basement, leaving them for later.

He stands partially naked in the kitchen, clad in only his underwear and socks, the kick of adrenaline wearing completely off, the promise of pain against his broken ribs rings searing heat through his body.

A glance around the kitchen stills the breath in his lungs. The kitchen is a wreck from the waffle night, the colossal beginning of a budding relationship that he was currently in the trenches hoping to fix. The once silky batter is now hard, pale concrete cemented onto the sides of the glass mixing bowl. The waffle iron was open, sprayed with cooking oil that was sitting with its cap off on the counter. The plates were sticky with cold syrup and now styrofoam resembled waffles, still on the table from where you had both sat. Forks and knives laying atop the ceramic plates in a haphazard way, awaiting the return of warm hands to finish their job.

Without thinking he starts to clean up, filling the sink with hot water, scraping the food from the plates into the garbage, putting away the orange juice and the left out butter and cooking spray. In no time the kitchen is sparkling and Eddie’s body is screaming at him to rest. The cuts on his knuckles are cleaned but swollen, soap stung from the water. His side aches, adrenaline slipping away with every growing minute.The pain is almost unbearable.

A clicking noise from the front door has him turning suddenly, a slight panic in his nerves as he stands stone still.

A block from the house, your tears return, cold, and stuck to your face like ice on poles. You’re exhausted, stomping the entire way home drove shin splints up your legs, the cold cramping dull in your calves. Thinking of Eddie the entire way home you are dumbfounded— completely and utterly confused at his reaction. How could he not know how you felt about him? Why was he begging you to stop? Wondering if you’ll ever get the answers to those questions you wipe your nose with the sleeve of your cardigan. If he was going to guard himself again, and put the barriers back up— so could you.

The door is stuck as you try to open it, pushing and shoving your shoulder into it, it finally gives, stumbling your way into the living room in the most ungraceful way. The scent of freshly wiped surfaces sting your nose and stop you dead in your tracks. You weren’t expecting to be relieved from seeing Eddie, but the relief is short lived as you notice the deep violet and indigo bruise painting his eye.

“Ed—,” you gasp, covering your mouth as you run towards him, foregoing the screaming in your legs, “wh— oh my God!”

His eyes melt at your appearance, scarlet rimmed eyes and wet cheeks take him in, eyebrows dipped into unease and apprehension. He feels your hesitancy, thick like fog surrounding you both as you reach your fingers up to his cheek. Ice cold pads of your fingertips skim the tender skin of his face, brushing the wispy hair of his bangs from his eyes with your fingertips to get a better look at him.

He doesn’t speak, barely breathing at your gentle touch on his face. The frosty coolness of your fingers burn his skin with every silky movement of your hands. He tries to avoid your eyes, avoid the pain he knew was from earlier and his cowardice.

Fingers dancing along his skin, you scan over his torso, the same way you did on the morning after Halloween, the bruising from the mishap of the steps is replaced by a pattern of splotchy deep bruising.

“They’re broke,’’ Eddie groans, his split lip ripping open, from him trying to force a smile, “looks cool though right?”

Using humor to deflect the true way he feels was an easy defense mechanism for him, but you won’t bite. Won’t take the bait he’s dropping into your waters, won’t nibble at his small offering.

Trying not to break, you stand your ground, “what happened?”

“Nothing that wasn’t deserved,” Eddie says, eyes casted downwards at your hands near his ribs, “I was just having a shitty enough day— my own fault—“, he adds quickly, his eyes flicking to yours, not wanting to put salt into the already festering wound he created, “I—uh—I took care of it.” He says in a final explanation.

“And now I’m going to take care of this,” he motions between you both, sliding his hands down your arms and settling them in your hands.

“Tooty— I,” he exhales as deep as his lungs will allow given the break in his ribs, spilling his stitched up heart to you, letting the walls fall with each word, “I’m sorry— I’m so fucking sorry. Nothing I do or say will ever amount to how shitty I feel for making you cry, for pushing you away. I’m a coward when it comes to this type of shit, and it was too heavy— too muddy for me to explain. I figured if I’d shut you out you’d go back to how it was before— before Harrington’s birthday, before Halloween befo—,”

A shake of your head and a sharp intake of breath come from your body. Did all of this mean nothing to him? The flirting, the gentle touching, the sweet gestures? It was all just something he wanted to forget?

Voice small and shallow, “Is that what you want Eddie? To go back to how it was before, when you first moved in?”

A single tear falls from your face, and without thinking, without second guessing himself or wondering if you would think he was being weird, Eddie is quick to brush it away with the curl of his forefinger. His swollen knuckles are tight and achy. He tries to hide a hiss from his teeth, wanting to live in this euphoric moment for as long as he can, as long as you will allow him to. He extends both hands now to your face, his rough thumbs rubbing over the expanse of your cheeks, fingers behind your ears, curling into your hair.

“I want,” he breathes easy now, as if the touch of your skin on his fingers mended his broken bones, his eyes soft where it allowed, one still swollen shut, “I need you to know that I care, too— and I don’t want you to ever quit caring about me— baby, I’ve cared about you for years—- and I can’t get myself to stop.”

And when a sob breaks from your chest, he pulls you into him, “c’mere,” the sensation steals the breath from your lungs, you’ve never been touched with such gentleness, such care. He’s holding you as if you’re glass. Fragile, cracked and held together with shitty Elmer’s glue that was a tempting snack for children. It’s so delicate the way he’s stroking your skin.

Minutes or hours pass you’re not sure. His warmth engulfs you, his musky cologne and spiced deodorant is a gentle blanket around you. Wrapping you in a swaddle of his admiration.

His hair tickles your cheeks, tattooed arms are twisted in your hair,and wrapped around your back. The shine of your tears coat his bare chest, his chin rests on top of yours breathing in your hair shushing you gently.

You spend the night working Eddie’s rings from his already swollen fingers, pressing ice packs to his bruises and spreading neosporin on his cut lip, rubbing it gently with the tip of your finger, Eddie giggles at the concentration on your face and the way your tongue is poked out.

He’s infatuated with the way you make him feel. His heart soaring higher and higher with each delicate touch of your fingers on his skin.

He’s up late that night, stomach full from your homemade chicken noodle soup and his heart even more full. Flying higher than cloud nine, your sweet face on his mind.

[Thanksgiving]

A sadistic voice echoes from your tv screen, “a little young for ya isn’t she Richie? BEEP BEEP RICHIE!”

Richie Tozier sips the Dixie cup of water, leaning against the bookcase in the Derry library, Pennywise continues his antics of torture as balloons drop from the ceiling, popping with blood spluttering on the library go-ers faces, oblivious to the fantasy nightmare Pennywise ensues.

The front door opens with a thud as a shriek and the popcorn bowl on your lap goes flying through the air. Eddie walks hurriedly through the door. A shivering spine of fear and realization hits you all at once. His boisterous laugh reverberates the living room walls as he picks popcorn from your hair, and places it in his mouth, a loud crunch between his teeth as he plops down next to you on the couch.

“Think you got your holidays mixed up, sweetheart— it’s Thanksgiving, Halloween was last month.”

Rolling your eyes you make a face to mock him, which only fuels his fire and has his cold fingers jabbing into your sides and tickling you so hard you scream out. Begging him to stop.

“Don’t!,” you squeal, holding your breath and giggling at his unrelenting tickling. He finally gives up after your face has gone red and your hair is a mess, laughing tears rolling down your cheeks.

Eddie sits back on the couch taking a huffing breath, a wild smile spreading from ear to ear, “that’s what you get for watching IT without me!”

Scoffing, you pick up the bowl of popcorn and the paled yellow crunchy kernels spilled on the ruby red throw blanket, “wait, weren’t you supposed to be camping with your uncle tonight?”

Eddie breathes out a sigh, bending at the waist to gather the kernels off the floor. The rest of the fishing trip with Wayne, Eddie spent it quieter than he had ever been, contemplating his next move, how could he show you that he was serious? How could he let you in? Show you his ugly past without scaring you, without you running for the hills? The answer was easy.

“I have something— somewhere I wanna show you,” he whispers, standing to his full height. Looking for the familiar mischievous glimmer in his eye, you are surprised by the genuine sparkle replacing it. His face his earnest, almost a look of doubt on his lips, scared of your reaction.

He peels the blanket from your lap and reaches down, his hand held out extended to yours, “come with me?”

The air is bitter. The driveway is glittering with a sequined frost, dancing with the shine of the street lights. Warm breath fills the inside of Eddie’s van as he slots the key into the ignition and fires it up, cranking the heat. Snuggling further into your knitted scarf, hiding the chill of your nose as Eddie backs down the driveway, heading out of town.

It doesn’t take long to get to where he was going, the drive in silence had you questioning what was going on in his mind. The path was overgrown, hidden from the road, hidden from anyone who didn’t know that it was there. The headlights of the van bob along with each sunken hole on the dirt drive. Jostling the van this way and that.

Nestled into thick trees past an old loose and corroded barbed wire fence, in place for property lines, sits a small house, paint chipped and barely visible. The roof was caved in by a large tree falling on it, the sagging porch still had bleached yellow crime scene tape hanging on by threads to the moss eaten pillar.

Eddie throws the van in park, sniffling slowly and looking around. “This uh,” he stutters, clearing his throat, “this is where I lived with my mom, my old man was in and out most of the time—drunk or in jail, I don’t remember him being here that much except the last time.”

Silence is golden, and you give him your undivided attention as he twists in his seat, bent knee leaning on the door frame.

“That,” he says pointing to the fallen tree in the back, “was an apple tree, apples this big around I swear,” he motions his hands in a circle, a chuckle in his throat, “we didn’t live here for very long, a year, or two maybe…”

His voice fades, and at first he second guesses bringing you here. He can imagine you piecing this puzzle of woe together, his life. The tragic tale of Eddie Munson, he didn’t spin a web of luxuries for you to pretend with him for a moment, a second, that he was anything other than what he was—but when your cotton gloved fingers slide into his, interlacing them—it gives him the courage, the resilience to continue.

“…I was six when it— when she was… he—,” he trails off, unable to finish, but it doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots. The abandoned house, the barely-there flicker of yellow tape, she wasn’t only dead— she was murdered, by his father’s hand.

Comprehending what he’s getting at, you can practically hear his heart breaking. Eyes never leaving his face, you take him in, his eyes are wet as he blinks back tears, using his other hand to pinch the inner corners of his eyes, and hide behind his hair, his face is ashen, once ruddy cheeks from when he came home and tickled you is now swallowed by stale ash, sucking the life from his eyes, his cheeks, his soul.

“.. right in front of me…” he hangs his head low, sniffing quietly, “Wayne took me in after that.”

Eddie and you were alike in more ways than you had thought, although your parents were still alive, they were equally absent from your life, much like Eddie’s parents. Sure you both had people who took care of you, and as sweet as the gesture was, it was never really the same. The aching torture of having to defend for yourself, put a brave face on for your temporary care takers so you don’t seem like a bother to them, so they won’t worry about the weight of taking you in— was all too familiar.

“Eddie,” you whisper softly, rubbing his hands with your thumbs.

Yearning and breaking for him, the cords of your heart reach to his, tethering them together as you slide over the center council, and carefully land into his lap. He’s surprised at first by your brazenness, but once you wrap your arms around his neck and hold him into you, he melts like chocolate at your heated touch.

Your fingers tug into his hair at the nape of his neck, his nose and lips make their way in between your scarf and your neck, the slight chill against your skin sends goosebumps down your spine, a throbbing in your core.

Realization spreads through your heart, your brain, the hair follicles on your head, the painted nails on your toes. Holding him, him holding you, his arms around you, your arms buried in his hair, his fingers rubbing patterns into your back as he sighs deeply and regulates his breath—for the first time in your life, you realize this is what love feels like.

To be loved and to be in love. It was undeniable. Right? Friends didn’t do this. Roommates didn’t do this. But two people who cared deeply for one another and were bonded together by more than just traumatic circumstances? That was love.

In this moment, nothing else matters.

It’s just you and him.

Him and you.

The flutter of your heart short circuits as it seeps hot sticky love all over your face, blooming warmly in your cheeks. Grasping him tighter, you pull away, settling your forehead into his. Whiskey poured eyes staring back into yours, for a brief second you swear you can feel his heart flutter with yours, beating as one.

Eddie doesn’t play his music loud on the way back. A comfortable echoing still in the van as it clunks along the road. His voice barely above a whisper when he speaks. He feels satisfied. Happy even? Like the weight of the world was off of his shoulders by you simply knowing his past. You didn’t ask questions and in the moment he didn’t need you to. His arms wrapped around you was more than enough, your fingers twirling in his hair, the smell of your perfume behind your ear. The way you let him grieve, let him take you somewhere he hasn’t gone in years, was something he’d appreciate for a lifetime to come.

Once home it’s like any normal night, only he doesn’t tease you. He doesn’t fight over the bathroom or use your toothbrush, he doesn’t argue when you pop Christmas Vacation into the VCR, even though you can quote the entire movie. He’s completely engulfed by you, watching you brush your hair, the extra roll of the waistband of your pajama pants. The ridiculous colors of your fuzzy socks you insisted on wearing now that the weather was colder.

He’s never felt nervous around a girl before, usually throwing himself around, showing off his exquisite rack like a stacked buck in rut, rubbing his antlers on trees, showing his mighty dominance.

But you weren’t just another lonely girl looking for a night with a lead singer, or a girl pretending to be in love with him just so she could score coke from his supplier while also fucking him behind his back, and you definitely weren’t a faceless girl that he plowed to forget it all.

Meaning much more to him than just some silly fuck, or a high school “sweetheart” that ended up being a heartless cunt, or a dumpster for his cum.

No.

You were much more than that, to him.

More than a roommate, more than a friend, more than Eyeball’s bratty fucking sister.

He could write sonnets about the little lines in between your brow when you pulled your eyebrows together, usually when you were mad at him. He could sing songs about your laugh, not the small polite one, the loud one, the one that rang every doorbell to his heart and and he gladly answered. He could hum a tune of gratitude about your cooking and the silent ways you care for him and your close friends. He’d get his ass kicked by the entire male population of Hawkins if it meant keeping you safe.

You were it for him.

The only one to make him feel, the only one he wanted to see at the end of the day, in the morning when he got up.

Watching you giggle and let out a yawn, he places a couch pillow between his hip and yours gesturing for you to lie down. He almost goes into cardiac arrest when you move the pillow entirely, your head resting in his lap. A sleepy smile on your face as you tug the blanket under your chin.

Yup.

You were it for him.

And he's a sucker, addicted to the way you made him love you so effortlessly.

hope you all enjoyed this volume! volume ix is where it heats up 🔥

@big-ope-vibes @br0ck-eddie @b-irock @loveshotzz @mopeymopeymouse @shiftingtherain @courtingchaos @nightonblogmountain @word-wytch @ghost-proofbaby @hanobe8 @abibliophobiaa @joejoequinnquinn just a few of the coven 🩵🩷

This is for you

*sacrifices 🖕🏼

#honey i’m home #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson #stranger things x y/n #eddie x you angst #Eddie x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie x you fluff

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boxofbonesfic · 3 months

Text

Title: Return to Sender [5 of 7]

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dark! Andy Barber x Reader, Ari Levinson x Reader

Summary: Andy Barber promised he would never let you go, and come hell or high water, he's going to keep that promise.

Warnings: Dubcon/Noncon, Kidnapping, Minor Violence, Gaslighting, Basement Wife Trope, Manipulation, Stalking, Obsessive behavior, Possessive behavior, Smut, MORE TAGS TO BE ADDED

A/N: 👀 is… is anyone still there? i promised i’d update this this weekend, and i delivered. an hour before midnight, but i delivered. 😅 i know it’s been a while for this fic, but it hasn’t been forgotten about. i really hope you all enjoy this latest installment, and please don’t hesitate to let me know what you think! as always, comments are great, reblogs are golden. thank you for reading, and mind the warnings. ❤️ divider by @firefly-graphics

Where am I?

You stare blearily at the distant ceiling, dull and rusting metal beams criss-crossing over exposed brick. You reach out for Dove, and when your fingers meet empty air, your throat tightens as you remember.

Pronge walking away with your baby, and Ari—

You sit up, your fingers knotted in the thin blanket. The repurposed garage office is still and silent, the springs creaking quietly underneath you. The air smells like old motor oil, singed rubber and citrus-scented antiseptic, and it burns your nostrils. You’re almost afraid to shatter the fragile silence with the sound of your movement, but it can’t be helped as you shove your feet back into your sneakers. The office is long abandoned, the desks all pushed up against the sides of the room to make space for the bed.

The hallway is slightly better, boxes of papers and car parts lining both sides, lit by old yellow florescent bulbs that give off less light than they should. There’s a dusty, unlit neon sign that reads Gary’s Auto-body, leaning against the wall. Down the hall, you can see that the light is on in the garage proper, this one bright and brilliant white. You squint as you pass through the doorway, spots dancing in front of your eyes as they slowly adjust to the light.

In its previous life, this place had been a car mechanic’s garage, but now it serves as something like a speak-easy operating room. The car lifts have been mostly dismantled, and sitting on the concrete in the rusted outline of where they used to be are two operating tables. Ari is on one of them, speaking quietly to the man winding a length of beige bandaging around his right shoulder.

Zemo. Ari called him Zemo.

“Mouse, you’re up.” You cover your mouth with both hands to stop the surprised squeak from reaching him. Guiltily, you peer around the door frame, waiting for a reprimand that doesn’t come. The “doctor” regards you with cold, calculating eyes.

“So this is the young woman Mr. Barber is tearing the city apart to find,” he says. “How nice to finally meet you.” Andy’s name sends a cold shiver down your spine, and you clutch yourself. Zemo’s welcome feels less like kindness and more like tolerance. It makes you wonder how long you’ll be staying here.

“You know Andy?” You ask, careful to keep your face as neutral as you can manage.

Zemo scowls. “Well enough to know we do not get along.” He shakes his head, before regarding you with a cold smile. “Your husband has just as many enemies as he does friends.” Beside him, Ari sits up on the table with a pained grunt, swinging his legs over the side.

“We can trust him, Mouse.” Ari offers you a watery smile. Nervously, you step closer, skirting around the now defunct counter as you attempt to give Zemo as wide a berth as you can manage. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, cleaning his tools with a cloth before dropping them with a loud, metallic pap into the metal tray next to the table.

“Are you okay?” You ask him in a quiet voice as you approach, fingers dancing nervously around the gauze. You shake your head, closing your eyes as you blow out an exasperated breath. “I mean, I know you’re not okay, but—” Ari places a warm hand over your own, a quiet laugh rumbling in his chest.

“I’m okay.”

“Lucky for you Pronge is a terrible shot.” Zemo quips. “He missed bone.”

“See?” Ari says, squeezing your hand tight before letting go. “I’m just fine.”

“You’re not fine. You have a six millimeter hole in you.”

“Semantics.”

“Keep activity to a minimum. I shouldn’t have to tell you this,” Zemo replies dryly. “And keep it clean, I’m not going to do it for you. This isn’t a hospital.” You watch him pack up his tools, ferrying them over to the deep sink on the other side of the room. Ari slides off of the table with a grunt, and you watch him press his lips together as he stands upright, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Ari mutters, cutting his eyes at Zemo over his shoulder. “Six millimeters.” The doctor tosses him a worn looking cloth sling. Ari tries to fit it over his shoulder, and you rush to help him. “Thanks, Mouse.” Your cheeks warm with an uncomfortable heat. “I could have done it myself.”

“This is all my fault,” you mumble angrily, shaking your head. “I have to do something.” You step back from him, tucking your chin. He rests a warm, comforting hand on your shoulder.

“No it’s not.”

“If I—If I hadn’t—” Guilt is an achingly heavy cowl about your sagging shoulders.

“Mouse, what good is this going to do you?” The gentleness in his touch makes you flinch.

