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thebiggerbear · 5 months

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Something Real - Soldier Boy x Reader

Summary: You had offered him the chance for something the two of you could build, something real, if he gave up the suit for good.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Female Reader

Warnings: angst, character death, implied violence, implied injuries, mentions of blood, mentions of terminal illness/treatments/effects, implied sex, Soldier Boy being himself at times, language (I guess?), tears, heartbreak - I think that pretty much covers everything

Word Count: 9434

A/N: Something I started writing back on Thanksgiving. I was hurting that day, needing heat to ease the pain, and I was working on something else for SB. This just popped into my head (the idea of "warm hands") so I ran with it. Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine. I picked the name Violet because it's a bit of a reference to the other SB story I'm working on. Please let me know what you think (and please don't kill me).

I heard this song on a Soldier Boy fan edited video on YouTube and ever since then I can't get it out of my head for this one shot. It just makes me see Ben and the reader that much clearer in my mind.

Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.

Please do not do any of the above. Thank you for your understanding.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

SB Taglist: @heartlessdelusions; @nancymcl; @brightlilith

Jensen Taglist: @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

“I forgot how warm your hands are.”

Ben could feel his devastation threatening to overwhelm him but he quickly forced it away. He had to be strong for you; no time to be a pussy.

As if you had heard his thoughts, you gave him a sad smile, your own eyes starting to blur with unshed tears that you were trying to hold back yourself, not wanting to make this worse for him than you already knew it would be. But then it suddenly hit you that life was indeed short; what did it matter if you let your feelings surrounding your current circumstances show? You had never held back before. Why would you start now? So you let your tears flow but you did your best to turn them into happy tears so whenever he thought back to this moment, he wouldn’t see how scared or sad you really were. You were determined for him to never know the true depths of your fear or despair in this moment.

Instead, you weakly lifted your hand and placed it against his cheek, watching as he briefly closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. His green gaze settled on you once more and you could have sworn you could see a slight shimmer there but in the next moment, it was gone, so you couldn’t be entirely sure.

Both of you were having flashes of the same memories that your words brought to mind.

You were both in bed, naked, you laying sprawled out over him, having just made love for the second time that evening. Ben always called it fucking but you refused to use that word to describe what the two of you did. Sure, he fucked you sometimes but things were more serious between you than you just being a bedwarmer of his or some random pussy for him to stick his dick into and get off as he’d crudely put it.

They had been ever since you’d caught him by surprise one night after too much whiskey mixed with conversation and you kissed him ever so sweetly. He’d tried to turn it into something else — because he was who he was after all — but you wouldn’t let him. Something changed between you that night and an understanding began to form. If he wanted you, then he’d have to give up everything that wouldn’t allow him to keep you. That meant the women, the drugs, the bad behavior — all of it. You weren’t trying to change him, not at all, but you knew those things weren’t really the true make-up of who he was; it was a mere reflection of the suit and persona Vought encouraged, expected, and enforced. Ben made his own choices of course, but you knew he could do better, be better. And that’s who you wanted; that’s who you loved — the man that belonged with you, not the Supe that belonged to a greedy corporation and the world. But it would have to be up to him to make that final choice. You made that perfectly clear and told him to come to you when he was ready, ready for something real.

And sure enough, despite his keeping away for a while to prove a point, he eventually ended up on your doorstep that night three years ago, dressed in modern day clothing and cleaned up in all manners of the phrase. Ben was ready. He wanted you, he wanted real and most of all, he wanted it with you.

You’d been together ever since and while things hadn’t been perfect, they’d been perfect enough for the both of you. So here you were, laid out in bliss, listening to his strong heartbeat underneath your ear as his hands glided up and down your bare back. You closed your eyes, smiling, and murmured, “I forgot how warm your hands are.”

Instead of answering you, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger there, as he tightened his hold on you, pulling you closer into him. He held you like that for a little while until you could feel him stirring beneath you once more and his caresses turned more insistent before he rolled you onto your back, his kisses feverish as you both started your third round of lovemaking for the night. Supe stamina and all that.

You winced as you felt another sharp kick to your stomach. “Damn,” you muttered.

Ben’s eyes were immediately on you, worried. “What?”

“Nothing,” you tried to lie but another kick had you flinching.

He laid down the wrench he had been battling the pipes with and wiped his hands with a rag before making his way over to you. “The kid kicking you again?”

A third kick had your face screwed up in a grimace as you nodded. His jaw tightened and he urged you down onto the sofa before joining you and holding you from behind. He lifted your shirt above your belly and you both watched in fascination as there was a slight movement to it right before you hissed in pain and bit your lip to keep from crying out. Ben lowered his hands and began to rub your skin soothingly. The pain eased and like always, your baby started to settle down, something it did whenever it sensed its father’s strong presence. You assumed it was a Supe thing, since your kid would have half of those V-mutated genes, and you refused to let that worry you in the slightest. There was no guarantee your child would have superpowers like its dad though you wouldn’t be surprised if it inherited his strength if these painful kicks were anything to go by. Either way, you’d cross that superpower bridge if and when you came to it.

