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Barón Tovar Takes a Wife

Third Movement (Presto agitato)

11K / Bridgerton AU Regency!Pero Tovar x fem!reader, a childhood best friends to lovers story

Summary: What do you do now that you realize you have feelings for the Barón?

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Pining and Angst. Semi public kissing, groping and sex. Someone comes in his breeches 🤷🏻‍♀️. F!oral, fingering, thigh riding, unprotected PiV. Pet names (spanish), Pero catches reader and gives her a little twirl once.

A/N: I'm sorry for the word count 😅😅 I feel like the pacing of this final part is kind of like season 1 of Bridgerton where it was like 5 episodes of flirting and then SMUTSMUTSMUT 🤭🤭 Just wanted to give our Spaniard and his Dulce a HEA, that's all! Please please correct my Spanish!! Google won't be offended! Thank you for reading along and hope you're looking forward to Season 3 of Bridgerton next week!

Series Masterlist

The following morning you wake to your ladies’ maid gently shaking you and a massive headache. Barely able open your eyes, so puffy from crying, you’re sure you gave her a terrible fright. After asking for and drinking some water, you try using the cool glass to depuff your eyes and alleviate the pounding in your head, but no difference is made; you continue to feel positively awful. Daphne comes into your room at the behest of the maid and immediately sees you’re much too unwell to entertain visitors today; it’s an easy decision to send all your suitors away and have them come back when you’re better. When you start to apologize for causing a fuss, she immediately shushes you and insists you get rest - she will have the maids bring up some soothing tea. You lay back down, exhausted, and drift off in the middle of telling her how much you love her.

---

Pero steps into Bridgerton House just as several young men are leaving; as they brush past him, he spots Colin speaking with a maid in the main foyer.

“Tovar! It’s been ages – how have you been?” Colin beams when he sees his friend.

In truth, Pero is here to see you; he can’t quite get over the look of distress on your face when you left him last night. Not for the first time, Pero silently curses Lord Ridlington for having sent over women to his house unsolicited last night, his apparent idea of a prank. Leaving the women to themselves in a waiting room, Pero had been discussing with his butler the next course of action when you had surprised him beneath his window. After you left, he made the proper arrangements for the women to leave discreetly, and had gone to bed thinking of you as usual.

“I’ve been well, thank you. Hope things have been going well here? Have today’s suitors started their visits earlier than usual?” He gestures to another three men now descending the stairs and making towards the exit in an orderly line.

“No, my Lord,” the maid explains, “Miss is ill today. Her suitors have been sent away and asked to return when she has recovered and is ready to receive visitors again.”

“Ill?!” How could you have taken ill when he just saw you? Instantly Pero admonishes himself for having kept you standing outside last night - the night chill must have disagreed with you. “Please,” he begs, “take me to see her.”

The maid looks panic stricken. Surely this Spanish nobleman must understand the impropriety of a man being let in to the bed chambers of an unmarried woman.

Colin diverts her attention, “Marie, it will be okay. Barón Tovar is an old family friend of the Count’s. There is nothing improper afoot. The door will remain open and you and I shall both be but a step away.”

With Mr. Bridgerton’s assurance, Marie the maid leads the two men to your door and opens it wide before stepping back to wait outside with Colin. Pero walks into darkness, the curtains still drawn to help you sleep and ease the pain of your headache, but your magnetic pull leads him to you with no issue.

Kneeling by your bedside, Pero says your name softly, but you do not stir. He goes to push aside some hair that’s fallen across your forehead and is alarmed when it feels hot to the touch; using the back of his hand to check your forehead and cheeks, he finds you clammy and feverish. Shouting for Marie, both Colin and the maid rush in to Pero’s call, “Please find the Duchess! Her friend is running a fever and a doctor needs to be called. And please bring me a basin of cold water and a clean washcloth at once!”

Daphne rushes in minutes later to find Pero dabbing your forehead with the wet cloth that Marie procured, “Oh no! I saw her this morning and knew she was unwell, but I did not think to check for a temperature!”

Shaking his head softly, Pero entreats the Duchess, “Do not blame yourself, your Grace. Likely this morning she was not feverish when you saw her. Please, has a doctor been called?”

The Duchess nods tearfully, grateful for Pero’s kind words and feeling a kinship with this man who clearly shares her tremendous concern for your well being.

When the doctor arrives, Daphne stays in the room and gives Pero a nod of reassurance; he leaves begrudgingly though he knows you are in safe hands with the Duchess. Hovering impatiently never more than a step away from the door, Pero breathes a sigh of relief when he overhears the doctor say that your temperature is no longer increasing, and that if kept cool and comfortable, your fever should easily break over the next day or two. He vows to ensure both conditions are met to the best of his abilities until the moment you awake.

After the doctor leaves and Daphne has gone in search of a servant to fetch your father, Pero stays by your side, continuously stroking your hair gently and dabbing your hot skin with a cool cloth. Every time Daphne passes by the open door of your room, she looks in to find Pero watching over you, brows furrowed, eyes full of concern and worry. Sometimes the Duchess will see Pero’s lips moving, speaking gently to you - though she never hears the words he says, she can tell they’re heartfelt. It becomes crystal clear to her that two weeks ago she had simply asked the Barón the wrong question; instead of “Do you intend to court her?”, she should have asked Pero: “Do you love her?” The answer obvious.

Pero never leaves your side, not when the Bridgerton women visit, or even when your father comes. He just tucks himself into the corner of the room until their visits are over, as if afraid to leave you. When it’s just him and you alone, he tries his best to make sure you’re comfortable, arranging your blankets nicely and propping up your pillows so that your sleep is restful and serene. He requests that cool water and clean cloths are at his constant disposal, and makes sure to dab your face, neck, and decolletage at consistent intervals in order to keep your temperature down. And while he does so, Pero continuously talks to you, encouraging you to get better, coaxing you back to him.

He calls you carino, hermosa, princesa, mi reina, mi amor, and all the other endearments he doesn’t ever let himself call you save for in his head. He lavishes you with compliments and words of praise that he's never allowed to slip past his lips - how perfect you are, how sweet and smart, that he doesn’t know anyone else like you and that your cheerful demeanor and melodic voice are the only things that can ever make him smile. He tells you how he hasn’t smiled as much as he has since he reunited with you at the Danbury ball in years. He confesses that every time he holds you while you dance, he has trouble letting go when the music ends, and when he sees another man take your hand and spin you around the room, he has to hold himself back from physically stepping in and pulling you back into his arms. He tells you that he finds you beautiful and intoxicating, and describes every last inch of you that he can’t stop dreaming about, but lingers the longest in his description of your eyes and the richness of expressions they make that leave him breathless. He tells you all these things because if he doesn’t say them out loud, he thinks he will burst from having to hold his feelings in all the time. He tells you these things because he knows you will never hear them.

As the doctor predicted, the fever breaks late the following day and you start to stir shortly after. Blinking your eyes open slowly, they come into focus to your father’s worry lined face and you watch as it cracks with relief, “Welcome back, dearest. How do you feel?”

Not sure you can trust your voice right now, you give your father a small smile and nod when he says he needs to get the doctor. In the few minutes you have alone, you try to get your bearings; the last thing you remember is waking to a terrible headache and falling back asleep after Daphne told you she would be sending your suitors away. You swear you have vague memories of Pero’s voice and soft touch, but that couldn’t have been real. Pero. Oh. You remember now the reason for having woken up before feeling empty and sad, but you don’t have too long to linger on it because your father returns swiftly with the doctor.

After declaring you well on your way to a full recovery, the doctor leaves you with your father; the Count, looking like the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders, hugs you tightly and clasps his hands tightly over yours, “I am so glad you are better, dearest. Now, will you please tell your suffering father what is troubling that heart of yours?”

You’re shocked. How could your father know about your feelings for Pero when you only realized them a few nights ago? Your surprise must be written all over your face because the Count gently explains, “My dear, in the entirety of your life, you have only ever had such a fever twice, both times due to crying yourself sick from heartbreak. The first time was when you were a young girl and I read you The Little Mermaid - the ending saddened you to tears. The other was when we were leaving Portugal and I didn’t let you keep the stray puppy you had been feeding for a month. This is how I know something ails your heart terribly. Please. Tell your father so he can help you.”

Your heart swells with affection for your father - he has always been the most loving and caring man, attentive to your feelings and understanding of your nature. There is no one on this earth who you trust so whole heartedly and with whom you feel so safe. Except for Pero, you suddenly realize.

You tell your father everything. You tell him about how Pero lets you be yourself without reservation, and that with him you don’t need to temper down your enthusiasm for your interests or make your experiences seem smaller than they are. How he encourages you in everything you do and makes you feel like you’re capable of anything and everything. He respects you and approaches you with kindness, always making you feel safe and taken care of. That he makes you laugh all the time. And that you’ve taken Pero and his wonderfulness for granted, not realizing just how rare and valuable all his amazing qualities are because if you had you would have figured out earlier that you’re completely in love with him. You cry softly and confess to your father that your heart is broken because you’re in love with a man who will never see you more than a childhood compatriot, and that you may never get over this sad truth.

The Count listens to you sympathetically, and when you’re finished, he simply tilts his head thoughtfully and asks, “How do you know he does not care for you in the same manner?”

You can hardly tell your father that you snuck out of Bridgerton House and interrupted Pero when he had company over, so you have to cite another reason you’re so certain of how Pero feels about you. But you find yourself struggling to come up with any concrete examples or reasoning that satisfy even yourself; all you can say is, “Because he wishes for me to find a husband. He encourages me to do so. I’m simply the daughter of his father’s friend.”

Something like bemusement dances over your father’s face, “It seems to a me that a man who thinks of you as simply the daughter of his father’s friend would not have purchased my shares in the fleet.”

You’re absolutely stunned. Pero purchased your father’s shares? But why? There was no inherent income from the investment, the dividends benefitted you and your future children only, “Why would Pero do that?”

“You will have to ask him yourself, dearest. It shouldn’t be too long before he visits himself now that he’s likely heard you’re awake. He had not left your bedside for nearly two days and it was only at my insistence that he let me sit vigil so he could go home and change his clothes.”

Again, you’re astonished; is it possible that your vague recollections of Pero’s voice and gentle touches while you were ill are real?

“I will say, when I asked him the same question of why, his answer was that he did not want the hard work you and I put into our happy venture to be squandered. He said he knew that would break your heart.”

It’s true, it would.

“With his experience, I know the fleet would be in good hands.”

Nodding, you have to agree.

“… and you would be in good hands.”

You look up to see your father looking at you with an expression you can’t quite place. You’re about to ask him about it when you hear a quiet knocking and you look over to see Pero standing in the open doorway, as if you had summoned him with your conversation.

“My apologies, I do not mean to interrupt. I thought I heard your voice and wanted to see if you were awake,” Pero looks tired, but hopeful.

The Count waves him in and gets up, whispering in your ear, “Be kind to him, dearest. The man has been in anguish and has not left your bedside for more than a few minutes these past two days.” Kissing you on the cheek, he tells you he will go and find the Duchess to give her the good news of your recovery if the doctor has not yet done so himself. After he pulls away, you notice for the first time that your room is filled with peonies, every flat surface covered with the most splendid displays in the prettiest pastel colours – your heart soars at the sight. When Pero takes your father’s place in the chair across from you, neither of you notice that the Count closes the door behind him.

“Dulce, how are you feeling,” asks Pero with as much feeling as you’ve ever heard from him.

You tell him you’re much better, and that although no one has said so explicitly, you suspect that much of your recovery is due to his diligent care and watch over you.

“It was nothing, Dulce. I was worried about you. I am glad you are okay now,” he says, relief evident in his voice.

“Thank you for taking care of me. I really don't know what I have done to deserve your kindness, Pero. And not only these past two days when I’ve taken ill, but over the entire course of this season – I do not think I have ever properly thanked you for being there for me, supporting and encouraging me, and bringing me such peace and joy so that I did not buckle under the pressure of my debut. Please allow me to do so right now. Thank you, Pero,” you look at him with adoration and admiration, pouring all your feelings out and disguising them as simple gratitude.

“It has been my absolute pleasure, truly. I am so very proud of the woman you have grown up to be: beautiful, smart, funny, and so, so very caring. You are one of kind, Dulce – and the lucky man who marries you needs to know just how special you are. There isn’t anyone else who has your vibrant spirit, your sweet disposition, your fun-loving heart. He needs to know and nurture all these wonderful qualities so that your light never goes out,” Pero espouses your virtues and merits with eyes fixed upon yours, wishing he could express just how deep his admiration truly runs.

To say you’re affected would be an understatement, and it makes you bold and brave.

“Pero, I cannot tell you how much your kind words mean to me. I have never known a man to be more genuine and earnest that you; when you say something, you mean it. I find you so very thoughtful this way. And in other ways as well – I know, for example, it must have been you who filled this room with my favourite flowers.” Pero nods indulgently and you carry on, “… and I know you purchased the shares in the fleet from my father. Thank you, Pero.”

Pero is surprised, although he had not asked the Count to keep the sale from you, he didn’t expect you to know already.

You’re looking at him with an expression he won’t let himself name, eyes soft, almost pleading, “Why would you do something so generous, Pero?”

Pero remains quiet, as if wrestling with how he wishes to answer and you wait patiently, not sure what to expect.

“The owner of the shares has custody of a great gift. The fleet is an impressive venture - it has potential to do considerable good in this world, and much of that is thanks to you and your father’s dedication and contributions – the holder of these shares cannot squander that opportunity; he needs to honour you and your father’s legacy by carrying on the good work you’ve started together. But that in and of itself is not the gift. The man who holds these shares is also given the gift of being able to take care of you, to have a small hand in ensuring a prosperous future for you and your children. I… could not take the risk that someone who did not understand the honour of this charge would hold these shares. I hope you can understand and not think it imprudent of me.”

You don’t know what to say. Pero is so generous and considerate – how could he ever think you would view his gesture as anything but deeply caring? Unsure of your silence, Pero attempts to lighten the mood, “This way, I can still be in your life. I can come to see you when I need to discuss matters of the fleet.”

“Pero, you’re my friend! You do not need to have a business pretense to see me.”

He shakes his head sadly, “You will be married, Dulce. Your husband would not like a man like me visiting his wife frequently.”

“A man like you?” you’re not sure what he means.

“A man who looks at you the way I look at you.”

You inhale sharply, hardly allowing yourself to breathe, “And how do you look at me, Pero?”

“Like you are the sun, Dulce. Like everything you touch is made brighter and better from the light of your smile and the warmth of your sweet laugh. As if under your care and attention, everything and everyone, including me, grows – stronger, brighter, better. I look at you like I dream about the graceful notes of your voice every night and wish to hear your melody of thoughts and opinions on all things. I look at you like I am hypnotized just by the sway of your hips and even the lilt of your fingers. Everyday, I’m ever more enchanted with the tilt of your head and curve of your mouth. I look at you like I could never get enough.”

“And what if I don’t want that?”

“Then I will stay away, mi reina. Anything you wish,” though crushed, Pero knows that he would do whatever you asked.

“No, Pero, you misunderstand. What if I don’t want a husband who does not want you looking at me like that? What if I want you to look at me like that? What if I do not want a husband who isn’t you?”

“Dulce…” Pero’s heart has leapt into his throat, he can hardly allow himself to believe what he’s hearing, “… you do not know what you’re saying. You would not want me for a husband.”

You smile kindly, “And why not?”

Pero looks at you so sadly it breaks your heart, “You would not wish to separate from your friends and leave England to be mistress of a lowly Barón’s estate in a foreign land where you know no one and do not speak the language. Not when you have suitors with much grander fortunes, with estates nearer to your friends, and where you and your children would grow up in the style befitting the daughter of a British Count. You would not want a husband who is never home and spends more time on the seas and in far off lands than he does on home soil; one you never see and for whom you would worry all the time, not knowing where he is or what he is doing.”

“Would you not be willing to take me with you on your travels, Pero?”

“Of course, I would,” Pero never second guesses his answer.

Heart still aflutter at Pero’s romantic declarations, you press ahead, determined. “Well. It seems then that no one would be better suited to be my husband than you! You must know me well enough to know that I do not care for grand fortunes and estates, and my dear father and now you have made sure that I will never be financially dependent on any husband. What I care for is freedom and adventure! And exploration and not being kept from the joys this life has to offer because I am a woman, or just somebody’s wife. As for my friends, I can always visit! And I am fortunate enough that the strength of our bonds is not dependent on having to see each other constantly. Honestly! This would not be the first time in my life I have gone to live in a foreign country where I do not speak the native tongue – it’s practically second nature to me now! But I can see how it would be useful to be able to fluently converse with servants and locals - I suppose I would just have to commit myself to learning Spanish. That is,” you’re suddenly embarrassed upon realizing that Pero hasn’t actually asked you to be his wife, and instead, you’re espousing all the reasons you find the match to be agreeable when he himself hasn’t expressed any desire for it, “if you would wish to have me.”

“Dulce, all I have done since the moment I laid eyes on you at the Danbury Ball is wish to have you. Do you know how hard it was for me to see you entertaining all those suitors when I was certain none of them could ever appreciate you for even half the wonderful person you are? None of them had any idea what a smar-“

You crash your lips to his, and after the initial surprise, Pero kisses you back with the fervent need that’s been building in his soul the past few months. Throwing your arms around him, you open your mouth to his just as his hands pull you flush to his chest; it’s the warmest, hungriest first kiss to have ever been kissed. Your mind having only recently caught up to your heart, and Pero’s constrained feelings finally being set free, your tongues press together over and over, spilling all the unspoken words between the both of you. On instinct you fist Pero’s shirt and pull him down with you onto the bed, Pero’s eyes darkening as he climbs on top of you, placing one knee in between your legs while keeping the other on the ground. You finally run your hands through his soft curls and it feels as incredible as you had imagined two nights ago; you both moan softly at the sensation.

“Dulce, you make the prettiest noises…”

You purr softly at Pero’s praise, leading him to groan deeper into your mouth and you feel the hand that isn’t braced on the pillow next to your head start to skate up your side, landing near your breast and tentatively drawing circles on the underside of your plush curves with its thumb. You arch into Pero’s hand to encourage him to touch you, and he responds as he always promised he would if he had the chance which is to give in to your every desire. Groping your breast and finding your nipple between his fingers, Pero rolls and pinches so expertly that you can’t help but writhe beneath him. He shifts to kiss down your neck as he continues his attentions on your peak and when his knee brushes your throbbing centre, you gasp loudly before covering your mouth with your hands. Still breathing heavily, the two of you giggle and smile stupidly at each other in the tender moment. Pressing his forehead against yours, Pero whispers, “Mi reina, we should stop, I still need to ask your father for your hand. Tomorrow, I am sure he will come here for breakfast and I will ask to speak with him after.”

Looking deep into is eyes, you nod; you know Pero’s right, though there’s a warmth radiating from your very being that wishes to invite scandal and tell him to never stop touching you, knowing by the way he’s making you feel right now that it would be worth it.

Not without regret, Pero pulls himself off of you and stands; after he helps you sit up, Pero tips your chin with his finger so you look at him squarely. A seriousness takes over his face, an expression he usually reserves for others, “Are you sure you want me, mi amor? You have so many suitors, so many options.”

Your eyes shine with sincerity and so much softness for this man that does not seem to understand just how much you love him. You vow to spend the rest of your days showing him, “There are no options when there’s you, Pero.”

You can’t help but shriek a little in laughter as Pero falls on you and crushes his lips to yours, pinning your body to your bed with his large and solid frame. Kissing you over and over, Pero punctuates his affection with barely strung together words of love - So perfect. So perfect. Can’t believe it. How. How did I get so. Damn. Lucky. Beautiful. Perfect girl.

Right before your giggles can turn into moans, a knock on your door freezes you both. The noise is quickly followed by the Duchess’ slightly amused voice, “Is everything okay? We have brought up dinner. Please let me know when it is decent for us to come in.”

Giving you one last peck on your lips before chuckling lightly, Pero pulls you up and whispers, “Tomorrow,” before going to open the door for Daphne.

The next morning you find Pero waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs when you come down. Checking quickly to make sure there aren’t any lingering servants, you step off the third to last step and fling yourself into his arms. Pero catches you easily and gives you a twirl before placing you gently on your feet, then places a less gentle kiss to your lips. With a few hurried murmurings of devotion - I missed you. You look beautiful. I still can’t believe you’re mine - you break apart and head to breakfast.

When the two of you enter the dining room, you’re greeted exuberantly by your friends congratulating you on your recovery and expressing their delight that you’re well enough to rejoin them. Your father hugs you and you think you detect a knowing smile gracing his face, but you’re too soon seated with platters of food being offered and pushed towards you for you to be sure. It’s a happy occasion but also slightly awkward – you’re seated next to Pero, but you have to pretend that nothing has changed between the two of you. Trying to cheerfully chat with your father and friends, you find yourself unable to give the conversation your full attention because you trying with all your might to hold in the most wonderful news of your life, and with it, your overflowing happiness. It doesn’t help that Pero finds increasingly mischievous ways to secretly touch you throughout breakfast: foot reaching over to playfully nudge yours, gently squeezing your thigh under the table. When he purposefully brushes his hand down your arm and over yours in order to reach for the butter dish, you gasp in surprise - his touch out in the open sending a warm thrill through to your heart. In response to your friends’ concerns, you have to lie and say you may still be feeling fatigued, and Pero, ever the menace, pats your shoulder affectionately and reminds you not to overexert yourself before buttering his scone with a smirk.