“As much as I am enjoying this conversation,” Zemo clears his throat. “I have my own wife and son to be getting back to.” You watch as he places his cleaned tools back into his bag. “Do remember what I said about your… hole.” He gestures to Ari’s injured arm with a grimace. “I’m rather keen on not amputating.”

“You and me both.” Ari says. The two of you watch as he makes his way over to the front of the shop, pulling the metal garage door up enough to slip underneath it. “What time tomorrow?”

“Noon.”

The garage door slams down hard onto the concrete, and then there is silence. You stand there awkwardly, twisting your t-shirt in your restless hands. They’re so used to holding the baby, without her sure weight in them they feel… useless.

You feel useless. Adrift.

And it isn’t just Dove—it’s everything. Despite what Ari says, you know this is your fault. He’d never have been hurt if you hadn’t been so fucking helpless. And it’s your own fault, you’d let your guard down, let Andy back inside, let him make a home inside your head, and it was your fault.

“What are you thinkin’ there, Mouse?” Ari’s voice interrupts the self-depreciating internal monologue running rampant in your head. “I hope it’s about getting some sleep, you need it.” Again, his earnestness puts you on edge. You don’t know what to do with it—it feels alien to you now, almost like you’d prefer Andy’s smug cruelty—at least then you know what to expect.

You don’t want to admit that you’re blaming yourself, thinking about all the ways you could have prevented this exact course of events just by being better.

“Yeah,” you lie. “I’m exhausted.” If anything, you’re too awake, recalling last night’s events with perfect clarity. You can’t even look at Ari as the two of you silently make your way back to the repurposed offices, shuffling along beside him as your insides squirm. You feel too much to go to sleep, so many warring desires it feels like you’re being torn apart from the inside out.

You suppose that’s one thing you sort of miss about Andy—you didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel. He did it all for you. You arrive back at your “room”, fidgeting nervously before you cross the threshold. You don’t think you can sleep in here now, now that the adrenaline has worn off. Now that the terror has been waylaid by your other earthly concerns.

Ari notes your hesitation.

“I can stay with you util you fall asleep, if you don’t think you can.”

You duck your head, shaking it emphatically. “I should be looking after you,” you reply, shooting him a look over your shoulder. “You should, um, rest.” Ari looks around, raising an eyebrow. Oh. There’s only one other bed—and it’s current occupant is currently snoring so loud you can hear it in here.

“You sleep here, and I’ll—” You look around. “I’ll sleep in one of the rolly-chairs or something.” He laughs softly at your sudden determination.

“You know I’m not letting you sleep on chairs, Mouse.” Ari rests a hand on your shoulder. “You take the bed.”

“You got shot, Ari!” You hiss. “I-I-I can’t—”

He holds up his hands placatingly, like he can see you working yourself up. Hell, he probably can.

“Okay.” He threads the fingers of his good hand through his blond hair. “I’ll sleep on one side, you on the other. Fair?”

“Y-yes. Fair.” Your words shock the both of you, and you feel your face heat as he regards you with a look of pleasant surprise before you look down at your feet.

“You don’t have to agree if you aren’t comfortable, Mouse. You know that. I wouldn’t—”

“I know.” You grip your own forearms tightly as you speak, like you’re afraid saying the words out loud will make them untrue—like speaking the name of your demon will bring him down upon you. “You’re not Andy.”

Ari takes the left side of the bed, and the springs creak under his weight. You crawl in beside him, holding yourself as stiff as you possibly can to avoid even brushing him by accident. The truth is, you are scared—but not of Ari.

And that frightens you, too.

He’s a man, a stranger, wearing a face too similar to the one you’re running from. Now, though, when you’re brave enough to peek at him, you see Ari—not Andy. And the longer you’re here, the clearer you see him.

You lie there in the dark, your arms held painfully stiff over your chest as you search the dark with wide, glassy eyes. The ceiling is far enough above you that your brain begins to construct patterns and shapes on it’s popcorn-textured surface. Grinning faces, tall, shadowy figures—

“Mouse, are you sleeping?”

You hesitate. “…No.”

“Go to sleep.” You swallow against the thick lump in your throat, blinking back hot tears.

“It’s… It’s hard without Dove.” It’s so silent without the baby, the darkness uncomfortably quiet without the sound of her sleepy burble. She’s probably awake right now, wailing for you. You press the heels of your palms against your eyes like you’re trying to hold the tears in.

“I know.” The mattress creaks, and you feel Ari’s weight shift. The weight of your loss settles in on you, then, the crushing vacuum of your daughter’s absence sucking the air out of your lungs as you gasp for it. You can’t keep quiet anymore, your hiccoughing breaths rising in pitch until you’re sobbing, hot tears streaming down your cheeks to soak your hair and the thin pillow beneath.

“Hey, hey, come here.” Ari’s touch is hesitant. He lets his fingers linger on your shoulders before he hugs you, like he’s waiting for you to rebuke him. You don’t. Instead, you curl into his chest, your wails muffled by his body as you tangle your fingers in his over-shirt. You cry so hard it hurts, your throat raw and aching.

Ari’s hands don’t stray. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t murmur false platitudes or make promises he knows he won’t be able to keep. He just…holds you, his breath steady and heartbeat slow and even under your ear.

And then, finally, you fall asleep.

—

In the light of day, Irene looks terrible. Her left eye is swollen black and purple, a patchwork of burst blood-vessels and yellow bruises spread out over cheek. The other side of her face is not much better, the other eye open but blood red, and her nose swollen. It’s obvious she took a beating, a bad one. Still, she seems to be in higher spirits than last night as she shovels the last of her cereal into her mouth. You’re doing the same thing, hungrily crunching down the contents of your own bowl.

“We need to talk about next steps.” Irene draws the back of her hand across her mouth, her one good eye focused on you. “We need to move.”

“I’m not going anywhere without Dove.”

“That isn’t an option anymore.”

You clench your hands into fists on the table. “I’m. Not. Leaving.”

“We will figure out a way to get her back, but right now? You cannot go back to Boston, he is never going to let you go, do you understand that?” It’s like you’re speaking two different languages, talking around one another in dizzying circles. You shove yourself away from the foldout table, knocking over your plastic chair.

“I’m not fucking leaving without my daughter!” You haven’t felt like this in months, and something about it feels freeing as the hot rage pools in your chest. No, it isn’t that you haven’t felt it, you haven’t let yourself feel it. Anger was hopeless with Andy, firm and stone faced in the hurricane of your rage until you exhausted yourself, your freedom, your life still frustratingly far out of your reach.

You storm away from the table, kicking aside one of Zemo’s silver trays, and his tools skitter across the concrete. Behind you is the sound of Ari’s voice.

“I’ll talk to her.”

You don’t know where you’re going, but you know you need to be away from them. Alone. The bathroom is on the far side of the garage bay, and you slam the door behind you, your chest heaving. You can’t leave without Dove, you won’t.

You won’t abandon her.

You grip the porcelain edges of the sink hard as you blink back fresh tears. You turn on the water with a fierce jerk of the knob, and begin to rinse last night’s tears from your face. This is the cleanest room in the building, fresh towels stacked on on the shelves, and medical supplies arranged neatly in the glass cases across from the standing shower.

It’s probably the only room Zemo actually uses.

As you’re drying your face, a knock sounds at the door, and you glare at it as you huff.

“What?”

“It’s me. Can I come in?” You chew your lip.

“Fine.”

You unlatch the lock, and fold your arms across your chest as it opens. Ari peers around the door.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” You repeat, and he chuckles, stepping fully inside as the door swings shut behind him. “I’m not leaving without Dove.” You say it firmly, watching his shoulders sag with his deep sigh. “It’s not happening.”

“Mouse. Look at me.” Reluctantly, you drag your gaze from the air over his shoulder. “Your husband—”

“We’re not married.” You spit, and Ari rolls his eyes at the technicality.

“He’s dangerous, Mouse. You know that.” Ari places gentle hands on your shoulders. “You know that as soon as you step foot back in that house that he will never, ever let you go again.” Your stomach twists at his words.

“I can get out again.”

“Will you want to?” His bluntness feels like a slap across the face, and though Ari hadn’t struck you—would never—your cheeks smart anyway. You know what he’s implying—Andy scrambled your head all up inside, and half the time now you don’t know up from fucking down.

But it still hurts to know he knows. Knows how changed you are, even though he never got to see the before, just the after.

“Fuck you!” You snarl. “I am not leaving her! And if you won’t help me get her back, then I’ll—I’ll go back my fucking self!” For the first time since you’d met him, Ari actually looks angry at this, his eyes darkening beneath his furrowed brows. “If you don’t care about her—”

“I let Leah go back.” It takes you a moment to realize who he’s talking about, what he means. “I let Leah go back, and then I had to bury them both.” Ari’s hand is a pale, trembling fist on the bathroom sink. His next words are hoarse. “I didn’t know they made coffins so small.”

“Ari…”

“I care about Dove.” The words are heavy, and you hate that you know he means them. “We are going to get her back.” His eyes are shiny, but he doesn’t cry. “I fucking swear we will get her back, but you are not going to do that. Okay? You’re not.”

“You promise?” Your mouth trembles.

“I promise.” Ari wraps his pinky around yours, holding your entwined fingers up at eye level. “And you aren’t going back.”

“I-I won’t.”

“Promise.” His dark eyes burn so fiercely you want to look away. “Promise.” He repeats it firmly.

“I promise.”

And then he’s kissing you, cupping your chin with his good hand as he presses his lips desperately against your own. Your heart pounds in your ears as you go stiff in his arms. Ari breaks away, releasing you with a soft curse.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, Mouse, I—I didn’t mean to do that, I just—” For once, he’s flustered, his cheeks ruddy beneath the shadow of his beard. Ari cards his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

The moment hangs between you in the air, held like a breath.

Your body stays tensed, like you’re ready to fight, or run, like it remembers Andy’s strict instructions. Except… Andy isn’t here to deliver them himself.

“It’s…” You don’t know what to say, hell, you don’t even know what you’re feeling. Everything is all mixed up, the emotions all biting the tails of the ones they’re chasing—you’re terrified, you’re exhilarated, you’re nauseous and scared and happy and—

“I’ll go. I should go.” Ari mutters the words more to himself than to you. You’re moving before you really mean to, leaning up on the tips of your toes to press a clumsy kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“I—I don’t want you to go.” With a sigh, Ari melts against you, resting his forehead against yours. You know you have done this before—many times, even just with Andy—but somehow there is a marked uncertainty as you lift your own hand to Ari’s face, stroking your thumb along his stubbled jawline. He hums, turning his face into your palm, and you feel the press of his lips.

Ari wraps his good arm around your waist, his fingers pressing into the meat of your hip through your pajama pants. His right arm flexes, his fist clenching and unclenches in the sling like he wants to move it, but he knows better. Instead, he buries his nose in your hair, the tips of his fingers creeping up beneath your t-shirt to stroke at your belly. You tense at his touch and then relax again, shivering.

“You tell me to go, I go.” Ari repeats softly, nosing down the side of your jaw. “I won’t be angry.” You look for the pool of cold dread that usually sits in your belly whenever Andy touches you, the reluctant fear that you stamp down to please him but find it entirely absent.

“You don’t have to make me happy, you don’t have to do what I want because I want it.” You have to stand on the tips of your toes to wrap your arms around Ari’s broad shoulders. There is undeniable excitement uncurling in your belly, warmth skipping under your skin at his touch. You want Ari to touch you.

“What if… it would make me happy?”

Ari huffs out a breathy laugh, his lips curving against your own. “That’s all I seem to want to do.” He takes your mouth again with a fervor that leaves you pleasantly breathless. Ari tangles his fingers in the curls at the nape of your neck, holding you still. His teeth tug at the weight of your lower lip and you gasp, opening for him. Ari tastes faintly of cinnamon sugar and something distinctly him that makes you shiver.

“Been wanting to do that for a goddamn week.” He sighs the words against your mouth. He smooths his hand down the back of your neck, tracing a gentle finger along the length of your spine. You don’t know you’re holding your breath until you release is as his palm skirts over the curve of your ass. He chuckles. “Is this okay?”

“Y-yes.” Ari palms your ass in response and you gasp, tangling your fingers in his over-shirt. It feels strange to be asked what you want, to even consider your own feelings as worth listening to. Andy tells you what to want, what to think, how to feel—Ari simply…allows you to be. Just as you are.

“I wanna touch you, Mouse,” he breathes. The admission sends a sharp bolt of electricity straight down your spine. “Can I?” You can’t avoid his eyes anymore, reluctantly meeting his gaze with your own. The words stick in your throat.

“You have to tell me, Mouse.” He strokes your trembling chin with the pad of his thumb. “I’m not him.”Andy always played at giving you choice, but you know Ari isn’t. That if you tell him to, he’ll walk away, and he won’t punish you for it.

You close your eyes hard, pressing the lids shut till they hurt. You don’t want to think about Andy right now, don’t want to think about Dove without you—you just want this. It feels like you have to reach down your own throat to find it, pulling your own voice up and out through your mouth with force.

“Please?”

Ari groans, plunging his hand into your loose sleep-pants to wrap around your thighs. He’s strong enough to lift you one-armed as you adjust. You wrap your legs around his waist as a reflex and he hums approvingly, his fingers sinking into the meat of your hips.

The hard planes of his body press against yours, and your face heats as you think of the new weight that has settled around your hips and belly, but Ari does not seem to notice its presence, his fingers skimming appreciatively along your skin. You can feel the bulge of his cock pressing against your core, and the breathy, surprised noise you make in the back of your throat at the feel of it prompts a chuckle.

Ari grips your hip hard as he takes a few long strides backwards until you feel cool tile beneath your back. He holds you there, pinned comfortably between his body and the wall as he grinds into you. He ruts against you with a groan. The thin, stretchy fabric between you offers little protection, considering, you can practically feel him throbbing through his zipper.

“See, Mouse?” He says lowly. “All for you.” Ari releases you, and your feet have barely touched down on the tile before he’s pulling at the hem of your t-shirt.

“Let’s take this off.” You nod, tugging it up over your head breathlessly, unaware of where it lands after Ari tugs it from your fingers. He drops to his knees, hooking a finger under the elastic band holding up your pajamas. You tense, remembering the last person who had been between your legs, but Ari grounds you, his lips brushing over the curve of your hip.

“Don’t.” His mouth moves softly against your skin. “Stay here. With me, right now. Don’t go anywhere else.” Ari peels the layers of clothing back from your skin, his hands roaming hungrily over each newly revealed inch. You step out of them and then quickly scoot off your socks. Ari looks up at you from between your thighs, making hard, heavy eye contact as he places a hand beneath your knee.

“Can I do this for you, Sweetheart? Can I make you feel good?” God, you want to let him. Everything’s out of you control—Andy, Dove, your whole life, but this? This is yours. This, you get to choose.

“Yes.” Even the act of consent feels unfamiliar. “I—I want to.” You don’t know how to describe the way you see the relief leave his body, his broad shoulders relaxing as he widens your stance, pushing your thighs apart till he can kneel between them properly. He squeezes the back of your thigh reassuringly before slowly lifting it to rest on his good shoulder. Ari holds your gaze as he leans forward to place a kiss on the chubby curve of your vulva through your cotton panties.

His mouth is warm and soft—reverent as he mouths at your swelling lips through the fabric. Ari strokes your hip as he catches the fabric with his teeth, before pulling it aside to marvel at your bare pussy. You want to look away but you don’t, your mouth dropping open as he delivers a sloppy kiss against your slick folds.

“O-oh,” the sound falls from your lips unbidden, and you feel his mouth curve against you. He pauses briefly to shrug out of his flannel, and dimly you are aware of the sound of his zipper before he’s back, his face thrust hard into the soaking place between your thighs. You mumble his name.

“Ari, Ari, Ari—”

He rolls the pearl of your clit against the roof of his mouth, circling your entrance with one finger. You press your head back against the tile, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. You do not remember threading your fingers through his hair, but as you tighten them, tugging, he moans, throaty and low. When you chance a look down, Ari is staring at you with lidded eyes. He flicks your clit sharply with the tip of his tongue, humming appreciatively as you jackknife.

“Go ahead and cum, Mouse,” he murmurs the words against your slick, twitching skin. “It’s okay, Sweetheart, I know you need it.” One hand remains buried in Ari’s hair, tugging on it helplessly as the other scrabbles for purchase against the tile, looking for something—anything—to hold onto. You push against the hot water knob, and the pipes rattle as water rockets through them. You are tangentially aware of the spray of warm water from the shower head—but only barely. You whine helplessly, hips rolling against Ari’s face as you cum.

He presses the tip of his finger into your cunt, groaning at the feel of you, wet and swollen and sucking at him. He gently lowers your leg, and your trembling knees nearly buckle. You watch as Ari wraps his fist around his cock, pumping it slowly as he stares at the sticky, messy spot at the apex of your thighs. It’s thick, veiny like his forearms. He sweeps his thumb across the tip, spreading the dewy drop of precum gathered there.

Ari stands, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. From inside, he produces a wrinkled—but sealed—condom. He tears into the packet with his teeth before discarding it. He fumbles with one hand, nearly dropping it, but you help, gingerly pulling the condom from his fingers. Ari stands stock still as you roll it slowly down to the base before he grasps your chin, his mouth crashing against yours. You can taste yourself on his tongue.

This time when he lifts you, he uses the wall to leverage your weight, sinking you down slow as you lock your ankles behind his waist. Ari’s head lolls, his lips parting in a silent “o” as he draws his hips back, and then fully sheathes himself inside. The air in your lungs escapes in a sharp, needy whine.

“F-full.” You don’t even realize you’ve said it until Ari hums in agreement.

“Feels good, doesn’t it Mouse?” He breathes. “Shit, you’re squeezing me so nice,” he breathes, drawing back until your cunt is sicking at the tip of him before driving all the way back inside. You manage a nod, your hips rolling greedily into his.

“I-I—fuck—again—” The words don’t want to leave your tongue in any sort of sensible manner, but Ari understands them, grinning hungrily as he picks up the pace. He skims your clit with his thumb, and you can feel the sparks skittering up your spine and you gasp as he does it again and again—

“Come on, Sweetheart, you’ve got one more in there for me, don’t you?” He mutters, angling his hips up into yours as you writhe against him. “Wanna feel it on my cock—mmm, fuck—” You do, leaning forward to bury your face against his chest as you wail, your cunt clamping down around him like a fist. Ari curls his massive body over yours as he empties into you, his hips pressing softly against yours. He holds you there, his cock jerking and throbbing inside of you as he mumbles soft ‘mm’’s and ‘yeah, fuck yeah’’s into your hair until he’s done.

You stay like that, your body buzzing as the warm water streaming down over you. Eventually, when you can no longer feel the hammer of his heart against your cheek, he pulls out, and you press your lips together in embarrassed amusement at the crinkle of latex. He knots it off before tossing it into the trash bin. Your cheeks burn as Ari cleans between your legs, cupping your swollen cunt with an appreciative hum. He slides his fingers through the folds of your sticky sex, and your breath hitches.

“I’m just cleaning you up, Mouse, I promise.” He’s true to his word, there’s hungry, lustful intensity in his touches, only care. You str heady yourself against his shoulder, and your heart drops at the sight of his bandages. The center is tinged with a pink circle, and as you stare at it, it darkens a little.

“You’re bleeding.” Ari looks down at his shoulder and grimaces.

“Occupational hazard, Mouse. I’ll be fine.” He attempts to reassure you with a smile, but it doesn’t completely do away with the cold feeling in your belly.

“We’re going to need to change these, at least,” you say, fingering the edge of his wet bandage. “I think Zemo will be mad if we don’t.”