You let out a breath of relief and closed your eyes, leaning your head back against Ben’s shoulder. “I seriously forgot how warm your hands are,” you whispered, enjoying how the warmth both settled your child and you at the same time.

“Don’t know how,” he murmured into your ear. “I hardly ever take them off you.”

You smiled wider at his teasing and wrapped your hands around one of his arms, humming your contentment. After a moment, you opened your eyes to find him watching you with an affectionate smirk. You lifted up and gently kissed him. “I love you.”

His smirk melted into a smile and he leaned down to kiss you one more time. “Back at you, doll.”

And almost as if your child wanted a say, to agree with the sentiments exchanged between both parents, it kicked against Ben’s hand albeit more gently this time, not causing any pain.

You grinned as you watched Ben teach your daughter, Violet, how to make a snowman. Which really meant he was making it for her. She had her father completely wrapped around her little finger. If there was anything that could bring Soldier Boy to his knees, it was his little girl. The strongest Supe in the world was at the mercy of the whims of your six year old.

You both had been surprised when the child you’d both eagerly been anticipating turned out to be a girl. You were excited — you’d always wanted a little girl. Ben — you weren’t sure how he would react. His heart had been set on a boy and while you could see a faint layer of disappointment shadowing his expression when you heard the doctor’s announcement, the moment he and your newborn daughter locked eyes, he was hers. It turned out you had nothing to worry about, on any counts.

He had promised you he would be better than his father and thus far he’d lived up to that promise. While you both had discussed extensively what type of parenting style you’d be implementing, you weren’t sure what would happen when the tough days of parenthood would hit. And while he had come a long way from his antiquated mindset (which had been beyond painful for the both of you back in the early days of you moving in together), you wanted to make sure that none of that would ever touch your child, literally and figuratively. But it turned out, you really had nothing to worry about. There were only a few instances that you had to gently remind him that it wasn’t the 1940’s anymore and each time he’d apologized, and set about making it right however he could.

Ben pleasantly surprised you in being there for all of the night time feedings, being willing to change a diaper after you’d eventually forced the issue and he found out that it wasn’t as big a deal as he was making it out to be, and taking her from you so you could sleep, shower, or get some time for yourself when he realized he wouldn’t break her. Her tiny form made him nervous and all the more careful. He held her hand when she started walking, read to her at bedtime (even though he secretly told you later there was a lot of pussy bullshit stories the world had available for kids these days), and beamed when one night she’d sleepily hugged him and whispered that Daddy was her hero after a particular conversation they’d had about a story he was reading, when she asked why the main character was going to fight the dragon. “Because he’s the hero, sweetness, and heroes fight the monsters.” You’d found him later standing at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep, an expression of sadness mixed with realization in his face.

You’d wrapped yourself around his arm, hugging him, as you joined him in his study of your daughter. “You okay?” You whispered after a moment.

He looked unsure how to answer you so you gave him a little time to think of what he wanted to say, smiling as you noticed your daughter’s quiet breathing, her little lips curled up in the cutest pout as she dreamed — of what you had no idea but you hoped it was warm and wonderful and everything she could possibly want in her four and a half years of life.

“She said I was her hero,” Ben admitted quietly.

You turned to glance up at him and caught the furrow of his brows.

“I’m not really a hero, though.” He pressed his lips together. “Not with the things I’ve done.”

You slipped your hand into his, intertwining your fingers, and squeezed. “Then be one.”

His eyes snapped over to you in question.

You gently framed his face with your hands, forcing him to look at you. “Ever since you decided you wanted something different from what you had before, you have made better decisions every single day. Who you were back then, Ben…that’s not who you are now. So if you want to be a hero,” You briefly glanced at your sleeping daughter. “Her hero, then be one.”

Ben contemplated your words as you released him and his eyes drifted over the child that had somehow carved herself into his heart in a way that the fucked-up Homelander or the idea of any kid of his that possibly existed out there never had. He was already trying every single day to be better, for her, for you, for himself — and it was something he would keep doing.

“But just so you know,” you whispered to him. “No matter if you wear the suit or you’re just plain ol’ Daddy who reads her stories and threatens the monsters in her closet before she goes to bed each night, you’re already going to be her hero.” You gave him a soft smile and watched as your words played out upon his face. His lips lifted up slightly in the corners and he ran his tender glance over his little girl. It surprised you though when he then turned that smile and gaze onto you.

He marveled at just how simple you made it all sound sometimes. Not that you hadn’t acknowledged his effort or the strides he’d made in attempting to be a better father than his old man — a better man period — but he secretly admired when you gave it to him straight, no bullshit, no matter the subject. And while he wanted his daughter to always see him as the hero she called him earlier, he was grateful that you made sure to make such a distinction in your words: he didn’t have to put the suit back on to be his little girl’s hero. That’s not who she saw him as anyway. She saw him as her hero because he was her dad — and that was enough for her.