After your father finishes his meal, you nervously watch Pero hastily shove his last piece of food into his mouth before asking the Viscount for use of his office, and entreats your father for a word. Finishing your own breakfast as quickly as you can without drawing suspicion, you find your way to the closed office doors and pace outside impatiently. Try as you may, you cannot make out any of what is being spoken in the office, even when you press your ear up to the door. After what feels like an eternity, the door opens and Pero exits; not the least bit surprise to find you outside, he whispers in your ear as he walks by, “Your father wishes to see you now, Dulce.�� Come find me afterwards. I will be upstairs writing a letter.”

The Count welcomes you into the office with open arms and you immediately fly into your father’s loving embrace. As he continues to envelope you in the warmth of his joy, he chuckles, “Well, dearest, I think your old father deserves some acknowledgement for being right.”

Pulling away from him, you look at the face that’s so much like your own, eyes crinkled in mirth and a smile big enough to rival yours, “I concede, Father - you were right. And I have never been so happy to have been wrong!”

Your father’s already expressive eyes shine with an extra brightness, “All I have ever hoped for is your happiness, my dear. Pero is a good man, like his father before him and he has given me every assurance that he will cherish and take care of you the way you deserve. I shall rest easily knowing that you will be in his capable hands… and he in yours.”

What did you ever do to deserve such a brilliant father who has given you the most wonderful life? You ponder this as you walk up the stairs after telling your father that you love him and saying goodbye for the day. You suspect you’ll never discover a satisfactory answer, but can only hope you can one day bestow the same unconditional love and support upon your own children.

You find Pero sitting at the corner desk in the drawing room where some of the Bridgertons are relaxing: Eloise and Colin reading, Francesca tinkering at the piano forte, Daphne looking over some correspondence of her own. Approaching him silently, you look over his shoulder and whisper, “Mi rey, to whom are you writing?”

Smiling at your Spanish endearment of choice, Pero responds without looking up from his task, “I am writing my king, Dulce, and asking him for his permission to marry.”

Ah right, you consider that the Count could very well be penning a similar letter to the queen at this same moment, “What happens if he refuses, Pero?”

“Then I abscond with my new bride and we live like pirates on the run,” smiles Pero, still not looking up.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” you grin.

Pero finally sets his soft gaze upon you, “Nothing can be so bad if you are by my side, mi reina.”

He looks at you with such devotion and affection, you can’t help yourself - you cup his perfect face in your hands and bend down to kiss him. Pero returns your soft, gentle kisses with his own, nothing urgent, nothing hurried – just a moment of tenderness that couldn’t have been restrained.

You don’t break apart even when you hear the successive gasps of your friends or even when Colin cheers, unable to part from Pero’s lips even a moment sooner than you need to. When the two of your finally look up, it’s to the sight of the Duchess standing with her hands on her hips and a beaming smile on her face, “Do you two have something to tell us?”

You and Pero attend all of the remaining season events as a happily engaged couple. Pero, no longer scowling all by his lonesome against the wall, but standing tall and proud next to you; his hand laced through yours or comforting and firm on your lower back as the two of you receive congratulations from the ton. He drinks in the jealous looks from your former suitors and inwardly chuckles a little at the conceding grumbles from the mamas who proclaim with surprise that they didn’t know he had been looking for a wife. His stoic countenance cracking just a little at their poorly concealed scandalized faces when he replies that he hadn’t been. For your part, you don’t notice any of this; you only have eyes and ears for Pero. Your face hurts from smiling so much – it’s all you can do to tear your eyes away from your handsome fiancé in order to respond politely to the questions you receive from curious members of the ton.

You still dance every dance, floating on air as you traverse the floor in the strong arms of your dashing Spaniard; now that there is no danger of some other man whisking you away from him for the next dance, Pero quite enjoys the dance floor. He holds you closer than he probably should, chests touching and faces so close that the gentle fan of your breath curls over his lips; his hands find themselves placed low on your back during the waltz, dipping scandalously close to where he really wants them to be, itching to squeeze the plush globes of your ass. If anyone was to make a comment to you about it, you would giggle and simply say that your fiancé is a passionate man.

And he is. A passionate man, that is. Under his grave and steely visage, Pero is a man who yearns for and craves the woman he loves, hungry for you at all times. Such a man is not made of infinite restraint - the limits of Pero’s self control having already been sorely tested for the past few months. As such, whenever an opportunity to escape the rigid formality of these events would arise, Pero wasted no time whisking you away for himself.

At the Grand Picnic, he steals you away to a secluded spot in the gardens where he proceeds to kiss you so fervently and passionately that you actually get dizzy. He presses you against the base of some winged sculpture and hungrily licks and sucks down your neck, all while you cover your mouth with your hands, hoping against hope to contain your moans and soft whimpers. The stone angel watches from its perch as Pero trails his mouth down past your collar towards the swell of your breasts, already rapidly rising and falling. Pressing feather light kisses to the tops of your breasts, Pero drinks in your breathy giggles when his scruff tickles you, before diving in devilishly, lapping at your ample curves and the valley in between. As you start to pant from arousal, Pero finds himself most ardently wishing that your tits would break free of their fine silk confines and spill into his mouth.

A la mierda, he thinks and glides his tongue into the sliver of space between your dress and skin, dragging it across your chest until he hits your hardened nipple; having found his prize, Pero dives in, straining with his tongue to stroke your peak harder and faster. When he leverages enough space with his chin to wedge in between your soft skin and the fabric of your dress, Pero takes your breast into his mouth and sucks while groping your other breast with his hand, finding the twin nipple already straining against your gown, aching to be played with. The combined sensation has you grabbing at Pero’s hair and pressing him closer to you; with your hands now otherwise occupied, your gasps and moans spill unfiltered from your open mouth. The obscene sounds Pero pulls from you must start to carry, because soon you hear voices getting nearer to where you and Pero have now frozen, his mouth buried in your chest; he places one last chaste kiss to tops of each of your breasts before the two of you giggle and run hand-in-hand out of the gardens.

At the Opera, Pero secures a box on the second mezzanine for the two of you. With most of the ton preferring the orchestra seats or boxes closer to the stage, you find yourselves alone in the secluded alcove nearer to the house balcony. Once the lights dim and the overture starts, Pero takes your hand in his and you lean on his shoulder, relaxing into his closeness. By the time the audience is enjoying the soprano’s heart-breaking aria in the third act, Pero has his left arm thrown around you and the knuckles of his right hand are ghosting over the front of your panties where he finds them already damp from want.

“Keep your eyes on the stage, Dulce,” he whispers in your ear as his thumb draws slow circles over your clit. You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out, trying with all your might not to let your whole body react to Pero’s teasing lest it draws the attention of the opera house attendees sitting on the balcony or in the boxes on the opposite side of the hall.

Pero is patient. And thorough. He takes an inordinate time exploring the shape of your pussy - running his thumb then fingers over the outline of your slit and the hardening form of your clit, eventually cupping your mound and letting you grind down on his palm to give you some of the friction you so desperately seek. He toys with you over the fabric of your underwear for the remainder of the 3rd act until your panties are completely soaked through. Only once the 4th act is underway does he slip his hand down the front of your underwear and start to run his forefinger through your folds.

“Pero…” you sigh, spreading your legs wider to allow him more freedom of movement.

“Doing so good for me, mi amor,” he whispers back, continuing his smooth, teasing strokes, dragging your sticky arousal through the valleys of your seam and trailing it up to your clit, spreading it over and around your bundle of nerves before returning his fingers to your wet core. He repeats this over and over, alternating the speed and pressure of his fingers, never letting you settle into a complacent state. Quite the opposite – you feel like your body is on fire.

Willing yourself to breathe through your nose as evenly as you can, you focus on the soprano’s finale song before the ensemble gathers for the finale; just as the singer hits the high notes of her solo with a warm vibrato, Pero pushes a finger straight into your heat and you whine in harmony with her. Slowly he pumps his finger in and out of your tight hole, nearly losing control with the way you clench as he drags along your warm warms; Pero feels you hum around him as pleasure you’ve never felt before radiates throughout your entire body. The squelching sound of Pero working your cunt are thankfully masked by the musical drama unfolding on the stage, and Pero uses the opportunity to ask you if you’re ready for another.

Seeing you nod as subtly as you can, Pero murmurs, “Good girl,” before adding a second finger to join the first. Oh. You’re so full. It’s a stretch, but the sting pairs perfectly with the devastating pleasure now coursing through your veins as Pero slowly drives his fingers into you. Staying with a slower pace until you start dripping down his wrist, Pero’s fingers now start to thrust faster, keeping tempo with the musical build that the ton in the orchestra is enjoying, clueless to your lascivious activities above them.

When Pero presses his thumb to your slippery clit, you surge forward and grab onto the balcony banister for stability, nearly in danger of drawing the attention of unwanted eyes. Refusing to ease up in his efforts on your cunt, Pero continues to push you closer and closer to your high, his fingers never faltering from their punishing pace until you come and cry out in tune with the finale’s final chorus. While the rest of the audience applauses when the curtain falls, Pero’s praise is only for you - purring that you did so good for him and kissing you gently as his slips his slick covered hand back into his glove.

At the Hastings Ball, you’re the one feeling bold. Having arrived at your friend’s estate a week prior to help the Duchess with preparations, you familiarize yourself with the grounds and all the intimate, secret corners perfect for intimate, secret things. Once all the guests have arrived and the festivities have begun in earnest, you sneak off with your fiancé, leading him down a hidden staircase into the Duke’s impressive wine cellar. With all of tonight’s refreshments having already been pulled from inventory, you know no one will be coming down here during the ball; you’re free to touch, feel and love on Pero in all the ways you desire. Once Pero realizes the amount of privacy you’ve been afforded, he’s like a dog unleashed, stalking and cornering you into a wall with a growl, sniping at your neck with his teeth and lips, pawing at your soft curves already on display for him in your pretty ballgown.

Here in the cellar, while you still cannot be loud, but you don’t have to be quiet – the cavernous room echos your quiet moans and Pero’s deep grunts like a soundtrack of pleasure that’s percussed by heavy breathing as the two of you drown in one another. Lips attached to yours, but eyes kept open to take in your lustful expression, Pero spies an unopened crate out of the corner of his eye and smiles against your mouth, “Come here, Dulce. Let me show you something.”

After letting him lead you to the crate, you allow Pero to help you on top before scooting you back so your legs no longer dangle over the edge. Grinning, you ask playfully, “What, pray tell, do you wish to show me, Barón?”

“Want to show you how I’m going to make my pretty wife feel good every day we are married,” Pero looks at you, eyes dark, as his starts to ruffle up the many layers of your dress. You giggle as his pushes through the yards of fabric with a feigned annoyance, bunching it up for you to hold against your chest like an overstuffed pillow. Once Pero is satisfied with his unfettered access, he gently pushes you to lean back on your elbows, hands still laid prettily on your pillow of dress skirts, eyes watching your handsome fiancé’s movements. Pero leans over the edge of the crate and rubs your silk stocking covered calves with his big firm hands as he starts kissing up your leg starting from where your stockings end mid thigh. Every kiss he leaves on your skin gives you a shiver as the cool cellar air hits the imprint his lips leaves behind; then, as he gets closer to your heat, he starts to open mouth kiss where you’re the most sensitive, dragging his tongue back and forth over these tender spot and leading you to throw you head back and close your eyes in heady desire. When he repeats this fog inducing pattern on the inside of your other thigh, you start begging, “Pero, please… please, my Lord, ple-pl-please!”

Nipping at your sensitive flesh with his teeth, Pero smirks against your leg, “What do you need, mi reina?”

Opening your eyes, you nearly buck into his face when you see Pero’s roguish expression peeking up at you from between your wide spread legs, “Touch me please, mi rey.”

“Here?” he asks, with pretend innocence before he dives in and starts devouring your pussy over the fabric of your underwear without waiting for your answer. This feels different. So much like his fingers but even more sensual, intimate, wild. Pero mouths and nuzzles your cunt with a precision only rivalled by that of his tongue; his tongue has a mind of his own, gently prodding, exploring, reaching where his lips can’t. Pero's hands reach up your legs and hook under the band of your soaked panties and you catch him look at you before he murmurs “May I?” directly into your cunt. The vibrations of his question run through to your chest and it’s all you can do to nod quickly before you watch him pull the frilly undergarment down your legs and have them drop to the ground. Already completely wrecked, Pero takes in your glistening folds, wet and primed, and growls, “Look at this perfect pussy. And she’s all mine.”

You run one hand through his soft curls and grip his hair so he’ll look at you, smiling lazily, already unbelievably blissed out, you promise, “All yours.”

“Mine,” Pero repeats, and then he buries his face into heaven.

The sensation is overwhelming in the very best way. Pero is eating you, no, devouring you like a man starved; every press of his lips to your pussy somehow deeper and hungrier than the last, as his tongue licks every crest and wave of your core and marks them for his own. Your slick pools from you, down your backside and dampens your gown beneath you; the wet noises from Pero’s mouth against your folds echo obscenely around you and your voice cannot help but try to add in its own harmony. All of this makes you feel like a worshiped goddess about to ascend her alter and simultaneously like a wanton whore who knows that true heaven lies in the bodily pleasures of this mortal realm. Then, as Pero’s mouth closes over your clit and he starts to flick your throbbing nub with his tongue, you realize in your daze that no, what you are is something better than either of those two things: you’re the woman who is marrying Barón Pero Tovar. That’s the thought that overflows from your thumping heart and pushes you over the edge, coming on Pero’s face as you chant his name in a grateful prayer.

After the Ball, you’re positively exhausted from purposefully overdoing the socializing after returning from the wine cellar so no one would recall your long absence. Yawning, you’re giving your hair a final brush when you hear a soft clink against your bedroom window, followed shortly by another, then another.

Confused, you approach your window with slight trepidation, and upon looking out, you think at first that your tired eyes must be deceiving you. Below your window, gazing up at you, is Pero. He looks devastatingly handsome; yet to undress – Pero is still in his formal breeches, but his white shirt has been unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, exposing his smooth, tanned skin to your admiring gaze. You might lick your lips at the sight. Giggling as you tiptoe down the stairs, you walk out onto the terrace that hangs off the sitting room directly below your bedroom, greeted by Pero’s blinding smile, “Barón, what are you doing here?”

It's an easy climb up the side of the wall to the terrace level for Pero and his long legs; once he’s standing directly in front of you, he answers, “I could not sleep without seeing you one last time, Dulce.”

Where did this man who adores you so openly and without reservation come from? You throw your arms around his neck and pull him in for a gleeful kiss; you adore him too, after all.

Still grinning, Pero jokes, “And as I recall, it is my turn to call upon you in the dead of night from beneath your window in order to rouse you from the comfort of your bed chamber.”

Although he has no such intent, Pero’s words immediately transport you back to the night you realized your feelings for him… and how you had left his house, devastated upon the discovery that he was not alone. Stilling in your movements, you shrink away from Pero a little; none of this goes without notice.

“Dulce, are you okay? I’m sorry, I did not mean to imply there was anything wrong with these late-night meetings, but if you prefer to go back inside, I understand.”

You shake your head to let him know you’re not upset by that, but still your expression remains slightly sad and hurt. Pero bends at the knee to meet your eye, “Mi amor?”

You’ve never lied or kept anything from Pero in all the time you’ve known him, and now that you’re his fiancé, you’re not about to start. Looking at the ground next to you, you mumble, “I’m sorry, I was just remembering the night you’re alluding to; when I interrupted you… with those two women.”

When Pero doesn’t answer, you wonder if he’s upset with you for having disturbed him that night, and you look up to meet his eye finally, trying to give him a brave smile, “Please do not be upset with me. I did not know you had company, which would have been entirely your private business, to which I know I am not entitled. But if I must be honest, I do not particularly enjoy imagining you with other women.”

Pero has to stifle a laugh; if only you understood the war that raged in his chest every time a suitor placed his hand on your waist for a dance or when you would laugh at their jokes with that twinkle in your eye he loves so much – then you would not feel as if you had to hide these feelings from him.

Stroking your jaw gently, Pero tips your face to his, “Dulce, I could never be upset with you. Firstly, you are entitled to all my business, private or not. Secondly, the women to which you refer were not there by my invitation – Lord Ridlington had sent them to my house that evening as some sort of prank. In his words, maybe if the Barón got laid, he would not be such a stick in the mud. Nothing happened with those women, I promise, mi amor. When you arrived, I was right in the middle of arranging for a carriage to take them home. And thirdly,” Pero walks you backward until your back hits the wall; he braces an arm above your head, and towering over you, grips firmly onto your waist with his other hand, “how could I ever even think of another woman when there is you? You with your pretty face, and your sweet smile, and your heavenly laugh. You with your witty quips, and your melodic voice that says the smartest things, and this gorgeous body…”

Pero’s voice trails off as he starts to kiss down your neck and his strong hands start to move up and down your sides in unison, then separating so one can reach up to massage your breast and the other down to grope your ass. Your head tips back to allow Pero more access as you melt into his touch - he’s everywhere at once, overwhelming all of your senses. Kissing down to your breasts, Pero finds them available to him in a way he has yet to experience, your thin night dress much flimsier than the gowns you wear during the day; he can already see your nipples poking up through the fabric, hard and inviting. Without warning, he ducks and takes one in his mouth, teasing and sucking in tandem with your loud gasps and moans.

“Oh Pero, right there, oh- nghhh, please that feels so good!” you cry out breathily. Spurned on by your praise, Pero frantically rucks up the skirts of your nightgown and slots his thigh between your legs, pulling you down to sit. The pressure and friction on your cunt sends a wave of pleasure through you, amplified and extended by Pero’s tongue and lips laving their attention on your breasts. He encourages you to rock against his thigh, using his grip on your waist to help you find an enjoyable rhythm, and once you’ve found one that catches your clit on the flex of his leg, his hands leave you to your work and travel up your body to pull down the front of your night dress, exposing your tits to the cool night air and Pero’s darkened gaze.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, as he leans back to admire everything before him: your naked curves, your hardened peaks begging for his attention, and the sight of the woman he loves getting off by rubbing her pretty pussy all over his thigh. He thinks he’s minutes away from combusting.

Instead, he dives right into your chest, mouth and tongue licking, kissing and nibbling, hands groping, pinching and pulling all your delicious parts so that he can bring you to your second orgasm of the night. While tugging at your nipple with his teeth, he hisses low, “Were you jealous, Dulce?”

Half out of your mind from pleasure you gasp back, “Yes!”

Growling, “Good,” Pero sucks in a mouthful of your breast and kneads what he can’t fit into his mouth with his hands, panting out words when he should be taking in breaths of much needed air -

Now you know how I felt.

When some other man would touch you.

When you would smile at your suitors.

When you didn’t know I would burn the world for you.

You cry out at his confessions, gripping the back of his head and pulling him closer to you still; increasing your rocking, you’re chasing your own high when your knee brushes up against something hard, something big. When it jumps at your touch, you use your knee to stroke Pero’s length with every pass of your pussy over his thigh.

Your breasts now wet from Pero’s mouth, the cool night air’s chill against your skin causes you to tighten in Pero’s arms as he continues to electrify you with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, his words -

Never need to be jealous ever again, Dulce.

There’s only you.

Never want anyone else.

Don’t need anyone else.

You’re my everything.

Mine.

You come to his loving and possessive declarations, singing back your own - Yours, yours, yours. Body violently seizing and shuddering, Pero holds you close as you ride out your high. As you continue to buck against him, he crests to your desperate whimpers and breathless panting – his eyes never leaving your face, mesmerized by the sweet blissed out expression that he pulled from you. Finally opening your eyes, you grin lazily at the sight of your lover smiling at you, calming down from his own summit; and when you feel the dampness of his trousers against your bare knee, you giggle in pride and pull Pero back to you lips for a flutter of happy kisses. As he walks you to the door to the waiting room, you hardly give him a moment without a light peck on his lips, cheeks, neck – not sure you’ll be able to stand being apart from Pero for even a few hours of sleep.

Before he leaves you, Pero cups your face in his large hands, whispering against your lips, “I’m yours,” and you smile back and press your mouth to his before returning, “Mine.”

You marry at the end of the season in late June with the blessing of the Spanish king to do so in England. The ceremony itself is wonderful and your gown is gorgeous, but you hardly remember anything save for how handsome Pero looks waiting for you at the end of the aisle and how he and the Count both had tears in their eyes for most of the wedding. What you remember much more vividly is the fun you and your friends had when preparing for the nuptials. Days and nights filled with laughter, play fighting over flower arrangements, tearful promises to never let distance impact your friendship – you thank the Bridgertons over and over for their love and support during this season and bringing you to Pero; you can never repay them. When you board the ship to your new home, it’s not without tears as you say goodbye to your friends and father; everyone sends you off with mirroring sentiments and promises to visit soon.

If the Tovar estate servants had any concerns or misgivings about having a foreigner as mistress of the house, you soon win them over with your kind and gentle nature; your cheerful and easy-going demeanor overriding any language barrier, which with their help and your dedication, you were overcoming more and more every day. And if there were any remaining whispers, be they among the members of the Spanish court, villagers, or any one else, they were quickly quieted once the concerned party bore witness to the ferocity of your love for your husband and his obvious and complete devotion to you. The older house staff observed quite readily that they hadn’t seen the Barón smile as much as he did since he was a boy. The newer servants declared that prior to his marriage, they had not seen him smile at all.

One morning, only two months after landing in Spain, you wake to find yourself alone in bed for the first time since you and Pero got married. Deciding it unnecessary to ring for your ladies’ maid (Lucia, a delightful woman whose English was improving as much as your Spanish), you throw on a dressing robe over your night dress and pad downstairs, sure you’ll find your husband in the dining room having breakfast.