“He’s always mad.” Ari replies, and you laugh. “But yes. We’ll change them”

It somehow feels more intimate to stand there in the shower with Ari, slowly washing off the events of the last day and a half. He shampoos your hair, rubbing it in gently at the roots with the tips of his fingers. When you’re finally done, he helps you towel off, before producing a generic grey sweatshirt and pants from one of the cupboards after a bit of rummaging.

When the two of you return to the garage, dewy cheeked and differently clothed, Irene snorts.

“Had a good time, did you?”

—

Dove won’t stop crying.

Andy isn’t a bad father, he knows he’s not, but for some reason, he can’t get her calmed down. Her little fists are clenched tight, beating the air above her head with a frustration Andy as her father, cannot seem to quell. He bounces his daughter tiredly as he paces around the nursery, mumbling soothing baby speak as he rubs circles on her back.

She’s been wailing practically nonstop since Pronge had delivered her, his expression grim as he’d handed her over.

I couldn’t get your wife.

Andy had wanted to rage, then, and he almost had, itching to slam the whiskey glass in his hand into Robert’s face for the trouble—but Dove’s fussing had provided a sufficient reminder that it might not be appropriate to do so. She cries herself to sleep, hiccoughing in his arms until her breathing evens. Andy carefully lays her down in the crib, stroking his hand over the curve of her cheek. He closes the door to the nursery, and to his disgust, Robert Pronge stands in the hallway, the decanter of whiskey from his office held in his hand. He takes a swig from it.

“Who else was with her?”

Pronge grimaces. “Irene. And her new assistant. Fucker’s as big as a goddamn house. Name’s Ari Levinson, he owns some shithole bar.” Andy’s eyes narrow.

“Get out.” He shoulders past the killer in his hallway, not bothering to take back the bottle.

“And do what, exactly?” He sneers.

“Finish your goddamn job, and find my wife.” Andy waits to hear the sound of the front door before returning to his office. He’d had you—and you’d slipped right through his fingers again. You wouldn’t want to be apart from Dove, at least, that much he could be sure of. You’re a good mother, regardless of the doubts he knows he’ll have to plant in your beautiful head to get you to stay.

Ari Levinson.

The name is unfamiliar, and a search through both Massachusetts and New York state databases return no results. He does, however, get pings on basic search engines.

Ari Levinson. Dishonorable discharge, tried for murder, dismissed as self defense.

Now that is interesting.

It’s after midnight when he finally decides to turn in for the night, and as he closes his office door, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He reaches for it, frowning at the unfamiliar number—but then his eyes widen at the caller I.D.

Albany.

“Hello?” At first, there’s only grainy silence on the other end, until finally, you speak.

“I’m ready to talk, Andy.”

He smiles. “Oh, Honey. I knew you would be.”

to be continued…

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Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

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daddyjackfrost · 2 years

Text

darling ; dream x f!reader

sandman masterlist

read my sandman series stay with me here

The Dreaming, a realm of dreams and nightmares, was the home to many, including Dream of the Endless and his wife, Lady of The Dreaming.

In contrast to her husband, Lady of The Dreaming was a soft and gentle soul. The light to his dark. The dream to his nightmare. While Dream managed everything that occurred in the night, the nightmares and creatures, His Lady managed The Dreaming in the day, the more mundane of dreamers. Those who drifted in and out of their realm; the children, the elderly, and the night owls.

It was a good life. A happy, loving, joyful life. One that Morpheus and his Lady wouldn’t have traded for anything. They were content, and so in love.

Until the King of Dreams and Nightmares was captured. For over a century.

80 years later…

Lucienne, the head librarian of The Dreaming, paced in front of the crumbling library doors. The library was one of the only places in The Dreaming that remained upright. As the rest of the realm withered away, Lucienne and the Lady tried their best to keep the Library—Morpheus’s favourite place—as intact as they could. All their belief and love was channeled towards the tower filled with books as old as time.

With a hesitant knock, the librarian waited for an invitation.

“Come in, Lucienne.”

Pushing the door open, Lucienne’s eyes landed on the slumped figure of her Ladyship. As she had been doing for years now, the Lady of the Dreaming stared out of the Library’s grand window. She watched her realm, the one she had loved and taken care of for thousands of years, deteriorate into rubble.

Lucienne threaded her fingers together. Not only had she watched her home turn into nothing, she watched her Queen, once lively and the heart of the Dreaming, turn into an empty shell of the God she once was.

“Can I make you some tea, my Ladyship? Perhaps a meal?”

The Lady turned her head and smiled at her old friend. Without Lucienne, the Dreaming would have crumbled completely long ago. She patted the empty space next to her. “Come sit, Lucienne. I could use the company of a friend.”

Lucienne smiled and sat next to her Lady. Together, they both travelled deep within their minds, recalling old memories of their home, when it was once beautiful and filled with imagination.

“I wonder what Morpheus thinks about, trapped in that glass. I have not seen him since Corinthian made Burgess place a shielding spell. Do you think he knows we have not abandoned him?”

Lucienne hesitated. Ever since Jessamy was killed, there had been no news about the King of Dreams. Shifting her eyes to the Lady, Lucienne took in her sullen eyes, her glazed skin, and the slight tremble of her hands.

“Lord Morpheus is smart. That being said, I’m sure he does not know that his absence has resulted in… this.” Lucienne wanted to console her Ladyship, but there was little to offer. “He thinks about you, I’m sure.”

The Lady of The Dreaming clapped her hands and stood, smoothing out her long black dress. “Yes, he must. Let’s make our rounds, Lucienne. Perhaps we shall find something unusual today.”

Together, a librarian and a God in love walked the planes of their home, hand in hand, welcoming the warmth and comfort they offered the other, knowing they had little time left.

100 years later…

Dark, silver and blue eyes watched as Alex Burgess’s wheelchair wiped away the containment spell that had kept Dream, King of the Dreaming, captive for over a century.

Paul, Alex’s lover, turned back to look at the strange and powerful man. With the slightest nod, he pushed Alex’s wheelchair towards the door. This was the last time either man would come to the basement. They had hoped that this final offering would spare them.

Dream let out the softest of breaths, he could feel the freedom that awaited him. With the slightest stretch of his muscles, Dream stood. The hum around him grew louder, and settled deep within his heart.

With what remaining power he had, Dream broke free from his prison. Putting the guards to sleep, Dream rolled his shoulders. Before he reunited with his love, his wife, he had someone else he needed to take care of.

Alex Burgess had to pay for his crime. And the crimes of his father.

An unfortunate becoming, Dream thought. To pay for a father’s crime.

With a deep breath, Dream travelled to Alex Burgess’s dreams.

“Hello,” Dream spoke slowly. His voice carried through Alex’s mind, wrapping around his subconscious and drowning him.

Alex Burgess's eyes widened into a look Dream had come to familiarize with.

Fear.

“It’s you. You’re… you’re free.”

Dream stood, in all his dark glory. “I am. Do you have any idea what it was like? Confined in a cage for a century?” There was malice in his voice, running deeper than Dream’s thirst for vengeance. “Do you understand the damage you’ve done to your world?”

Alex shook his head, trying to back away from the very entity that had haunted his waking hours for years. “I’m sorry,” the man cried, “I didn’t know. Please.”

Dream stepped closer to the frightened man and leaned down. His eyes glowed and his anger simmered. “Your punishment, then, shall be a gift.” Dream had not missed the wince that came from Alex Burgess. After all, it was his father’s selfish need for a gift that had killed him.

“I give you this, the gift… of eternal… sleep.”

With a blow of sand, Alex Burgess was put to sleep for eternity.

Morpheus, now completely free of human control, thought of home. His realm. His love.

With no time wasted, Dream opened a gateway to The Dreaming. He was going home, back to his sweet lover.

Dark grains of sand prickled Dream’s face. With power he seemed to lack, Morpheus had gracefully landed in his realm on his side, weak.

“Sir? Sir!”

A familiar, feminine voice called out to Dream, and for just a human second, he imagined it to be his lover. Footsteps ran closer, and Dream tried to open his eyes.

“Oh, my goodness. It’s me.” Lucienne crouched beside her Lord. “It’s Lucienne.”

With a soft gasp, Morpheus opened his eyes. A burst of something warm washed over him, seeing his librarian. His loyal, forever liable librarian.

“Lucienne,” Morpheus said weakly.

Lucienne's lips pulled into a smile, her eyes glazed. “You’re home, my Lord.” She put her hand out.

Reaching for her hand, Morpheus’s eyes twinkled. “I am.”

Pulling her Master up, Lucienne and Morpheus stared at each other. Unspoken words, apologies, and questions hovered in the air between them. But Lucienne just smiles, and Morpheus nodded once.

They both begin the trek back to the palace, and Lucienne watches as her Lord takes in the outskirts of The Dreaming. How dull and unkept it has become.

Once they reached the doors to The Dreaming, Lucienne cleared her throat. “Forgive me, sir, but the realm… the palace… they are not as you left them.”

Morpheus pushed open the large doors. His eyes scanned the view before him. A piece of his heart broke, seeing his creation, his realm, in this state.

With a deeper, emotional undertone, Morpheus asked, “What happened here? Who did this?”

Lucienne threaded her fingers together. Her eyes on the tower, where she knew her Lady was residing.

“My lord, you are The Dreaming, The Dreaming is you. With you gone for as long as you were, everything began to crumble and decay.”

“What of the residents? The palace staff?”

Lucienne did not miss his true intention. What of my Queen? Where is she?

“Gone, sir. Most are gone.”

Morpheus' eyes lit with a dull fire. “Had they so little faith in me? That I would return?”

Lucienne wishes she could have been honest with him. Tell him just how his absence had affected the realm, the residents. She wished she could have reminded him of the Endless that had abandoned their realm. But she held her tongue. Like the loyal servant she was.

“What of my Queen, Lucienne? Where is she?” Morpheus wished he sounded less fearful.

Lucienne hesitated, and then she sighed. “She is here, my Lord.” Stepping next to Dream, Lucienne pointed at the palace tower, the library. “She is there. Waiting for you.”

Without hesitation, Morpheus began walking towards the palace. Once he reunited with his love, held her in his arms, he could think about his realm and the damage he had yet to repair.

Lucienne followed her Lord quickly behind him. As they reached the palace, Lucienne opened her mouth. “Sir… If I may?”

The hesitation in Lucienne’s voice put Morpheus on edge. Turning his head slightly back, he raised his eyebrow at Lucienne. “Speak, Lucienne.”

“In your absence, The Dreaming began to fall apart. The only reason it is still standing, is because her Ladyship has commanded it to. She is powerful, sir, but not as strong as you. For a century she has used power she does not hold, and it has taken a toll on her.”

Lucienne watched as Morpheus' back became rigid, how he flexed his fingers just to clench them.

“Like The Dreaming, I’m afraid she’s dying, my Lord. She’s carrying the weight of The Dreaming, and it was not meant for her.”

Morpheus stopped in front of the Library doors. He stood stiller than Lucienne had ever seen him. Power and anger rolled off him, and Lucienne squeezed her hands together harder. With a tone she had yet to hear, Morpheus spoke.

“Thank you, Lucienne. Leave me to mend the heart and strength of my Queen.”

Lucienne nodded, bowing. “Of course, my Lord.”

Before Lucienne could walk away, in a smaller voice, Dream asked her the one question that had haunted him for a century.

“Does she hate me, Lucienne?”

With no hesitation, Lucienne answered. “No, sir. She loves you just as much as you love her. If not more.”

Morpheus waited until Lucienne’s became a faint whisper. With a newfound fear, he brought his pale, slightly trembling hand to the door and knocked, once.

“Come in, Lucienne.”

Morpheus’s eyes fluttered. With a deep breath, he pushed open the library doors. Morpheus’s eyes landed on his Queen, sitting on a simple seat that looked like a throne. Morpheus’s dark eyes travelled the length of his lover, taking in her weaker body and sullen eyes.

“Darling,” Morpheus whispered.

With speed that had long died, Lady of The Dreaming turned her head to face her husband. Her eyes met his, glazed and remorseful, and she stood.

With parted lips, the Lady whispered, “Morpheus?”

As magnets do, or souls bounded by fate, Morpheus and his lover pulled towards each other. Arms and bodies tangled together, and they both took their first breath. Scents of the other filled their bodies and their hearts beat as one.

Morpheus tightened his arms around his lover, and let out a sigh at the feeling of her hands in his hair. Their bodies fused together as one, unknown to them where one started and the other ended.

His Queen pulled away, just enough to rest her forehead against his. “Am I dreaming, Morpheus? Please say no, I cannot handle it. Are you really here?”

Morpheus’s voice, thick with emotion, came from deep within his body. “I am here, my love. I am here.” At the sound of a quiet, broken sob, Morpheus pressed a kiss to his Queen’s forehead. “Oh, my darling. My love. My Queen. I am here.”

Fragile hands tightened their grip on his robes. Morpheus lifted his hand from his lover’s waist and placed it on her cheek. “You’ll never be alone again, I promise.”

Lady of The Dreaming nodded, believing her King. She could feel his trembling fingers. “It was horrible without you, my love. I…” She lifted her eyes to meet Morpheus’s. His eyes were screaming at her. Tell me everything. Be honest with me. I’m sorry. I love you.

“I am tired.”

Morpheus shut his eyes. When he spoke, his breath tickled her cheeks. “I know, darling. I’m sorry.”

Then, Lady of The Dreaming asked her husband for the thing she had wanted–needed– for over a century.

“Kiss me, Morpheus. Please.”

Knowing he owed her much more, Morpheus brought his lips to hers. Her lips were soft, almost silken, and untouched against his. Morpheus could feel the soft tickle of her breath beneath his nose, fingers carding through his hair and he breathed her in.

Pulling each other closer, the King and Queen of The Dreaming used their bodies to convey all their words, the apologies and confessions that had gone long unsaid.

Their reunion pleased The Dreaming, and as the King and Queen mended their relationship, The Dreaming began to mend itself.

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bobby-r2d2-floyd · 1 year

Text

The Nanny (Hangman x Reader)

authors note: so, hangman won by a long shot in the poll, but for the few that voted for the rest, they're still coming! i have to deal with the bs with my basement and i am a college student, so i have to deal with my coursework as well.

inspired by @roosterforme

this will be a mutli part series, im not sure how many parts though

pairing: jake "hangman" seresin x benjamin niece!reader; established mav x penny

warnings: some swear words and an inaccurate depiction of how social workers handle dropping a baby off to its living, absent father. also cyclone is a dad bc jon hamm if a dilf.

not proof or beta read, we die like men.

summary: Hangman wakes up one day to a social worker and an infant on his doorstep. the infant? his 3 month old daughter.

word count: 1.9k

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It was the one day that the Dagger squad had a later morning (11am, per Maverick’s request), so when the pounding on Jake’s door woke him up at 8:45, he was a little pissed.

He stumbled out of bed and the arms of some red head whose name he definitely doesn’t remember, throwing on a shirt along the way to his front door where the pounding is originating from and reverberating through his skull. “I heard you the first fucking time,” he curses out, throwing the door open and preparing to unleash verbal hell on the person standing at his doorstep.

All the words die out though when he sees an older woman standing there with a sleeping baby in a car seat at her feet. “Jacob Seresin?” she asks and his eyes bounce between the infant and the woman.

“Yes?” he asks, voice cracking a bit as he looks back to the woman.

“Do you mind if I come in?” he nods and moves aside as she picks up the car seat and steps inside. “My name is Caroline Husband, I’m a social worker for the state of California.” she tells him as she sets the seat down on his coffee table, “and this is Avery. Your daughter.”

Jake feels his heart stop as he looks down at the little girl, “what, what do you mean?” he sinks down to the floor on his knees, heart racing and Caroline gives him a small smile.

“Her mother-” she looks down at the paperwork she was holding, “Samantha Barnes, passed away from complications shortly after birth, you were listed as father on the birth certificate.”

Samantha Barnes… Jake remembered her with a small smile. They were briefly exclusive before she had disappeared one night, leaving behind the memories and a note saying she needed to go back home to help with her ailing father, her last living relative that she still spoke to.

“H-how uh, how old is she?” he asks, taking her small, but definitely bigger than a newborn, hand in between his finger and thumb.

“She spent some time with a foster while the state was waiting for you to return stateside. She just turned 3 months old.” Caroline forms him, which makes sense as he was just in the middle of the ocean for the last five months. “I have some supplies in my car that her foster mom put together for you, should you choose to keep her.”

“Choose to?” he asks, as if there was any other option for him. The second he found out Avery was his, there was never any other option.

“You can alway sign your parental rights away, there’s plenty of families looking to adopt babies.” she says and he shakes his head.

“No, she stays with me,” Jake says as he stands and Caroline smiles up at him.

“Well then, there’s all the information that you need. Her old foster mom made a list of information for you, her pediatrician, what formula she was feeding, how to prepare bottles...” she goes on to tell him more necessary information about Avery but tunes her out as he watches the little girl start to wake up and look around, well, as much as a 3 month old can, he supposed. “Here’s my card, it has my personal cell phone number on the back should you not be able to reach me at my office in the event of an emergency.”

He takes it with a smile and a thank you before walking Caroline to the door to help her bring the items in from her car and as quickly as she was here, she was gone. Leaving Jake to sit on his couch as he stares into the eyes of his daughter.

He kicks out his guest after 15 minutes of sitting there before he’s googling how to put a car seat base securely into the back seat of a F-150. After fighting for what felt like an hour (only 10 minutes) he has his daughter secured in his car before driving way under the speed limit to The Hard Deck, only 45 minutes late to meeting up with the rest of the Daggers but as soon as they see him walk into the bar with a car seat, all the teasing for being late blows out of there mind.

“Do we need to call the police?” Bradley teases and Jake lets out a nervous laugh.

“No.. no police needed.” Jake says as he sets his daughter’s car seat and diaper bag in the middle of the pool table the team was surrounding.

“Well, then who is this?”

Jake takes a deep breath before answering, “this is my daughter, Avery Seresin.”

Immediately the team has plenty of questions for the team’s resident playboy. He explains the situation as best he can with the information he got from Caroline.

“I never even knew Sam was pregnant. She never said anything and then she was gone.” Jake says softly as he looks down as his daughter in his arms, sleepily drinking from the bottle he made and Penny gives him a smile.

“You seem like a natural already.” she says, snapping a photo of the daddy-daughter moment and he smiles.

“Yeah, I was still around when my sisters started having their own kids, all girls too, ironically.” he responds with a small laugh and the movement of his chest startled Avery awake and she starts drinking more steadily again.

The squad takes the rest of the day before the bar opens with turns holding the newest member of the team. Aside from Jake, Bob and Natasha were the only other two who seemed comfortable enough to hold her without needing any instruction on support for her head.

“Does Cyclone know you have a kid yet?” Mav asks as he takes his turn holding Avery, seasoned from when Bradley was a baby and he used to watch him while Carole and Goose needed alone time.

“Fuck, no not yet.” Jake groans as he rubs his hands over his face. “I need to go see him.”

“Go see him now, between Penny being a mom and me dealing with Bradley as a baby there’s plenty of experience here to watch Avery for a bit while you try to get some time to adjust to dad-life.” Mav says and Jake looks over at him.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah, besides, Avery is already better at 3 months than Rooster ever was.” Mav teases and Bradley makes a couple of offended noises before being slapped in the chest by Natasha.

Jake nods, “okay well here’s her-”

“Hangman, get out of here. I did all this with Amelia.” Penny says as she pushes him towards the door and Jake pulls her into a hug.

“Thank you so much, Pen.” he says, meaning it too since Penny is the closest thing to a mom that he has since he hasn’t talked to his real mom in years.

The drive into base wasn’t a long one, but felt like it was with how often he was checking his backseat and not seeing his daughter before remembering she was safe with Penny and Maverick at the bar.

Walking into Admiral Simpson’s office, Jake broke out into a nervous sweat. “Um, excuse me, sir.” he says as he knocks on the open door.