There were times like this where he’d remember exactly why he chose to give everything up for you, why he chose you. You’d seen past the suit, past his public persona, saw all of the good and even more of the bad, and yet you still chose him first, still loved him, and still gave him the family he’d been craving even if it wasn’t how he’d imagined it for years on end. You gave him exactly what you’d promised if he chose you back: something real. And Christ did he love you for it.

Ben had never been very good at saying the three words that seemed to take no effort whatsoever to roll off your tongue every single day, even when it came to your daughter. While he might have had no issue speaking his mind back in the day, when it came to the two important things in his life, he struggled to put into words exactly how he felt about you two or to return the sentiment because it was unfathomable to him. He had never known that he could feel the love he did as a husband, a true partner, never mind as a parent. You both were his world and he wasn’t sure how he’d function without either of you in it. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how he functioned before either of you came along though a small dark part of him knew the answer to that: booze, drugs, sex, violence, and enjoying the Supe high life all combined. But right now, he was feeling that overwhelming feeling again that he hesitated to put a name to but deep down knew what it was. However, instead of just being able to say it, just once, he did the second best thing like he did every time you made him feel like this: he showed you.

He took your hand in his, squeezing, and glanced once more at Violet. Noting again that she was sleeping soundly, he then turned his attention onto you and led you from the room. Once her door was shut, he was on you, his kisses passionate and insistent yet desperate, his hands hungrily trailing your body, before he picked you up and walked you down the hall to your bedroom.

So watching him now making the snowman your daughter wanted — old hat, scarf, pipe, and all — you were amused but also couldn’t be prouder. Ben had heard you that night and he had chosen to be the hero his little girl wanted him to be: her dad while also being a good man and someone she could be proud of. It didn’t erase his past but it was just another step in the right direction towards his future. The suit was still hidden away in a closet but he hadn’t pulled it out for which you were also immensely grateful. Vought International and The Seven had been annihilated years ago at the same time Homelander had been killed. Supes had scattered across the globe, now not being run by one single entity anymore. Some had world governments after them for crimes they had committed previously and were still committing to this day. Compound V as well as Temp V had now unfortunately hit the streets so random fresh Supes were turning up everywhere. The world certainly had its hands full when it came to the whole Supe thing. Maybe it was incredibly selfish of you but you were relieved when Ben chose to stay out of the fray and instead concentrate on living the life he’d chosen to live with you and focus on your family.

Your grin grew when your daughter excitedly hurried over to you. “Mama, mama! Did you see the snowman Daddy made?”

“I did, kiddo. He looks great.” You arched a brow over at the snowman though when you noticed something. “Well, just a tiny bit lopsided, but that’s okay. It gives him character.”

Ben huffed, appearing next to you. “I don’t make lopsided snowmen.” He then turned to Violet. “Your mother needs to have her eyes checked.”

“Hey,” you cried out indignantly. “Who are you telling to get their eyes checked, old man? Considering it’s a lop-sided snowman, I say you should get yours checked.”

Ben flashed his teeth in a grin. “My eyes are perfect, like everything else about me.” You couldn’t help your eye roll though in your estimation, he wasn’t too far off the mark. Never aging thanks to Compound V would do that to someone you guessed. You tried not to be too envious when you remembered back to the few gray hairs you’d managed to find coming from your scalp a few weeks back.

Violet was giggling watching the two of you and you couldn’t help but join in her merriment. “Sure,” you teased. “So instead of Frosty the Snowman, we’ll call him Skewy the Off-Balance Snowman?”

Ben sent you a mock glare and you shrugged, smiling, making your daughter laugh again. He handed an old ratty coat to her. “Vi, why don’t you put on the finishing touches so your mom can stop being a critic and finally appreciate our hard work?”

“What? I am appreciating it. I even appreciate that you have to tilt your head a bit to see it straight. Off-kilter is all the rage now, I get it. See? I’m appreciating it.”

Your daughter grinned and took the proffered coat before rushing back over to the snowman.

Hands suddenly on your hips whipped you around and Ben was on you before you could utter another word. He kissed you hard and you swore you could see stars when he finally pulled back, letting you catch your breath. He smirked down at you, muttering “Pain in the ass” good-humoredly, before you both caught movement out of the corner of your eye. You both glanced over in time to see your daughter leap gracefully into the air to toss the coat onto the tall snowman. Ben’s smile was proud and you watched in awe as she landed lithely back down on the ground. As you had wondered often enough when pregnant with her, your daughter had inherited some Supe DNA from her father after all. Something you and Ben both worked hard with her to keep tamped down when in the presence of other children and especially their parents. Your life was blissfully lowkey, normal (as normal as it could be with two Supes in the house), and safe — you and Ben both wanted to keep it that way and you both especially wanted to make sure your daughter’s life continued in that fashion as well. You didn’t want your daughter to be ashamed of her special abilities and Ben was able to teach her restraint, something he had to teach himself long before she was born.