As usual, you’re right; for a few minutes you remain standing in the doorway, admiring your handsome hulk of a husband as he shovels the remainder of his breakfast into his mouth. You love the way he eats… everything - with voracity, unabashed hunger, like he can never get enough. Strolling in only when you see him push aside his empty plate in favour of a pile of letters and paperwork to begin reading, you thank the footman who had already seen you and plated you a warm breakfast, before you approach Pero’s chair. Dancing your fingers across his broad shoulders, you slide onto your husband’s lap before laying a soft morning kiss to his lips, “Buenos días, mi rey.”

“Buenos días, mi reina,” Pero kisses back, turning his full attention to you as he always does.

“Te echo de menos esta mañana (I missed you this morning),” you pout, although you’re not really upset with him in any way.

Pero smiles at you indulgently, “I thought you might like to get some extra sleep.” He nuzzles your ear and you can hear him smile, “Considered you might be tired after your activities last night, Baronesa.”

You giggle and pull him in for another kiss, your cheeks get hot just thinking about the multiple orgasms that Pero pulled from you with his talented fingers, mouth and cock; you purr back and pepper his scruff with kisses, “Very thoughtful of you, Barón.” Your eyes soften, “No me gusta despertar sin ti, Pero (I hate waking up without you, Pero).”

Pero kisses your temple, “My apologies, Dulce. How can I make it up to my pretty wife?”

You squirm in his lap; a thrill still runs through you when you hear him refer to you as his wife, and you start to plant breathy kisses to the spot right behind his ear that you know drives him crazy.

“Already? Is my wife so insatiable?” chuckles Pero, though his voice his has dropped to that low baritone register that makes your stomach flip. You nod into his neck and start to run your fingers through his soft curls, tugging impatiently at the ones at the base of his neck.

“Déjanos por favor (leave us please),” Pero calls out politely. The servants in the dining room leave at once and close the doors, some smirking - all the servants having gotten used to their master and new mistress’ voracious appetite for one another. The younger servants were mainly amused and some even found it romantic; the older servants acting scandalized, but secretly pleased to see such a happy marriage on the estate after so long.

“Sit up here, mi amor,” Pero pulls you off his lap gently and directs you up onto the dining room table; you move his papers aside and push his flatware out of the way. Teasing him, you quip, “I thought you already had breakfast, my lord?”

“I’m ready for seconds,” growls Pero as he pulls up his chair and seats himself between your legs. Licking his lips greedily, he unties your robe and peels it open to reveal your lacey nightgown underneath. Lifting up the skirt to reveal your already wet and waiting naked cunt, he murmurs, "Delicious," before lowering himself to meet you where you already need him so desperately. Aware that you might still be sensitive from the previous night’s sex, Pero is careful with you – his licks and strokes to your folds are gentle and slow, he mouths and sucks your clit with tenderness and reverence, and when he presses two, then three fingers into your tight hole, he does so with restrained worship. It’s only when you cry out for more, more, more, that he quickens his pace and fully presses his mouth to you, tongue tangling with your sensitive bud before nibbling it between his teeth. Your moans and debauched sounds of rapture have never been restrained in this house, your house – and you come with a desperate and enchanting scream befitting the blinding pleasure now electrifying your body.

Kissing up your nightgown and planting loving open mouth kisses to your breasts before letting you taste yourself, Pero licks into your mouth and whispers, “Te amo, mi reina,” before standing back to unlace his pants.

Your mouth waters as you watch your husband free his cock; no matter how many times you’ve taken him in your hands, your mouth, your cunt, you’re still in awe of its size and the things that Pero’s length can do to you. Whenever you feel the stretch of him entering you, you always recall the first time and how gentle he was as he pushed in. When you remember the tenderness in his voice and face as he made sure you were comfortable, putting your pleasure before his – your heart always blooms with overflowing love for this man. How did you get so lucky? Pero would of course always say that he’s the lucky one, and then show you just how deep his affection for you runs by thrusting with intensity, punching that spot inside that makes you see stars, over and over – the exact way he’s doing so now. “¡Cómo te amo, Pero!” you whimper again and again, and by the way he continues to drive into you, you know he believes you. Folding himself over you so that he can bury his face into your neck and nip at the delicate spot at the base, Pero's pants and groans have you arching your back and fisting his hair just for something to hold on to lest you float away.

“I’m close, Dulce. Come with me,” Pero growls, snaking a hand between your bodies and finding your clit with ease. Drawing quick circles over your swollen nub, you feel the coil beneath your belly tighten and tighten until it snaps and you throw you head back chanting your husband’s name as you fall over the cliff. Not far behind, Pero’s pace falters before he spills into you with a long and low grunt in your ear that shoots straight to where you’re joined as one.

Weak, limp and perfectly satisfied, you let Pero pull you into a sitting position and kiss him deeply and sweetly as both of your breaths start to even, the heaving of your chests slowing in unison.

Forehead resting against yours, Pero catches your still dazed eyes and gives a small nod towards the papers that had been pushed aside and forgotten, “Dulce, I’ve been charged with accompanying His Majesty’s naval fleet to Naples, Italy. Would you join me?”

Smiling because you know he already knows the answer, you nod, “Of course, mi amor. I’ll start making the necessary arrangements today.”

Pero tilts his head, eyes soft and reassuring, “Are you okay with leaving? We will have only been home for a few short months.”

Cupping your husband’s face in your hands, you gaze adoringly into his eyes, “My home is where you are, Pero.”

Pero closes his eyes and pulls you flush against him, with him still softening inside you, you’re as close as two people can be. He tips your face to his and whispers, “You’re my home, Dulce,” and all you can do is sigh in unsurpassable happiness as he presses his lips to yours once again.

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#pero tovar #regency!pero tovar #bridgerton au #pero tovar fic #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar smut #pero tovar series #pero tovar x you #pero tovar x f!reader #pero tovar x reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #no y/n

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starsonthewalls · 3 days

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(never) a question of trust | Batman

"Do you trust me?" Always, Jason doesn’t say. I never stopped, Jason doesn’t say. I want to, but I’m scared and I don’t know how even you can fix this, Jason doesn’t say.

Part of my Writing Wheel Challenge; this was a fill for Whumptober 2021 Day 4: Trust Fall that I... haven't really touched since, until today.

Tags: Bruce Wayne & Jason Todd, Good Parent Bruce Wayne, Self-Sacrifice, Stab Wound, So Much Medical Inaccuracy (for maximum angst), Ambiguous Ending

- • - • -

Bats were notorious for planning. They did their best to cover every eventuality, to make contingencies for every situation gone awry. A Bat-led operation was an operational thing of beauty, with layers upon layers of back-up plans with their own back-up plans. While no plan survives first contact with the enemy, or so the saying went, the Bats’ collective skill and talent for strategy and tactics meant that more often than not, even when things went wrong, they were ready for it.

But there were always exceptions. It was just Jason’s luck the latest exception fell on his latest op.

He’d been so careful too, and so uncharacteristically cooperative– or so he’d thought, at least. And look at what his latest attempt at working with the Bats had gotten him: a brand-new stab wound in his side, a concussion, several other minor wounds, and backup scattered across the city chasing after red herrings.

The next time Dick or Tim ran after him babbling about teamwork and trust and other stupid things, Jason was going to stab them and see how they liked it.

“Please don’t make plans to stab your brothers in front of me.”

Oh and of course, the cherry on top of the cake–

(Wait. That felt like the wrong metaphor…)

“Do you mean cherry on top of the sundae, or icing on the cake?”

Both? Both were good. Or either.

Batman snorted– because that was the icing on top of this particular cake of catastrophes, that of all the Bats that could have come to his aid like he’d planned, the only one who actually managed to make it was Bruce.

Bruce, who tensed and ducked moments before a barrage of bullets flew through the space they’d been just moments before. Jason was grateful not to be a pincushion, don’t get him wrong– it was just hard to express that gratitude when his side lit on fire and it hurthurthurt–

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry chum, just give me a moment.”

Jason’s pretty sure he blacked out for a few moments, because the next thing he knew, Bruce was laying him against a cold, hard surface and pressing against his gut. Jason writhed, clenching his jaw to avoid screaming, because ouch–

It felt like an eternity of pain, each second stretching into infinity, though Jason knew it was probably a lot shorter than that. But eventually, Bruce leaned back on his haunches, a terrible look in his eyes. Jason took one look at his eyes and knew.

He chuckled wetly. “That bad, huh, old man? Time to cut your losses.”

“Jason–”

“No, look,” Jason swallowed. “I– we had– have– our differences, but the others still need you. So you need to get out of here, B.”

“Jason–”

“I know what a fatal wound feels like, B,” Jason snapped, a little sharper. His heart was racing a little faster already, and he hatedhatedhated it, because things had just started to get good. Sure, he and B still weren’t on the best of terms, but he’d mended bridges with Tim and Dick, and he had bonding-sparring sessions with Damian, and Babs let him join her and the girls for movie nights in the Clocktower, and he had tea-time with Alfred every Thursday.

It sucked, because he’d just started to be happy again.

“Jason!”

“What?!”

It was kind of funny, Jason thought hysterically, how even while whispering and avoiding detection they somehow managed to end up (whisper) screaming at each other. Kind of went to show how good his chances were of ever getting back on good terms with B–

"Do you trust me?"

Everything stops.

It’s a loaded question. There’s a million scenes flashing behind Jason’s eyes, from Befores and Afters: the Pit, the Tower, Bruce’s Death, Jason’s reconciliation with the family, all of them stretching out before him and flashing out within the space of a second and–

Always, Jason doesn’t say. I never stopped, Jason doesn’t say. I want to, but I’m scared and I don’t know how even you can fix this, Jason doesn’t say.

“I thought we weren’t asking stupid questions,” he says instead, voice hoarse. There’s the slightest twitch in the corner of Batman’s- no, Bruce’s- lips as he completely breaks character, shoulder slumping ever-so-slightly as he runs a hand over Jason’s hair. Jason’s breath catches in his throat- both from the tenderness and vulnerability in Bruce’s eyes and the pulsing of the gunshot wound in his side.

“You’ll be alright, son,” Bruce says softly, clipping a small emergency beacon to Jason’s vest.And then he stands, and Jason watches, speechless with horror as the Batman- the world’s greatest detective, one of the best strategists and fighters alive, his father- walks outside the room and deliberately yells for attention before leading their pursuers away. - • - • -

A/N: You know that scene in Kung Fu Panda 2 where Po's mom leaves him in the turnip box and then leads the wolves away. That's this scene :DDDD

#batfam fanfiction #batfamily #jason todd #bruce wayne #m's writing wheel challenge #no beta just vibes and an hour of writing before i force myself to post whatever i can

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irate-iguana · 1 year

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Screaming and sobbing as I think about Lear’s “come, let’s away to prison” speech opening with four “no”s, which parallels the next time he speaks, when he opens with four “howl”s.

#sorry if this is really obvious but i just noticed it #help i have shakespeare brainrot and i cannot escape #this terrible old man is making me Feel Things (pain)#shakespeare #king lear #original post #esmer says things

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netherfeildren · 8 months

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My Whole Life : A Fear of God Story

(Joel Miller x OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary: The family celebrates Joel's birthday.

Content Warnings: Fluff and smut (like the fluffiest fluff ever); Miller Family Fun; Joel being overrun by wild little girls; Dirty old man & inappropriate groping; Established relationship; Joel Miller is a Wife Guy; Competence kink; Breastfeeding; Lactation kink; Oral sex (M! & F! receiving); Come eating; Pregnancy kink; Size difference; Daddy kink; Possessive behavior; PIV sex; Ass play; Romantic anal :) ; Body worship; Dirty talk; Pussy slapping; Over stimulation

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Happy happy happy birthday to our bestest and most beautiful old man. This might just be some of the most ridiculous shit I’ve ever written, and it’s all for him :)

Word Count: 9.8K

Read on AO3

MY WHOLE LIFE

And you’ll always love me, won’t you?

Yes.

And the rain won’t make a difference?

No.

Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell To Arms

He’s still asleep. Laying on his side, bent elbow tucked beneath his smushed cheek, messy curls strewn across his pillow, overly long and floppy against his forehead. It’s time for a haircut, but he’s been distracted and busy lately, evading your managing fingers and scissors. The quilt is pulled up high over a thick shoulder, and that soft, full mouth is slightly parted, the near silent whistle of his breathing passing through each exhale. You close your eyes and listen for a moment. When you open again, you reach up to run the tip of your finger along the damp edge, and he puckers his lips slightly, mouthing at your exploration. Ah, awake then. You lean forward to press your mouth to his briefly, taking his breath into yourself.

Tell me you love me, you whisper the words onto his tongue.

“I love you, Birdie,” voice like falling stones; graveled, sluicing into your ears, eternally familiar. An everyday thing that’s a small miracle each time it’s whispered into the small shell.

“Happy Birthday, Joel.” And he finally opens his eyes, long lashes squeezing tight and spiky for a second before he blinks open, bleary with sleep. His half smile unfolds for you, slow and lazy, the lines around his eyes going deep and grooved, and your fingertips skim over the whiskered plane of his cheek, feeling the proof of his happiness around his eyes. Pulling his hand from beneath his cheek he reaches for you, skims the back of his hand down the front of your belly, undoing the buttons of his old, worn to softness flannel as he goes. Backs of his knuckles following again, skimming down the soft swell, dipping into your navel, and then sneaking around your waist to pull you into himself. Belly to belly he sighs deep and rumbly, closes his eyes again, nods his head just a smidge, settling back into the pillow. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

You know that if he could skip this day every year, he would. Sleep through the whole thing of it, erase it from history. You know that it’s endlessly painful, eternally terrible, and that even after almost three decades it never hurts any less. Five years now, you’ve been married, and you’ve tried to make every year as special as possible. Not necessarily peaceful, an unachievable thing in a house full of four loud and scrambling little girls, but always special, always infused with as much happiness as you can give him.

The sallow purple light from early dawn seeps in through the sheer blue curtains over the wide bay window of your bedroom, and as he presses you to him, the course hair of his chest and belly rubs against the skin of your own stomach, your overly sensitive breasts, full and extra tender from nursing. You’d made his gift extra special last year, your last baby, little Connie, now nearing six months old.

“Another one?”

“Well, baby, that’s what happens when your husband can’t keep his dick in his pants.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he sighs, head falling back on his neck as he runs his palm over his mouth, two fingers tucked into his belt. Dad pose.

“We’re getting a nanny, Joel. Someone to help us – you go out there and find anyone, I don’t care who. There’s too many of them, we’re being overtaken. And we can’t keep asking Ellie and Dina – they’ve got JJ now, they’re busy too. You’ve saddled us with a whole kindergarten here because you can’t seem to stop getting me pregnant,” voice hitching with equal measures of anxiety and happiness, and an overabundance of hormones and love.

He sidles up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist to hug you tight to his chest, one of his hands coming up to squeeze your full, heavy breasts gently, you gasp, extra sensitive already. He coos right into the soft shell of your ear, “Poor Birdie. S’just so fun makin’ ‘em baby. Can’t help myself.”

You roll your eyes at him even though he can’t see, and you kind of want to claw at his face and rip all his clothes off, all at the same time. This is all his fault. All of your sense gone out the window, can’t get pregnant while you’re breastfeeding, as if you didn’t know better. Too desperate for your husband to be more careful. And now look at the two of you…

Your ass perks up, grinds back into his already growing erection, fucking beautiful, he murmurs with his forehead resting on your shoulder to look down at you, palming your ass. His hands sweep over you in an arc, skimming the soft dips and contours of your skin.

Then shyly, head tuning over your shoulder to press your temple to his forehead, “Are you happy?” Because you still just need to make sure, you still just need to hear it.

“You’ve never given me the option to be anything else but, my love.”

He’d gotten up in the middle of the night when he’d heard her fussing, bringing the baby to you still half asleep, cuddling her tiny, pink form against his naked chest, so that you could nurse her back to sleep. He’d sat at the edge of the bed, big hand cupped at the back of your skull as he’d looked down on you feeding his child from your breast, the look in his eyes like nothing you’d ever imagined before him. The birth of your children had infused a sense of tenderness, an intimacy so acute it brought tears to your eyes if you thought about it too much, into your relationship that had made the two of you closer than ever. More in love with each other than you’d ever thought possible.

The memory of your parents was worn and faded with time, but you remembered they’d always approached each other with a sort of comfortable respect. Never ones for overt displays of affection or physical intimacy. So you’d never expected that the love of a man like Joel Miller, stoic and reserved and brusque, could be like this; an overwhelming sort of thing, scalding and suffocating in a way you needed.

His hand skims back to your chest, undoing the rest of your buttons to get at the warmth of your breasts, rough palm gently, gently cupping the full weight. The dry abrasion of calluses catching at your sensitive nipples, handling you with such care. A low rumble in his throat, eyes still closed, “Gimme another kiss, little bird. It’s my birthday,” he whispers before sliding forward, taking your mouth with his. He starts off slow, a soft brush of damp lips, before he takes your upper lip between his, pulling gently, his hand moving back and down now, cupping your lush bottom to pull you up and into himself. Your hands flutter over his chest, still after all this time, easily overwhelmed by the heat and feel of him. You never want it to end, you never want it to lessen.

The sex is still filthy, but everything else is pure.

You can feel the hardening heft of his cock under his boxers between the two of you, and you skim your hand down the length of his soft belly, fingers tucking beneath the elastic to run the backs of your knuckles against the burning hot skin there, feel the tickle of his hair. He makes another one of those deep sounds, warm and masculine and smelling faintly musky from sleep, and you bring your knee up against his hip, pushing further into his boxers to feel the rapidly thickening base of his cock against the back of your hand, you brush the pad of your thumb there and his kiss becomes hungrier. Bringing his palm to the nape of your neck he rolls the two of you over suddenly, trying to take charge, licking deep and wet into your mouth, pressing his now full-on erection into your cupping palm. “Taste so good, Birdie. Is my little cunt wet and ready for me?”

“Joel–” you whisper, drawing your hand up to his shoulder to try and keep him at bay. His wet mouth moves down to your throat, cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples, settling more heavily between your spread thighs to grind his cock into your warmth. “We can’t,” you moan as his hot mouth pulls gently at your tit now, nipples dark and swollen. It’s been several hours since you’d nursed, and you feel the warmth of your milk as his tongue swirls around you. He groans, rough and hungry at the taste, bringing his knee up to lever himself over you, readying to rip your clothes off and take your cunt for himself, but as he moves to balance himself on one arm and knee while his other hand reaches for your panties, you press him off balance, dislodging him and rolling over as he goes, so that you’re left straddling the wide breadth of him. His eyes flash, provoked, and he jerks you forward, ripping the flannel off your shoulders so that your breasts are left bare and swinging heavily. With a rough grunt he bends his knees, shoving you up further on his stomach to wrap a big hand around your tit and bring it to his mouth. Mine, he growls, with your flesh in his mouth. He pulls on the taut peak again, another warm rush of your milk, his eyes locked on yours as he sucks from your nipple. It should be wrong, maybe it is, but like you’d said, the sex is still filthy, everything else is pure.

“We can’t,” you whisper, carding your fingers through the long locks of his messy curls, the strands cool and soft at the ends, but hot and damp at the roots. You can feel your pulse thrumming at your throat, the insides of your wrists, the back of your knees. The slide of your wet cunt against his abdomen has the heat between the both of you ricocheting up to a sweltering dampness, and despite your protests, you moan as his hands roll you against him. “They’ll be up soon and banging on that door, you know it. Ellie and Dina can only hold them off for so long.” The girls had spent the night, not only so they could be here for birthday breakfast, but so that the two of you could spend a few extra peaceful moments in bed without three raucous monsters climbing in with you.

“Don’t care – need you now.” He levers his head up off the pillow, following the swing of your breast until he can catch it with his mouth, teeth gently scraping across the bud. Joel, you whimper, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. He makes a self satisfied noise low in his throat, crushing you to himself and sucking hard on your skin, pulling a strangled moan from your throat. Trying to pull away, grabbing his marauding hands, you try to pin him down with your entire weight, small fingers clasping around the thick of his wrists and pressing them back into the pillows. The two of you pause to take each other in for a second, I love you, he mouths up at you, silent, eyes on fire. You can’t help the deep flush, trying to swallow your smile and shake your head at him in mock disapproval, pinning him harder. “That isn’t gonna work, little thing. Got the strength of a butterfly.”

“Shut up.” You lean forward, pressing your mouth to the thick bulge of his bicep, dragging your teeth across the swell. “You’re mine – I do what I want.” He gives you a soft, conceding laugh, and you press kisses along his shoulder, across his collarbone, letting the long tresses of your hair snake like water over his face, his chest, his stomach. Scooting down his belly to nuzzle at the springy hair covering his chest, little tongue darting out against his nipple, smiling at the sound of his soft gasp. Further, further down, kisses to his soft belly, thicker around the middle now, sympathy weight, he calls it. But he’s so strong, and so endless, and you need him so much. You wiggle between his legs, forcing him to spread his thick thighs to make space for you and nip at the sensitive inner slope there. Nuzzling his hairy limbs, you pause to look up at him, cheek resting there, feeling the restrained strength of his muscles. The two of you go quiet for a second, taking each other in, and there’s so much said in his gaze. He brings his hand to the crown of your head, cupping the small bowl of your skull in his palm, and smiles a little, a teasing crook of his eyebrow, and you can’t help but laugh, turning your face to hide your own smile in his thigh.