Both Admiral Simpson and Admiral Bates looked up at him from where they were sitting at the desk discussing some news that they received from higher ups.

“Can I help you, Lieutenant?” Cyclone asks and Jake nods, taking that as an ‘okay’ to walk into the office.

“Yes actually, I uh.. I was wondering if I would be able to get leave, sir. I had a surprise visit from a social worker this morning and-and my infant daughter.” he says as he straightens out his back and rolls his shoulders back.

“You have a child?” Cyclone asks, closing the folder that he had open to focus more on Jake. “Since when?”

“Well, as of 9am this morning, sir. Her mother passed away after she was born and no other living relatives so… She’s currently with me. Well, not with me Captain Mitchell and Penny Benjamin are currently watching her.. sir.”

Warlock and Cyclone share a look and Jake stands there nervously, “I know that this is short notices but all I’m asking for is a week to figure things out, find a sitter, get some kind of a routine started for-”

“Okay.” Cyclone says and Jake looks at him instead of the spot that he had been looking at on the wall. “You only want just one week?”

“I can have more, sir?” Cyclone nods, having recently become a father himself and knows how important bonding is for parents.

“Unless something urgent comes, how does three weeks sound?” he asks as he pulls something up on his computer and begins to type.

“I would greatly appreciate that.” Jake says with a small smile and Cyclone nods, ending the conversation and Jake starts to walk out of the office.

“Seresin?” Warlock calls out and Jake turns around, “congratulations.”

“Thank you, sirs.”

Jake drives back to the bar already feeling lighter than he had in the last 6 hours, and upon walking back into the watering hole, he sees a red faced Avery and a panicked Rooster.

“Bradshaw what did you do to my daughter?”

“What did I do? She threw up on me!” he says, holding the infant safely, and at an arm's length away.

The rest of the team is laughing behind him and Jake just takes Avery and lays her against him so her head is on his shoulder, “well I’m sure you deserved it.”

Bradley glares at him before wandering away to the bathroom to clean up. Jake smiles and rubs his daughters back as she babbles in his ear.

“How did talking to the boss go?” Penny asks and Jake smiles.

“Really good, actually. Said I can have three weeks as long as nothing urgent comes up that’ll need the full team's attention.”

“Well, if you ever need a nanny so you can have a break and none of us are available, my niece just moved to the area and is looking for work.” Penny says with a small smile as Jake moves to sit next to her. “Plus she has a degree in early childhood and special education.”

“Okay, yeah I’ll let you know.” he says with a nod.

“Well, you can meet her tonight, she’s supposed to come and help me out here for the night since Jimmy can’t make it in.” Jake just nods and Penny pats his shoulder that Avery isn’t sleeping on while she stands to start opening duties for the bar.

Jake didn’t end up meeting Penny’s niece that night, or any time in the following week. In fact, it wasn’t until the last week of his leave that he met her.

Jake was holding Avery as he walked into the bar before it opened, she was babbling up a storm and he took his sunglasses off to put on the top of his head when he saw someone new behind the bar, head thrown back and laughing at something that Bob had said.

You look over at him and he swears his heart stopped, “Hi! I’m Y/N Benjamin, but you can call me Saturn.”

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next part

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#glen powell imagine #jake seresin #hangman seresin #jake 'hangman' seresin #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #top gun maverick #dagger squad #bradley bradshaw #bob floyd #natasha trace #hangman seresin x reader #not beta read we die like men

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cherienymphe · 1 year

Text

Basic Training IX (Peter Parker x Reader)

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, MURDER, violence, kidnapping, captivity, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, ptsd, housewife kink, cop!Peter

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @whimsicalrogers

➥ series masterlist

summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.

You stood by the window, watching Peter in the yard as he talked to Clint and Tony. Of all the husbands here, you interacted with Clint the least. He didn’t strike you as mean or strict as Steve but then again, how were you to know? It didn’t matter how nice any of these men seemed, none of them were right in the head to be doing any of this. Laura seemed happy enough, but again… So did Margaret, and you knew firsthand how cruel Steve could be.

…and Tony was a whole other misogynistic can of worms. You thought Steve was bad, and still did, but somehow you hadn’t thought that any other husband could be almost as bad as him. It only served to remind you that not only did you know nothing about these men, but no matter how much better you might’ve thought any of them were than Steve, at the end of the day, they were right here with him doing the same things he was.

Peter seemed to get along well with all of the husbands here, and you found yourself briefly wondering how they all even knew each other. You’d had the passing wonder before, but never long enough to really consider the answer. He was so at ease with every single one, including Steve, and it once again forced you to consider the kind of man he was to do so.

After your unexpected blowup—or tantrum—Peter didn’t leave your side much these days, and you hated how much you didn’t want him to. You were self-aware enough to realize just how much you were starting to need Peter, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop needing him. You needed him to keep the nightmares at bay, to reassure you that you wouldn’t screw anything up in the kitchen, to give you the courage to answer any question Steve wanted to throw your way at dinner.

You realized what was happening, but you couldn’t stop it.

You were starting to feel helpless without him around, feeling lost and lonely. You couldn’t go outside, not yet anyway, and anytime Peter did, you’d forlornly stare after him, wondering when you’d be able to.

“When Steve feels you’re ready,” the brunette told you hours later.

Your feelings about that must’ve been displayed on your face because Peter neared you just as you started to turn away.

“He just wants to be sure that you won’t…”

He trailed off as he took your face into his hands, but the unspoken words were as clear as day. Why did it even matter if you’d try and run or not? One of them would catch you, anyway, and besides. The thought of getting caught and getting thrown back into the basement was enough to make you shudder.

“It’s not like I’d actually get away,” you mumbled, hating the truth in that statement.

Peter’s thumbs brushed over your skin as he drank you in, a slight frown between his brows.

“You might,” he murmured. “…and I’d hate that.”

You studied him with a frown of your own.

“You don’t understand how much I’ve grown to care about you,” he said. “If I lost you, I’d be devastated.”

You didn’t know how to feel about that statement, wanting to argue that you weren’t even his to care about. Peter would never have come to care about you in any form if he hadn’t kidnapped you. It was sick, really, but as he looked at you, you could only feel confusion filling you at his declaration. You couldn’t find the logic in that. All you did was scream and cry and walk around thus place like a frazzled chicken with her head cut off.

Why would Peter miss you?

“You would…?”

Peter blinked at you like you’d just said something crazy, tilting his head ever so slightly.

“Of course, I would,” he breathed. “I don’t think I could even try to find someone else. I chose you, and I chose right.”

You looked down, gaze finding the floor as he sighed.

“You know what all the other women are expected to do. You’ve met Margaret’s daughter and Laura’s son,” he continued. “That’s important, not something to be taken lightly, and you’re who I chose. You’re who I want to have a family with. I would lose it if I lost you.”

Peter’s words were overwhelming you in more ways than one, and you took a step back from him, walking around him and sitting on the bed. The thought of what your future entailed made your breathing short, but was it insane to say that talking about this with just you and Peter made it…easier? You could feel him near you, and you swallowed when his hand met your shoulder.

“Don’t think of it so badly,” he softly told you. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

His other hand touched your chin, fingers gently pressing into your skin as he turned and tilted your head up, forcing you to look at him. His brown eyes were warm, almost pleading as he gave you a soft smile.

“I will make you so happy. You’ll be so happy with me.”

You turned your head away at that, blinking back tears as you thought of your friends. Your chest still ached painfully when you thought of them and everything surrounding their deaths. Never mind how disrespectful it felt to their memories to find some contentment in your situation, but you couldn’t stomach the thought of living in harmony with the same people who’d put them in their graves.

It was horrifying.

As if he’d read your mind, Peter spoke.

“Your friends didn’t hesitate to try and protect you,” he slowly said. “They died for you…so, don’t you think they’d hate to see you suffering…?”

Your stomach twisted at that, and you hurriedly stood. You walked away from Peter, but despite his lack of movement, his voice still followed you.

“They would want you to be happy…some kind of way.”

Peter didn’t know your friends, so it wasn’t his place to even say that. Even still, while he wasn’t wrong, they’d be horrified to see you succumb to this. It would break MJ’s heart to see you so beaten down that you’d take the same hand that might as well had put them in the ground. They wouldn’t want this for you, and yet, it seemed inevitable.

You heard Peter move closer, and you tensed when his hand met your arm. You wouldn’t look at him, but you could feel him leaning in, deeply inhaling the scent of you. His chest grazed your back, and when he leaned around to brush his lips over your cheek, you didn’t protest.

“I won’t rush you,” he quietly said. “It’s just something to think about.”

His nose grazed your neck, and he gently sighed.

“I want you to be happy here. That’s all I want…”

When Peter stepped away, you still kept your gaze on the floor, only blinking when he shut the door behind him on his way out.

It was days later when you were eating dinner with everyone else and couldn’t help but feel like something was…off. You weren’t one of the ones to help with dinner that night, and so from the moment you sat down, something just didn’t feel quite right. The atmosphere felt tense in a way you hadn’t felt before, and for once, Steve wasn’t the source.

In fact, the blond man seemed to be in a good mood. It wasn’t up to you to say if that was rare or not, but at least in your presence it seemed to be. Truthfully, you couldn’t exactly pinpoint why dinner felt weird. As far as you could tell, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Steve had complimented Pepper and Jane on the food, they’d thanked him in unison, and everyone had drifted into hushed conversation as they always did. Peter kept touching your arm here and there, something Steve certainly noticed if the way you’d accidentally catch his eye was anything to go by. It was only when you looked over, catching Natasha’s gaze, did you pause.

It was hard to pinpoint the look in her eyes to be honest. Her entire visage was unreadable, and the longer she held your gaze, the more you frowned. You had started to wonder if you’d done something to offend the redhead when her façade cracked…ever so slightly. If you hadn’t been studying her so hard, you would’ve missed it, but for half a second, no more than a moment, her entire face had crumbled.

If you’d blinked, you would’ve missed it, that’s how fast it had happened.

In a split second, her entire face had smoothed out to the unreadable perfection it had been before. You watched as she continued eating, finally breaking her stare, and you frowned. You glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, namely Steve, but you seemed to be the only one who had. It had confused you, something that lasted for days until Jane had been the one to finally tell you.

The pretty brunette looked unsure at first, deeply staring into the potted plant she was tending to. She’d stopped what she was doing, and you didn’t miss the way her hands trembled a little. She glanced over her shoulder, and you knew why, following her lead. Peter had taken it upon himself to be near you, knowing how much better it made you feel, and while he wasn’t just outside the door to the greenhouse, his close proximity made her nervous.

“If Peter hears…he won’t say anything…”

You didn’t know why you were taking up for him, but it was the truth. There were a million things you’d done and said that he could’ve—should have—told Steve and didn’t. Peter protected you from Steve’s ire more times than you could count. You trusted him, and you wanted Jane to know that she could too.

She softly sighed, struggling to meet your eye.

“Nat… You said something the other week that worried her. It…it made her a little concerned…”

You frowned, unable to follow as you wracked your brain.

“She asked Bucky about how you got here…and why we needed to be so understanding with you…?”

You blinked in realization, shoulders drooping as you felt your face fall. Oh. You didn’t know how to feel that you were right in your assumptions that Natasha hadn’t known. None of them did, it seemed, and when your eyes met Jane’s again, her own glistened with tears.

“You weren’t alone when they took you,” she slowly said, voice strained.

It came out more like a question, almost like she didn’t want to believe it. You didn’t move for a moment, pulling your lip between your teeth before finally shaking your head. Jane sharply inhaled at your confirmation, and she looked away. Your own gaze landed on the floor, and you hated how much your skin grew cold at the mention of your friends.

“We didn’t know,” she breathed. “…and you were there when they…?”

She trailed off, unable to say it, and you felt your own eyes burn.

You could feel her gaze on you, wanting confirmation for what she already knew. Only, you couldn’t give it to her, staring at the floor as your vision grew blurry. The plants and walls around you grew fainter and fainter, and slowly but surely, you weren’t in the greenhouse anymore. You felt your lips tremble, and you faintly heard Jane calling your name.

Your hands were no longer dirty with soil and grime but instead blood. All you could see was Wanda being shot with a swiftness and efficiency that shocked you. You could hear MJ screaming at you to run, her hand tight on yours, and you hadn’t realized that you’d started crying until you felt familiar hands on your arms.

“I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have said anything…”

You thought she was talking to you, but Peter’s soft voice in your ear told you otherwise. He was rubbing his hands up and down your arms, soothing words leaving him as he tried to calm you down.

“You’re okay,” he cooed, helping you stand to your feet.

The plant in your hand had long fell, the plot cracking slightly as the sound of it meeting the ground reached your ears. Peter pulled you into him, arms tight around you as you pressed your face into his shoulder. Through the haze and overwhelming emotions that threatened to drown you at the memory of your friends’ murders, you could hear Peter’s voice.

Only, unlike with you, it was hard, tone cold and almost venomous in nature.

“You know better, Jane.”

Peter tightly held you as he guided upstairs, and you hated the thought of him talking to Jane like that just because you were a broken mess. The mere mention of your friends or the mere sight of blood shouldn’t send you spiraling. Deep in the back of your mind, you knew that your reaction was reasonable, understandable, but you couldn’t help but feel like a burden and inconvenience to everyone.

“You shouldn’t…you shouldn’t talk to Jane like that,” you sobbed once you were in your room.

You hated the thought of her getting trouble.

“She knows better,” Peter told you, kneeling in front of you as he sat you down on the bed. “They all know to be careful with what they say around you.”

You shook your head, pressing your hands to your face.

“…but none of them knew why! You didn’t tell them? You didn’t tell them what they did to my friends?”

You felt hysterical, and truthfully, you didn’t know what triggered it. Maybe it was the fact that now that everyone knew the full circumstances of how you’d been taken you now felt more comfortable to openly grieve? Maybe it was the way Jane had looked at you? The horror and concern on her face had never been on Peter’s or any of the others. Maybe it had something to do with someone other than you finally having an appropriate reaction to what had happened to your friends.

Or maybe it was just as simple as you were a nutcase.

“It wasn’t any of their business,” Peter told you, pushing your hands away and taking your face into his own. “…and this is exactly why because they shouldn’t be bringing this up with you.”

Peter almost sounded angry—almost looked angry—and you shook your head.

“It’s my fault,” you tearfully pleaded with him. “Jane didn’t do anything wrong.”

You had forgotten all about your almost slip up in the kitchen with Natasha that day. It was you who had wrongfully assumed that she knew, and it was only natural of her to be curious and concerned. After all, just because you felt distanced from the other wives, it didn’t mean they felt that way. They’d all built such close relationships with one another, and how could they not in this environment? They were all victims of their circumstances, and you were no different.

Of course, they would care about you just as much.

Peter stood with a sigh, hands on the back of your head as you cried into his stomach. He played with your hair, stroking you and speaking.

“My pretty girl…always worried about someone else,” he murmured.

You reached up, wrapping your arms around his waist. The feel of his hands soothed you, and you held him tighter, wishing that he could be your friends somehow, holding them and saving them from the horror that met them.

You sat on the stairs with your hands in your lap. A few times a week, Peter and the others would meet in the den and go over work-related things. Sometimes household stuff would come up in conversation too. At least, that was what Jane had relayed to you. It was usually during that weird period in the evening after supper and when the wives were looking after the children.

You’d been deemed too unstable to be around the children for prolonged periods of time. You supposed you didn’t fully disagree with that assessment, but you didn’t think you’d ever hurt a child. You couldn’t even bring yourself to hurt yourself no matter how much peace the decision would probably bring you in the long run.

This was a time where you’d find yourself in your room, skin damp and fresh after a bath. You’d already be in bed by the time Peter returned, but tonight seemed to be a night in which everything was taking longer than usual. You didn’t know if it was about work or something to do with the household, but you’d gotten tired of waiting for Peter. You were growing tired, and it was hard to sleep without him.

That’s how you found yourself sitting halfway down the stairs, head drooping and leaning against the wall. Their low voices carried from the den, but only faintly. It wasn’t like you could make anything out, and even if you could, it wouldn’t make any difference to you. It was becoming difficult to stay awake, head falling every now and then. Your body was protesting, telling you that you needed to go to sleep, but you knew that without Peter, you’d be restless and awake within ten minutes.

Somewhere along the way, you must’ve lost the fight because the sound of a light chuckle reached your ears. The voice was somewhat familiar, and you’d started peeling your eyes open just as they spoke.

“Peter, I think you’ve lost something…”

Thor’s voice was light and teasing, and you were relieved that he didn’t seem upset to find you nodding off here. You were blinking sleep away when Peter responded, something unintelligible, and Thor lightly laughed again, arms folded over his chest.

“No, I’m positive she belongs to you,” the blond told him.

You were straightening up just as Peter rounded the corner, and he blinked as his gaze met your tired one. The confusion disappeared from his eyes as he approached you, gaze softening.

“What are you still doing up?” he wondered, touching your face.

“I was waiting for you,” you told him. “You’re normally back by now.”

The brunette didn’t respond right away, tilting his head to the side with a small smile.

“Yeah, I know,” he told you. “Bucky’s being a pain in the ass, but I’ll be up in a little bit.”

You were about to protest when a familiar blond appeared behind Peter, and you felt yourself shrinking in on yourself. Unlike Thor, this blond didn’t look the happiest at the sight of you, and you swallowed.

“She’s not supposed to be here,” Steve said. “What if she overhears something she shouldn’t?”

Peter defended you before you could defend yourself.

“I doubt she heard anything, Steve,” Peter threw over his shoulder. “…and even if she did, what would she do?”

“Even still, she doesn’t have the same privileges the others do. She should be in bed.”

He was talking to Peter, but the blond was looking at you as he said this, blue eyes cold. Your heart sank at the reminder of the lack of faith he had in you, but despite the finality in his tone, you didn’t move. Instead, you looked at Peter, wondering what he wanted you to do, and the brunette took your hand, helping you stand. There was a gleam in his eye that you couldn’t place, and the corner of his mouth quirked up just a tad.

“Go on up,” he gently told you. “I’ll be there in just a little bit.”

You hesitated, gaze lingering on him as you were half turned. Peter smiled at you, the expression reassuring.

“I promise.”

With a small sigh, you did as he said, fighting to hold in a yawn. You could feel his gaze on you, and you glanced at him one more time, your gaze passing over Steve and Thor, before finally turning the corner. You were grateful that Peter was being truthful, the bedroom door opening not even seven minutes later.

You were on the verge of sleep when he joined you, taking your hand and kissing it as he slid into bed beside you. You drowsily blinked as he whispered something that sounded a lot like an apology. You didn’t really care though, finally relaxing, all of the tension leaving you. You were so weighed down with fatigue that you didn’t even care when Peter threaded his fingers through yours.

They were still like that in the morning, and you’d forgotten whatever you were going to say when Peter told you that he had a surprise for you. It was quite early, too early for any of the others to be up and started on breakfast. The excited gleam in his eye had you faltering, nervousness flowing through you before allowing Peter to coax you out of bed.

“Come on,” he urged, pulling you along down the stairs.

Your heart was in your stomach, unable to come up with what was in store for you. Peter’s hand was tight on yours when he made it to the backdoor, turning the knob and letting the nice fresh air in. You didn’t need a mirror to know that there was evident longing in your gaze. Aside from the greenhouse, you hadn’t felt true fresh air in months, and you didn’t really understand what was happening until Peter tugged on your hand.

“What…?” you quietly murmured, eyes wide and unsure as you looked at him.

Peter ran his eyes over you, a small unreadable smile on his lips as he lightly pulled on your arm.

“Come on…”

You looked between his eyes, lips parting before your gaze rested on the outside behind him.

“I…can…?”

You trailed off, and Peter nodded, and you felt your heart skip a beat as you took a step towards him. Slowly, but surely, Peter led you outside, and you almost cried when your bare feet touched the grass. Your eyes burned, and you blinked back tears as you looked around. Peter’s hand was still on yours as you took it all in, and your first thought was that the window didn’t do it justice.