Ben watched as she used her strength to shift the snowman a little to the left so it would indeed be a little straighter. He rolled his eyes at your triumphant smirk but his smile never left as he cupped your face between his hands. “There. Happy?”

“More than you know,” you answered honestly. His smile faded slightly when he realized you meant more than the adjustment to his recent snow creation. You saw an all-too familiar internal struggle play out in his eyes that you had seen often enough over the years, especially lately. When he was making love to you; when he quietly watched you and your daughter working on her homework together; when he found you in the kitchen late at night when you couldn’t sleep and without speaking you’d turn on a slow song from his era and hold out an expectant hand to him; when you wrapped your arms around him from behind in a hug and snuck in underneath his arm as both of you observed Violet playing out in the yard with the dog she’d managed to convince you both to get — you knew what that struggle was and while it might have bothered another spouse that he never properly vocalized his feelings, you more than understood. How could you not after you knew how Ben had grown up, what he’d been taught? He’d made tons of strides over the years to undo all of that programming, but this…this was the hardest for him, and you knew why. So you didn’t push and instead willingly took what he gave you, knowing he was doing the best he could to show you how he felt instead.

You pushed yourself up on your toes and kissed him. “I love you, too,” you whispered, letting him know it was okay; you knew. You felt his thumb glide along your bottom lip as he studied you intently, and you could feel the heat radiating on the sides of your face. “I always forget how warm your hands are.”

He gave you a suggestive smirk. “You better not have forgotten how warm the rest of me is.”

“Might need a reminder,” you murmured, leaning into him.

His smirk widened. “Then you’ll get one.” He kissed you and before you could get too carried away, the sounds of your daughter giggling and calling “Daddy” had you both pulling apart. “Later,” he promised, pecking your lips one last time before looking over at Violet and the snowman whose apparel had changed to wearing her coat and hat instead.

Ben gave her an indulgent smile. “What’d you do, Princess?” Violet giggled again and her father shook his head as he headed over to her. You watched as he picked her up, tickling her and making her squeal in laughter, and you smiled. Life really didn’t get much better than this.

You laughed yourself when Violet tried to tickle Ben back.

Not by a long shot.

You gave your husband a tired smile when he walked into the room.

“Did she get to school okay?” You asked.

He nodded and removed his coat, hanging it up on the empty hook on the wall.

“And you gave her the envelope I left on the table, right? The one that had her pictures and money for the yearbook?”

“Yeah,” he gruffed out, taking the empty seat next to you and ignoring the curious stares directed his way. Ben was huge and even though he hadn’t been recognized in years, his hulking stature still attracted inquisitive gazes every now and then.

“Good. Thank you for doing that.”

He took your free hand and frowned when you involuntarily shivered.

Your smile was immediately apologetic. “I always forget how warm your hands are.” You gently gestured to your head where a cold cap sat. “This is freezing so with your hands, it felt like I stuck mine over a fire for a second.”

His frown intensified but he let your hand go.

“No, no, it’s fine.” You grabbed at his fingers and intertwined them with yours once again. “I like warm.” You then tried to give him a flirtatious smile. “You know that.”

His responding smile was more of a grimace but he kept his hand in yours. “There anything you need?”

You noticed that once again, he was hardly making eye contact with you while you were receiving treatment. You hated it when he did that though you understood. He hated to see you like this, knowing there was nothing he could do to help you. Correction, nothing you would let him do that is.

You’d found a lump in your breast during a self-exam and you’d gotten it checked out right away. More examinations and tests later, it was confirmed: you had cancer. Thankfully, it was not the aggressive kind but your doctor wanted to go after the tumor just as if it was anyway. Your daughter was only in high school; of course, you agreed to whatever plan the doctor suggested. So now here you were, getting chemo after a successful removal of the tumor.

Ben and Violet had been worried but you assured them that you would be fine, even if you didn’t know that to be true. Ben kept it together in front of your daughter, but once she had gone to bed, you could tell that even though he wouldn’t admit it, he was scared shitless. He knew what cancer meant like everyone else but he didn’t understand the mechanics of the treatments you would be receiving or the rates of survival depending on the ability to remove the tumor and keeping it from spreading versus the percentage rate of success of said surgery and treatments. He asked you question after question after question which you tried your best to answer while trying to keep from falling apart yourself. Eventually, he got frustrated and assured you he would get a hold of some Compound V. Though the government was still currently fighting the sale of the drug on the black market, they had to have some locked away for evidence or testing or they were just simply hoarding it. And if that didn’t work, he planned to track some down and get you a vial. Even if it was only Temp V.