“What’cha gonna do, baby?” Hmm, he croons down at you, sliding his fingers through your hair. You sneak your fingers below the waistband of his boxers again, tugging them down to free the straining, thick cock and heavy balls. You press a barely there kiss to the skin just beside the base and watch as his length jumps, flushed head starting to leak. You give him another wry look, and he runs his fingers along the line of your jaw, up the slope of your cheek bone, hot touch following the wing of your brow. It’s all soft caresses and the sort of comfort that only comes from knowing another person almost better than you know yourself. You finally bend down and press a kiss at the tip, opening your mouth to let your tongue flutter along the soft, spongey curve. He lets out a long, restrained breath through his nostrils, fingers still roaming along your face, through your hair as you start to take him deeper into your mouth, levering yourself up over his groin so that he has a better view of your breasts and hair dragging over his thighs. A desperate groan, and you smile around his cock, you know him too well. You drag the flat of your tongue along the ridged base, a swirl around the fat head, his hand cupped at the nape of your neck. You can feel the pulse and throb of him against your tongue, and you moan around him, fluttering lashes tickling your cheeks, you want to feel that pulse at the core of you, deep where he owns you. “Yeah, baby,” voice soft and strained, trying to swallow the sound of his own pleasure in the hollow quiet of your still sleeping home. “Hum a little song around daddy’s cock, little bird.” And your eyes flash hot and desperate up to his own. A wash of heat spreads from the crown of your head to the tips of your curling toes, backs of your knees smarting, pussy going tight and desperate as a knot. You wrap both hands around the length of him and focus your suctioning mouth at the head, moaning wantonly, twisting your palms around the slick spit left by your tongue.

“Fuck, yes – yes, yes yes. That’s perfect, you’re doing so good, Birdie. Just like that.” He bears his teeth at you, a wash of color spreading across the crests of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. You slide your slick hands down to cup his balls and take him to the back of your throat, moaning ragged and choked around the too thick length, swallowing repeatedly, trying to breathe through your nose, eyes smarting and thighs clenching. His fingers twist in your hair painfully, and he swells almost impossibly bigger in your mouth. “Fuck, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come, baby. Don’t swallow, don’t swallow.” He hasn’t stopped looking at you, eyes wide and frenzied. You pull back, squeezing his sack as he starts to spurt, thick and salty into your mouth. “Don’t swallow, lemme see. Gimme my birthday present, show me–” You pull away from his soaked cock, mouth sticky with semen, and present your tongue for him, the milky viscousness dripping sloppy while you continue to jack his still spitting length. He sits up suddenly, cock still fisted in your working hand to grip your jaw in his strong fingers. His eyes are filled with a sort of mania only you know how to bring out in him now that he’s been mostly tamed, and you bring your other hand up to your face, scooping the spurted drops of come on your cheeks onto your white splattered tongue. “Perfect fucking thing,” he growls. “You do what I say,” he gives your captured jaw a rough, little jostle. “Swallow now.” You close your mouth and obey, “Open again – lemme see,” sticking your now pink tongue out at him, he leans forward and licks into you, tasting himself. Filthy, filthy, filthy. I fucking love you, you can’t tell who says it, it doesn’t really matter.

The farmhouse is a short ways outside of Jackson. He’d picked it after Lena was born, Kate and Clara had been two, and Connie would soon be on the way. The family needed more space, four children was a lot to manage, and he wanted his girls to have room to grow and play. You’d let him do as he pleased, and made the trek into the clinic every afternoon at first, but had taken on a partner two years ago, Jamie. She’d come to Jackson with her own medical background, and with four babies at home, the help was more than welcome.

The house is old, but made of strong bones that Joel had painstakingly refurbished and now cared for meticulously. Filled with sturdy furniture he’d mostly made by hand, thick rugs and soft glowing lamps and books, books everywhere. And something else, something unknowable and invisible, but that was immediately obvious, nonetheless. A sort of love that was in such overabundance; it was an unbelievable sort of thing that a creature that had lived as he had could have ended up here, surrounded by all this goodness. Joel knows it is only because of you, all only your doing, his ending up here like this.

As you step into the large dining and living space you stop abruptly, his chest bumping into your back, hands going to your hips to steady you. Your head cocks slowly to the side as you take in the new addition to the kitchen. “What’s that?”

He presses his face into the warm, fragrant skin of your neck, smiling against the tender slope. “Made it for you.” It’s a kitchen table, long and thickly built, the warm oak color polished and cured to a glowing sheen. He’d snuck it in from the barn last night after you’d gone to sleep.

“It’s your birthday, you’re not supposed to be giving me gifts today.” He wraps his arms around your middle, his hand spanning across the soft swell of your postpartum belly. The change your carrying his children had wrought on your body was something that he’d not known would have such an effect of him. But the sight of you most days, wearing nothing but one of his oversized flannels, and his favorite itty bitty, pink, polka dotted panties. Swollen, leaking tits and the lush softness of your belly and hips underneath. Long hair, a tousled mess of a cloud around your head. Too fucking tempting. It brought out something not entirely civilized in him. How was he ever supposed to behave when you were prancing around your home together, surrounded by all your children, being the best mother the world had ever seen. Sometimes the urge to get you pregnant just one more time was almost irresistible. Soft and feminine and his, it did things to him, made him think unspeakable thoughts that he later acted out on you in explicit detail at night, in the privacy of your bedroom. Things had changed after the birth of your children, he had changed, in so many ways, in ways that Joel had never even thought possible. The intimacy, the closeness was something that he’d never even thought possible, something so vulnerable, so tender, his mind hadn’t had the capacity before this to imagine it. He’d never thought, never thought that he could love with an intensity like this, but you’d taught him so many things over the years. You taught him something new every single day.

“It’s for me too,” he murmurs. “And giving you things makes me happy. Seein’ you happy makes me happy. This is my gift to myself.”

You’re quiet for a second, and he feels you tense and hiccup beneath his touch, trying not to cry. Finally, when you’re sure your voice won’t break, “Don’t be cheesy, old man.” But you turn in his arms, going up on your little toes to press your mouth to his, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck. He sighs into the kiss, tasting you slowly, savoring you, feels himself thickening again already, just at the feel and smell of you. When he pulls back to look down at you, sure enough, your eyes are wet and gleaming, a soft flush across your nose. “Thank you, I love it,” A small sniffle.

“Get in there,” he says gently. “Stop provokin’ me.” He gives your bottom a gentle squeeze before letting go.

After he helps you get the girls up and settled, he goes on a long walk with Ellie and Kate, leaving you and Dina to hold down the fort for a while. Sydney, panting along Kate’s gangly, coltish side as they lope ahead of him and Ellie. The old Newfoundland had shown up one day on the front porch, mud and bramble slewn, Kate and Clara had brought her in, told them her name was Sydney, and that had been it, the dog had stayed. The hound, covered in a nearly unmanageable chocolate brown mane, had what he called an old disposition, much like him, Birdie liked to tease, but gentle and slow. The perfect animal to patiently accompany the girls along their misadventures, but large and astute enough to herd and protect when necessary. They liked to wander sometimes, disappearing at any moment, hiding and jumping out to scare the two of you in your frantic searches for them. Trouble the two of them, Kate and Clara together. Clara especially, mind sharp as a whip and an inclination for trouble she could have only gotten from him, if he was being honest. Kate was always the cooler, more level headed voice of the two of them, even at five, nearly six, years old. With those deep blue eyes, like shards of sea glass with the very power of the sun shining through. They’d slipped out of the house a few months ago behind his back, and after his mad search he’d found them wandering, hand in hand, towards the treeline. Short legs setting a slow and stunted pace, Sydney had been following closely at their heels, towering over the two small frames. At the sound of his approach, she’d turned back with an aggressive growl, ready to protect the two vulnerable creatures in her charge, but he’d settled her with a gentle, It’s just me, Syd, and the hound had gone tame and sedate once again. He’d trusted her with them unfailingly ever since.

They were meandering slowly along one of his and Ellie’s favorite paths now, slowly, allowing for child and dog to pause and investigate at will, dew-covered spiderwebs, bright tufts of moss and old, rotted logs covered in bugs Kate begged him to let her bring home.

“Mom gets scared. We don’t want that, do we?”

“Mom doesn’t get scared,” Kate says, scrunching her nose up at him.

“It’s secretly him that gets scared, Katie. Don’t let him fool you,” Ellie tells her. They walk for close to an hour in mostly silence, their ritual of sorts, listening to the sound of the woods around them and Kate’s soft voice going on and on at Sydney, while the dog seemingly pays the closest and most attentive regard possible. The quiet walks, something that calls back to their long journeys all those years ago, a way to remind themselves of where they’d been and what they’d come to.

“What do ya think?” She breaks the silence after they’ve turned back toward home and the breakfast waiting for them.

“‘Bout what?”

“Anything.”

He shakes his head, watching Kate’s short leap over a puddle, sighs long and deep, “Dunno – so many things. Nice walk–” He gives her a wry look out of the corner of his eye.

They reach the edge of the woods and pause to watch Kate breaking into a run towards the house, Sydney matching her pace. “I think we did good, don’t you?” He knows she means everything, all of it. Lena, three years old, bursts out of the propped open front door of the house, Dina on her heels. “We kinda made it, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, kiddo. We did good.”

“I drew you a birthday picture, Daddy,” Clara tells him.

“C’mere, my angel. Let’s see it.” Sitting around the new kitchen table, he pulls her up into his lap, Lena following suit to scramble up as well.

There are seven figures: you, drawn with long hair that reaches your feet, Kate, Clara, and Lena, respectively, what he assumes is baby Connie drawn as a miniscule figure eight at your feet, something that resembles a tumble-weed more than a dog, poor Syd, and then… someone drawn as a big circle, with an even bigger head on top. “Where’m I, baby?”

“Right there.” She points at the big, round thing, “I made him soft like you, Daddy.” And she pats his belly so affectionately, looking up at him with the biggest smile he’s ever seen, poor Syd – fuck, poor me, he thinks.

“Thanks, baby. I love it.” He squeezes her into his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you bent over the kitchen counter trying to strangle yourself in a kitchen towel to muffle the sounds of your hysterical laughter.

After scrambled eggs and hot breads with honey and jam, bacon and fruit and coffee, perfect girl that you are, you’d somehow gotten him a tin of beans as a birthday gift, you bring out what the girls call the pancake cake. A large, wide stack of the fluffiest buttermilk pancakes, all lathered in Dina’s whipped cream, and a mountainous heaping of bright red strawberries. He watches you, a thing akin to awe in his eyes as you set the red and white cloud down in front of him, you’d put on a soft blue dress, robins egg blue, with tiny lace cap sleeves that fluttered with your movements and made his stomach dip and swoop and ache to reach out and toy with them.

“The berries were a gift,” you say with a pleased smile.

“Oh, was it Jeff?” The grocer, Dina asks. “He’s so nice.”

“Who?” Joel frowns.

“Jeff, he works at the market. He–” You pause, a laughing smile playing on your lips. “He wanted me to wish you a happy birthday, baby.” His scowl deepens, your own smile widening.

As soon as the cake’s set in front of him there’s a chubby little hand sneaking forward to stick grubby fingers into the confection. “Lena,” looking down at her, and the hand is immediately snatched back. “Oh, the candles,” you remember as you’re about to take the seat next to him.

“Left them in the back room, with the other stuff I brought,” Dina calls as you head to what’s used as a makeshift laundry room at the back of the house. He gets up quickly, a murmured, I’ll help you look, following you and flicking the door shut behind him, the echoing sound of snickers and Ellie’s hooting, mesmerized by the swish and flow of the blue fabric around your legs, and with a bone to pick.

“You’re not allowed to go to the market anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take Ellie or Dina with you.” He pouts and scowls and fumes behind you as you rifle through the bags they’d brought with them.

“Excuse me?” You say again, voice soft and patient, infused with just a tinge of laughter.

“You want me to say it again?” He steps forward, fingers ghosting through the ends of your long hair, hungry, possessive. “And who gave you permission to talk to other men?” And you snicker, not taking him seriously even a little bit. He wraps his arms around you, pressing you forward to squeeze your tits in his big hands, he’s obsessed, grinding his groin into the soft round of your ass. He drags his hands over the dips and contours of your body, squeezing lush curves as he goes, reaching to wrap around the delicate architecture of your jaw and pull your face around to look at him, taking in the beautiful heart shape of your mouth.

“Joel–” you chastise.

“Five minutes.”

“Behave, they’re gonna–”

“Don’t care. It’s my birthday.” He nuzzles your hair, searching for the small shell of your ear. “Just want a kiss, Birdie bird.”

“It’s never just a kiss with you,” but you turn in his arms anyways, pressing your mouth to his, licking into him before you’ve even fully got the words out. He gropes you, sliding a knee between your thighs to press against your mound and roll you against himself. Cupping the nape of your neck, he eats at you, sliding his tongue along yours. He can hear the desperate sound of his breath rattling in his own chest, and he slides his mouth down the slope of your neck, a soft nip to the tiny pulse there. He groans low in his chest, cock hard and straining against his jeans. “They takin’ them for the night, still?” He asks panting.

“They are,” voice a whimper, fingers twisting in his hair and tugging in frustration. You push him back by the shoulders, laughing gently, as you wiggle out from between his steaming, hard body and the counter. “Come on. Ellie’s gonna give you hell.” He braces his palms against the edge, head hanging trying to will his erection down and catch his breath. Jesus, Birdie.

“Mama, why did Daddy go in there with you?” Clara’s little voice sounds as he steps back out into the kitchen behind you.

“He was helping me–”

“They were making you another baby sister,” Ellie supplies unhelpfully, big fucking grin. Joel drags his thumb across his throat, staring daggers.

“How do they do that?” Kate asks.

Ellie’s mouth opens, readying to worsen the situation, “Ellie–” Joel warns.

Dina, ever the voice of reason, tells them patiently, “They write a letter to a stork, sweet. And then nine months later, he brings a baby.”

The girls are all quiet for a beat, digesting this newfound, eternally fascinating piece of information, until Kate says, in that solemn and level headed way of hers, hands primly set at the edge of the table, “I think the stork has come to our house too many times.”

Ellie cackles uncontrollably, Bridie’s giggle following suit, until the lot of them are caught in a net of laughter. Joel lets his head fall back, thumbs tucked at his belt, letting a long sigh out. “Jesus.”

“Jesus!” A little voice yells out in imitation.

“What is a stork?”

“A bird,” Ellie provides.

“Is that why mama is Birdie? Because she makes the baby come?”

“Yeah, baby. That’s why,” You tell Kate, smoothing a gentle hand over the crown of her bright blonde head. Inquisitive little thing. With your other hand you flick Ellie in the back of the head. Mother fucker, you mouth at her affronted look.

“Father fucker,” she mouths back with a snicker.

Once the candles are securely in the cake and lit, and Clara’s added her ever helpful, Mama, we need one thousand more candles, Daddy is so old, he nudges his head at you. “Come be a good girl, and sit on my lap,” he says quietly. You perch on the strong expanse of his thigh, one arm around the back of his neck, the other coming to entwine with the fingers of his hand at your waist, twisting the gold band of his ring round and round his finger.

The girls sing Happy Birthday, Daddy, at the top of their lungs, and you watch him watch them, the clenching of his jaw, those fine little muscles that wrap around his mandible, fluttering as he grinds his back molars together, the ripple of his throat as he swallows again and again. The corners of his eyes go a little wet, tears lining the edges of those gorgeous hazel eyes as he stares into the flames of his birthday candles while the girls sing to him – off key, off harmony, so full of love. Clara clambers up onto his other knee midway through, plants herself on the endlessly strong surface of her father’s thigh, the safest place in the whole world. “Happy birthday, Daddy. I love you,” she whispers up at him, laying her little head on his shoulder, gazing at him with those same hazel green eyes that reflect his own image back at him, remind him of another little girl he’ll never stop missing, and he brings his hand up to cradle the back of her skull in his large palm, presses his lips to her forehead, love you so much, baby girl, whispered into her skin. Your first baby. His eyes fill further, and they flutter closed, trying to contain all that you know he’s feeling right now. Your hand on the back of his neck strokes softly at the overly long curls, soft and thick. You press your thumb into the notch of his skull, anchor yourself there, I’m here, I’m here, we are here together, look at all we have, and he turns to look at you, his cheek resting on your daughter's head. “Thank you,” he says, and you know that he means for all of it.

Cheering squeals, laughter, and the padding rush of little feet over the floorboards as the rest of them start to run around the table, shrieking fills the air as they scramble over him, trying to climb up as well. He buries his face in your hair and shudders as he presses a tiny kiss to the soft lobe of your ear. Look at all we have. The whole world right here at our kitchen table.

The birthday of a perfectly happy man is spent like this: a long breakfast with the woman of his dreams and all his daughters surrounding, a lazy afternoon, trying to doze on the deep, lumpy couch, intermittently interrupted by a knobby knee and a sharp little elbow to the gut or thigh, lunch and peach cream popsicles on the porch, watching the clouds, searching for shapes like treasures in the deep blue sky.

He thinks of Sarah, as he lays there surrounded by her sisters. The sweet shape of her face, the dove green of her eyes surrounded by the thickest, darkest lashes he’s still ever seen to this day, Lena’s eyes are the exact same shade, the texture of her curly hair beneath his palm. Her memory is faded now, after so long, but he works it like a muscle in his mind every day, a staunch refusal to ever let her go. And no matter how far away he moves from that day, he still asks himself sometimes: How does one grapple with the loss of something that big, something that essential? He’s lived with a hole in his heart in the shape of a little girl for so long, decades, but now, with all of this surrounding him, he also has so many things that leave his heart so full he’s almost bursting with it. The two opposing feelings often leave him feeling bloated and without space within himself, and yet, he always finds another nook or cranny for more. Even when it’s left him tired, when his remembered past hangs over his head so that he feels, sometimes, like his edges are disjointed, not glued together symmetrically, you’re there to put him back to rights.

And the memory will always be painful, it will never not hurt. It’ll never not be agony. But it’s easier now, to recall all the wonderful, all the good. Sometimes, he almost feels afraid of the intensity of this happiness, but in those moments, when that old fear returns you’re able to recognize even that, like everything else in his heart you know as well as your own, and you take him into your arms, reminding him that his whole life is right here in this house now, that you’ve saved him.

“Look at the clouds, Daddy. There’s shapes.”

Sprawled in the lush grass in front of the house, the three girls surrounding him. He presses a kiss to Lena’s soft curls, “Look at that one,” he says, “What d'ya see there?”

“A bunny,” Kate says with all the self assurance of knowing she’s the eldest sister, and thus, the wisest.

“A bunny? You sure?”

“Yes, Daddy. Don’t you see it?” Clara interjects. “He has big ears and funny whiskers just like yours.” Raucous giggles and screeches after that as they jump over and across him, with claims that he needs reminding how a bunny hops and leaps.

Eventually, when they settle, Birdie brings out more cake, leaves the four of you to sit in a huddle criss-cross-apple-sauce and discuss the woes of kindergarten at the school house in town.

“Mama told me I’m not allowed to bite,” Clara gives an exasperated huff, abandoning her cake to melt into the grass and crawl into his lap. “She bites a lot,” Kate adds. Irritated, pushing unruly curls out of her strawberry red face, “But– but I don’t like that Mama said that to me, Daddy,” she continues, looking at him very seriously, “I like to bite so much,” followed by the most conniving smile he’s ever seen, besides Ellie’s, blooming proudly across her angel sweet face. He’s forced to swallow his laugh and explain the merits of listening to her mother, something they must all do. When he turns back to look at Lena, she’s licking the spilled whipped cream out of the grass. They have to go inside for baths after that.

At Kate’s behest, they have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner that night. Tommy, Maria and their son joining the family alongside Nancy, so that the table’s chock full of the people who care about him, all coming together to celebrate one more year of Joel’s life. By the end of the meal, he has all three girls perched on his lap, eating spaghetti off of his plate because, Daddy, it just tastes so much better from yours, obviously. He’s never been able to say no to them, and he isn’t about to start tonight, and you roll your eyes, but you also look at him with that gleam that tells him that if he asked you for another baby tonight, you’d probably not say no. They eat his food and yank on his hair and stab him with pointy sharp elbows in the ribs repeatedly, at one point someone sticks their finger up his nose, pulling his nostrils apart to look inside.

“Daddy, why do you have so many hairs all over?”

“It’s so dark and scary in there, Daddy.”

Clara nods so fast her curls bounce up and down around her head, “I feel scared when I look up there,” green eyes wide.

“What are they for, Daddy?”

Questions volleyed at him so fast he doesn’t have a chance to answer a single one of them. “If you eat spaghetti, will your boogers taste like spaghetti after?” Ellie, ever brilliant and helpful, suggests they try some to verify the theory.

“What is verify?” One asks.

“And what is seery?” Another calls. Birdie’s red in the face with laughter, and Joel feels very tired and very old and very ready to take his wife to bed.

“A theory is when you think about something,” Tommy says, and gives him that look he’s wont to throw his way when he’s about to make fun of Joel for not being able to keep it in his pants and stop procreating.

“And verify is to make sure,” Joel tells them.

“What is to make sure?”

“To know something.”

Kate nods solemnly, while Clara pauses, and then says, “I don’t think I know anything.” That worried sort of look only a five year old can get when an idea is just too big, crossing her little face.

Chuckles sound around the table, “That’s alright, sweetheart. Don’t you worry about it.”

As they say good night, the girls packed and ready to spend the night at Tommy and Maria’s, Ellie and Dina taking baby Connie, Ellie pokes and prods at you.

“Would you quit, you little shit.”

“Dinner was nice, step mommy,” giving you a smarmy little smirk.

“You know, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh?”

“It’s serious.”

She cocks an eyebrow at you, “Spit it.”

“Well, I was wondering if you’re going through something right now? If you’re okay?”

“What? What do you mean?” Face twisted in confusion.

You snicker, pulling on the ends of her recently shorn hair, “Then what’s up with the new fuck ass little bob you’ve got going on?” She slaps you away, swatting at your arms, reaching down to get at your thighs too.

“Fuck you, mother fucker,” she laughs, trying to yank on your hair too.