The land that the house sat on was so much bigger than you had ever thought. Under different circumstances, you would’ve been able to admire it wholeheartedly. However, as it were, all you could think about was how the land just seemed to go on and on forever. Peter pulled you through the yard, and you looked around in awe.

You had never noticed that the house wasn’t far from an incline, and down at the bottom of it was a decent sized pond, and beyond it…nothing but trees. It had rained the night before, and your eyes took in the dew on the grass and the light fog that seemed to descend just at your ankles. The sun was just barely peeking over the horizon, and you felt distracted by it.

You hadn’t realized just how much you’d missed fresh air and the grass and just being outside until you’d gone months without it. You kept walking and drinking it all in. You almost hated how beautiful everything was, and you glanced over to your right at a clothesline near the house. Just on the other side of it, you could see the garden you were always hearing about. You noticed a toy or two in the yard, and you hated to think that if you stumbled upon this property randomly one day, you’d think it was a normal home just like any other.

“Can I come outside later too?”

Peter didn’t respond right away, but when he did, you were shocked at how far away he sounded.

“Of course.”

You looked over your shoulder, and you realized with a start that he was pretty far away. At least, further than you’d thought he was. So distracted by it all, you hadn’t even noticed him letting go of your hand. Or had you let go of his? Either way, he was much closer to the house than you were, and you blinked at him.

“After breakfast, we can come back out here. Maybe you can help out in the garden too…”

He lifted his hand towards you with a smile.

“Come on,” he softly urged you.

You looked at his outstretched hand, brows drawing together just a tad. You looked back towards the pond and the trees…you looked back towards freedom, and you felt your stomach twist. Peter was so far away…but you didn’t doubt that he’d catch you in no time. The thought of reverting back to square one was enough to make you shudder in fear, recalling that day you’d seen Steve punishing Margaret by that very tree just over there.

The next time Peter called after you, he said your name, and his tone had lost some of it’s gentleness. It was sterner now, voice dropping some, and when you looked at him, his smile had fallen just a tad. His brown eyes still held some of their warmth, but there was something in them, a warning that had you tensing.

“Come on, pretty girl…”

Your shoulders drooped, and with one last glance at the trees, you slowly returned to him. Peter’s hand grasped yours, and his smile returned to it’s full luster. Peter pulled you into his side before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your temple. You got the feeling that you’d just passed some kind of test, and you couldn’t tell if that was good or bad. There was a pep in his step unlike before, and despite the fact that you’d clearly done something very right…

…you couldn’t help but feel very wrong.

#peter parker x reader #dark!peter parker #dark!peter parker x reader #dark peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction

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atinylittlepain · 2 months

Text

Part Two

no outbreak!joel miller x f!oc

series playlist

joel miller masterlist

series masterlist

She's tired. He's tired. They're neurotic. They're in love. Something needs to change. They need to change.

word count | 5.1k

chapter content info | 18+ little angst, couples counseling, just two tired people trying to figure out the tangle of their relationship together

a/n | part two is here, and i'd just like to say thank you to everyone being so kind about the first part - i know this isnt the usual peepaw fare, so thanks for giving her a chance - and also big thank you to @wannab-urs for beta-ing this bad boy <3

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This is not a failure. She is not failing. They are not failing. Every Thursday at four o’clock she shuts her laptop and locks her office and stops in the bathroom at work, silently repeats these things to herself in her mind while she rubs her fingers at smudged mascara in the bathroom mirror. Like a mantra, though she’s not sure she’s fully bought into it yet. Because the truth is, she has had plenty of conversations with plenty of girlfriends that, really, they shouldn’t have been having about other girlfriends, not in the room with us girlfriends who, did you hear, started going to therapy and, did you hear, started going to therapy with their, oh no, husbands. Yes, she has been the bitch who has made jokes about death knells and a marriage’s last gasp for breath, jokes about the husband having the emotional range of a goldfish, and the wife being so up the husband’s ass she should give him a colonoscopy while she’s at it. She’s not really making jokes like those anymore.

She’s not supposed to be doing what she’s doing this Thursday at four o’clock. When they first went to Vicky (LMFT, for the record) her fundamental decree had been a period of full separation. Sixteen years, she had asked, and they had nodded, and she had said whoa boy, yeah, y’all need to back off each other before we do anything else. If Paula Dean had a penchant for self-help instead of butter, she’d be something like Vicky. And so, with all the care of a drill sergeant delivering commands, or a mechanic running a diagnostic on a fucked-up car, Vicky had told them how this is going to go. An apartment, she said, don’t care which one of you lives in it. Minimal contact between sessions, right, keep it civil, right, this isn’t for forever, right. So Joel got an apartment, and Tommy helped him move all the furniture in the basement with admittedly minimal, but still present, wariness, and for the last four weeks they’ve been doing everything their beloved herr-therapist tells them. She supposes it’s working, although you can’t really do much fighting when you only see the other person for ninety minutes every Thursday so, the results might be confounded, actually.

“Hey there.” Hey there? What the fuck, what the actual fuck. He doesn’t think he’s ever said those words to her, ever, maybe not to anyone actually. He feels a little insane, a little itchy under the skin, mouth full of cotton, brain too, because they’re not supposed to be doing this, not really. The first time she’s seen the apartment, or, well, the doorway of the apartment, doesn’t really seem interested in stepping further inside, running her curled palm up and down the strap of her purse and right, not here for that. He shuts the door behind him and then they’re on their way to therapy because it’s four o’clock on Thursday and this is what they do now at four o’clock on Thursday.

“Thanks again. I didn’t think my car would still be in the shop today.”

“Oh of course, you said it’s a transmission leak?”

“Yeah, the bad, expensive kind that’s above my paygrade. Guy said they’re still waiting on a part for it.”

“Well I’m off work tomorrow if you need a ride anywhere.”

“Vicky’ll get pissed.”

“If she finds out. Are you gonna tell on me to Vicky?” It’s a joke, they can joke, right? She laughs a little on the end of her words to make it clear, hey, it’s a joke, awkward and out of touch and unsure of what the rules are. But he offers a breath of a laugh, at least, fine, it’s fine, they’re fine, and now they’re silent driving to Vicky’s office.

Should he ask her how her week has been? If the kitchen sink is still leaking? He’s not sure. Not sure about any of it, really. Every week, Vicky asks them how they think they’re doing and Cass doesn’t even hesitate. Good, she says. Not fine, not okay, but good, usually with a sure, terse nod. It takes him a little longer to find the right word to describe how he’s doing. Not sure about that either, but it’s definitely not good. Some things are better, sure, easier not to argue when under foot, easier not to remember all the ghosts they’ve built up around themselves. But at the most basic level, he misses her, even misses arguing with her, in a perpetual state of missing something, walking around and wondering if he left his wallet at home, or if he remembered to call a client about a new build, wondering if he’s missing something essential, a limb or an organ he didn’t know about. No, none of that. Missing something else.

“You’re not wearing your ring.” She flexes her left hand over the steering wheel in response, her very bare ring finger making him feel a quick pinch of something he’ll call anger, though it’s probably something else entirely.

“No, Vicky advised I try not wearing it during the separation.”

“Why the fuck would she tell you to do that?”

“Joel.”

“I’m just asking.”

“You’re swearing.”

“Well, why didn’t she say the same thing to me?”

“Maybe because I told her this is how you would react.”

“I think I’m having a pretty normal reaction to it, actually.”

“It’s not a big deal. It’s just for now.”

“Right.”

“It is.”

“Seems like a strange thing to advise someone to do when they’ve been married for nearly two decades.” She parks outside of the office complex that Vicky works in, lets out a long sigh through her nose and doesn’t spare him a glance as she reaches around to the backseat and pulls her purse up front, producing her ring from somewhere deep inside of it and sliding it back on her finger.

“There, are you happy now?”

“Why the hell were you keeping it in your purse?”

“Oh my god, really?”

“That’s a real easy way to lose it is all I’m saying.” The truth is, she’s been keeping it in her purse in order to have easy access to it. Like a pulsepoint, sometimes she just needs to know it’s there, reaching into her purse underneath her desk and yep, still there, still okay. Sometimes she doesn’t get through a whole day without putting it back on. Like reflex, like ghost limb aching. But she’s not about to tell him that.

“Do not bring this up with Vicky.”

“Why not?”

“Because then she’ll know we drove here together.”

“You’re that worried about what Vicky thinks?”

“She’s our therapist, I’m a healthy and appropriate amount worried about what Vicky thinks.”

“You know she’s not the arbiter of marriage just because she has a couple of degrees, right?”

“Really, the arbiter of marriage?”

“Are you doing that thing you do, is that what this is?”

“What thing?”

“Cass.”

“What thing?”

“Are you trying to win therapy?” Fuck him. No, really, fuck him. He’s doing that thing, his thing to her thing, half a smile in the passenger’s seat like he’s got her. Awful, of course he’s got her, smug and sure in his getting her. She doesn’t answer his question, knowing that her silence is an answer in and of itself and not really caring because they have therapy, damn it, and it’s going to be his fault if they’re late to therapy, damn it.

“You know, I’m starting to see why Vicky told us no carpooling to sessions.” Slammed shut, he sighs when she gets out of the car, thinking idly to himself that yes, he doesn’t necessarily disagree with that commandment of their therapist either. At the very least, Cass’ ring is still on her finger. He tried a few times in the past to get her something new, something nicer than the gold band he had given her when they were still young and still not able to afford much of anything, but sure enough in each other to want to keep doing it, all of it, together. No, she would tell him, doesn’t want anything other than the gold band. What she doesn’t know is that he pawned his grandfather’s watch and an electric saw for the ring the shop owner kept in a padlocked display case. Twenty-six years old, and looking back, he thinks he would have sold a whole lot more just to get it for her.

He used to call her pearl. Something about grit that would make her roll her eyes and ask him what late night National Geographic TV special he got that line from, all the while inwardly swooning because sure, she had been baby before, babe, an errant sweetheart even, but pearl was new, and tooth-decayingly sweet. And when he proposed, Sarah bouncing around them like a manic cupid, Cassandra made an ugly sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry, little black velvet box and a ring that was more signet than wedding, simple and gold and a single pearl set in the center of it. Her hands clasped, she runs the pad of her finger over her ring, wordless and worrying it on the elevator ride up to Vicky’s office.

Vicky has a thing for lamps and art prints of naked women. Her waiting room is a little dim, no windows, green velveteen loveseat and two high-backed wooden chairs that they always take when they get here, his eyes scanning over the coffee table laden with back-ordered Psychology Today magazines, headlines about overcoming anxiety and exercising your way out of depression. There had been one about postpartum depression somewhere in the pile the last time they came, but he had made a point of hanging back after Cass left, some excuse about checking an insurance thing with Vicky, though what he really did was pluck out that magazine and throw it away in the men’s restroom down the hall. One less thing to worry about, at the least.

“Hi, you two, come on back.” The sessions always start the same. Vicky asks them how they think the week went, and they both offer up some iteration of fine. Vicky asks them if they’ve been upholding their phase of separation, and she answers before Joel can, pointedly not looking at him, yes, no contact between sessions. But apparently, this week is going to be different.

“We are nearing the end of the total separation phase. After this initial period of cooling off for both of you, the real work can begin.” Right, phases, because Vicky works in phases like this is some sort of military siege. He tries not to roll his eyes at the real work beginning.

“Can either of you remember the last date you went on together?”

“It would’ve been in August, right before the separation.” Cass scoffs at his answer, tilt of her head like, really?

“Tommy and Maria’s baby shower hardly counts as a date. But we did go to dinner at the end of July.”

“I don’t think your work banquet counts either.” Vicky hits them with that look, that yeah, that’s what I thought look, all raised brow and scrunched nose and nodding. Not that she is, but if she, hypothetically, were trying to win therapy, Cassandra thinks she wouldn’t be doing a great job of it right now.

“Right, well, you’ve made my point for me. It’s not unusual for people who have been together for as long as you two have to let things like this fall to the wayside. However, it can be very helpful to reestablish some of these routines. Think of it as marriage maintenance.”

“So you want us to start going on dates again?”

“Yes, but not with each other.” Did she? Did he? Hear that right? Cass is nodding like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, like, yes, of course, this is just the solution they’ve been looking for. This time, he doesn’t hold back a laugh.

“I’m sorry, what?” Both of them look at him like, yes, keep up, please, let us explain this to you very slowly so you can keep up, please. Something about seeing what life is like outside of their marriage, testing the waters, seeing if they still like the same things without their extra marital limb, something about making a decision about their marriage, though he tunes most of that part out because, no, thanks, no new decision has been needed since he got down on one knee during that trip to Galveston, sunscreen and sticky sweet and he’s not sure if he or Sarah was more excited, but he was definitely more nervous. And Cass said yes, and then he wasn’t nervous anymore, not scared anymore, and that’s all there was to it, is to it, right? Right.

“This is the closing exercise of the total separation phase. It’s really important that you both have this opportunity to see what it’s like to be back in the dating pool. Think of it as a trial run of if you decide to make this separation–”

“No, no thanks. That’s not– we’re not those people, so, you know, we can just move onto the next phase.”

“Joel.” The mom voice of all things, and he knows for certain now that Cass is trying to win therapy, nudging her shoe into the side of his, and, come on, really? She’s really bought that hard into what Vicky’s selling? Now that, that isn’t like her, at all.

“What feelings are coming up for you right now, Joel?” She fucking hates that question, and she imagines that he does too, fingers drumming on his knee, long sigh, and she knows that look, that’s his getting ready to bolt look. Big man, big, skittish man who has accidentally nailed his fingers to house frames and hardly shed a tear. But feelings? Yeah, forget it.

“Uh, I guess I’m confused as to why that is so important for us to do. We came here to help our– to help us, not to create more problems.”

“And you think that if you and Cassandra went on dates, one date, with other people, that it would create more problems in your marriage?” Well, it’s hardly rocket science, Vicky, though judging by the way she’s speaking to him, he’s pretty sure he failed some kind of test of hers. He doesn’t particularly care.

“I imagine it’d do that to anyone’s marriage.”

“It’s just one date, it’s a part of the process.” She’s starting to get pissed, and trying very hard not to show it in front of Vicky should she get the what feelings are coming up for you treatment. When they agreed to start going to therapy, like a pair of dogs gagging down a pill, they had both agreed to put their full effort into it, and if Vicky wasn’t in the room with them currently, Cassandra would sharply remind him of that agreement.

“Maybe I should clarify the expectations around this exercise. It’s one date, preferably with people outside of your shared social circle, and it would be best if the focus is just on the date, no sexual relations.”

“Oh really, you think that’d be best?”

“Joel.” He gives her a slack and slanted look, speaking two different languages, apparently. And really, she doesn’t see what the big deal is. One date versus sixteen years is pretty obvious math for her to square up, though it doesn’t seem to be for him. But, watching him engage in psychological tennis with Vicky, some new jab dripping in sarcasm for every reassurance she tries to offer him, the realization comes to Cassandra slowly, simply. Joel is scared.

By the time they leave Vicky’s office, he feels deflated, defeated, because yes, they are, apparently, going to do this fucking exercise that fucking Vicky has fucking assigned to them, scheduled in three weeks instead of one to give them time to do this fucking exercise that fucking Vicky has fucking assigned to them.

“Can’t we just, you know, say we did it but not actually do it?”

“Are you serious right now?” Judging by the look she gives him, a quick, sharp flicker of her eyes before she focuses back on the road, he thinks he probably shouldn’t say anything else. He shouldn’t, but, well.

“Is this about pleasing Vicky, or are you just that interested in dating someone else?”

“Don’t be a child about this, Joel. It’s a therapeutic–”

“It’s bullshit is what it is. I don’t– I already know what I want, and I don’t need to go testing the waters to be sure of it. What I’m not so sure about is if you can say the same.” She can’t put her finger on anything specific, probably just a slow-building amalgamation of things. Stressful week at work, and the leaking sink getting worse, and her doctor increasing a medication dosage that’s made her body feel like something other than her body, and this fucking therapy and this fucking trying and she’s trying so hard and she feels like she’s failing and when she glances at him he looks hurt, really hurt, a close crumple in his face, deep frown, and it frustrates her because all she’s trying to do is do it right, and all she gets is this constant rhythm of resistance, this push and pull and yes, it’s all of that, all of that creeping up her throat tight and hot and curling behind her eyes sending salt pinpricks and sharp pangs. When the first sob breaks, it does so as a gasp, like a small and stunned thing in her chest. And, well, it’s never uphill from there, is it?

“Do you– do we need to pull over?”

“No, I don’t need to fucking pull over. I’m not an invalid, I can cry and drive at the same time.” Except it doesn’t come out quite like that, not smooth like that. The words get stop-started with each new shudder, new stutter, hiccuping on fucking and invalid. The world has gone to slanted stained-glass through all her tears.

Unsure what to do, but that’s nothing new. He doesn’t say anything else, watches her through the wary side of his eye, sobs turning into something more subdued, little wounded sounds high in her throat, a choice fuck you with a little more bite behind it when someone cuts her off merging onto the highway. He feels useless, feels like, maybe, this is what Vicky should be talking with them about instead of her siege on marriage plan. All he knows is that he seems to get it wrong every time, so this time, he doesn’t interject or intervene, doesn’t say any more than he already has. He lets her cry, and he lets her drive.

He doesn’t know when it happened. When he decided he was going to fix things for her, or just fix her, really. His lady in pieces and he was going to put her back together, and it seemed like every time he tried to, she just shattered a little more. That April is the obvious answer, the most shattered he had ever seen her. But the fighting had started before then, and so had the fixing that wasn’t really fixing. Like a relief, like a release, the slow realization that no, it never worked, and no, it was never going to work. The sobs turn into shivers turn into something even smaller. By the time they pull up in front of his apartment complex, it has passed.

“I just– I want to do this right, this therapy thing, and I want it to work, and I want it to work so we can be okay again. That’s what I want.” The words hang between them. He makes no move to get out of the car, and she counts her inhales in the silence, waiting for him to say something, anything. It feels like a child’s logic, or maybe a hail Mary, and she knows it, feels a little insane saying it, the words fitting strangely in her mouth. The brief wondering comes to her, what would she have said about where they are now to her girlfriends, what snark, what sharp jokes at their expense? Him in an apartment and a fifteen minute drive separating them and a woman named Vicky unraveling (and in theory, putting back together) their marriage in phases, fucking phases, and fucking Vicky. She doesn’t want to go on a date with someone else, and she doesn’t know why she’s taking Vicky’s instructions as gospel. But she does know, doesn’t she? It’s not about Vicky, not about Vicky and her fucking phases. Fixing, being fixed, that’s what she wants.

“So, you’re saying you want us to date other people in order to fix our marriage.” Grateful that she takes it for the joke he meant it as, it’s just enough to slough off some of the tension, roll of her eyes, please. They both let out a sigh, too tired for much else. But maybe, he thinks, this counts as progress, sitting here with her in the car and the sun washing everything down burnt and orange. He watches her eyes drop shut for a moment, fine lines like porcelain fissures and he loves those lines, liked catching her in the bathroom with her face pressed up close to the mirror and her fingers pulling those lines taut around her eyes, her mouth. He’d pull her hands away from her face, ask her if she was planning her halloween costume for next year, earning a scoff and a roll of her eyes and her trying to pull away from him, and he wouldn’t let her. Making it better with kisses to those lines, and eventually, her pressing her fingers as light as prayers over his, an implicit wondering, where did the time go?

“Look, if it really makes you that uncomfortable, let’s just lie to Vicky. We could still get like, an A-minus in therapy if we leave just one thing out.”