You were horrified at this suggestion. “Ben, no. I’m not taking that stuff!”

“Why? It’ll make you healthy! It’ll get rid of this fucking cancer! Why wouldn’t you take it?”

“I can think of several reasons. If you break in somewhere to steal it, you can get caught and thrown into some max security prison or CIA black op site that I’ll never be able to get to, never mind being able to find, where they’ll keep you locked down with that gas! Or if you get it off of the street or from the black market, you have no idea if it’s been tampered with or if they’ve laced it with anything else. Temp V is completely out of the question, from a legit source or not. Not to mention, we don’t even know if this would work. It might not heal me or it could even kill me instead. That’s why!”

“You don’t know that,” he insisted.

“I don’t care. I’m not doing it, Ben.”

His eyes were darker than usual and he looked as if he was about to say something that you probably would both end up regretting. And sure enough, he did. “You’re fucking taking it and that’s it.”

“Excuse me?” You hissed. “This is my life we’re talking about. My life, my decision!”

“We are your life, goddammit!” He roared. Your eyes began to burn as you held back tears and he noticed the familiar sheen in them. When he spoke next, his tone was a bit quieter but no less firm. “So, it’s our decision. You’re taking it and that’s final.”

He had stormed out of the house after that and you had burst into tears. You knew he could hear you but he didn’t come back. You’d cried out all of the fear and anguish and despair you’d felt since receiving your diagnosis.

It was only later that night when Ben crawled into bed, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you into his body, that he whispered an apology into your ear. You squeezed his forearm, letting him know you’d forgiven him.

“If I can get a hold of some, will you please take it?” He begged.

You thought it over for a moment, weighed the risks heavily against the rewards that it could yield, and then shook your head. “No. It’s too risky. It could kill me, Ben. At least with the surgery and chemo, I have better odds.”

“What if I gave you some of my blood?” You heard his voice break near the end of his question and that shocked you. The entire time you’d known the man, he had never once cried. Not in front of you, at least.

You slowly turned in his arms and while you didn’t see any tears, you saw the shimmer in his green eyes along with pure, unadulterated fear that you’d only seen rare glimpses of over the years: during your pregnancy; the birth; when Violet was a baby and he held her small body in his too big arms, afraid he might break her; when you’d gotten into that car accident on the way to Vi’s dance recital that left you with a few scrapes and bruises; the one time a new Supe in the making claimed to the media that he didn’t believe the death rumors and he was hunting Soldier Boy down in order to prove himself as the strongest Supe which ended up with Ben relocating your family to somewhere even more lowkey (you’d had to talk him out of going to find that damn kid and teaching him a lesson). But now, here it was, naked and laid out plain for you to see. You’d been right; he was scared shitless.

You ran your fingers soothingly through his hair and he briefly turned to kiss your wrist. “We have two different blood types. It wouldn’t work.”

“I could find a scientist that’ll make it work. With all of these watered-down Supes running around, you can’t tell me there isn’t another Vogelbaum out there somewhere studying them. I could nab him and make him help us.”

You gave him a sad smile. “It doesn’t work like that. This isn’t something that can be fixed by some mad scientist or some miracle superhero-making drug.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Ben,” you pleaded. “Please…”

He laid a hand against your face and stared into your eyes. “I don’t want to lose you.” You heard the breaks in his voice again.

A tear slipped down your cheek and he gently wiped it away with his thumb. “One day, you’re going to. Whether it’s now or later, it’s inevitable.”

You could see how hard that hit him, even though you both had known this truth for some time. This wasn’t the first time he’d brought up the possibility of you taking Compound V in your relationship and it wasn’t the first time you’d refused.

He wanted to keep you with him, always. You didn’t want to live forever and once Violet came along, you definitely didn’t want to outlive your daughter. And that was only if the drug was successful and didn’t outright kill you. Not to mention, even if it was successful, who was to say that it would work for you the same way it worked for Ben? Perhaps you could still easily be killed or you would still age. Perhaps your abilities would be completely different to his. He’d offered to get you some Temp V to preview what it would do, but after what you’d seen happen to Billy Butcher from taking that stuff, you refused.

Now, having cancer, as much as that terrified you, you still didn’t want to risk it. The doctors knew you wanted to see your daughter graduate high school. That was enough for you, for now.

You’d watched as Ben compulsively swallowed and pulled you up to meet him. He kissed you and you could feel the desperation, this time layered by a whole new level of it. He’d made love to you that night, the most tender in his touches and movements since the accident. He took his time with you and even though fear clung thickly to both of you, by the end, you felt loved and cherished and warm.

Such a contrast to how you were feeling now. You let out another involuntary shiver and Ben frowned over at you. By now, he would have picked you up and deposited you on his lap, wrapping you in his embrace to warm you up. But he couldn’t due to the goddamn machine and tubing you were connected to. So instead, he got up and laid another blanket over you, leaning in to murmur into your ear, “When we get home, I’ll warm you up.”