“Stop it. You have to respect me. I’m your step mother, remember?”

“You’re so annoying.” You hear Joel call at the two of you to knock it off, but goes entirely ignored.

“Poor Dina’s gotta look at this mess. Let her know if she ever needs to get away from it, she can come stay here any time she likes.”

“I hate you,” she laughs, and you pull her in for a tight hug, another pinch to your side before she hugs you back.

“Tough shit, I love you.” She squeezes you tight, grumbles a little before returning the sentiment.

“Thank you,” she whispers into your shoulder, “For making him so fuckin’ happy.” You squeeze her tight as you can before she shoves you away, pretending not to sniffle and rolling her eyes at you. “Now stop being so fucking weird and sappy, and say good night to your football team.”

“Blood Meridian again?” You ask him from where you’re standing at the kitchen island, snipping the ends of the flowers Nancy had brought with her and arranging them in a vase. “How many times’ve you read that?” He’s sitting on the sofa, facing you, reading glasses sitting crooked and bent on his nose from where someone’s little foot had crushed the frames. You watch the flicker of his gaze as he peeks at the page number, and then snaps the book shut. He never uses a bookmark, always just remembers.

“Dunno–” big sigh, long stretch, “More than I can count now, I suppose.” He settles back into the couch, pushing his hips forward to slouch deep, tired, spreading his thighs wide, tempting you. You finish with the flowers, walking the vase to take center stage on the new table. At the far end of the table, right by your spot, he’s carved a tiny little sparrow into the surface of the oak. The etching so fine, so delicate, in comparison to the sight of him, big and brusque. It would be almost unbelievable to someone who didn’t know him as you do, who didn’t know the violence he’d endured to make him so gentle, someone who hadn’t watched him pull your newborn daughters from your own body, who hadn’t witnessed the incredible sight of him cradling those tiny little babies in his infinitely strong arms. You turn back to look at him over the hill of your shoulder, taking in the sight of him watching you, appraising your form. The slow rove of his eyes starting at your bare feet, moving up your legs as if his gaze was a physical manifestation of his hands on your skin, over the swell of your bottom, the slope of your spine, the fine crest of your shoulder, landing on your face. You can see his eyes moving over the planes of you, your chin, your mouth, cheeks, your eyes. He lands there, stays. You know he’ll be hard beneath his jeans when you go over to him.

“C’mere – come sit on me,” voice soft and sultry.

“Sit on you?”

“Mhmm, come tell me how much you love me.” He pats his thigh, and you move towards him slowly, shaking your head at him.

“Needy.” You reach him, hitching your knee over his lap to straddle him, and he pulls you close and tight against his warm, wide chest.

“So needy.” He nuzzles into the fine tendrils of hair over your forehead, his breath hot and soft on your skin. “Need ya so much, Birdie.” A soft kiss to your temple, another to the flared end of your eyebrow, and you squirm on his lap, hot and restless and needy also, a fine thrumming ache flaring throughout the various pressure points in your body. Your throat, the inner curves of your elbows, the backs of your knees, deep in the pit of your belly. You feel weak and trembling, and he fills his hand with your hair, bringing it to his face and rubbing the soft curls against his cheek. “It’s time I take you to bed, isn’t it?” You hum against his collarbone, taking in the scent of his skin, fresh and clove-like, cedar sap and sage and Joel, you nod slowly against him.

He runs a bath for the two of you, filling the deep clawfoot tub in the master bathroom. He’d outfitted the house from the get-go with the same system for electricity and water that Jackson ran on. And he pulls your clothes from you slowly, running rough, caressing hands over the sensitive slopes of your curves, gentle pinches and squeezes to the places he likes most which is all of you. When the two of you sink into the tub, he sits between your legs, wide back leaning back on your chest so that you can run your hands along the strong breadth of him. You taste the water off his skin and listen to the sound of him rumble and purr like some sort of overgrown wolf beneath your touch.

“Did Clara tell you what happened at school yesterday?”

“Said you told her no more biting.”

“Did you tell you she punched some poor boy?”

“She did what?” He tenses, long fingers wrapping tightly around the circumference of your ankle in his lap.

“She called one of the boys in her class, and I quote, a little fucker, and then socked him in the nose.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Clara,” he sighs, laying his head back on your shoulder. “Why in the hell did she do that?”

“She’s your daughter.”

He hums as if he can’t bring himself to disagree with the reasoning. “Little fucker probably deserved it.”

“You’re not supposed to call children fuckers, Joel.” He grunts. “She also told him that her dad was going to beat up his dad.”

“Oh my God. I’m too old for this shit.”

“They’re heathens because of you. I hope you know this.”

“They ain’t heathens. They’re perfect.”

“You weren’t saying that last week when they painted your face blue.”

“Jesus, you’re right. Thought it was never comin’ off.” You snort, rolling your eyes at him, but hugging him closer. The best father anyone could ever want for their children, surely. “Gotta teach her how to throw a good punch,” he adds to himself.

You wash each other’s hair after that, taking turns lathering each other up, rinsing out the suds, and when he’s finished with you, he carries you to bed. Lays you out like his own personal feast and tastes you everywhere. The pads of your water-wrinkled toes, the backs of your knees, the crest of each hip bone, cruelly bypassing the place you need him most. Dragging his mouth over your stomach, tongue savoring the silvery streaks left behind by the growth of your daughters inside of you, over your nipples, dark and swollen. His mouth rests at the notch of your throat lightly, and then, whispered against the moist spot he’d made with his tongue, “You’re the only dream I’ve ever had. You know that?” And you tell him that you do, you do know, your husband who is, in his own right, like a dream figure.

Finally, taking pity on you, he slides down between your thighs, making room for the incredible breadth of his shoulders, and gently as possible spreads you apart with his thumbs, takes in the sight of your embarrassingly slick, untouched cunt. He blows a slow stream of cool air over your pulsing clit, and bends his head to lightly drag his tongue over the swollen bundle. And you’re going to cry, real, desperate tears. “Joel, please, don’t be mean.” But he’s never been very good at that.

“Oh, I know,” he tuts, “My poor baby. Been waitin’ all day haven’t you?” He’d purposely not made you come all day. This had been his plan all along, you know it. Another, light as air slip of his tongue, his mouth, sliding down to your leaking opening, mouthing against it, barely there. “You’ve made me the happiest man in the whole world, little bird. You know that?” And he licks your clit for real this time, the broad, flat of it pressing against you in one long, slow swipe. You can’t answer, ragged moan clawing up your throat. You reach for his dark head bent to your sex, one small foot propped against his thick shoulder to anchor yourself as he starts to eat you. Sucking hard and fast on your poor, throbbing clit, moving down to spear the strong muscle of his tongue into your pussy. You want more, you want his cock, you want it, you want it, you want it. He sucks the orgasm out of you, lapping and kissing at your cunt until you’re shuddering and shivering, clenching around that terrible, painful emptiness, leaking onto his tongue, and then surging up quickly. Massive fist around his cock, he presses the drooling head at your clit, teases you there slowly, watches the heave of your breasts as you struggle for breath. You bring your knees up, spread wider, inviting him in, and he notches the head slowly, giving you nothing more than the flared crown. He pauses there, thrusting shallowly, watching your swollen, red pussy swallow him, and head catching on the blushed rim, he spits, rubbing the flat of his fingers over the crest of your sex, the unsheathed length of his cock, and then presses in, in, in, in, all the way. You give a warbled whimper, trying to twist away, clawing at the sheets. You’ll never be used to it, never not enjoy the twinge of hurt when he gives you the whole thing. “Fuckin’ love it when you sing for me, little bird,” he moans. And he doesn’t give you a chance, doesn’t give you a second, he never does, setting a hard and brutal pace, riding your cunt like he owns it, because he does.

He wraps his hand around the round of your breast, squeezing, but still careful of how sensitive you are, thumb flicking at the tender nipple, and you spread your legs wider, one hand hooking beneath the sweaty back of your knee to pull yourself open, your other hand reaching down to cup the swinging weight of his balls as he thrusts up into you. He bares his teeth at you, wide palm landing with a little snapping slap low on your pelvis to press down, feel himself from the outside as you squeeze his balls. He shakes his head at you, fire in his eyes, “You’re gonna end up pregnant again, Birdie,” voice chastising, a little like a threat.

You close your eyes, back arching to take him deeper, don’t care, you want to say. “N– no, noooo, can’t” you pant instead, “Can’t get pregnant – breastfeeding.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said last time, little girl.” He lets himself fall forward, the bone of his pelvis grinding against your clit, and your cunt goes tight and so, so fucking wet, throbbing and fluttering around him, trying to suck him deeper, working around the hard invasion as you start to come. His sweaty, steaming head falls to your breast, mouthing wetly, fucking you through it, just like that, he murmurs, my perfect girl.

“Don’t– Don’t come in my pussy then.”

“No?” He slows his thrusts once he’s felt the trembling of your walls around him settle, lets his hips seesaw in and out slow and languorous, long provoking strokes. “Should I fill that sweet ass instead?” And despite the fierce blush that washes along the length of your body, you nod shyly at him, running your hands down his belly. The fact that he still possesses the ability to drive you to shyness after all this– “Say it, baby. I gotta hear it.” You flush impossibly deeper, little toes curling in humiliated excitement and lust.

“Please, daddy, please– I want it in my ass.” He pulls out suddenly, the lewd wet squelch of your cunt closing hungry around nothing. He spreads his fingers over the length of your sex, slick, gleaming cock, flushed so red it’s almost purple, veins pulsing along the length. “Gorgeous thing,” he murmurs as he starts to pet at your ass gently, thumb swiping, giving you light pressure, and then pushing in slowly, slowly. Your mouth falls open, gasping, eyes wide and wet and probably, definitely, a little pleading. “Lemme in, Birdie. Let me have this sweet little hole.” You nod, a marionette caught on his string, hips starting to hitch and follow the thrust of his invading thumb. “I’m gonna fill it with my come, and then watch it drip out of you. That what you want, baby?” Yes, yes. He pulls his thumb from you, slides his slick hand over your leaking sex again, and then fists his cock, the dull pressure of the wide head at your back entrance, pushing in slowly, making you feel the stretch and burn of it. Your fingers claw and scrape against his chest and abdomen, trying to pull him towards you, push him away, legs shifting restlessly at his sides until he’s buried to the hilt, heavy sac pressed against the curve of your bottom. Sweat slides in steaming rivulets down his temples, his neck, and a bright red flush moves across his chest and up his thick neck. You watch a violent shudder jerk through him, lashes fluttering closed, and then screwing shut tightly as he tries to control the rush of his oncoming orgasm. He runs his hands up your stomach, the dips of your waist and hips, wrapping around your breasts. “You’re doing so well, my little love.” He opens his eyes to take you in, pulls his hips back, and then pushes in again. “Taking my fat cock in this tiny hole. Look how messy and wet your greedy cunt is. You want me to fuck you here too?” He pulls your lips apart, wide, thrums at your swollen clit, and then starts to press a single finger slowly into your pussy. And oh, it’s too much, it’s too much, stretched and stuffed so full of him everywhere, the play of his fingers also on your clit, he starts to fuck your ass in hard, jolting thrusts, growling your name through clenched teeth.

“Look at it,” he spits, “Look at where I’m fucking you open. Look at how you’re all fucking mine.” Your heart beating out of your chest, insides twisting and throbbing, you take in the sight of your blushed sex stretched to obscenity around him, his soaking fingers, two of them now, pressing slowly in and out of your cunt as he slams into your ass. You let your head fall back, “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come – oh God.” You cross your arms over your face to hide the sight of your overwhelmed tears, and he pulls his fingers out to slap the top of your cunt in a single stinging swat that you feel reverberate in the place he’s impaling you with his cock. “Nuh uh, you let me look at that gorgeous face when you come all over me.”

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t – it’s too much.

He doesn’t give you a choice. There’s never been much of that where he’s concerned. Everything below your navel goes painfully tight, white light streaking across your eyes as you twist and writhe beneath him, and he follows suit, starts to fill you in thick pulses, the heat of his spend coating your insides with a savage snarl of your name, the breath nearly knocked out of you with the intensity of your shared orgasm. He lets his weight fall over you, pressing you into the bed, massive body shivering and jerking, buried deep inside of you, and after the last spit of his cock, he pulls from you slowly, moaning softly and rolls the both of you over. Draping your listless form over his chest, arranging your limbs how he pleases. You shiver and feel the sweat cool along the slope of your spine, enjoy the tickle of your lashes catching in the coarse hair of his chest. You feel him play with the long tresses of your hair, draping them over his chest and shoulders, rubbing the smell of you against himself. Picking up the hand curled over his shoulder, he absently draws the backs of your fingers against the edge of his jaw and his ear, kissing and sucking on the soft tips.

“Tell me you love me,” you tell him.

“I love you, Birdie.”

Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.

“Tell me that you’ll always love me.”

“I’ll always love you. For the rest of my life, as long as I live, I’ll love you.”

Nights later, after the excitement of celebration has died down, and the family’s settled back into peaceful routine, you think about when you’d first realized you were pregnant with Clara, and how you’d worried the news would disturb the happiness and peace he’d fought so hard to find for so many years, terrified that in some way, you’d force him into a situation he didn’t want, wasn’t prepared for. Now, looking across your large bed, two dark, curly heads, another bright, blonde as a star, separating the two of you while he sleeps deep and peacefully, Connie in her crib at your side, you are once again, like so many other times, hit with the full appreciation for the miracle this family is, how wrong you were to ever worry about it being anything but.

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Right Where You Left Me- Day 1

Series Masterlist

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

warnings: mentions of heartbreak and breakups

summary: you and charles had ended things months ago. the only problem was that you were yet to tell your families, the ones that had been waiting for your wedding day since you were both barely four years old. cue a family gathering and it was time to pretend to still be that happy couple they all knew you to be

word count: 2.4k

a/n: i decided to turn this into a series :)

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Barely three minutes in and you already wanted nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Barely three minutes in and you were already itching to tear your arm out of his. Barely three minutes in and you had no idea how you were going to possibly survive an entire week like this.

The smile that you had plastered on your face was strained and clearly forced and your features were beginning to hurt with the amount of strength it took to merely muster up the amount of strength it took to parade around with the masked look of happiness.

In reality, you hadn’t seen a happy version of yourself in two months.

It took more willpower than necessary in order for you to glance to the man whose arm was looped through yours.

Pretending that everything was fine seemed to come easier to him- thanks to years of pr training, you would guess- but after knowing the man for the entirety of your life, you could see the flicker of pain- and no doubt disgust- that he was internally feeling with having you by his side.

Without really meaning to, you found yourself studying the side of Charles’s face for the first time in two months as he spoke kindly to your aunt, a trained look of relaxation upon his features too good to be true.

The man didn’t so much as glance your way- though he could no doubt feel your stare- as he continued chatting in a conversation that you had long since tuned out of, not caring enough to hear what your gossipy aunt had to say about the venue or the people that were already in attendance.

It wasn’t until movement caught your attention from the corner of your eyes that you finally tore your gaze away from Charles just in time to watch your aunt bid the two of you a farewell before making a beeline for the open bar.

A silence stretched in her absence as the two of you stood in the middle of the bright and heavily decorated room, arms still woven together despite the fact that it couldn’t feel like you were farther apart.

Flowers were covering every surface and a pile of gifts were already beginning to accumulate on the center table in celebration of Charles’s cousin's wedding.

Sara had this date set for over seven months, so you couldn’t exactly use the argument that it had been sprung on you- but it also happened to slip your mind in the midst of all of the chaos that accompanied the last few months.

What you had never expected when a notification popped up on your phone from your calendar as a reminder of the wedding, was that another notification would pop up shortly after. A text message from Charles.

Until that point, you thought that he had surely blocked your number, opting to cut off every tie to you that he had. But perhaps he had done what you had, sat in front of your phone for hours after that terrible night, finger hovering over the block button, but not a single part of you being able to actually go through with it.

The message informed you in the shortest way possible that it would be for the best to go to the wedding together. Together. A word that hadn’t described the two of you in two months.

At first, your eyebrows had furrowed and a mixture of anger and utter sorrow rose from inside of you at the mere audacity of him to suggest such a thing, but as if he could read your mind, another text came through shortly after explaining that it would probably be for the best considering both of your families would be in attendance.

And just like that, the emotions had simmered out inside of you when you realized he was right.

For your families had known that the two of you had loved each other long before you two had.

Your grandparents had been best friends, then your parents, and then the two of you when you were born.

To them, it was the biggest miracle on earth when the two of you shyly admitted your feelings for one another at the mere age of sixteen, having supposedly danced around them for years.

It was hard to say who was more excited about the young, blossoming relationship, you two- or your families.

You and Charles had been best friends all of your lives, and even continued to be after you had begun dating, and life was looking like nothing but rainbows and sunshine. From Charles’s formula one career taking off, to you graduating university and starting a business of your own- all whilst supporting and loving each other wholeheartedly- everything was pointing towards the happily ever after the two of you had always dreamed of together.

That is, until it all came crashing down one fateful night. The night that had started as romantic and happy as could be, but came crashing down and ended in two broken hearts.

After you two broke up and went your separate ways, neither of you seemed to have it in you to tell either of your families, the people that were more supportive of your relationship then anyone. So, the two of you kept it to yourself and your closest friends that you knew wouldn’t tell anyone.

When Leclerc’s fans began questioning your wearabouts- the paddock's most beloved WAG- Charles would put on a tight smile and reply in the simplest way possible that you were busy with work and would no doubt turn up eventually.

A lie he told through his teeth.

At first, you had hesitated, knowing how awkward and hard it would be to pretend to be happy with Charles once more. As if everything was normal and there was nothing wrong.

But then you thought about it, and you really did like Sara. You didn’t want to ruin her big day by creating drama between your families and having the only thing they’re talking about be the two of you. That would be unfair to her on many levels.

So, you would just have to suck it up for a whole week while the festivities unraveled. During that, you would keep yourself as far from Charles as possible whilst still putting up the illusion of being the lovesick couple your families knew you to be.

Then, after it, you would figure out how to tell them all that you had broken up. And then, you would never have to see Charles Leclerc ever again and he would never have to see you.

It was awkward, the two of you just standing in the center of the room, though nobody so much as glanced at you a second time, not thinking much of it.

Gently, you slipped your arm from his hold, missing the way his eyes shot to you as soon as you did, you being too busy focusing on your shoes, “I’m going to get something to eat,” You muttered quietly.

It was the first thing either of you had so much as muttered to each other.

When you had both arrived at the venue for the welcoming party, you had wordlessly taken one another's arm in the parking lot and strode into the building. He had barely allowed his gaze to settle on you, and you had no doubt that he was too disgusted to even bother.

What you didn’t expect as you began weaving through the crowded room, was to feel his presence still behind you, wordlessly following like a lost puppy. It was something that he did so often when the two of you had been together that it felt almost natural.

Whenever you were in public and you needed to go somewhere- whether it be to the bar to get another drink, or to the cash register to check out at the grocery store- he would follow behind without complaint. You used to tease him for it constantly, calling him a puppy dog.

But he had taken it all in stride, simply smiling down softly at you before attaching his lips to yours and whispering that he couldn’t bear to be away from you if he could help it.

Over the years of you two dating- even before you weren’t- it wasn’t uncommon for the two of you to always be attached at the hip. With his racing career, it meant that he was almost always away for long intervals of time. So when you actually had time together, you both tried to make the most of it.

By the time you reached the food table, you were still yet to look at him as you silently began piling snacks onto a paper plate.

Your gaze only lifted by the sound of your name falling out of someone's lips, and you glanced up just in time to see Arthur bounding your way, a wide, boyish grin resting upon his features and his arms out wide.

Silently, and almost like second nature, Charles carefully took your plate out of your hands and held onto it as his younger brother wrapped you up into a tight hug, which you gladly returned, the first hint of a real smile peeking out from your features.

“It’s good to see you too, Arthur.” You teased lightly as you pulled away slightly, getting a good look at the boy.

“My god, I’ve missed you.” The boy threw his head back and groaned when he pulled away, “My brother over here’s been so moody without you the last few times I’ve visited his races.”

Your eyes quickly darted to Charles at his brother's words, but the man kept his own gaze trained on the boy.

You forced a smile, “Well, I have been really busy with work.”

“Or so I’ve been told.” Arthur was grinning widely and he threw you a wink before jabbing his brother in the stomach with his elbow, “I must say, I thought the next time I would be at one of these things was for your wedding.” He was only teasing- harmlessly, at that- and you both knew it, but it didn’t stop either one of you from immediately tensing up.

“Arthur,” Charles warned, his voice low and his features hard.

The brunette boy held his hands up in surrender, eyes slightly wide, “It was only a joke, mate.” Though his voice was still light, brief hesitation flickered through his gaze. He glanced back to you with a smile, “I’ll leave you two to it, then. Have a lovely time.”

With that, he slipped away just as quickly as he appeared, but that didn’t stop your body from staying tense. Your posture rigid and your eyes trained on the spot that he had been standing in.

A gentle nudge to your side snapped you out of your thoughts to Charles gently trying to give you your plate back, his eyes focused anywhere but you.

Anger flared up inside of you suddenly, and you didn’t take the plate. Instead, letting out a loud scoff and maneuvering around him, storming out of the room as quickly as you could.

Thankfully, everyone seemed to still be too preoccupied in greeting one another to notice.

You could sense Charles behind you once more as you slipped into an empty side room, crossing your arms over your stomach and squeezing your eyes shut briefly with your back to him.

He was silent, waiting for you to speak first, leaning up against a nearby counter, his eyes scanning over you.

Finally, you turned to him, “What are we doing here, Charles?” A long sigh left your lips as you lifted a hand to run through your hair, fingers weaving through until you could pull slightly at the roots in agitation.