“I didn’t realize therapy came with a grade.” He smiles, all soft, and she can’t help the sheepish bloom in her chest, rolling her lips back into her mouth to hide her own grin, eventually, reluctantly, admitting in a quiet, skewed to the side voice, okay, so maybe, maybe I was doing that thing, that winning thing. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s a mercy. Just nods, of course, and of course, he knew, maybe even before she did, and is that knowing not a mercy too? She thinks it is.

“I want to do this right too, Cass. And, I mean, we’re paying Vicky enough money that we should do what she tells us to.”

“Are you saying you want to do it then?”

“Want is a strong word.”

“Okay, are you saying you’re willing to do it?”

“It’s just the one?”

“Just the one.”

“Alright, fuck it, let’s do it. We better get a goddamn A-plus at the end of this.”

“Mmm, gold stars too.” Another sigh, another settling. How nice, another sigh, another settling. It’s a strange equation, but she thinks it still adds up. Neither of them want to do this, not really, but they’re willing to, and they’re willing to because of each other. Willing to try and get it right for each other. Just, well, ignore the finer details of what getting it right entails.

“You hear from Sarah lately?”

“On Monday, yeah. Called to wish me a happy birthday.”

“Well, only off by four days, not too bad.”

“Oh no, she called on Monday because she was, and I quote, too busy the rest of the week to call.”

“Wow.”

“Right?”

“Is it bad that sometimes I kinda hate it?”

“Hate what?”

“That she’s like, a fully-formed person now. I miss the days when she was a little blob who liked holding onto me by one of my belt loops.” He has to smile, nod, because he knows exactly what she means. And the truth of it is that Sarah was so good, maybe the best, if he’s allowed to give his completely biased opinion. And the other truth, Cass is, was, one of those people simply meant to be a parent, a mother. He remembers when they first started dating, and all the exhausting maneuvering he did, getting his parents or Tommy to watch Sarah, a string of canceled dinner plans when his kid couldn’t seem to stop catching things at daycare. He was sure that Cass would lose interest every time another piece of his reality was revealed to her. After all, he was not unfamiliar with being left behind. But that never happened, she stayed every time.

It was Cass who first suggested it. Didn't want to impose, but what if, maybe we could, would it be okay if, why don’t we. They went to the zoo that weekend, if he remembers correctly, Sarah in tow, shy at first around the woman she barely knew, though she bloomed over the course of the day. Yes, he thinks, it was the zoo, because he remembers how by the end of the day, Cass had her on her hip, as easy as anything, so she could get a better view of the rhinos. He knows now that, even in those earliest days, she loved his kid just as much as she loved him. He knows now what a gift that was, and continues to be.

“She’s gonna be alright, Cass. We did good with her.” She sighs, yeah, we did. She had been worried about telling her about the whole lieutenant-LMFT thing, the whole quasi-separation thing, but that was a direct command from Vicky, letting the family know what was going on. Sarah had taken it surprisingly well when she called, could be good, mom, like a reset. Of course, they kept the worst of it away from her, and of course, she still knew something had changed, something not right between them. No one was left unscathed after that April.

From the start, loving him included loving Sarah. It was never difficult for her to do both. Sweet girl, bright like the sun girl, rounded cheeks and bouncing curls, and Cassandra found that her love for her had a particular effect on her heart. Whenever small hand reached for one of hers, whenever small face tucked into her neck, whether tear-damp or milk-tired, and eventually, whenever she was given the name mom, like a stop and restart of her heart, like something turning back on inside her and finally working right. An everything kind of love, to not only be chosen by him, but to be chosen by her too.

“Well, anyways, Vicky didn’t make any stipulations about birthdays, so I have something for you.” Just a small thing, she says, leaning over the console and into the back seat, and he knows better than to say no, shouldn’t have, because there’s already a perfect package being placed in his hands, navy blue wrapping paper and a white bow, and her hand cups underneath his for just a moment, there and gone.

The truth is she had already picked out this gift two months ago, what feels like a lifetime before this separation. Now, watching him open it, she’s a little worried it had been presumptuous of her, if not completely narcissistic. But if he thinks that, he makes no show of it, lets out a quiet laugh as he takes the watch out of the box and holds it up in the fading light to look at it.

“It’s a little sappy, maybe. But, well, we have something that kinda matches now.” Something is unfurling in his chest, heat loosening something he didn’t even realize he had been tightening up around. It’s a beautiful watch, rich leather strap and polished silver. And the face of it catches and shimmers a little in the light. He knows right away that it’s mother of pearl.

Here, she says, let me, and he does, feeling a little indulgent watching her fasten the watch around his wrist, and definitely breaking one of fucking Vicky’s fucking rules when he ducks his head down and steals a kiss, another one, letting the third deepen just a little, both of them humming because missed this, missed this, didn’t realize how much, but missed this.

“Thank you, pearly.” It feels good to be so close to him, noses brushing and smiles curling around each other. Feels like a relief.

“Happy birthday, one day ahead. We could, you know, do something tomorrow? Get dinner maybe?” Before he can answer, say yes, she’s already caught herself, sheepish smile and pulling a little further away and oh, right. She says sorry, wasn’t thinking, and they do an awkward dance around the whole thing, right, yeah, probably shouldn’t, right, yeah. He is not a hateful man, and it would be too strong to say he’d wish Vicky harm. But if something were to happen, in theory, that’d make Vicky go the fuck away, in theory, he wouldn’t be too torn up about it.

“See you next Thursday then?”

“Well, next next Thursday, because we have to do the– yeah.”

“Right, yeah.” Right, yeah, this is the part where he gets out of the car. The part where he goes up to his apartment and she drives home and they don’t eat dinner together and they don’t brush their teeth together and they don’t go to sleep together. Right, yeah. They say goodnight. He’d like to say love, but he doesn’t. She’d like to say love, but she doesn’t. And they part ways.

She hates being in this house alone. Leaves all the lights on all hours of the day and checks all the locks three times before going upstairs to bed. Passes by the closed door that remains closed with her breath held. She knows it makes no sense, but she’s been sleeping in the guestroom, makes the whole thing a little easier. Always had a tendency toward insomnia, tossing and turning brain and body.

When they were just starting to get more serious, and she was just starting to stay over at his more often, she got worried that eventually it'd drive him mad enough for the whole thing to not be worth it, neither of them getting much sleep as they learned how to share a bed together. And she doesn't remember how it started exactly, maybe out of a moment of pure exasperation, him draping just enough of his weight over her to press slower breath into her lungs and still her body. It became a routine, she'd ask could you? And he'd already know what she was asking for without her having to say any more than that. What she also doesn't remember, when that stopped working, when she stopped asking, and he stopped answering. She supposes it all happened slowly, just like the rest of it.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller series #joel miller story #joel miller fic #joel miller au

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whorekneecentral · 6 months

Text

Black Out

John Stones x Fem!Reader

Warnings: power outages, john being very husband and him being very cheeky per usual, wax play, one of those massage oil candles, nipple play, penetrative sex (p in v), cream pie, 'slut' used in a sexual way.

Word Count: 2,158

Author's Note: you guys don't understand the struggle I went through to find a pic of this man that matched, why does he hide from the cameras and make my life so hard??

merry smutmas series

Your husband blows a fuse with the Christmas lights and you’re stuck in the dark, but you find a way to make the best of it.

It was no secret about what sold you on the house you were living in was the neighbourhood; the photos of the houses covered in lights and lawns decorated like a winter wonderland was enough to get John to give it to you.

You were a winter girl through and through, you started counting down to Christmas the moment you saw the first orange leaf on the trees. You had already dreamt of having your own place; the white picket fences, the wrap around porch with the massive 10 foot Christmas tree in the window.

It was 4 weeks to Christmas and you were in full fledged Christmas prep mode. John had finally had some free time in his schedule to help you get the house ready for the holidays.

You had bundled your husband up, sending him outside to put the lights up around the house and you had done most of the stuff around the house while he was at training and gone for away games. You had been putting up the last few ornaments on the tree.

The last gold ball had been placed on the empty branch and as you go to take a step back and admire your work, the power to the house cuts out.

"What the f-" "Babe?!" John calls, walking into the house.

You look over at your husband, clearly confused and he makes a face. "Crap, it's out in here too?"

"I take it the lights are off outside?"

John nods, walking down the stairs to the basement to check the fuse box. You shout for the top of the stairs, "did you blow a fuse?"

He appears at the bottom of the stairs, the two of you look at each other in the dark, the only light coming from your phone flashlight that was on. "I tried all of them. Nothing's coming on, so I don't think I did that."

Your phone buzzes in your hand, there's a message from your neighbour. "It's Andrew," you tell him as he comes up. "He says the power's out at their place too, looks like it's the whole block."

"Did we do that?" John makes a face, and you shake your head. "I'm sure it's just the weather. They'll probably be able to fix it in the morning, so let's go find the candles."

You leave your husband in the stairway, walking to the kitchen with your phone flash light lighting the wooden floor path. You set the phone on the counter in such a way that the lights shine into the drawers as you search for the candles.

John pinches your hip, startling you. "John!" You laughed, smacking his arm. The man smiles, looking around for the lighter when you set the candles on the counter.

He comes up beside you and lights the candles that you had set on the counter. You were tumbling through the drawers below, trying to look for more so you could put some in the living room. With all your hurriedness, you didn't realize that John had already lit the candles on the counter, and you accidentally knocked one over onto the floor.

"Ow!" You winced, pulling your foot away when the hot wax splashed onto it.

John bends down, carefully picking up the candle and setting it back on the counter. "Are you okay?" He crouches back down, rubbing the top of your foot.

You nod, "fine, just a bit hot."

He smiles at you, rubbing at the soft wax that was starting to dry on your foot. "C'mon," he takes your hand, leading you to the living room.

The two candles that you left in the kitchen are carried over to the living room, and John sets them on the coffee table. You are another smaller, white candle in a glass jar in your hand, that you set on the coffee table and then light.

You and John find yourself on the couch, your husband's arms wrapped around you, holding you close to him. Now the power is off, so is the heating. Which meant the two of you were going to get very cold very quickly.

A few minutes had passed and the candles were starting to smell, but one more than the others; the one in the glass jar.

"Is that vanilla?" John asks, looking over at you. You hum, head on his shoulder, the orange of the candle light caskets a glow over you.

"Yeah, one of those oil ones."

John's head tilted, clearly confused as to what you meant and you continued speaking to further explain. "It's one of those massage oil candles. When it melts, it turns into oil you can use for massages."

"And if you don't use it?" He asks.

"Hardens again, until you decide to relight it."

John hums, leaning forward to smell the candle on the coffee table. "Doesn't seem like something you'd buy."

You laughed, shaking your head. "It's not. It was part of the gift basket that Sasha gave me for my birthday."

The room falls quiet, the two of you sitting in comfortable silence. You hoped the power would come back on soon, otherwise you were certain you were gonna freeze to death. You know how most guys run hot when they sleep, girlfriend's jokes that they're like a human furnace? Not John. That man was like an ice cube, freezing your whole body anytime you cuddled him; perfect for the summer actually.

Your husband leans his neck to one side, groaning as he rubs the space between his shoulder and his neck. "What's wrong?" You looked over at him, concerned.

"Just sore, probably from putting up the lights."

"Want me to rub it?" You offered and he nodded. "Lay down, take your shirt off."

John follows your instructions, taking his shirt off and lying flat on his stomach. You climb on top of him, legs on either side of his hips as you sit on his butt. He can feel you move around, you shift a bit before something hot lands on his back.

"Ow! What the hell, woman?!" He groans, trying to wiggle away.

"Sorry!" You giggled, setting the oil candle back on the coffee table. "Was that hot? My bad, babe."

John rolls his eyes, making you laugh before you start rubbing the oil in with your hands. Smoothing the yellowish liquid over his skin, paying special attention to his upper back and his shoulders. John lets out a soft groan when you press into his shoulders, thumbs working over the small knot you felt.

He hums, satisfied as your hands slide back down his back, resting on his sides. "All done."

"So much better," he smiles, sitting up when you get off of him. "Your turn." He pats your hip, waving his finger to get you to take your top off.

Playfully rolling your eyes, you comply. Your top tossed on the floor with his before you lay on your stomach, pulling your hair out of the way. "Don't burn me," you warn him.

John scoffs, "you mean like what you did to me?"

Shrugging, you purse your lips. "No idea what you mean.. just a warning, Mr. Stones." He hums, gesturing for you to lay down.

You get comfortable, John's cold fingers causing you to shiver as he unclasps your bra. He whispers sorry before you hear the sound of him rubbing his hands together. He asks if you're ready and you nod, telling him you are.

John picks up the glass jar, slowly pouring the liquid over your back. You let out a small whimper at the hotness, waiting for the feeling of it dripping down your back, like you had watched it do on John but it never came.

Instead, it felt as if it had frozen on your skin. You glanced back at your husband, "what is that?" The angle you were at was awkward, trying to see what was in his hand.

John reached over you and set the glass jar down, some nonsensical name slapped on the front and it was a candle, an actual candle. Not the massage oil you had poured onto him.

"Why-" You start but he cuts you off. "Don't think I didn't notice that sound you made in the kitchen."

"What sound?" You asked, looking away. John smirks, shaking his head at your faux innocence. "The same sound you made a few seconds ago."

"Shut up." You whispered.

"Turn over," he tells you, tossing a throw pillow down for you to put your head on and you get comfortable. John looks at you, the candle back in his head before he tilts it, pouring a bit on your stomach. "Is that okay?" He looks up at you for your reaction.

You hum, nodding. "More than okay."

He smiles, tugging at your leggings and you help him get them off, adding them to the pile of unwanted clothes. John continues pouring the wax slowly, letting it drip up and down your thighs, the red wax drying and sticking to your skin.

You knew it would be a mess to clean up but you couldn't care less at the moment.

You look at your husband, watching as he kisses down your chest, over your tits before his lips wrap around your nipple, tongue lapping over it.

Your hand tangles in his hair, his name falling from your lips. You feel him shift, his hand dropping to pick up the candle once more and without warning, he lets the warm wax drip over your tits, the red liquid drying against your skin.

“You’re having too much fun.” You giggle, propping yourself up on your elbows. John sets the candle down next to him as he sits, back resting on the couch. "So come have some fun," he smiles, "it's only fair to share in the fun, isn't it?"

You climb back onto his lap, pushing on his sweatpants. John's hand drops down, smacking your ass. "So pretty like this," he mumbles against your skin, kissing along your neck.

"So I'm not pretty otherwise?"

"You're the prettiest, ever." He smiles, kissing you as you sink down onto his cock. John groans, his hand on your hip to steady you and his head tilts back, resting on the couch.

Your hand rests on his shoulder, giving you a moment to gather yourself before starting to bounce on his lap.

John's hand stays on your hip, his firm grasp keeping you in place as you rock back and forth. You reach behind him to grab the candle, pouring the wax over his bare chest.

The red stood out in comparison to his pale skin, John smiles when you do. “So handsome like this,” you mumbles, glancing down to watch how your finger smudges the almost tacky wax around his chest.

John flashes you a smile, looking up at you. "Not handsome otherwise?"

You shook your head, "no." You smiled, kissing the man. You rock your hips forward and his head drops back into the couch again, his eyes fluttered closed. “God, you’re perfect.” His hand pats your hip, “made just for me.” He tells you.

He can feel the way you were clenching around him and he knew you were close; you knew he was close, his eyes closed and head back. Your husband has you bouncing in his lap, his hands wrapped around your waist resting on your lower back, all while your face is buried in the crook of his neck. Your lips on his soft skin - a trail of marks and sloppy kisses being left along his neck.

“John fuck, oh god-” your hips rock forwards and you feel him pull you closer.

“This pussy was made just for me, hm? That's my pretty slut." He whispers in your ear and it's like something switches in you.

He can feel you clench around him and bounce a little more, your clit brushing against him with each bounce and rock. Your arms are over his shoulders and fingers tangled in his messy curls, tugging it back and his head tips back, leaving his neck exposed for you to mark.

You pull him down onto you, his chest pressed to yours and your hand rests on his cheek.

Your husband kissing you and with a few sloppy thrusts, you feel yourself being pushed over the edge. John groans, feeling you clench around him and he follows behind you, now coming down from his own high.

You pull away from him, leaning back in his arms; the two of you feeling the after effects of your orgasms, covered in wax, massage oil, cum and sweat. You can't help the giggle that slips out.

"What?" He asks, chuckling at your giggling.

"The power should go out more often," you tell him, picking at the wax on his chest.

John laughs, smiling at you. "Yeah, it should."

---

#merry smutmas xoxo #john stones #john stones smut #john stones x reader #football #football x reader #football smut

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harmshake · 3 months

Text

The Gentle Horror, Part 3

What is done in the dark will always be brought to light...

Vampire Jimmy Uso x Nyma (fem!black!oc) | 18+, NSFW, mentions of graphic m*rder, domestic violence, blood, and smut | 7,474 words

a/n: We're back! I decided that instead of rewriting the entire series to edit in Vampire Jimmy, I'd just edit out Vampire Swerve. 💅🏾

Happy reading! Read Parts 1 and 2 or my non-spooky stuff here, if you'd like. ✨

"They know what you did, Stephon."

"They're comin' to kill you."

"Wake up. Leave the girl behind and run. Now. Before it's too late."

The dream of Nyma's delicate and beautiful voice had swiftly warped into a nightmare of a deep, panic-stricken tone, trying to shake Stephon awake after a few moments of him feeling trapped within the warning he didn't want to hear.

He knew that voice and knew it well. Daphne, his maker, his ex-lover, and a vampire he hadn't spoken to in nearly a century. Stephon wanted to be surprised that their blood link still connected them after all this time, after he'd sworn her off and crossed the nation to leave her alone, but that surprise abruptly melted into the realization that they could never be separated. Not when it was her blood that ran through his veins and made him what he was. A creature of the night. A vampire that was apparently in such grave danger that Daphne set aside her hurt for him abandoning her to call out to him, help him.

Stephon had his reasons to sever his ties to the woman as though he owed her his life, their time together was just as destructive to it. He had craved peace, quiet, and calm after decades of insanity and sin. Peace, quiet, and calm that Nyma and her beautiful, brown eyes, soft skin, and even softer heart blessed him with when he least expected it, but needed it most.

He knew as soon as the sun went down that day he would go to her, rid himself of the fear that swirled in his mind from Daphne's caution from wherever she was, hopefully not near, so that he could be near Nyma, ridding her clothes and hiding himself in her warmth that made him feel not only alive but safe. Stephon knew better than to dismiss his maker's message as he also knew what he'd done...and that certainly the consequences were imminent.

Yet he wouldn't put himself or Nyma in harm's way, already thinking ahead of how to tell her of his gruesome mistake and to come away with him to leave it all behind him. She wasn't happy here, regardless, not when she was alone in a new state with no friends or family. Not when Tyree, her husband, the only person she knew, was dead. Not when it was he who killed him.

He was an abusive piece of shit, a low-down nigga, and Stephon had no qualms about scrubbing the earth clean of him. Yet he did so not at Nyma's behest, but at his impulse, something he wasn't certain how to speak to her about, but he would. He had to. And he had to believe that she felt those blood-rushing, delicious, and deep emotions for him as he did for her to trust him when he confessed that he murdered him for her good—that he only wanted to protect her.

Just like Stephon wanted to protect her now. If danger was after him, surely it would be after her as well since he had revealed what he was to her. Stephon shook again in his sleep as the nightmare, as Daphne's voice, finally released him, his eyes popping open with a jolt shooting through his body that lay in his bed. He didn't have to adjust his groggy eyes to know it was still sunlight beyond his basement bedroom, sunlight that would destroy his body like that of a lit torch setting ablaze a bundle of sticks, yet Stephon's gaze sharpened with immediate awareness that there was danger, the danger, right here and surrounding his bed as his eyes widened to see three tall men he didn't recognize in matching black turtlenecks and jeans like the Texas heat outside wasn't blistering.