He pulled back with a wicked smirk and you gave him a grateful smile before he returned to his seat. You knew he only meant that he would hold you until you warmed up or until he had to pick up your daughter. You were much too tired for anything else, especially after each treatment, something you hated but it couldn’t be helped. You missed being intimate with him, you missed having the energy to do your usual flurry of picking up after your family around the house, you missed being the one to take Violet to school every morning — you missed it all. You lived your life as normally as possible but the tiredness, the lack of energy, the sickness, the effects this drug had on your system…sometimes it was beyond frustrating and that was putting it nicely. But Ben and Vi had been there through it all, ready to help and step in wherever needed. Violet did her chores like always but she also helped her dad whenever he would allow her to. And Ben…well, he had really stepped up. There were zero complaints that men shouldn’t be doing the laundry or the cooking (something that had been a leftover contention point from the early days of your relationship). He did his best to help Vi with her schoolwork if she had any questions and you were napping. He did the picking up around the house now and he took care of you when you got sick, his nose no longer scrunching up at the smell of vomit (something you had noticed when you had morning sickness and he sat with you, rubbing your back; he later explained to you just how sharp his sense of smell was). He did everything you asked him to and even things you didn’t. He had been a pillar of strength and support that you hadn’t even known you’d needed in the beginning.

When he took your hand again, you carefully lifted his and kissed the back of it. “I love you,” you whispered, smiling as you nuzzled his warm skin.

He watched you, a familiar struggle taking place inside of him as a tell-tale shimmer started in his eyes that he didn’t want you to see. By the time you opened yours and looked over at him, the shimmer was gone and a tender smile was in place. “Back at you, dollface.” He leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, staying like that a bit longer than he usually would have. You thought he was telling you what he still couldn’t put into words and he was. But he was also doing his best to warm you up. He’d felt the cold when you’d kissed his hand and rubbed your lips against it. Cold wasn’t something he felt easily so if he felt it, then he knew just how cold you really were. He hated these treatments, how sick they made you, how cold those damn caps made you (at this point, he didn’t care if you lost your hair, it wouldn’t change how he felt about you and he just wanted you warm and alive), he hated that there wasn’t anything he could to make you better — he hated it all. He meant what he’d said to you, when he got you home, he was going to strip you both down and hold you under the thickest, biggest blanket he could find in your house until it was time to pick up Vi from soccer practice. Warming you up, now that was something he could do. Which is exactly why he made sure to keep his lips connected to yours until the ice cold feeling disappeared and some color came back into them. He stared into your eyes, making you a silent promise that he would always chase the cold away and he would keep you here with him, warm, for as long as he could.

You smiled and leaned in to kiss him again, not caring in the least that you might have an audience with other patients and their family members or nurses. You loved Ben with everything you had; you didn’t care who knew it or even saw it.

“Oh, come on!”

You could hear Ben’s chuckle from the other room and you smiled.

“You cheated!”

“No, I didn’t,” Ben insisted, sounding offended.

“Yes, you did! Dad, admit it!”

“Oh and you didn’t? Those bombs came out of nowhere, right?”

You heard your daughter groan. “It’s battle mode, Dad. You’re supposed to battle it out!”

“We did and I won.” You could practically see the triumphant smile on your husband’s face.

“Yeah, by cheating. What do you think, Rose?”

You could hear the poor girl practically stuttering out her response, trying not to offend either party. “Uh, I think it was…pretty fair…”

“What?” Violet yelled. “You call what he did fair?”

“Y-Yes?”

Ben let out another chuckle. “I knew I liked you, kid.”

You shook your head, smiling to yourself. The two most competitive members of your family had decided to play a video game while you were cooking to help pass the time. Vi had offered to help but you shooed her away since she had brought a friend home with her for the holiday. Ben had looked over at you expectantly, wondering what you would ask him to do, but you’d simply put a beer in his hand and sent him off to entertain the girls. He’d tried to hide his relief as he made his escape but you saw right through him. Thankfully, he didn’t see your own relief. You loved that Ben would do whatever you asked of him when it came to the kitchen, but sometimes he had his own way of doing things (from the time you’d been sick) and it clashed with yours. So, for a meal this large, as much as you loved him, you’d prefer for him to be out of the way. While it was a lot of work, your time to yourself in here was peaceful and you were amused at the bickering you overheard between Ben and Vi. Video games, board games, puzzles — it didn’t matter. If they were involved, there was bound to be claims of cheating by one of them or both, and massive competitive drives. You’d learned long ago to let them battle it out while you would be happy to be in 3rd place in Mario Kart or own St. Charles Place and maybe a railroad during a round of Monopoly. Most of all, though, you loved spending time with your two favorite people in the world, whether they were bickering over a game or competing against each other for a pixelated trophy on the television screen.