The brunette man standing across from you was tense. His shoulder muscles were locked and his jaw was set tightly while his arms were crossed over his chest, “What do you want me to say?” The softness of his tone didn’t match his rigid appearance in the slightest.

A humorless laugh left your lips as you spun on your heels, shaking your head, “I want you to tell me that we’re through with this. With the lies.” Your gaze cut to him once more, face dropping the mocking smile, “We broke up two months ago, Charles. And yet here we are, pretending to still be together at your cousin's wedding.”

Leclerc pushed himself off of the counter he had been tensely leaning against, eyes hard as he stalked closer and closer until he was towering over you. Despite the intimidation of his movements, you didn’t so much as bat an eye, staring up at him with daggers of your own.

“This isn’t a good time to tell them,” He spoke lowly, “It’s Sara’s wedding and we don’t want to take the attention away from her happy day. Not to mention the fact that it would kill our families if we told them.”

Your families. Your families that had been friends since long before the two of you were born. Since your grandfathers were kids.

They would take the breakup almost harder than you did in the beginning. Almost.

A slight scoff escaped your lips, “It’s never a good time.” You reminded him, referring to the multiple occasions the two of you had already had this discussion, “So, what? Do we just keep pretending to be dating? What’s next, a fake marriage? Will the charade continue until I’m walking down the aisle and we’re both bound to this unhappy life forever?”

Something flashed across Charles’s expression as he took a quick, recoiling step backwards.

It was a low blow, and you knew it. And yet, you couldn’t seem to care.

You waited silently for a moment, eyes dancing across the man’s features as he just stared back at you, having already cleared his face of whatever emotions had managed to escape his hold.

“Whatever,” You turned and began making your way out of the room, “But I hope you know that this isn’t gonna be able to go on for much longer. We can barely stand to be in the same room as each other, let alone act as if everything’s okay.”

And it was only the first day out of six that you had to be trapped in this lie.

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Taglist: @vicurious28 @janeholt3 @youre-on-your-ownkid @amberpanda99 @theseerbetweenus

#charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x y/n #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic

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kteezy997 · 2 months

Note

Daddy’s boy prt two rnnnnnn

Daddy’s Boy-Part Two

Warnings: angst, angry Timmy, cursing

“How could you fucking do this, y/n? He’s my son!” His thick brows were furrowed with anger. “Why did you keep him from me? Why did you keep me from him?!” Timmy was more than right to be angry with you, but he kept his voice low as to not startle your son who was in his room trying to sleep.

“Timmy, I am so sorry. There’s no way I could possibly make it up to you or him. I feel awful about not telling you. There’s been so many times that I almost called you.”

He put his hands on his hips, and narrowed his brows at you. “Then why didn’t you?”

You started to cry as all of the old, hidden away feelings came back. “I don’t know.” you trembled, “I just thought that you were done with me. That you wouldn’t want to see me, much less raise a kid with me. I thought you had better things going on in your life, that you wouldn’t want to be tied down. I knew you didn’t have time for me, so adding a kid would have been worse in my mind.”

“That’s ridiculous! He’s my flesh and blood, I never would have shunned either of you. You know me, y/n!”

“I know. It’s terrible, looking back now. I was just in so much pain from losing you back then. I didn’t want to put myself in a position to get hurt again. I was selfish.” Tears flooded your cheeks, and you put your head in your hands out of shame.

You heard Timmy sigh, and you felt him come closer to you. His hands were on your arms and he said, softly, “I never wanted to hurt you. I shouldn’t have broke it off with you. I never should have let you go.”

You weren’t expecting him to put his forehead on yours, or for him to wipe the wet tears from your face, but he did. You nearly shivered feeling his touch finally, after so long.

“Timmy, if you want to hate me, I would understand. But you have every right to be in Theo’s life. I won’t keep him from you.”

Timmy ran his hands through his hair, obviously exhausted, taking a seat at your kitchen table, “You should know that I could never hate you. I tried talking to you so many times after we ended things. You chose to ignore me. But you could have told me you were pregnant then.”

You sat down at the table as well, “I know. I’m sorry. I’d take it all back if I could”.

He took your hand, holding it in a resting position on the table. “It’s okay. I know you would, y/n. But there’s really no point in dwelling on the past, or the way things could have been. I hope we can move forward and get to a good place.”

You looked him, smiling softly, feeling the genuine warmth from his words. “Of course we can. This is a lot right now. We can take time to decide how to raise him. I assume that you want to."

"Yes. Now that I've met him, I don't want to be without him. Nor do I want him to feel abandoned, or that I don't love him."

"He is so much like you. He feels things so deeply and he thinks a lot. Now that you've met, I can just see your relationship growing. He has longed for you, Timmy." you gently gripped his hand, the hand you used to hold with all your heart, and you did in this moment as well.

He smiled softly, the long hours and heavy weight of the day was plain to see on his otherwise handsome face. "I can't wait to get to know him better. He's perfect, y/n, you've done a great job with him." he looked into your eyes, "I'm proud of you." He then squeezed your hand lightly.

"Thank you." you said, trying not to blush. This man still had an enormous effect on you, even after not seeing him in the flesh for years.

"I should go." he declared, standing up from his chair, "I have a bunch of meetings tomorrow, but would it be okay if I called tomorrow night? I wanna ask Theo about his day."

"Of course." you stood up with him, "You can call or come see him anytime."

"Good." he smiled. His eyes looked so dreamy, a stray curl fell along his forehead. You seemed to have forgotten how tall he was. And he had put on more weight since you’d last seen him, he had really grown into a man. He wasn’t just the skinny, goofy boy you knew anymore.

Before you went totally weak in the knees, you said, "Let me walk you to the door."

Timmy followed you to the front door, and once you approached it, he said, "It's weird. I thought I'd really never see you again."

You turned and looked at him, "I know, I'm glad that it has happened, though. Is it weird for me to say that I've missed you?"

He chuckled, "No, not at all. I've missed you too." his eyes narrowed at you, and his gaze lowered slightly and you could have sworn he was staring at your lips.

"Timmy.." you said his name in a whisper, in a moment of hope that this moment meant something.

He leaned in, his eyes slowly closing.

You felt the need to close your eyes so he could kiss you. You’d melt at the feeling of his sweet, soft lips again.

But his lips didn't even graze yours.

You popped your eyelids open and heard him clear his throat. Apparently, he had stopped himself.

"Um, I'll call you tomorrow." he nodded at you, then took ahold of the doorknob, opening the door. "Goodnight, y/n."

You swallowed the lump in your throat, "Goodnight, Timmy."

As the door was shut behind him, you said to yourself, "What the fuck?"

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @tchalamss @softhecreator @ducktapebar @bitchyunknownuser @lixzey @aoi-targaryen @kpopgirlbtssvt @yukideadinside @mel-vaz @thatoneweirdgirl17 @iwishchalamet @jindongdongie @elloise0 @timotheechalametsgfnotclickbait

@rennyd26

#timothée chalamet #timmy chalamet #timothée imagine #timothee x reader #timothee chalamet #timothée chalamet fanfic #timothee fanfic

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kwinnieppang · 2 months

Text

𝐈 𝐁𝐞𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐨 𝐒𝐨𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 || Kim Da-yeon x Fem!Reader

I Bet You Are So Soaked || Kim Da-yeon (Pyramid Game)

Starring : Kim Da-yeon (Pyramid Game) x Fem!Reader

Synopsis : You and Dayeon have been friends for a long time. You are Dayeon's most comfortable place, you could say that your relationship with Dayeon is more than just friends. Even though you're both women, the way Dayeon treats you is like a man. Pyramid Game is not an obstacle for Dayeon not to be with you. Only you can make Dayeon feel calm.

Warning : Fluff, Lesbian, NonVirgin! Reader, PWP, Smut (Oral!Reader receiving, Overstimulation!Reader, Pussydrunk!Dayeon, Dub-con ⟶ Con, Degrading), Typographical Error

Author's note: I'm not normalising the things that happen here in the real world, this is all just for stories and not for the real world! Stay safe for you all out there and I'm sorry if this story is triggering you!

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You and Dayeon have been friends since childhood. You already know each other very well. Your parents also know each other. Dayeon's arrogant and stubborn nature has become your daily bread. You also can't deny that your family is slightly below the Dayeon family.

Wherever you go, Dayeon will always follow you.

You could say that you are a little bored with Dayeon. But, what else can I do?

Dayeon is the friend you can trust the most.

"How? You do still feel the pain?" You asked casually.

“Well…” Dayeon winced slightly in pain as you treated her.

Dayeon grew up in an abusive family.

All problems are solved by venting using violence, especially on Dayeon.

"I told you, don't do anything." You're nagging.

“I've been trying not to fight, ___. But, that old fart is the only one who is sensitive.” Dayeon grumbled.

You didn't respond, you just focused on treating Dayeon.

"Haha… ___."

You started to become suspicious of Dayeon's behaviour.

"What?" You stopped for a moment to look at Dayeon.

Dayeon brought her face closer to you.

“Want to drink wine with me?” Dayeon asked with a soft intonation.

"I don't like-"

"You have to try it, ___. If you don’t try it, how will you know if you don’t like it…?” Dayeon moved her index finger from ___'s chest towards ___'s stomach.

You could feel her amusement, you held Dayeon's hand.

“You are out of your mind.”

Dayeon pouted for a moment.

“Then… If you refuse…”

Dayeon grinned.

"I can drink your juice, right?" Dayeon asked with a grin.

You can't refuse Dayeon's request. Just say that you're afraid Dayeon is threatening you with terrible things. You know that in fact, Dayeon could go berserk at any time. You don't dare to fight Dayeon, you don't understand Dayeon very deeply. You don't feel like living with a family of bastards.

You took off your pants and underwear.

When you leaned against the edge of the bed, Dayeon positioned her head between your legs. Dayeon immediately grabbed both of your inner thighs and opened them wide. Dayeon licks your clit, playing around there. Makes you sigh and feel uncomfortable. Your body squirmed and shivered, you could feel your nipples harden under your shirt.

“Dayeon… Ahh… Don't play there…” You clenched your fists.

The cold floor of the room makes you even more carried away by the atmosphere.

“Uhm… I want you so wet…” Dayeon was still licking her clit.

“Haa… Ahh…!” Your body convulses.

Dayeon stopped.

Followed immediately by pulling your hips and sucking your already wet vagina.

“Ahh~! Uhm… No…” You covered your own mouth again.

You just remembered, there is someone else in your house.

“Ahh… Dayeon…” You moaned her name.

Dayeon keeps licking and sucking your pussy.

“Hmm… Ahh…”

Dayeon's tongue started to poke at your hole. Your clear liquid is getting more and more and it's all being sucked up by Dayeon. Until finally, you reach the point of enjoyment. You orgasmed and Dayeon stopped. Dayeon saw you trying to neutralise yourself.

Dayeon was very happy.

“I really like you.” Dayeon moved closer to you.

Dayeon hugged you and buried her face in your shoulder.

“Dayeon…”

“I wish I were a boy.” Dayeon whispered.

“Huh?”

“I want to make you mine, I… Like you.”

You were quite touched to hear her words, but you thought again.

‘I like you better if you are who you are now.’

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

In the end, you both entered as students of Baekyeon Girls High School. At first you thought that you would separate classes, but it turned out you didn't and you were still in the same class as Dayeon. The two of you are in class 2-5, a class that can be said to be special. Luckily, Dayeon is starting to get away from you. Dayeon made some new friends, and so did you.

“___, I have the latest information.” Dayeon sat next to you.

“Huh?” You're clearly confused.

“Do you like caste games? Me, Harin, and Doah will make a game about caste.” Dayeon smiled proudly.

“Ah, if it's just a game—”

"Listen first~ If you are in the highest position, you are free to do whatever you want! But, if you are at the bottom, you will be—”

“Bully?” You reply curtly.

Dayeon nodded, she didn't seem to understand the situation yet.

"How? Cool, right?" Dayeon smiled casually.

“It’s not cool, really.” You don't agree with Dayeon.

“Hey, if you're angry… You can take it out on the lowest ranked person…”

“That's not cool.”

Dayeon put her arm around you and poking your cheek.

“Hey, don't be like that... Ah, what's your opinion anyway? Not used either."

You were a little annoyed with Dayeon's behaviour, so you pushed Dayeon's hand away.

“That's enough for me. Whatever happens, I will follow the flow. If it really comes to that and i can't stand it... I'll leave."

“But, you will tell—”

"Don't interfere." You replied coldly.

This was the first time you were cold to Dayeon.

“___…? You… are just annoyed, right?” Dayeon asked doubtfully.

You ignored Dayeon and walked out of the classroom.

Now, you have other friends besides Dayeon. Lim Yerim and Sim Eunjung are your new friends. The differences in character and way of speaking between the two of them are very significant. Yerim tends to be friendly and sweet, while Eunjung tends to be cold and quiet. But, you think it's okay, humans are unique.

The Pyramid Game is still being implemented.

Although, you don't know whether the people around you agree to play the game or not.

You wonder why Dayeon can always be in A with Dayeon's new friends. You also felt a change in Dayeon's attitude. You thought maybe it was the Pyramid Game that put you in position C. Dayeon's attitude towards you also changed, she became more indifferent and arrogant. You don't care, you think it's normal.

"Isn't her family a bit unique?" You mumbled, talking or mocking Dayeon's family.

"___, What is it?" Yerim asked.

"I feel like burning down the house... But, I know... I can't do it." You wore a gloomy expression.

“On what basis do you want to burn down the house?” Eunjung asked.

You put your head on the table.

“Ahh~ I don't have any enthusiasm today…” You grumbled to yourself.

"Maybe she needs some time alone." Yerim said to Eunjung.

"Yeah, but there's no need to burn down the house." Eunjung replied.

“Why are you focused on burning down the house? ___ is just frustrated and just talking nonsense." Yerim said.

The day goes on, the game continues. But, you were never at grade F. Luckily, Eunjung and Yerim loyally chose you. For others, you don't know who chose you. At least, you're not in F and that makes you feel safe. Your ranking always goes up and down, B and C.

“Who voted for me…?” You always mumble like that after the game is over.

You've talked about this to Yerim and Eunjung.

“It would be good if you could equal B.” Yerim said.

“But, I was—”

“Ah— No, no!” Yerim shook her head while telling you to be quiet.

"What?"

“You survived F, for me that's enough. You get more votes, for me that's very good!” Yerim gave both thumbs up with a smile.

You looked at your cellphone which was vibrating because someone was calling.

"Who's that? Hm?” Yerim was curious.

You immediately refuse and your smartphone screen display returns to normal.

“No, no one.” You smiled back at Yerim.

You also started to reject calls from Dayeon.

A revenge would be nice, isn't it?

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“Why do you rarely answer my calls? Am I no longer important? Your behaviour has changed, ___.” Dayeon scolded.

You were talking to Dayeon on your cell phone.

“Stop it, Dayeon.” You reply wearily.

“Stop? Huh! Very funny. You don't like me? You don't care about me anymore, right? Yerim and Eunjung made you forget about me. Am I-"

“Don't try to hurt them, Dayeon-ah.” Your tone is very harsh.

"What's that?" Dayeon held back her laughter.

“You are the one who has changed. If you really want to remain friends with me, come to me. But, in fact it's not. You're noisy, I'll just turn it off.”

"Yah, ___! It is you-"

You end the one-sided conversation, you've had enough.

You think that this way, Dayeon won't bother you.

But, you are wrong.

Dayeon was already in front of your house and asked to come in. Of course, you forbid it. But, Dayeon wouldn't be if she wasn't stubborn. On the other hand, you are afraid that Dayeon will report strange things to her family and destroy your family. Reluctantly, you let Dayeon into your house.

"Very funny... In the past, you were very happy when I was around. Now, you are rejecting me.” Dayeon grinned.

“I am a typical person who is always changing. Whatever it is, my thoughts will always change from time to time. Including… People who are accepted and those who are not.” You explained flatly.

“Hm, that's exciting… Look at you, trying hard to look like me. Oh, are you maybe inspired by Doah?” Dayeon brought her face closer to you.

You just kept quiet while looking at her flatly.

“Then will Yerim and Eunjung be thrown away and I will be accepted back?” Dayeon asked with her confident nature.

"Who knows…"

Dayeon grinned.

"But, it could be that you will really be thrown away by me later." You continued.

Dayeon didn't accept the answer, she pushed until you were pinned against the wall.

“What did you say just now? Repeat."

“I'm not afraid of you, Dayeon. I'm just afraid for your family.”

“I could ruin your life right now.” Dayeon replied arrogantly.

“You are nothing but a schoolgirl—”

"Well-!"

“Self-awareness is important, Dayeon.”

Dayeon threw you to the floor and you collapsed.

“My dear dog seems to be getting cocky. I have to give her training.” Dayeon grinned.

The dog is you.

You just gave Dayeon the middle finger.

Without further ado, Dayeon removed your lower clothing. Dayeon also misses your juice. Your legs were spread wide and Dayeon's head was between them. Her tongue licks your wet pussy mercilessly. Makes your body limp and sensitive.

“Ahh~! Stop it! Haa…~!”

You grabbed Dayeon's hair.

Dayeon squeezed your thighs even more and pushed in opposite directions.

“Ahhh~! No, I don't want to be with you anymore..."

Inevitably, you orgasm.

But, Dayeon still wanted more.

"You said you didn't want to be with me anymore. But, in reality you are still wet with me."

You felt annoyed and grabbed Dayeon.

“You think it's funny? You are playing with my feelings!”

“Playing with what?”

“You think all that is funny? You walked away from me and ignored me. You only come if you need it! Oh, damn!” You cursed at Dayeon.

You pushed Dayeon away and put your clothes back on properly.

You intended to leave Dayeon, but she held you back.

"Wait a moment, ___!" Dayeon grabbed your wrist.

"What?"

"You are jealous?"

You are silent.

'Should I be honest or not? Will this be detrimental for me or not?’ You think.

“Yes, indeed I am jealous! Your crazy family is stressing you out and I should be your comfort place. But, you just go and have fun with the people who are in Grade F! Once you have friends who are the same frequency, you forget about me. Don't you remember anything we did together? You're crazy, Dayeon!”

"What?"

"If you really want to end our friendship, then just end it! But, don't ever look for me again!” You tried to let go of Dayeon's wrist.

"Yah!" Dayeon held you tighter.

"If you dare leave me, I will tell my father that you are a bastard."

You glared at Dayeon.

Dayeon hugs you tightly and smirks.

“Is it unclear? You are mine. Whatever it is, you are still mine. No one can take you from me.” She whispered.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Since that incident, your relationship with Dayeon has become more intense. It's quite a question, but you can answer it and give logical reasons. Especially with Yerim and Eunjung, you played a little fact with them. Your friendship with Yerim and Eunjung is still running smoothly. Now, you have to divide your time to be with your friends and for Dayeon.

Like now, you and Dayeon went to the warehouse during an empty hour or self study hour.

“Mmhhh…” You let your mouth be explored by Dayeon's tongue.

Dayeon's fingers also groped your womanhood.

“Ahh… Really, is this okay…?” You asked.

"Don't worry, it's free time."

Dayeon had an idea, she lay down on the floor.

"What are you doing…?" You asked in confusion, an innocent look.

“Take off your panties and sit on my face.”

You obeyed Dayeon and you sat on her face. You can feel Dayeon's tongue playing on your pussy. You could feel your clitoris being attacked by her tongue. Your hole is poked by Dayeon's tongue. Really, Dayeon's tongue makes you almost crazy.

“Ahh~! Your tongue… Ahh… Hmm… Dayeon… I'm going to cum…” You orgasm.

Dayeon grinned, he still continued licking your juice.

"Haa... Shh... What if the teacher knows...?"

"Just tell me the truth.

"Mmhh... What about your papa...?"

Dayeon stopped licking for a moment.

"Does he care about me?" Dayeon continued licking you.

“Ahh… It's okay, Dayeon… You… Nghh… Ahhh… Slow down…” You grabbed Dayeon's hair.

“Uhm…” Dayeon slurped up your juices that kept coming out.

“Let… Ahh~! I'm talking…! Ahh…”

Dayeon doesn't let you talk by continuing to attack your womanhood using her tongue.

“Ahhh~! Uhm… Dayeon… Enough…” You grabbed Dayeon's hair more roughly.

Dayeon ignores what you want. Dayeon instead grabbed and pulled your waist to keep sitting on her. Basically, Dayeon is addicted to you. Dayeon thinks it's okay, Dayeon thinks you need it. At least, your lust is also channelled.

You like it, right?”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The End

#pyramid game #pyramid game x reader #x reader #pyramidgamexreader #kimdayeon #kim dayeon #kim dayeon x reader #dayeon x reader #kdrama x reader #smut #pyramidgamefanfic #fanfic #피라미드 게임

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 5 months

Note

Here's a free pass for anything that feels okay

"This is ridiculous," Jason scoffed. He'd been hiding in the long bar. Nursing a drink. Avoiding the party. But now? He'd been dragged back out into the party. Where it was too bright. Too loud. And every marriage-minded mama was more than willing to marry their daughter to the prodigal Wayne son- given that Tim was an avowed bachelor and Dick was still too busy being a scoundrel.

"It's not every day you come back from the dead," Dick said cheerfully, "C'mon old man. There has to be one likely wallflower."

"Last I checked," Jason sighed, "I'd need to be introduced to them-"

"Well you're in luck," He said, waving Stephanie over. "Steph has spent WEEKS making friends all over the city. Just for you."

"This is obscene."

"And I have the perfect partner for your first dance," Steph said taking his arm. "She's absolutely the sweetest. And she'll be too shy to talk to you."

"That's something," he grunted. He'd forgotten how annoying giggling socialites could be. And he had no idea how Bruce and Dick put up with it.