However, Stephon did recognize that the heat would never touch them, not when they were cold-blooded, not when they were vampires just like him. Vampires sent here to kill him. Before he could think to flee with his incredible speed, the three men used their combined and even quicker speed to pin him down to his mattress, two of them at either end of him with large and fucking strong hands holding down his arms and ankles as the third man retrieved a wooden stake from the holster on his belt.

"Shit, wait, pl—" Stephon's eyes protruded with panic, the same panic he could still hear enmeshed in his brain where Daphne's fear thought to bury itself for his own good. But it was too late, his words too late, falling on deaf ears, anyway, as he knew the men would not hear his pleas, only his brief scream as the man hovering above him drove the stake into his chest, through his heart. He did it with such ease and force like that of a knife sinking into supple, human skin as Stephon was once human, too, once immortal unless struck in this brutal and specific way...that ease and force unsettling yet short-lived, short-lived like the millions of thoughts of his every wrongdoing, regret, and wasted love, as he could do nothing more than stare into the eyes of his murderer before his blood spewed from his chest and blurred his vision.

Vision that obscured as it faded to black in just seconds as he faintly heard Nyma's voice in the corner of his mind a final time as she sang a spiritual his mother used to, a song he had not heard Nyma sing and never would, yet he prayed with his last breath that his soul would linger in the ether to perhaps hear it, hear her, in another lifetime...

・・━━━━━━━━━━ ∞ ━━━━━━━━━━・・

The kill had taken only a second, but Jon felt it for hours later.

It didn't matter how many vampires he'd witnessed in their final moments, didn't matter how many times he restrained them to keep them still for their demise, or, worse, how many times it'd been him with the wooden stake in his grasp before he wedged it into their chests to pierce their undead hearts...their deaths were still deaths. And yet he knew they were justified, or, better, well-deserved.

Jon may have carried with him the weight of ending a life, but if it was a life that unabashedly tormented and ended another, he believed it was only right to correct the sin with another that cleansed the earth of their evil. It was not only his belief but his sworn duty as a bounty hunter, his only prey vampires that dared threaten to expose their existence with violence against unsuspecting, and usually innocent, human beings.

Jon was human once, a long while ago, yet his heart still bled with the news of war, death, and savagery toward his distant kin—especially if it was at the advantaged hands of a cold beast whose strength would eternally overpower a fragile, defenseless human. The mere thought "boiled" his blood enough to make it his life work to protect not only vampires but the humans whom they hid themselves from.

As he and his bounty hunter associates stood around the bedside of the remains of this cruel vampire, his blood splattered along his sheets, the floor, and in every direction, including upon Jon's long braids that fell over his shoulders and left cheek, he smudged the back of his hand to the stain on his skin before they collected what was left of his body to dispose into large, black suitcases lined with plastic. They worked impossibly quickly, seamlessly, packing up him, the sheets, and anything that his blood had touched before they cleaned with hydrogen peroxide and other products to leave the basement pristine and untouched to a mortal's gaze.

Yet, suddenly, Jon couldn't shake the distinct pull of guilt that touched his heart from the mortal who lived just next door, that pull growing stronger as he and his team filed out of Stephon's home through the front door whence they came, knowing no human would detect their presence as they were careful to act at this particular time of day when the sun was high in the hot sky and they were all shuffled away to their jobs in the city. Where a normal vampire would burst into flames from that hot sky, Jon, like his mates, was gifted with the ability to bask in the sun, the particular blessing known to vampires as daywalking, a blessing only bestowed upon bounty hunters by the Liege who depended on them to work tirelessly, day or night, to collect their bounty in good time.

But the human next door, the one who yanked at Jon's heart with her pain so blisteringly blatant that it felt like his own, was home at an odd time, tucked away in her bedroom upstairs and beneath her covers as she tried to sleep but could not. Jon couldn't see her as he and the hunters carried their luggage to their windowless black van to stow their haul, but he could hear her perfectly. Shuffling with restlessness in her cotton sheets, breath huffing with frustration for the lack of rest, lack of peace as every other horror tried to steal it. He knew of those horrors as it was why he was here in her neighborhood: To assassinate the vampire who murdered her husband.

However, Jon could feel with his heightened sense of discernment that this human woman knew nothing of that horror, only what it left behind...hurt, confusion, and a dull sense of healing that he felt trying to blossom in her heart from the vampire who rested in pieces in the back of their truck to be burned in the desolate woods as they closed the doors and climbed inside. That was the guilt that tried to rip at Jon's chest as they pulled away from the two-story home that once housed a beast who no longer could plague this otherwise quiet, lush neighborhood.

But it was another death to plague that poor human woman. Another mystery for her never to solve. And, obliquely, it was his fault. His brown eyes glanced at her home growing smaller in the passenger side mirror as they drove down the street, yet his guilt did not grow any smaller with it. And Jon knew then that it would not unless he did what he knew was right: Protect the humans who could not protect themselves.

・・━━━━━━━━━━ ∞ ━━━━━━━━━━・・

Four days.

Four days without Stephon.

It was unlike him to not slip into her home as soon as the sun went down, his home unusually silent when she went to knock upon his door each day, and uncanny for him not to at least speak to her from his own, her blood mingling with his own, too, in a way that she heard his sweet, beautiful voice between her ears even if he was nowhere near.

Yet that was the most disturbing part for Nyma. If Stephon had suddenly gotten too busy to see her, she could understand. He did not lead some simple life that she could even begin to comprehend. But she couldn't hear him anymore. She couldn't feel his presence, something like that of a small void spreading within her heart with eternal blackness where he used to be.

Nyma was only human, only knew what death felt like on the side of the living, the way it gnawed at the heart, but she knew this feeling well as it was the same one that haunted her when Tyree, her late husband, went missing. Stephon was in trouble or...he was not on this side any longer.

The thought kept her up at night and kept her tossing and turning in bed during the day when she tried to catch up on sleep. If there was one thing she was grateful for was the fact that she worked remotely, and yet being home alone in a viciously empty house—save for her golden retriever, Maddie, who could sense her sadness and tried to lick away her tears when they fell from her face as Nyma gently pushed her away—felt like a special kind of torture.

It was already torture to live in a new state so far from home, to live in this new place with her husband who tortured her in his heavy-handed way, to live in this new place with no one to save her until...

Stephon's deep brown eyes gleamed in her mind's eye as Nyma lay in bed, glistening tears running down her cheeks to both sides of the pillow behind her head before she closed her eyes to see his gaze better. Not realizing that the last time she would see it would be the other night after he held her in his arms as he rocked between her legs, rocking her soul with thrusts that she felt somewhere even deeper, even more ethereal. He drank from her that night, his sharp fangs breaking her skin along her delicate throat and hurting her so good, a passion that Nyma never believed existed before Stephon unveiled his true form to her.

A gentle monster. A lovely beast. And yet still merely a mesmerizing man.

Now that man was missing and Nyma wasn't sure if she could handle it. She wasn't handling it, truthfully, the last four days a blur that left the room spinning, her world tilting off axis, and she saw no other way to balance it than escaping into the night, sinking behind her steering wheel, and following the dark roads wherever they took her.

Those first four nights, Nyma felt like she was still searching for Stephon, hoping to see him walking along the bordering woods, sitting on a park bench, hoping to just see him anywhere. When she did not, the dark roads led her to a bar that sat on the corner just outside her neighborhood. Nyma wasn't particularly a drinker, that was more Tyree's taste before he let the liquor fuel his frustrations that he took out on her, and yet she still found herself heading inside after peeping at her reflection in the rearview mirror to adjust the black headwrap that hid her dark, afro curls that she hadn't bothered to touch since sorrow sapped her of her strength. Even her brown skin suffered for it, usually luminous but now pale, both from her sorrow and those cigarettes that she reserved to smoke out that sorrow, going through two packs in the last 72 hours.

She wasn't proud of it, especially when she thought of Stephon's words to her that she was too gorgeous to smoke, but like him and his Hennessy, she had her poison picked, too. And without him here, she felt the need to down more poisons, anything that soothed her nerves with a warm touch...although she had begun to fall in love with his cool touch...

Nyma felt the cool gravel beneath her knees when she fell onto it as she stumbled out of the bar an hour later, too drunk to walk and certainly to drive, but she wanted to go home, and by the grace of whatever god was above she made it there to crawl into her bed, Maddie leaping onto the sheets with her to rest her big head on her waist, and cry herself to sleep as she thought about how that same god could inflict mourning on her time and time again.

When the time was past noon the next day, Nyma was still tangled in her sheets with dried tears and drool on the fabric, only waking when Maddie barked and would not stop. The sound didn't cause her headache, but worsened it, compelling her to snatch the sheets off her body and stare at her bare feet sprouting from the ripped, black jeans she'd worn to the bar last night as she didn't want to fall down the stairs on her way to quiet Maddie by fixing her a late breakfast.

Yet Maddie was not at her bowl in the kitchen but barking and whining for a different reason, standing in her foyer with her hackles standing up, too, her eyes trained on the front door like there was someone behind it. Nyma's eye twitched with her heart twitching along with it from anxiety and excitement that it could finally be him. She clumsily rushed to the mirror that hung to the left of her door as she wiped at her eyes and mouth and adjusted her red tank top to look as presentable as she could, never mind that he had already seen her vulnerable and still called her beautiful.

A few quiet knocks then called from behind her door and Nyma called back, "Coming!" as she petted Maddie on her head to calm her and quickly led her out to the fenced-in backyard before she nearly ran back to her door where the knocks rang again. Her heart pounded hard in her chest to see Stephon as she unlocked and pulled open the door, but it sank just as hard when she then remembered he could not stand in the sunlight. Instead, she spotted a tall, light-skinned brown man standing on her porch.

"Um, yes? Can I help you?" Nyma blurted as she squinted her eyes from the blaring afternoon sun assaulting her bleary eyes. His shoulders were almost broad enough to block it but he shifted on his feet to let it shine on her face, his face handsome yet slightly stern and concerned, even as he attempted a polite smile at her.

"Hello, ma'am. Are you Nyma? My name is Jon. I'm a friend of Stephon's. Can I talk with you 'bout him for a minute?" Jon's voice was just as polite as his smile, deep and laced with kindness and more of that concern Nyma could see crinkling his features. That same concern shifted to dread in her chest to hear Stephon's name come out of this stranger's mouth.

"Y-yeah, uh, please, come in," she stammered as she let Jon slowly walk past her and into her home where he stood awkwardly like he didn't know what to do with himself. She watched the long, thick fingers of his left hand twitch before he shoved both hands into the front pockets of his black joggers, switching around on his foot to face her when she said, "Have a seat, please. Do you, um, want anything to drink or—"

"Naw, I'm straight. Just want a few minutes of your time, if that's okay," Jon said without sitting down. His demeanor was already reticent even though he seemed nice enough, yet Nyma felt her dread burrow deeper into her chest at who he was and what he wanted to talk about concerning Stephon which would only take "a few minutes."

"Did something happen to him?" Nyma whispered as he parted his lips to speak, the truth trying to wriggle into her soul that she just wanted to confirm without further dragging it out.

Jon's face remained stern, concerned, yet soft as he replied, "Yeah. He's fled town. There's a warrant out for his arrest."

Nyma's eyes widened once more at the news, first panicked but then confused as Stephon was a sweet and quiet man, he had to be as no one knew what he was but her. She wondered if Jon knew, too. However, she didn't ask, wrapping her arms around herself as she tried to find the words to ask instead, "Arrest?! For what?"

"No easy way to say this," he said under his breath with a heavy sigh before he added, "Stephon killed someone."

"Killed? Who? W-what?!" Nyma spat immediately in disbelief. She knew Stephon had a notably noxious way of "eating his dinner," but she also knew he wasn't the type to be greedy. The night that would never leave her mind of when he feasted on her, he couldn't have been more tender...

Now Jon's eyes widened slightly at her question and he paused as if to silently debate with himself before he let out another tense sigh, this time his gaze holding hers. "He made me swear on my life not to tell anyone. Jesus. I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you when it shoulda been him before he went on the run. He...he killed Tyree. I'm sorry. I'm so fuckin' sorry."

Jon's hushed words rushed out of him before he rushed to her to catch her as her body tried to collapse to the floor, the blood rushing from her brain as Nyma couldn't stand or think straight, blotches of black filling her mind and vision. She didn't have to think too hard to realize all at once that what Jon said was true, all of the evidence she couldn't see as she got lost in Stephon's mysterious yet sweet gaze distracting her from reality...

The night she met Stephon, he seemed wary of her bruised cheek like he knew who caused it. That same night, Tyree was murdered with a snapped neck that his autopsy report claimed was a clean break with no signs of struggle. Almost immediately after, Stephon cozied up into her life to replace him with his promise to protect her the way her husband never did.

Nyma heard a loud cry echo through the patches of darkness that did not sound like her own but she felt her vocal cords quiver from its strength, saw Jon in spots through that darkness as he held her to his cool chest in a hug that did little to comfort her or muffle her sobs.

"I'm sorry," Jon repeated softly from far away before he pulled her to her couch a few feet away. Nyma's chest heaved with heavy, stuttering breaths as she tried to blink her teary ears to focus on her hands balled up on her lap, a technique she'd read ages ago that claimed to help quell panic attacks. Yet as Jon reappeared with a glass in his hands that her sights focused on then, she knew nothing would help unless there was a stronger substance in that glass besides the water he brought her.

He tried to sit down next to her once she took it from him, but then he seemed to think against it, staying upright as Nyma took a shaky sip of the water and nearly choked when another sob rushed from her throat. He grabbed the glass back from her to place it on her coffee table, his voice still hushed as he murmured, "Shit. I hate to drop this shit on you and leave. I really do. I wasn't supposed to come here in the first place, but it ain't sit right with me for you to be left in the dark 'bout all this."

Nyma glanced up at him and tried to hear him as a mild ringing in her ears threatened to mute him, but she'd heard enough. All she could do was nod and put her face in her hands as that darkness came to consume her, anyway, only able to kind of hear Jon as he hesitated to move before he quietly shuffled to her front door to let himself out.

In the long stretch of silence that passed after he left, Nyma felt frozen to her couch, her cries frozen in her chest, as her pale, brown skin became paler and cool as if her heart had at last, after so many mournings, froze over, too.

・・━━━━━━━━━━ ∞ ━━━━━━━━━━・・

Nine years earlier...

Red light poured through the dark nightclub, the strobes vibrating with the bass of DeJ Loaf's "Me U & Hennessy" as a beautiful, black woman vibrated her body with a sensual swirl of her hips on Jon's lap as he sat on the white leather sofa in his section. He forgot her name and he didn't bother to ask again, too gone off the Remy to care as he cared more about how the thick curves of her ass felt in his hands, watching how it bounced when she bent over to twerk for him.

"You gotta girlfriend?" she asked in his ear once she leaned back against his chest, her long braids spilling on him and her soft, cool lips grazing his skin and making him shiver with the need to feel those lips on his dick that tried to poke her through his jeans.

"Do it matter?" he asked back gruffly, his hands gruffly pawing at her ample breasts in her strapless dress before he sluggishly remembered they were not alone in this section, his boys and the girls they entertained surrounding them. Yet when the woman's delicate moan surrounded his ears, Jon suddenly didn't care to hear or see anything else if it wasn't her leaned over again, face down, ass up, so he could make her whine more of those pretty moans to him.

Yeah, he had a girlfriend at home but she was likely asleep at this ungodly hour of the night, giving him enough time to slip away and do what he pleased as he saw fit. He was a grown man, a strong-willed man, and with the brown liquor coursing through his veins, that strong will led him to the woman's apartment to fit himself inside her with her legs squeezed around his waist and his lips on hers as she let him sip more of her pretty moans as he made her cum.

When she moved her lips to his neck, Jon heard himself moan, too, and felt himself get lost in her tight, wet, and bizarrely cool depths and now her kiss as she found a spot on his skin to suck deeply.

"Goddamn, girl," he moaned again as he thrust even deeper, her odd temperature not hindering his climax creeping up on him, gripping her waist for support as she gripped his naked back with nails scratching at his skin. Her teeth gently scraped his throat where she kissed him, as well, before they nipped a little hard. He cursed again and again, louder, when she bit him harder, a white-hot pain unlike any he'd ever felt shooting through his body when his sloshed brain caught up to the fact that her teeth penetrated his flesh.

Jon tried to stagger up and off of her but she was all of a sudden strong and stronger than him, pinning him to her body as she sucked from his neck with such force he felt lightheaded instantly. His throaty, orgasmic cries spiked into gurgling cries for help as blood filled his mouth, blood that she licked from his lips when it spilled before she continued at his neck. He worked to tear himself away but it was futile as this random bitch had him trapped and, worse yet, he felt dizziness travel from his foggy head and through his limbs where his strength rapidly teetered off.

He had never hit a woman in his life but with his remaining consciousness, he tried to choke her and fight for his life—life that he felt swiftly drain from him and into her mouth, the sounds of her eerily satisfied moans resounding in his ears as every other sound and color in the room dissipated into haunting nothingness. Nothingness he didn't want to meet as it effortlessly swallowed him up against his will.

"Jon."

"It's Jon, ain't it?"

"Get up, baby. Please. Come to me."

He heard her voice beyond him somewhere in the nothingness, her voice that was not Imani's, not his girlfriend's, and he became desperate to cry, scream, and curse at it as if this was the afterlife, he knew he had been sent to hell.

It had to be hell if that woman, that fucking creature, was here, had to be with the distant screams he heard all around him, and yet he was awfully frigid, his body throbbing with the coldest chills and the sharpest pain that kept him frozen wherever he was, his strength still seemingly absent from his body that felt like ice.

Yet when he finally gathered the willpower to slant open his eyes, Jon saw the interior of her bedroom again. The same moonlight billowed through her lavender curtains. The same pearl-white fan that spun lazily from the ceiling. The same round lips attached to that woman, that creature, who stared at him strangely and made him want to run for his life, especially as those lips that were once moist with her red lipgloss now crusted over with flakes of dried blood. His blood.

But he could only move his eyes, eyes that hurt like hell to open wider in fear to take in the monster that greeted him to hell.

"Yes, you're dead. But not really. But you mine now, baby. I'm so glad it worked. I'm glad you're up." She lept from the bed to leave Jon paralyzed on it as his eyes struggled to follow her. Another freezing chill shook his body, the pain so excruciating that a whimper slipped from his throat yet stopped short of his lips that he couldn't open.

"You cold? That'll pass soon, I think. Then you should be able to walk again," she said with a toss of her hand in the air as she breezed out of her bedroom. She returned with the breeze, a speed Jon didn't truly recognize as speed but as her disappearing and reappearing with a young, lanky, white man, no older than 25-years-old, writhing in her arms, his screams sounding just like the ones he faintly heard when he woke up. And yet the woman put him to sleep, her hands snaking around his neck to twist and silence his agonized cries like they never existed.

Jon wanted to cry from the horrendous sight and the cruel sound...but something about the way the man smelled made the pain in his body throb with new intent—not just pain like he was injured, but pain like he was starving.

"You need to drink. That'll help you heal faster. Here." She was at her bedside in the blink of an eye, holding the man like he weighed nothing, gripping him by his short, blond hair as the rest of him tumbled to her carpet, shoving his exposed neck up to Jon's lips.

Thick tears dotted his eyes as he realized she wouldn't do to the man whatever she had done to him, leaving him for dead and making those tears seep from the corner of his eyes that he could only dart in every direction as he tried not to look at the man's jugular vein that seemed to call to him, tried not to inhale whatever that metallic, yet sweet scent was that still surged in that vein.

"Drink. Or else you'll die."

The woman pressed his neck to Jon's mouth, and he felt his gums sting with new teeth that achingly and slowly sprouted from them, teeth that he felt pinch his bottom lip before he reluctantly opened it. His strength gingerly returned only to carefully crane his neck for a better angle to taste the man, taste his blood, the peculiar and horrifying pleasure flowing into his mouth as his tears flowed down his cheeks, forcing a grunt from him as he let the blood slide down his throat.