You heard voices start to rise slightly, Violet’s in particular. Someone else might have been nervous, especially for the young girl who was your guest, considering two Supes were locking horns, but you weren’t worried. Vi was now in college and thankfully, you’d been in remission for a couple of years. If your family had managed to survive that, you knew they’d overcome any argument over something as silly as who won a race between a plumber and a mushroom man.

But just in case, you called out, “Guys, remember it’s just a game, please. We have a guest.”

Sure enough, Violet lowered her voice but you could still hear her accusing her father who scoffed his denials. You rolled your eyes in amusement.

It wasn’t long before you felt strong arms wrap around you from behind, and lips pressed against your neck. “And the victor returns,” you murmured, smiling and leaning back into him.

“Mm-hmm,” Ben hummed against your skin. “He wants his spoils.” You felt him attempting to lift the hem of your dress and you slapped his hands away.

“Ben,” you hissed. “Not right now with our daughter and her friend in the next room.”

He didn’t let you deter him; he was determined. “Then let’s go upstairs while this bird cooks. The kids can entertain themselves for a few minutes.”

“A few minutes?” You teased. “You mean like this morning?”

Ben had sweet talked you into sneaking out to the garage after you set everything up and put the turkey in the oven. He’d had you up against the hood of your car, his hand covering your mouth as he went to town on you, both of you in a hurry because he’d heard your daughter starting to wake up on the floor above you.

Instead of being insulted or rolling his eyes and glaring over at you, a dirty smirk settled onto his face. “Mmm, that was hot. You were hot. So hot I want to lift this dress up and do that thing with my—”

A loud throat clearing coming from the other room had you both straightening up. Right. Your daughter shared super senses with her father. Whoops. “Uh, Mom? Is dinner ready yet?”

“Uh.” You quietly cleared your throat yourself as you moved away from Ben, making him frown. “Not for another two hours or so.” You had just checked the turkey before you’d been interrupted.

“Okay, well, Rose and I are going to go walk outside for a bit. We’ll be back.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Be careful and make sure to take your coats. It’s cold out,” you warned.

Violet laughed. “Yes, Mom.”

She must have said something too quiet for you to hear because Ben suddenly went rigid. “Listen to your mother,” he added for good measure.

Another laugh. “Sure, Dad.”

You continued prepping dinner and once you heard the front door shut, Ben was on you. “Ben,” you laughed. “I don’t have time!”

He picked you up and moved you to the one area of counter space that wasn’t covered. “Yeah, you do. There’s always time for a quickie.”

“A quickie? Another one of Ben’s infamous life rules?”

He lifted the skirt of your dress over your thighs and quickly worked your underwear down your legs. “Another one of my infamous life rules with you.” You and Ben were used to having the house to yourselves so anywhere, anytime had become a sort of routine you two had. You missed Violet tremendously but you also had time to physically reconnect with your husband.

Almost as if he heard the direction your thoughts were going in, he framed your face with his hands. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

You gave him a grateful smile. The truth was, while you were grateful to be in remission and for more time with your family, you had worried about the toll chemo had taken on your body as well as your sex drive. The doctor assured you that while it would take time, there was a good chance you would start to feel normal again. Ben had been understanding but you had been frustrated. However, the doctor was right; it took a while but you started to feel back to normal, libido included.

Luckily, you hadn’t lost a lot of your hair, the cold caps having helped, and once the treatments were over, whatever was gone did indeed grow back. Unfortunately, a lot of gray hair also came with it. You’d wanted to dye it back to your original color but Ben urged you not to. “You look fucking sexy as hell with it,” he’d murmured before you watched him nibble on your ear in the bathroom mirror. You knew his preference for older women, something you knew before you’d even gotten together, walking into the bar you’d found him in and seeing him making out with a grandma one time. So you knew your aging wasn’t an issue; he’d told you often enough that he didn’t care how old you got, he only wanted you. That was why he had wanted you to take Compound V, far before your diagnosis, because he wanted to be with you forever, or as long as forever would be given your actual life span and his. But you were still struggling with all of the changes your body had gone through in the last couple of years and you’d broken down into sobs, letting your face fall into your hands. He’d held you and whispered reassurances into your ear that everything was going to be okay.

And thankfully, he had been right. It had all turned out to be okay. You’d gotten to see Violet graduate, you’d gotten to go on campus tours with her as she decided on a college, you got to drive up with her and Ben to move her into her dorm room, you’d gotten to spend more time with your husband who loved you deeply — you’d gotten more time period.

And here you were, able to cook a full Thanksgiving dinner for your family on your own, and all three of you were thriving. Most people would be stating what they were thankful for on this day but you — the gratitude you felt overwhelmed you and it was something that couldn’t be put into words. You had a beautiful life, a wonderful life, a daughter just as beautiful and wonderful, and you were thankful for the man who had given it to you. Who had laid down his shield (and everything that came with it) and chosen to make this life with you.