"She speaks both Latin and Greek and has a divine singing voice when she can be persuaded," Stephanie said, pitching her voice to be heard as she marched him toward where you stood. Tucked away in a corner.

And Jason assessed you. Too old to need a minder necessarily but not at your last prayers. Bespectacled. And you were indeed shy. Smiling politely but it was clear that you really did prefer to wait things out.

Still. Steph had taken pains to make the introduction- he supposed it was the least he could do to squire you around the floor. Perhaps, if he danced with you it would stir some of the more timid men out of the bushes. A husband with a tidy bank account and a permissive streak would suit you.

"Your sister was sweet to think of me," you tell him.

"She thought we could be friends," he said, not wanting to sound rude.

You nod, "Of course. We could all use more friends."

Jason smiled a little, "Will you be going to the spiritualist meeting tomorrow?"

"No," you answer, smiling a little. "My Aunt has told me I'm not to go until I learn to stop pointing out their tricks."

"Tricks?" Jason asked, curious.

"Most of them are terrible charlatans you know," you tell him.

"Most?"

You shrug, "You came back from the dead," you tell him, "So they can't ALL be wrong."

#minors dni #ask answered #jason todd #jason todd x reader #reader insert #gaslamp!au

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loveinhawkins · 1 year

Text

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

They cling to each other for a long time. Gradually, Eddie’s breathing stops catching with sobs, and he becomes aware of other impressions: the water dampening his jeans as he sits on the tiles, the muffled chaos on the other side of the bathroom door—people calling desperately for loved ones, hospital staff shouting orders.

And as Eddie calms, he feels when the hug shifts, when Dustin starts to shake, and it turns more into Eddie holding him than the other way around.

Eddie takes a few deep breaths, only stuttering slightly. Swallows and tries to gather himself. “What happened to your face, man, you okay?”

Dustin nods over his shoulder. “One of the windows blew at Ste—at the house when the… when the gates...”

“Shit.” Eddie pulls back a little, and he can see the evidence of it now, little pieces of glass littering Dustin’s hair. “Where’s everyone else?”

“They’re fine, they stayed there. It was just one window, the house barely got hit compared to…” Dustin trails off with a shrug that Eddie takes to mean compared to the whole town. “There was an old bike in the garage, so…”

“You biked here? By yourself?” Eddie had half been hoping that he’d somehow hailed a cab or something equally miraculous, can’t fathom just how dangerous it currently is to travel alone, so exposed, if the whole town is anything like the trailer park—

The ground splitting, blood red light, Steve’s blank eyes—

Eddie shakes his head. “Jesus, Henderson. You’re damn lucky you didn’t break something.” Or worse.

“I don’t care.” Dustin lets go and fixes Eddie with a fierce stare, eyes wet. “I—Eddie.” His voice breaks. “I said I hated him.”

They’re both avoiding using Steve’s name, like saying it out loud will mean they have to face the terrible reality of it.

Eddie pushes down another wave of grief. Dustin needs to hear this. “That’s—Dustin. He knew that wasn’t true.”

“Yeah.” A harsh laugh of self-loathing, and Eddie’s heart breaks at the sound. “But I still said it. That—that says—”

“That doesn’t say anything about you,” Eddie says fiercely. “You hear me? Not a fucking thing. You…” He pulls Dustin into another hug, feels the tremors of him crying. Squeezes tight. “You were just scared. No crime in that, all right?”

“Sorry, Eddie, I—I’m just. I’m really fucking scared.”

He has no idea if Dustin is really listening, wonders distantly if this is how Wayne has felt over the years, when faced with him. He just holds onto Dustin, hopes that it’s enough, hopes that it says all that he means. Christ, kid, can’t you see how much he loved you? He’d have done anything for you.

Eddie strokes a hand through Dustin’s hair, carefully removing pieces of glass. Oh, he’d have done anything for you.

And he did.

It’s only when they pull themselves up off the floor that he notices Dustin’s limp.

“You did break something.”

“I don’t think so.” Dustin stands on the foot experimentally, then winces with a quickly stifled cry.

“Hey, don’t! Here, just…”

He gives Dustin his arm to lean on, and they walk in silence. Eddie finds that he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what balance to strike. His usual joking would just ring false, but what he actually wants to do, which is keep double checking that Dustin is okay, feels too close to… to something that Steve would do.

He doesn’t want to be a reminder of all that they’ve lost.

They find Robin waiting for them outside the restrooms. Her face is pale, blotchy, and when she runs to Dustin, wraps her arms around him, Eddie remembers—

Robin’s arms tight around his chest, holding him back. He had caught the ambulance driver glancing at his watch, realised it was to check for the time of death, and now he's making a mournful keening noise he didn’t know he was capable of.

Denial flooding him, painful, overwhelming. He can’t accept it, suddenly, even though another part of him repeats ‘he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone’ like a lament; wants to scream, “You don't understand, he can’t be—he was just talking to me—”

“Why are you just—someone fucking help him!” He's reaching for Steve, but Robin's grip is strong; he just brushes Steve’s fingers, and they’re cold, why are they—

“Eddie,” Robin is whispering brokenly. “Eddie, stop, it's—it's not him anymore.”

Eddie breathes, presses his back against the wall as Robin takes Dustin’s weight with a concerned expression.

“He needs someone to take a look at that,” Eddie says, nodding at Dustin’s leg. His voice sounds normal, if a little flat. Oh. He’s numb, he thinks.

When Robin replies, she sounds similar, looks grateful at being given a task, something to do. “They're taking minor wounds on the floor below.” She gives ‘minor wounds’ a skeptical air quote with one hand.

They start heading towards the elevator, and then Eddie sees it out of the corner of his eye. Denim jacket, a flash of plaid.

He makes sure Robin is still holding Dustin before he starts to run. People jostle against him, unseeing, slamming into his shoulders, and he keeps fighting against the tide, because—

“Wayne!” he calls desperately, feeling suddenly very young.

Up ahead, someone turns. And then there is a familiar warmth around him, ushering him to the side, away from people.

“Eddie,” his uncle says, and he looks exhausted and shaken, but otherwise unharmed.

The sight of him triggers a rush of emotion all over again, and the only thing Eddie can say is a choked, “I didn't kill her.”

Wayne’s eyes soften. “C'mon, son. You know me better than that.”

Eddie’s breath hitches again. Wayne holds him, holds him like he did when he was a child and had bad dreams, a hand cupping his head like there, now. We’ll make this right.

And then Wayne pulls back, eyes flickering over Eddie. “Christ, Eddie. You hurt?”

There’s a split second of confusion; Eddie glances down at himself, sees the blood and vomit on his shirt. Sways a little, and Wayne grabs onto him in alarm.

“No, it's not—I'm fine, Wayne. Promise.” He breathes through a lump in his throat and gets out, “A friend died,” which feels so inadequate for the enormity of what had happened.

Wayne stares at him for a long moment. Then he says, very gently, “This is something big, ain't it?” He gestures to the thronging corridor, to the windows. “What you got mixed up in?”

Eddie almost laughs at that. From Wayne’s phrasing, it sounds like he just got mixed up in the wrong crowd at school, when really, just a few days ago, lost in despair, he'd somehow found the strangest, best people in the world.

And now, he's lost one of them.

“Fuck, Wayne, there's—there's so much I want to tell you,” he says. “But I—I don't know if I can. Not yet.”

It hurts to say; Wayne’s always upheld the fact that Eddie can tell him anything and everything. He can see that Wayne is about to reply as much, but then he must spot something on Eddie's face, sense the fear.

“All right, Eddie,” he says calmly. “Not yet.” Then his eyes widen a fraction, and he moves forward, as if to shield him. “Aren't the cops still looking for you?”

“I...” Eddie shakes his head. He recalls having a very distant thought that he might get arrested as they arrived at the hospital, but it had gone as quickly as it came; because he’d seen Steve—seen the body get covered with a sheet, and Nancy's hand had gripped around Eddie’s wrist like she needed an anchor, nails piercing his skin.

“Not sure,” he finishes honestly. “I—I don't think so. I don't know why.”

Wayne studies him, then sighs. “All right,” he repeats. He doesn't sound happy about it, but he can read Eddie, read that there's somehow even bigger things to worry about. “You got people here?”

“Yeah.” Eddie blinks away the image of Steve's glassy stare, thinks of Dustin—Dustin, who still needs him. “Yeah, I...”

Wayne nods. “Go. Some folks got banged up at the plant, one of the nurses said they need volunteers.” He lets go of Eddie with reluctance. “Stay in the building, all right? I'll come find you.”

Eddie nods. It’s one of the hardest things in the world, to walk away from Wayne. He didn’t think he’d ever have this back. “I love you.”

Wayne tsks, brings Eddie in for a brief, fierce embrace. “I love you, too.”

It’s not Dustin that Eddie finds first as he retraces his steps, but Nancy, taking a call. He sees her lips move: “Mike.” Something changes. She goes very still, her grip on the phone tightening. Then, whatever she’s saying is delivered rapidly; she slams the phone down and runs right into Eddie.

“Woah, where's the fire, Wheeler?” Eddie says. His heart is already in his throat at the sight of her; she’s white as a sheet. What fucking now?

She breathes in and out, then grabs his hand. “Come on.”

They run together. Nancy doesn't provide any explanation as they hurtle up the staircase, as she leads him to a very quiet corridor in the ICU.

“Just...” She takes a breath, collects herself. “Wait here. I'll be right back.”

And she storms through another set of doors. Eddie stands there, frozen. It’s the longest fifteen minutes of his life. When she comes back, she’s much slower, and she sits down opposite him, puts her head between her knees.

“What's...? Shit, Wheeler, you're scaring me.”

She looks up. Surprisingly, her eyes are dry. “I'm about to tell you something,” she says, “and... Eddie, I'd only tell you if I was sure.”

Eddie blinks. “Shoot.”

“Okay. They—Steve. He was being taken away. To the...” Nancy's eyes dart to a sign, and Eddie fights back nausea. To the morgue. “But then they... They've found a pulse.”

The words take a while to truly hit Eddie, as if they come from a long tunnel. When they do, he feels his legs buckle, and he slides down to the floor. He's glad Dustin isn’t here; hope, false hope, is cruel.

“Nancy,” he says, through gritted teeth. "That—that’s not possible. I—I felt him—” He can’t even say it. I felt him die.

Nancy leans forward, puts her hand on one of his knees and squeezes. “I know,” she says simply. Then she stands. “Come with me.”

But Eddie doesn't want to move. He wonders if it's all been too much, if this is a trick, if Nancy’s had enough and is finally turning him in. But then he remembers how she had held onto him as they celebrated the communication with Dustin in The Upside Down. And he sees her eyes now, sharp and earnest.

So he lets her guide him onwards.

He comes to a halt outside a room. Feels a weight in the pit of his stomach, like he’s at a turning point; that maybe this is all in his head, and he'll go right back to his bedroom, and Steve will—Steve will—

Nancy’s hand slips into his. She raises her eyebrows, and it’s not quite a smile she gives him, but the expression seems to say, Together?

As one, they walk inside.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie whispers.

In a bed lies a body that looks remarkably like Steve Harrington. There’s a cast on one of his legs, but what draws Eddie’s attention is his face, the waxy pallor of it, the mask fitted tightly around his mouth. That awful stare has gone; someone has closed his eyes. Eddie doesn’t realise that he’s holding his breath until he sees the slightest movement of Steve’s chest, the weakest rise and fall... but it's there.

Eddie turns away and retches. Nothing comes up. Nancy rubs at his back.

“I spoke to some... there’s doctors who—they know about. Everything. They told me that they're not really worried about his leg, it just seems like a normal break,” she says. Her voice wavers slightly, like she's fighting tears. “The... the bites on his stomach stopped bleeding, but... it's his lungs, they think.” She nods at the mask. “They're giving him the same stuff they gave Will, after he was in The Upside Down. They say it's the best chance he's got.”

Eddie thinks about Steve throwing up. His gasping breaths. Panicking. Fuck, he can’t breathe. Then—

“He was coughing,” he says. The memory feels hazy, as if it happened years ago. “When we were… on the bikes, to my trailer. I could hear him.”

He feels shaky again. Nancy draws up two chairs, close to Steve’s bed, and they sit.

He is aware, suddenly, of a slow but steady beeping. A heart monitor.

It doesn’t feel real. Eddie pinches the skin on the back of his hand hard, half expects to see a clock instead of…

“Fucking hell, Wheeler,” he sighs. “What are we gonna do?”

“Make sure he’s not alone,” Nancy says.

They keep a silent vigil. At some point, Nancy rises, flits out of the room. Eddie hears hushed conversation just outside, and then Dustin and Robin come in, Dustin hobbling on crutches. Robin makes a wounded noise, reaches forward and holds Steve’s hand so gently.

Eddie doesn’t dare touch him. Something in the back of his mind whispers that he might break the spell, that Steve might crumble away into nothing if he so much as—

“It doesn’t look like him,” Dustin says. He sounds torn between anger and despair. “He looks… gone.”

Eddie sucks in a breath. “I know.” Because Dustin has voiced his precise fear: that this is all that remains. A different death, but a death all the same.

It happens much later, when Dustin has been shepherded back to Steve’s house by Nancy and Robin. “We’ll check on the kids,” Nancy had said, “and then we’ll be back.”

“Take your time,” Eddie told her, noting the sunken, fatigued look to all of them.

They’ve been gone for just over an hour when Eddie, fighting sleep, realises that he hasn’t told Wayne about the state of the trailer. He almost wants to search for him, but he doesn’t dare leave the room, even if he can only really look at the hospital sheets, his eyes darting away from Steve’s face. Dustin’s right; he looks gone.

He hears it half in a dream, eyes closing despite himself. A radio, faintly, from another room, a cleaner leaving the door ajar.

Leaving nothing but the dead and dying back in my little town. Nothing but the dead and dying back in my little town.

He jolts awake sharply, as if his body is already aware of something before his mind has understood. Still blinking away sleep, this time he does not look away when his eyes land on…

It’s barely there. But Eddie sees it: the faintest of creases on Steve’s forehead.

Eddie stares. Then it clicks.

“Holy shit,” he says, hushed, afraid that if he speaks too loudly, it will all stop. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry—he ends up doing a mixture of both. “Harrington, is this your fucking song?”

The sound of the radio fades away, and with it so does the tiniest of frowns. Desperately, Eddie picks up the chorus himself, stumbling over the words in his haste; and this time, he sees it happen, the change from an unnatural laxness to…

A little pinch in between Steve’s brows, subtle, but there.

“Fuck, it’s really you,” Eddie says. “You’re still in there.” His eyes burn with tears. He reaches for Steve’s hand, holds on despite the lingering coldness to his skin. “Christ, please keep fighting, man. Please.”

#the self sacrificial steve agenda #steddie fic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #nancy wheeler #dustin henderson #robin buckley #wayne munson

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yourgentlegirlfriend · 1 year

Text

hi….I KNOW I KNOW ITS BEEN ALMOST TWO WEEKS? SINCE IVE POSTED. I was hit with the most SEVERE writers block i’ve ever had in my whole life. i hope you guys like this one. I'm feeling real self-conscious about my writing lately :( MUAH

DISCLAIMER: IF YOU WERE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH NSFW/DARK CONTENT OR ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18 PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT WITH MY BLOG. MUAH.

Warnings: Just smut. Mean old man leon, mentions of pregnancy, breeding, just enjoy

Word count: 1.4k

Though you loved Leon- he sure was a pain in the ass on his days off. Leon prided himself on being your provider; the only thing you ever had to worry about was looking pretty for him when he got home. And you tried- most of the time.

Yet on Saturdays he doesn’t give you the time of day. Ever. You always make him the best dinner, your hands scrubbing at the dishes in the sink as you yet again had to put Leon’s food in a small container. You turn off the sink, letting out a long sigh at the sound of Leon’s music shaking the kitchen floor. You start the dishwasher before you make your way to the garage door. Swinging it open as the chorus to coming undone by Korn rang through your ears. You winced at the loud music, your hand on your hip as you stood on the top step. The room was thick with smoke, slowly being aired out from the tiny crack in the opened garage door. Leon never notices your presence; the only reason he did was because your hand harshly smacks down on his radio, his head popping up from where he squatted down on the floor.

“The fuck?”

Leon’s husky voice rang through your ears as he wiped his hands on his jeans—such an asshole. You tilted your head at him with a cocky little smirk as you pointed toward the kitchen.

“Oh, Jus’ give me five more minutes baby and I’ll come eat, promise.”

Leon didn’t like that you mocked him, his hand resting on his knee as he just stared up at you

“You done?”

“Are you done?”

It was accidentally yelled but Leon couldn’t hear the whole accident part, his eyebrows raising as he stood up, laying his towel on his bike seat as his leg goes up the step. Leon’s head shakes as he watches you stepping back from him. It almost makes him laugh.

“Your dinner is in the fridge.”

Your words are cold; Leon smirked as he nodded his head again, taking a step toward you.

“Oh, c'mon honey.. y’know I hate when you’re all mad and pouty, especially at me.”

You shouldn’t be giving in to him. You know his tricks and how he works. Being in love with Leon on his good days was the best time of your life. You’ve been with him for years, the man has been through too much, and he has terrible days often. When did he get this close? His large hand presses up your tummy and around your waist before he pushes you into the garage door.

Leon smirks at the whine that leaves your lips as his strong hands hold at your waist, turning you around so your chest is against the door and your back is lying so perfectly against his

“So mean to my little girl.. always makes me dinner, folds my clothes..”

Leon’s cheek lays against your ear as he smells your strawberry shampoo, groaning as the sweet scent fills his nose.

“Never make time for you.. I bet you rub your pretty little clit all the time when I’m gone.. so sorry for being so negligent..”

Leon’s words make a soft moan escape your mouth. He knew he won, twisting open the door and shoving you into the kitchen, shoving himself against you.

“You think I care? You think I feel bad?”

He’s so much more robust, it’s impossible to fight him. His hands tug your jeans down your legs before a harsh smack comes onto your skin, making you jolt into the counter.

“Don’t fucking move and answer me, you had so much to say now you’re silent?”

What did he expect you to say? You hated apologizing when you knew it wasn’t your fault. Maybe he should be saying sorry to you, for constantly ignoring you on his days off and ignoring your hard work.

All is forgiven when he shoves his cock so deep inside you that your breathing stops, your hands grabbing at the counter as your toes curl into the wooden floors.

“You know I usually warm her up.. love sucking on your clit, but you needed more than that, didn’t you?”

Leon pulls your hips toward him more, using his strength as an advantage to bend you over the counter more. He couldn’t help but let out a shaky moan at the sight of you gripping his cock when he dragged himself out of you, using all his weight to fuck back into you.

It felt so fucking good but hurt so badly, your eyes squeezed shut as you continued to try and adjust to his size but in truth, he hadn’t touched you in weeks.

“Fuck Le.. jus’ miss you so much.”

The words left your lips in a slurred whine as you tilted your head back trying to look back at the handsome man who was far too focused on not cumming inside you two seconds into fucking you. Leon nodded his head as he reached forward, soft shushing leaving his lips as he pulled some hair from your face and grabbed at your neck, pulling you back towards him as his hips began to rock into you

“I know baby, can see it.. can’t you feel how much you missed me?”

Leon mumbled into your ear before kissing at the sensitive skin at your neck as he tried to fuck through your tightness but there was no point. Leon shoved you back down into the counter before his hands rested against your ass, pulling the skin apart to watch the way you sucked him in.

Leon’s whimper sent chills down your spine. Maybe work has been too much.. how selfish of you to assume he didn’t love you.

“Maybe I’ll put a baby in you, hm? Then you really won’t forget how much I love you.”

He knew he won by the way your mouth was hanging open, that toothy smile spreading across his face as his hips moved faster

“That’s my fucking girl..”

Leon moaned as he pulled himself out of you and grabbed at your wrist, watching as you blinked at him all confused. You try not to question him in times like these but when Leon pushes you down onto the plush couch, a small yelp leaves your lips as Leon's hands gripped at your thighs. Before you could even blink he was bottomed out inside of you again, shallow breaths leaving your nose as he shoves your knees to your chest and over his shoulders. He thinks it’s so cute as your shaky little hands try and push him away, he’s just so deep, his cock hitting that gummy spot inside of you that makes the coil in your stomach burn.

“No, no, don’t push away from me now. You wanted this remember? You fucking wanted this look at me-“

Leon’s fingers harshly gripped at your face, smacking down onto your already flushed skin causing you to whimper out as his thrusts somehow grow deeper.

“Leon..”

Your whine is enough for him to know, His hand reaching down to press into your stomach before he steadies his position, pounding into you. Every thrust makes that small little scream leave your lips that drives Leon fucking crazy, sweat building at his brow as he roughly fucks into you.

He could watch you thrash beneath him for hours, your mouth open babbling nonsense begging him to stop but your hips push up to meet his cock every single time. He watches as you go silent, your knees pressing together as your walls squeeze at his cock, Leon groans, his hand gripping at your knee as he tries not to fall on top of you as he finally finishes inside of you. His hips move very slowly as he grinds into you. His breath is heavy as he looks down at you, reaching down to push some hair from your face as he pulls out of you.

The two of you just stare at each other for a bit before you sit up, walking to grab your jeans and turning to the bathroom.

Leon shakes his head as he rebuttons his pants and stands up, his hands helping you tug your jeans up your legs before he grabs at your ass, smacking lightly as he makes his way towards the garage.. again.

“Warm my food up for me.”

#yourgentlegf #leon kennedy #resident evil #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy angst #older leon kennedy #older leon plz

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calaisreno · 5 months

Text

Yes and No

“Do you love her?”