"That's it, baby. Drink. He's all for you," the nameless creature cooed as Jon's eyes burned with bloody tears, his throat burned from the hot blood, and yet he could not stop. A silent prayer flickered through his mind for the man as he did not deserve this, he did not deserve his life and blood stolen, and yet Jon could still not stop, grunting and gulping and making himself full and sick even after he was certain there was not a drop left in him.

"I'mma get rid of him, feed, and come right back." She stood and hoisted his wilted corpse onto her shoulder and reached down to caress her fingers along Jon's bottom lip which was wet with blood before she said softly, "When I get back, I promise I'll tell you everything. Just know that I'll never abandon you and you can never abandon me...we belong together now, baby."

Her name wasn't Imani. The creature. It was Nika. The monster. She was his maker and he was her hostage. Three days and three nights passed since she made him over like her. A creature, a monster. He had regained most of his strength back by the third night and was able to flit around her apartment, his prison, his hell, like a moth trying to find the light—yet he was unable to leave when there was light outside, her heavy curtains drawn shut during the day that when he tried to open them, his skin sizzled like someone threw fire at him.

And he was unable to leave at night, Nika still much stronger than him, even as a newborn herself but with more time to grow into her new, cold body that possessed powers Jon felt trying to unfurl in his yet he fought it, fought his being, his lust for blood, only fighting to fucking get away from her back to his family.

His girlfriend left to fend for herself and their 3-year-old son, Jon Jr., left to worry about why Daddy never came home, left to wonder why he didn't care enough to call...never to know it was because he cared too much about getting his dick wet.

"You'll never see them again. You can't. You'll kill them on accident. Bet," Nika uttered when she blocked him from her front door. Then she approached him with her hands on his face, hands he shoved away with all his might that might as well have been to the wall the way she stayed planted to the carpet. She reached for him again, her nails digging into the skin of his cheeks as she whispered on his lips, "Forget 'bout them, baby. You mine now, Jon. I was so lonely but then God gave me you...and you got me. We'll never be lonely again."

Jon wasn't having it and wasn't going out with a fight, all the fight he willed in his muscles he used to break free of her grasp once more, ripping her door off its hinge before he flew into the black. The stars and moon twinkled above with no pity on him to hide his frantic bursts of speed he could barely control as he ran, only illuminating him as he prayed no one saw him, and that he didn't accidentally hurt anyone who got in his way, the aromas of their blood wafting from miles and feet away that tempted him to run to it instead of home to see his family.

"Jon!"

Nika wasn't far behind him, closing in, her bare footsteps, from being in too much of a hurry to follow him that she neglected shoes, barely touching the asphalt of the empty street, she was so fast. Faster than him. Surpassing him. Jon cried out as he led her right to his home and watched her sniff the humid air before she lept into it, his eyes bulging in awe and terror to witness her land on her feet on the third-floor windowsill that belonged to him and his family's apartment.

He had only a tremor of a heartbeat, an odd feeling when his soul, or what was left of it, shook with such fright as he dashed inside, not needing to smell the air to find his floor or differentiate Imani and Jon's blood as he recognized it as if he'd always known it, even smelling traces of his own blood in his son. Yet when traces of their blood littered the air, their blood-curdling screams hanging in it, as well, Jon kicked down his door to see perfectly in the near pitch-black living room Imani and her lifeless, brown eyes watching heaven as she lay broken on the tile floor, red pouring from her chest and glistening on the matte finish.

Nika crouched by her body among shards of glass and red, her hands smeared with it and her face with red tears as she shouted at Jon who stood with dread so heavy it nailed him in place, that same dread shouting at him, too, that he was too late, that his son had suffered the same as his mother.

"Jon! Look what you fuckin' made me do!"

"I told you couldn't see them again. I fuckin' told you!"

He was too shaken to speak, too heavy to move, too livid, too destroyed, too weary, too harrowed to do anything but listen to the silence that Nika filled with her laments for him and, somewhere in the distance, though he heard it like it was already here, police sirens.

"Jon, please! Come with me, please!"

Jon blinked and in that same blink, he saw himself cracking a leg off of the wooden coffee table behind Nika, watching it falter on its side before he cracked her spine with the shrapnel, watching her falter on top of Imani's body as her blood erupted from her along with her surprised gasp and shriek before he wedged it deeper and through her chest. He had no reason to believe it would work, no reason to believe vampire lore created by humans was nothing more than lore.

But Jon had one reason to yank the makeshift stake out of her back to flip her over to the tile and stab her again and again and again, her blood painting his face and her body ceasing to move from his first strike.

And as the police sirens and their tires screeched to a halt in front of his building where he heard the cacophony of screams, murmurs, and whispers, he fled the remnants of his home and his family, never to see again, with his one reason that he would never forget: He had no one. Nothing. And it was all his fault.

Present day...

The glass of Coke should have dripped with condensation as the ice had tried to melt in the warm room, yet Jon's cool hand around it kept his drink perfectly chilled before he brought it to his full lips for a tiny sip. He wasn't a fan of soda but water tasted worse. Coffee was better. And even though he was tucked away in a booth at a bar, he didn't care for the taste of alcohol, either.

He hadn't drunk in almost a decade, not since that night that ruined every night that followed it—every night that he spent alone with only the memories of Imani and their son, their faces, their smiles, their laughs, their screams, their cries, their last breaths.

The R&B music in the bar was quite loud but it couldn't drown out his thoughts that were always louder, always reminding him why he owed a great debt to humankind, the kind he had forsaken with his family as his original iniquity. A debt he paid with his duty as a seasoned vampire bounty hunter, the seasons growing warmer, then colder, all while he never grew older, but his bounty grew larger.

It was why he stayed stationed in University Park, a small, suburban neighborhood where he and his mates had slain the vampire that roamed it. He could sense the presence of a few others in the area, but they were well-hidden and well-behaved, causing his team to hit the road for the next hit...yet Jon had circled back as he still felt unsettled.

That debt he believed he owed personally to Nyma, especially after he shattered her world with the news that her friend, and likely lover, Stephon murdered her husband and left town without a word of it to her. The lie he created to deliver that news was one Jon regretted instantly, but he could not tell her the truth. Humans were not allowed to know of his and Stephon's kind. And their kind certainly weren't allowed to harm said humans.

Yet Jon knew he had harmed that human woman with his duties and his words, something that tried to shatter his heart. He sipped his Coke again and licked his lips, tucking his hands in his armpits before he rested his elbows on the glossy, wooden table and shook a bit, his denim jacket providing no warmth as his body underneath it was too cold. He didn't shake for any reason other than studying Nyma as she rose from her stool at the bar to walk in his direction. He didn't want her to see him, didn't want to have to lie to her again, but he felt the need to be here, to observe her.

His mates had already cursed him out from A to Z for bothering with "the mortal," blowing his cell phone up the last week he'd been in Texas, but he was thankful that even in their annoyance with him, they were just as loyal to him and didn't rat him out to the Leige, their bosses and central government of all vampires. Jon knew they could handle a few missions without him while he completed his own: Keep Nyma out of further harm's way.

Maybe it was because of her brown skin that shone similar to Imani's, even her afro coils the same density as they fell around her slender face. Maybe it was because of her soft voice that had a Southern twang to it that wasn't from this area, intriguing him and also worrying him as it slurred with her fifth shot of Hennessy. Or maybe it was because of her trying to order a sixth shot, one that the bartender poured for her when they should have cut her off, especially since Nyma seemed to be trying to drink herself to death as she came to this bar every night he'd been here to watch over her.

Jon watched her now as she struggled on her feet to the restrooms near him, but she did not see him, the shadows of the corner he sat in giving him a full view of the bar but very little of him. Not that she would have noticed him, anyway, the way she ran into the restroom door before struggling to open it, discovering it was locked, and wobbling her way back to her seat to down that shot that waited for her on the counter.

He sighed and shook his head, hating to see her like this, hating that this divine chaos was his fault. He didn't know this human, but he would get to know what it took to protect her from herself, from more of that divine and chaotic mess she was oblivious to. Then he would leave her the right way, not broken like the other day, but healed.

It was the very least Jon could do after devastating his home all those years ago and now hers, too.

With another displeasing sip of his soda, Jon glanced at Nyma from across the room before whipping out his phone from his jeans pocket to scroll through and look busy. He didn't have any active social media anymore or any contacts in his phone he could call besides the work-related ones as he lived to work and worked to live. However, he would be a liar if he said he didn't miss it, miss the simple life of texting his homeboys, posting pics on Facebook, and tagging his family in cute memes he shared on his Wall. The life he had before.

Jon simply thumbed through a Google newsfeed page, his eyes glossing over it all as he refused to scroll through his old apps that captured all the moments of his life before, apps he only kept as mementos as it was too painful to look at.

Instead, his eyes flashed to Nyma to look at her again as she hobbled down from her barstool a second time. He figured she was getting up to try the restroom one more time, yet when her deep brown eyes locked on his with curiosity, Jon slightly shook with that invisible chill to be caught.

He didn't know how he would explain to her that he, a friend of her friend that she had never met before earlier last week, was suddenly in a bar minutes from her home and staring at her off and on.

But as she made her way to him, their gazes still curiously stuck on each other, Jon discreetly sucked his teeth as he quickly thought of another, and unfortunate, lie to slither through them.

A lie to help her sleep at night. A lie to protect her. A lie to hopefully keep her alive.

Thanks for reading! 🖤

a/n: I promise you the next chapter is going to be a lot softer and sweeter cuz WHEW I know this one was a doozy. I appreciate you making it to the end! 🫶🏾

Tagging: @visionarymode @cyberdejos2 @thesamoanqueen @vebner37 @dreamsinfocus @fame-ass-ers @southerngirl41 @jeyusos-girl @nayys-world @msbigredmachine @purplehairgawdess @mohawkmama @po3ticb3auty @alyyaanna @murrylove @papireigns-05 @vintage-pvssy @bebesobrielo @urasunflower @seeingstarks @555sage @unfriendly--blvck--hottie @theninthwonder @tabletheofhead @venusesworld @ariieeesworld @sassginaswanmills @theglamclosetsl @baeusos @2-muchsauce @empressdede @woahdude9481 @leaderofthebadbitchbrigade @twocentuar @claymorexpunisher @alichesmi @eclectic-tee @brwnsugababe @joannasteez @whatdoeseverybodywant @puppetmastermya @caramelcleopatraa @femdisa (If you'd like to be added or removed from this series' tag list, let me know!)

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storiesforallfandoms · 1 year

Text

they forgot ~ corpse husband

word count: 2022

request?: yes!

“Corpse husband asks his S/O why they are upset two days before their birthday and they reply, "I just got a text from my parents saying to have a happy birthday today." ”

description: in which an early birthday text sends her mood on a downward spiral just days before her actual birthday

pairing: corpse husband x female!reader

warnings: swearing, shitty parents, some self hatred/insecurities due to shitty parents

masterlist (one, two, three)

I never liked my birthday. Cliché, I know. That’s how every sad story with a happy birthday ending starts.

I was a cliché from my high school days, too. I only had two friends, so “birthday parties” were always just the three of us in my basement watching the same movies. I tried to have an actual birthday party once for my Sweet 16. Only because my mother insisted upon it. Made me send out invitations to my entire class and decorated our house before leaving for the night so we could “have a real good time”.

No one showed up besides the usual two friends, and we ended up in the basement watching movies yet again.

That was another issue: my parents.

I know they loved me...in their own way, anyways. Most years we didn’t celebrate my birthday. Not how I would want to celebrate it, anyways. If it were up to me, we’d go out on the night of my birthday to one of my favorite restaurants and maybe have a board game night or something. Just be together as a family for my day. But that’s never how it went. My parents were always “busy” the day of my birthday. Mom made the mistake of telling me once that she forgot it was even my birthday and booked a day out with her friends. She didn’t ask if I wanted to come with them. If we ever did anything, it was usually whatever they decided with very little input from me.

I thought I was weird for disliking my birthday, until I met Corpse.

Corpse didn’t like his birthday either. When it came around the first time when we started dating, I didn’t make a big deal over it as he asked. I got him a gift and a cupcake with a candle in it, but that was it. He did the same for me - small gestures as to not make such a big deal over my birthday.

But, as time went on, Corpse started making a little bit of a bigger deal about my birthday. He’d order in take out form my favorite restaurant, make me dinner (once he also tried to make a cake for dessert), invited over a few of our friends once just to hang out for my birthday. I didn’t notice at first, and by the time I realized what he was doing, I was too happy to be upset. I was finally enjoying my birthday for the first time in...well...almost ever.

Until my parents dragged me back down to Earth.

I was getting ready for work when my phone chimed signaling I had gotten a text. I ignored it at first, figuring I’d answer whenever I finished getting ready. But when it went off a second time, just moments after the first, I figured it was important. I picked up my phone and the screen lit up, displaying two unread texts from my parents.

“Happy Birthday sweetheart. We hope you have a wonderful day.”

“We love you very much and we are so proud of you.”

It would’ve been a really sweet series of messages if it weren’t for the fact that my birthday wasn’t for another two days.

I sat down on the edge of mine and Corpse’s bed. I kept re-reading the texts until they burned into my eyeballs, the words “Happy Birthday sweetheart” standing out every time I blinked, until welling tears washed the image away.

I thought things were different. I thought I was actually becoming someone worth celebrating, or at least worst remembering my fucking birthday. But if my own parents couldn’t even be bothered to remember when their only child was born, how could anyone else be bothered to remember or care about me?

“I thought you had work.”

I jumped at the sound of the deep voice I usually loved so much. I hadn’t heard Corpse come out of his editing room. It had been another night of Corpse’s fucked up sleep schedule keeping him up from sun down to sun up. I had gotten used to our sleep schedules often conflicted, especially when my work required me to wake up semi-early in the morning. I guess I had momentarily forgotten he wasn’t in our bed while I was getting ready for work.

I quickly wiped my eyes and shoved my phone into my pocket. “Yeah, I do. I got distracted, I guess.”

I stood and made my way out of our bedroom, pausing only to give Corpse a quick kiss. I mumbled a “Goodbye, love you” as I exited our apartment, leaving before he could notice I was upset.

~~~~~~

The day passed in a blur. I couldn’t stop thinking about the text. I hadn’t responded, which didn’t trouble my parents too much. Part of me hoped they would realize their mistake if I didn’t respond and would apologize for mixing up the dates. But that never happened. They didn’t text me back at all. Didn’t even acknowledge that I hadn’t responded. They probably hadn’t even noticed.

I couldn’t wait to get home and crawl into bed and end this shitty day. If I was lucky, Corpse also would’ve forgotten my birthday and we wouldn’t do anything to celebrate the day I was once again dreading the most.

Corpse was laying in our bed, re-watching Death Note for the hundredth time. I kicked off my shoes and shrugged off my jacket before getting into bed with him.

“I can’t believe you started without me,” I teased, trying not to let my upset show in front of him.

“There was nothing else to watch,” he responded.

“We have Netflix, Disney+, and Hulu, but there was nothing to watch?”

Corpse put a hand over my mouth and shushed me. I giggled and rested my head against his chest. I was starting to feel somewhat better after the day I had had.

He moved his hand from my mouth to my back and started running his fingertips up and down my spine. “How was work?”

I made a grunt sound in response. “It was okay, I guess.”

“Only okay?”

I shrugged. “Nothing especially good or bad happened. It was just a day.”

His hand ran from my back to my hair. I shivered from the cool feeling of his metal rings against my skin, leaving a tingling feeling in their wake. His fingers tangled through my hair as he started to play with it.

“What’s on your mind, honey?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I responded, although it didn’t come out very convincingly.

“You’ve seemed upset since before you went to work. Did something happen this morning?”

Tears started to prick my eyes again. Corpse always knew when something was wrong. It was like he had a sixth sense about when I was upset, and he wouldn’t let up until I talked about it even a little bit. It could be annoying since I was so used to just dealing with my upset and sadness myself, but it did always help me to feel better when I talked to him.

Corpse paused the show and moved so he could face me. He wiped away the fresh falling tears with his thumbs. “What happened, baby?”

“M-My parents,” I sniffled.

That was really all he needed to hear. Corpse knew about the relationship I had with my parents. He had only met them once and decided that was one too many times for him. His once soft gaze at my sad face immediately darkened when I told him. “What did they do?”

“They...they sent me a text this morning,” I said. “Two, actually. Wishing my a happy birthday and telling me they love me and they’re proud of me.”

His brows furrowed in confusion. “But...your birthday is...”

He trailed off as I started to nod. The dam officially broke within me and I began to sob. Corpse quickly pulled me to him, burying my head in his chest and allowing me to cry into his shirt. At least he loved wearing black clothing so it wasn’t like I was staining the material with my sadness.

“Th-They couldn’t even be bothered to remember,” I said. “All these years I thought...I thought I was finally becoming important enough for other people to even...remember the day I was fucking born.”

“Of course you’re important enough.”

I shook my head. “Not important enough for my own parents to remember my birthday. My own fucking parents, Corpse! They were fucking there when I was born! You’d think, of all people, the person who popped me out of her fucking vagina would remember what day she did that. But she doesn’t, and she’s never given enough of a fuck to remember that day and make it special for me. Never! So why would anyone else care that much about me when my own parents can’t?”

Corpse pulled me away from his chest and looked down at me. He wiped the tears from my face again, gently running his thumbs under my eyes and down my face to catch the tears.

“I care,” he said. “I have since the very first day that I met you. If you hadn’t told me that you didn’t like your birthday, I may have thrown you the best party I possibly could just to celebrate you.”

I couldn’t help but let out a shaky chuckle. “You hate people.”

“I love you, though. And if you wanted a party, I’d try to give you a party.”

I shook my head. “Everything you’ve done for me since we got together is more than enough.”

“You say that, but to me it feels like it’s far from being enough. Your birthday is one of very few days that I actually want to celebrate throughout the year because you are something I want to celebrate. I don’t know what I’d do if I never met you.”

“Probably be doing the same thing you’re doing now: watching Death Note all night until you fall asleep at 5am.”

He chuckled. “Okay, yes, but I wouldn’t have someone to do that with me. And that’s what means the most to me. Since I met you, I haven’t felt as alone as I once did. You make me feel so happy, (Y/N). More than I think you could ever know.”

I could feel my eyes welling up again, but this time it was happy tears. I leaned forward to kiss Corpse, before pulling away to wipe my face again. Kissing someone while you’re crying, or while your face is still wet from crying, can be slightly awkward. Not that I thought Corpse would’ve minded at all.

“You make me happy, too,” I told him. “I’m glad I found you, and that we’re building this life together and starting our own family. Well...our found family.”

“One day it’ll be a real family. Whenever I start feeling better.”

I took his hands in mine and kissed them. “I can wait. As long as I have you.”

He eventually coaxed me to lie down with him again and pressed play on the show. I tried to stay awake to watch it with him, but after working most of the day and having cried a number of times, my eyes were feeling very heavy. I had to fight against my eyelids to keep them open, but it was a losing battle. At one point I had even managed to drift off to sleep for a few seconds before a sound on the TV caused me to jolt awake.

Corpse chuckled. “Do you want me to turn it off so you can sleep?”

I shook my head. “No, that’s okay. I don’t mind listening to it while I fall asleep.”

“Falling asleep to Death Note. And I thought I was fucking weird.”

If I had the energy I would’ve playfully hit his chest. Instead, I just grunted and turned into him more.

I felt his chest vibrate as he chuckled again. “Goodnight, baby. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I mumbled before finally drifting off to sleep.

#corpse husband #corpse husband imagine #corpse husband x reader #corpse #corpse imagine #corpse x reader #youtube #one shot #imagine #request #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom

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