It had taken them less than thirty minutes to go from the Rizla game to just asking each other random questions. The only celebrities that Sherlock knew were nineteenth-century chemists and twentieth-century criminals, which had more or less spoiled the game, and Sherlock had declared it pointless.

Then he suggested Yes or No, which at least required some deductive reasoning, and John agreed. But Sherlock was very good at this game, having deduced nearly everything about John in the first days of their acquaintance. Without asking any question, he deduced that John would choose violin, a human liver, Mrs Hudson’s nephew, and Sherlock’s old mouse-coloured dressing gown.

John gives up. “Fine. What don’t you know about me?”

Do you love her is a real question, he gathers— from the look on Sherlock’s face, which is serious and a bit sad.

The answer, which should be yes, of course I love her, instead comes out, “I’m marrying her.”

“People marry for reasons other than—“ Sherlock stops, appearing to realise he is going in a direction that can only lead to bad feelings. “Sorry, not a fair question. Better: When did you know that you loved her?”

He remembers grief. The intense pain of the days after he saw Sherlock die on the sidewalk in front of Barts. There are few details he can recall after that moment. It was as if the pain had receded just enough to let him breathe, and a kind of grey fog had descended. Pain, then sorrow.

Somewhere during the sorrow part, Mary had appeared. She may have been there sooner, but he hadn’t noticed. At some point he became aware of her bringing him coffee, talking to him, urging him to come out for lunch. Always there, cheerfully bullying him back into life. Eventually he noticed that he wasn’t quite as sad, and that she was rather pretty.

But the pain was still there, a tender spot in his memory, and most days he still felt defeated. Mary helped, though, and he thought that if she stayed, everything would be easier. He didn’t need to explain; she understood. He could keep the memories at bay when she was around.

By then he was having sex with her. He didn’t remember exactly how that had begun. Maybe it was a pity fuck one night when he’d had too much to drink. He woke up in her bed hungover, waiting for the darkness to descend like a weight on his chest, and she was there, making him a cup of tea, urging him to have some toast, sweetly solicitous and not accepting any excuses.

Does he love her?

Sherlock is still looking at him, the question in his eyes.

“She was there when I needed someone,” he says. “I just knew.”

He’d known that morning that he needed to move on, to leave what had happened in the past and live his life. And there she was.

“Your turn,” Sherlock says.

John thinks of all the things he’s ever wanted to know about Sherlock, but has never asked because it has never seemed a good time. Sherlock has a way of warding off questions with just a look. An armour that does not allow anyone in, not even John. He’s wondered about a lot of things, but asking has never been an option. Sherlock never has to ask; he simply deduces. John is terrible at deductions, as Sherlock often reminds him.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Twice.”

“That was a yes-no question, so I get follow-up. So, the first. Who was he?”

Sherlock smiles. “You’re assuming it was a man.”

“Wasn’t it? I thought… you’re… erm…”

“Gay? Yes, I am.”

“You loved a man,” John says. Obviously.

“Well, a boy. I was twelve. I suppose it wasn’t love so much as infatuation and hormones. His name was Victor. I never told him until I met him again at uni.” He gives John one of those looks that makes him feel like he is being x-rayed. “Have you ever kissed a man?”

“I’m not gay,” he says at once. “I mean, why would I kiss a man if I knew I wasn’t gay?”

“Follow-up question, then. When did you know you were not gay?”

John’s mouth may have been open for a bit. It’s an odd question. Everybody knows they’re straight until something happens and they know they’re not. Isn’t that the way it works? “I just knew. When did you know you were gay?”

“When I was twelve. I was at a stupid birthday party my mother made me attend, and we were playing Forfeit. I was asked a question I didn’t like to answer and took the forfeit. Up until then the penalties were stupid things like singing a song or doing a dance, but this time it was kissing a girl. The girl was willing, and I was curious, so I agreed. That was when I realised girls weren’t my cup of tea, so to speak. I wanted to kiss Victor.”

John says nothing, though it’s his turn. He remembers a similar party, a boy who wanted to kiss him, and feeling terrified that his parents would find out if he did. Harry had just come out, and he was trying very hard to make up for all of her shortcomings.

Sherlock asks, “How do you know you’re not gay if you’ve never kissed a man?”

“I’ve kissed lots of women,” he replies. “I don’t need to kiss a man to know I’m not gay.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I assumed that I was like everyone else, that some day I would meet the right girl, get married, and have children. That was how it was supposed to work, and I thought there was something wrong with me because I didn’t like girls that way. All my fantasies were about boys, but I thought I would eventually be attracted to girls as I got older. That kiss told me I would never love a woman.”

“You think I should kiss a man just to see if I’m a bit gay?” He laughs.

“It’s your forfeit, for not having an answer.”

“I’m not going to kiss some random bloke just because you—“

“Not a random bloke. Me. Kiss me.”

This is dangerous ground. Somewhere in his libido lies something that he’s thought about. Maybe he’s even fantasised about kissing a man. Having sex with a man. Just a lark, maybe. Don’t lots of men go through that? It doesn’t mean anything.

But, Sherlock. He lived with him for a year and a half, and they’d been friends. And he grieved when Sherlock died. Not grieved like a friend. He’d lost friends before, and this was nothing like those losses. Pain, darkness, unending regret. Even after Mary, some of that darkness remained. Moments when he remembered something Sherlock had said or done, a stab of pain. If it hadn’t been for Mary—

And it came to him. Mary was balm for his wounds. She brought him back from the edge. He is grateful to her. But gratitude isn’t love. Being in such pain for so long, and then a bit of light— that isn’t love, it’s relief. He’s seen patients in physical pain become almost giddy when given a dose of something that takes their agony away, not even enough to make them high. Relief feels like intoxication when pain has gone on so long.

If it hadn’t been for Mary, he would have understood what he’d only begun to see. She helped him, saved him even. But she was a distraction from the pain, not a cure.

He glances at Sherlock, who is pulling back, looking like he wishes he hadn’t just asked for a kiss. Maybe he’ll make a joke about their game, move them towards goodnight, goodbye, see you at the wedding.

“Yes,” he says. It’s an answer to everything— regret, grief, sorrow, love. It’s an apology for not seeing sooner, for the night at the Landmark, for his anger and cruel rejection of the man he has loved for years. “Kiss me.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Sherlock is right. The kiss tells John things he’s tried hard to forget. It tells him that has loved men before, but called it friendship, that he has wanted to touch men and kiss them, and called it lust, or fantasy, or a phase that all men go through. Women attract him too, and he grabbed onto heterosexuality like a life-raft because he was afraid of the alternative. His sister and his father, yelling. Harry thrown out of the house. His father, looking at him, saying not you too. Never you, my boy.

The kiss tells him that has already met the love of his life.

“I need to call Mary,” he says when they break away.

Sherlock looks sad. He nods. “Of course.”

“One more question,” John says. “Who was the second person you loved?”

“It doesn��t matter.”

“It does,” he says. “I’m about to call my fiancee and break our engagement just days before the wedding because I’m in love with my best friend. So please, answer the question.”

Sherlock’s face does something John has never seen. It crumples and tears fill his eyes, and then he’s laughing and crying and not able to speak.

John kisses him again.

Author note: This is an old ficlet, from Trifles, posted here.

#my fics #johnlock #bbc sherlock #stag night #sign of three #fixit fic

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creedslove · 6 months

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Oh, Mari, help! I need a living heater in the form of Joel. It's been damn cold in my country, it's 11 degrees (it was 27 a week ago). And my furnace broke down (so my radiators are cold) and the repair guy won't come until Saturday 😭

Also, this song gave me "Heartless" vibes today: Stephen Sanchez - Until I Found You

Post outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

A/N: aww baby, I know this ask is a few months old now but I hope things are alright for you! We are also dealing with drastic temperature change, I mean a week ago it was more than 30° but today the max temperature is like 17° so I could definitely use Joel to keep me warm too 😭🫦

• Winters during the outbreak are possibly one of the worst and most depressing things mankind had ever faced, lacking sources of heat, electricity and basic things such as warm clothes, decent blankets and hot water, surviving that weather became one of the many other things someone would need to survive in that world

• no matter if you lived in a QZ, or if you were on the run over the long abandoned roads, winter was hard and that was the time people usually drank the most in order to keep themselves warm and numb to how bad things were

• and even if everything was terrible, you were still so lucky you had Joel, because that man would do anything he could in order to protect you from any danger and of course, from the cold weather as well

• if we are talking about the time you live in the QZ, he would use his smuggling skills in order to offer you the best he can find: jackets, coats, sweaters, blankets, booze, anything really

• and of course you will both snuggle so close in bed, it's funny how Joel is the little spoon even if he's bigger, but he can switch positions whenever you need his body sheltering you

• fucking to keep warm is also a possibility you both really enjoy

• when you guys escape the QZ, he knows nights out in the open are also cold, even if it isn't the winter, and you can't take space in your backpack to carry big, thick blankets, so you will both have to handle sleeping bags

• Joel would always make sure to find shelter and start a fire, so you can spend some time as warm and cozy as possible and of course you would both cuddle so you wouldn't lose heat

• when you get to Jackson, you can barely believe there is such a place, where you can actually have lights on, warm baths and decent, comfortable beds

• while you are both in awe, after eating a proper meal for the first time in months, you decide to share a hot shower together; you could've done it separately, but you are doing it together, because you want to have feeling of running your hands through Joel's skin, the warm water pouring over the two of you, as you both soap and shampoo each other

• then, after changing into new, clean and warm clothes, you go to bed; now there's a heating system in the house that actually works, you won't have to feel that excruciating, painful cold wind that seems to reach your bones, but you will still both hold each other at night, as if your lives depended on it, because deep inside, you know it's not just to keep warm you slept like that

• Joel buries his face into the crook of your neck and pulls you closer, his hand holding your hips and stroking your skin up and down, he's able to sleep peacefully, knowing he can finally offer you the protection you need and that you'll be safe in his arms

____

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal headcanon #pedro pascal headcanons #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller headcanon #joel miller headcanons

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inkyycapp · 6 months

Text

how i think characters would react

if you got (very) hurt: adventure time edition.

tw/cw : angst, fluff, blood, violence, gore?, terrible story building, implied romance, fionna and cake spoilers, a lot of cringe, self-indulgence, character hcs, etc...

[a/n: this is very sloppy and rush as i made this between classes so it's half edited half not and not at all proof read. forgive me. thank you for the love on my last posts!! i wasn't expecting my adventure time hcs to get the attention it did, thank you so much!! i have finished fionna and cake(twice) so, my hcs might slightly shift a bit. at the moment. thinking of cross posting on ao3. reader is usually always gender neutral in all my posts unless stated otherwise. that's all! i'm open to requests and my dms/pms are open. thank you! new additions as well!! this is all i have, i'm sorry. a few more are in the drafts. please tell me if i missed anything tag and cw/tw wise! thank you.]

[holy shit, fionna and cake's finn. honka honka. i don't deserve a platform.]

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|| it all happened so fast. you could barely recall what happened. one moment you're up-right, after the next you're trying to pick yourself off the ground. your breathing grew more labored at every attempt, and the smell of iron hung heavy in the air. the warm liquid on your hands was a stark contrast to cold that began to wrack your body. it wasn't long 'til your vision faded to black, leaving only questions behind into your last fleeting thoughts. ||

finn.

(the favorite. my favorite.)

-the both of you were exploring an old cave. deep, dark, and damp. it was said to hold treasure far back into the cave, and out of curiosity you both went to explore. what you didn't know was that many people sought out that treasure. many dangerous people.

-going deeper into the cave, you and finn found the treasure, though nothing cool to take back except for a few cool rings. turning on your way out, with your back to the entrance, a sharp pain was felt through your body. looking down you saw the bloodied blade of a sword. you had no time to react as you were shoved off the blade and onto the ground. from there, it was a blur.

-finn would (violently) remove anyone involved. while brutal, he makes sure to end it quick--he doesn't have time for them when you're bleeding out on the ground.

-finn never stopped talking to you, even if you're asleep. it's always optimistic-- he talks about; new things he's found, friends he talked to recently, any new news, old and new stories, the next date he'll take you on, etc... he rambled hours on end in a one-sided conversation. it's how he copes.

-finn's trying to be uplifting. but, by himself he's a mess. he rarely stays at the treehouse because he's too restless. he feels weak, and unable to do anything. when finn's not at your side he's fighting through his feelings. finn had learned it wasn't healthy to use violence as his only outlet, but it makes him feel something that isn't the heavy stone in his chest when he sees you.

-he's a patient man, he knows you'll wake up soon. he just had to be patient. but after around a few days he doesn't want to be "patient" anymore. he wants you to wake up now. finn knows he can't make that happen, but it was a selfish want to keep himself going.

-when you did wake up, he was all over you. there wasn't a time when he wasn't with you, or at least in the same vicinity as you.

-good luck trying to pry yourself away from his arms. this man has fought monsters thrice his size for fun. even your prettiest please wasn't going to work, not this time. you almost died. you could've died and he couldn't do anything about it. those memories never left his brain basket, even when your recovery was going smoothly.

-very anxious about letting you tag along, but knows you'll probably go off on your own if he refuses to take you along. he feels it's safer to allow you to come along, rather than go off on your own. with him, he knows that at least this time he could do better. he won't ever have a repeat of last time.

-finn keeps you close during each adventure, even losing sleep watching the surroundings to be sure no one sneaks up on you. he will refuse to sleep, so you'd have to force him. please give this man all the reassurance, he really needs it. it won't stop his anxiety, or his fear of it happening again, but it puts him at ease. even if it's just a little bit, it helps, nonetheless.

fern.

-the green knight has plenty of enemies. of course, fern could protect himself, and you could do the same. however, even if you could protect yourself, there wasn't any chance to protect yourself getting jumped, and a dirty stab to the back. the most dishonorable way to lose to a foe. the amount of ever growing disrespect.

-he loses his shit. sure, he gets mad quickly, but if you were awake to see him like this: holy shit. he grows plentiful thorns, and poison flowers all over himself subconsciously. (he's actually very pretty like this.)

-he's livid, and you're not conscious to do anything about it. and that's just it, you're unconscious, bleeding out on the ground. fern couldn't quite process it just yet. normally you'd stop him from going too far, but you can't right now. that's supposed to never happen. he's confused and angry, and you're not waking up. you're not moving. so, he cuts down anyone involved in a quick motion. he doesn't care how brutal, as long as it's quick. fern wastes no time in picking you up (after managing the thorns and flowers) and taking you to doctor princess.

-fern can't stand seeing you like this. laying weakly on that hospital bed.

-if you think finn's not good at coping, fern is much worse. he doesn't even cope. he's just...there.

-he's so confused, and just shuts down a bit. like he's still there, he's still the green knight-- fern. but, he's just distant. not quite himself-- off.

-fern is unable to wrap his head around what happened to you, but he goes about his 'normal' life. he tries to just go about his casual life without you there, and he's just confused. it doesn't take long before he grows upset, allowing the rage to boil.

-'they used to do that.' 'this was their favorite color.' 'they were supposed to fix that.' 'they like bird houses.' everything reminds him of you. it's impossible to go a single day without a reminder that you're still unconscious.

-i think it gets more apparent when he's out and about as the green knight. he's more violent. but, he doesn't mean to be. it just...happens.

-he's likely not there when you first wake, but when he gets there fern's complaining about everything under his breath. but when he sees you up, that bed isn't just for you anymore.

-he's holding you close, with a firm hold and refusing to let go. he's scolding you for not waking up sooner, and complaining about how life without you was too different. he tried to be casual, but he missed you a bit too much.

-there is also no prying fern off of you-- a common thing between all of them. once you're up, there is no separating you both for a few hours at the least.

-fern is also hesitant about letting you rejoin him on the adventures, but as long as you stay close, and keep weapon on you at all times, he'll agree. but, all of your wounds-- every. single. one.-- had to be medically evaluated as ok, and no threat to your health before anything.

farmworld!finn.

(post crown -- pre fionna and cake.)

-he's in shock, not moving for a few moments. he knew why he'd be hated, or hunted down, killed even, but why you? why did they have to drag you into this?

-someone in the many gangs around the parts found you somewhere in the clearing waiting for finn. you both had previously planned a picnic out in a nice clearing in the woods. he was running late. but, once he found you bleeding out and onto grass, he's thrown way off guard.

-finn is quickly trying to pick you off the grass, trying to get you out of there, and dragging you back to his cabin. finn manages to tend to each of your wounds. though, the moment he's done, and you're in a stable condition-- he's leaving the cabin for a few hours.

-he finds whoever did this to you, and doing what he couldn't earlier. finn is driving in the same injuries they gave to you over and over again. he doesn't let up until he's in tears. finn knows that this changes nothing. he knows this won't make him feel better, but he needed to do something. anything. even if it's for his own sadistic pleasure to see the regret on their faces-- to see them like this. pathetically clawing at the dirt in an attempt to ground themselves through the pain-- trying to crawl away from his bloodied hands.

-(robot hand included.)

-finn leaves them with their lives(barely), and a warning before disappearing into the woods.

-he is struggling to cope. finn hold your hand in his abnormally cold one running his thumb over your knuckles. he's constantly checking in on you, and rarely leaving your side. sleeping, and eating could wait. after all that's happened with the crown, you're all he has left. he can't lose you too.

-he stays by your side as much as he can. finn knows he should probably take his mind off of...your condition and stay productive but it's difficult. the only reason the cabin is warm is because if it got too cold you'd start to shake. he makes food only because if you wake up you might be hungry.

-he doesn't know what to do for the most part, just waiting and hoping that you'll be better in no time. a fear lingers deep inside him that you'll worsen the moment he closes his eyes. so, finn stays up. there are times when he has passed out around the house, and when he wakes up he's absolutely terrified; running to check on you, checking to make sure your wounds haven't reopened, making sure you're alive.

-a deep seeded fear the you'll wilt away in his arms. it keeps him up at night-- it eats at him day by day.

-you're finally awake, but even then the fear doesn't fade. he's at you're every call so much that it begins to worry you.

-you'll have to force him, and i mean force him to sleep. you're ok, he's ok-- everything is ok. he can finally rest.

-he's just happy you're still there with him.

prismo.

-you? hurt? nope. not on his time watch. prismo has you out of the situation in seconds, without a scratch. he refuses to ever see you in any pain.

-though, hypothetically, if there's ever a time where you do get hurt, and your wounds cannot be fixed with his wish master magic, and he's "too late", he's not so well.

-you're on a comfy little bed in the wishing room, laying on top of him. your wounds are bandaged up, and cleaned, with your breathing finally stable.

-he never leaves you side once. (sensing a pattern in everyone.) it's either him, or a copy of him. when he's granting wishes to whoever manages to make it to his wishing room, he keeps you in the cube with a copy of himself to watch over you.

-tries to make small talk with your unconscious self...it doesn't go well. the owl visits more often only to lay it's eyes upon the slum prismo is in.

-the cosmic owl tries to ease the depression, though fails miserably. if jake is still alive; his visits, brings gifts, barber sessions, the whole mile for his other best bud. it does kinda help, even if it was just a bit-- but, he's greatful nonetheless.

-while he could be doing better, prismo is doing the best out of everyone to be honest(if jake is around). jake's visits have been more than helpful to this guy, and honestly without jake, he'd be worse than just a mess.

-when you wake up he doesn't believe it at first but he's ecstatic. there is never a time where he's not with you, talking your ear off on how horrible it was without you. and while prismo wants to contuine talking you to your grave, he can't deny hearing your voice after so long does wonders to him.

-bonus if jake's around and prismo's like "and i like...really miss her. y'know? like she's right there but she's not..." "no, dude, i get it..." "i'd kill just to hear her voice just once..." "...prismo..." "ah, shit now i'm hallucinating!!" "no prismo, behind you." "jake, don't play into my delusions!" "god dammit prismo." "YOU'RE AWAKE!? FINALLY."

scarab.

-this man is already insane. he already needs therapy. the anger issues on this psychotic man are insane.

-he loses all sense of morality(that he had left) but surprisingly holds off and tends to you first. by sending you back to headquarters for someone to tend to your injuries while scarab spends the next few hours tearing their molecules apart.

-honestly the worst out everyone. like, if he has a chance to off someone, they're going to die but in the most unconventional, painful, most gruesome way possible. he's....coping?

-at this point it's hard to tell with him, one moment he's rambling under his breath about annoyances, the next....he's offically lost it!!

-sadly he can't be at you're side at all times even if he really wants to, but with his job and all that. when given any chance he's right there next to you. he excuses this behavior as protecting you against anyone who might try anything, but in reality: it's just hard to stay away when you're like this. he wants to stay close even if he can't sometimes.

-scarab has difficulties with intimacy, so he finds it difficult to express his concern the "right" way. others see him as uneffected, and taking it too easy, but he is genuinely scared. he's scared that he loses the one person who can see him for what he is. an emotionally fucked up person who can't stand rule breakers.(joking).

-he finds holding your hand a way to ease the tension.

-when you wake up, he just sitting there, holding your hand.

-he's never letting you go anywhere without a weapon three times your size. of course he teaches you how to use it, but just because he wants you to protect yourself when he cannot. scarab views your injuries as him failing as a partner in more ways than one. he should've made sure you could protect yourself even when he couldn't.

-later on after your wounds have healed you're allowed with him on his missions. he denies being scared. reassure him anyways, he really needs it.

e/n: sorry prismo's and scarab's are short! first time writing them :')

#adventure time #finn mertens #finn the human #finn mertens x reader #fern mertens x reader #fern mertens #the snowman #fionna and cake #fionna and cake x reader #icefinn x reader #the scarab #the scarab x reader #prismo #prismo x reader #adventure time headcanons #adventure time x reader #fionna and cake headcanons

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