You stared into his green eyes, seeing a certain amount of reverence mixed with affection watching you back. You felt his skin warm against yours, reminding you of all of the days and nights he spent trying to keep you warm during and after your treatments, and you smiled. “Your hands are so warm,” you whispered the familiar words. “I always forget how warm they are.”

And as expected, he grinned and responded with, “Not sure how, dollface. I never take them off of you.” He ran a thumb tenderly along your bottom lip. “And I never will.”

He kissed you then and you couldn’t help the tear that escaped and rolled down your cheek. The quickie ended up being not so quick. The turkey was a little drier than you liked but your family ate it all the same while Rose politely complimented you. Violet gave you a nod, smiling, missing her father unapologetically smirking over at you while shoveling forkfuls into his mouth. You gave him a look when your daughter glanced back down to her plate and he chortled before digging in again. You gazed around the table, smiling, content as could be. Gratitude. Thankful. Those were the two words that repeated themselves over and over in your head as you watched your family eat the food you’d cooked for them, even when Violet insisted that Ben had still cheated in Mario Kart, her father told her to let it go, and both agreed to a rematch right after dinner.

This is what you’d wanted back when you gave Ben your ultimatum, but never in a million years did you think you’d actually get to have it. Thankful indeed.

Being awash in these memories, you failed to notice that a tear was making its way down Ben’s cheek until it fell near your hairline when he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. You didn’t really feel anything that wasn’t pain or cold, except for him. Even his tears were warm. So warm.

“Not sure how, baby,” he answered you, smiling, his eyes wet. “I always have them on you.”

You couldn’t help but smile in return at your familiar exchange. That smile fell, though, when you heard what he said next.

“I’m gonna get him. I promise you that.”

You could see the faint edges of Soldier Boy peeking through as you saw your husband’s green eyes harden in an all-too familiar fashion. You slowly shook your head, even that tiny movement causing you pain. “I don’t want that. I want you and Vi to be safe.”

He looked as if he wanted to argue but thought better of it. Instead, his eyes softened once more and he gave you a nod. “Okay, baby.”

You and Ben had been walking through town, buying last minute Christmas presents. Ben wanted to order them online and avoid the crowds, but you wanted to take a walk, breathing in the fresh air and be imbued with the Christmas spirit that permeated the town. Ben had begrudgingly indulged you and you enjoyed yourself as you bought gifts for Violet, her fiancee, and you even managed to sneak one for Ben when you’d sent him to ask the guy manning the stand in the outdoor market for a price on an item. The woman from the stand next door had just bagged your gift when you noticed a young man walking through the market, commanding everyone’s attention. He had a suit on with a cape so it was obvious he was a Supe and he was looking for something or someone. His eyes flickered in Ben’s direction, who had his back to him, and a dangerous smile formed on his face. Within seconds, you recognized him. He was the Supe you had seen on TV a few years back, though he’d been wearing a different suit then and he wasn’t nearly as bulked up as he was now. He was the one who had been saying he would hunt Soldier Boy down to kill him. You quickly glanced back at Ben who was completely unaware, involved in the discussion he was having with the older man. You saw the Supe’s eyes begin to glow and you knew what would happen before it did.

You dropped everything in your hands and ran as fast as you could towards Ben, yelling his name. He glanced up at you, his brows furrowed, and he tensed seeing your expression. It was mere moments that passed before you were in front of him and you felt a lava-hot feeling erupting from your insides, making you scream.

You fell to the ground and you watched as Ben went to catch you but was forced to let you fall when he looked up to see more lasers coming his way. He moved out of the way just in time. As you lay, unable to move, hearing some of the sounds of battle all around you and people screaming and stampeding out of the market while your ears were still ringing, you prayed to whoever was listening that your husband won and that he and your daughter would be safe.

It wasn’t until you heard something that sounded like a jet taking off into the sky and saw Ben’s boots come to a stop in front of you that you realized he had survived. You nearly cried at the sight of those worn work boots that you kept urging him to replace. He managed to roll you over though you cried out in pain as he did and he settled you onto his lap, his eyes wide as he took in your injuries. Not only could you feel how bad it was, but you could also see it on his face. It was a miracle you were somehow still alive, able to talk even, but you didn’t have long. You didn’t need to be a doctor to know that the rapidly-spreading cold wasn’t a good thing. Your hands and arms were practically numb at this point. And you thought cancer would be the one you’d have to worry about showing up.

“Make sure you take care of Vi. She’s going to need you,” you urged him.

He gave you another nod. “You know I will.”

“And don’t let that asshole find her.”

His jaw tightened and his eyes hardened again. “He won’t.” You knew what that meant but not having much energy left, you could only hope that when he thought back to this moment, he remembered what you had told him you wanted.

It worried you a little when he picked up your hand and kissed your palm that not only could you not feel it, but your hand looked the palest you’d ever seen it, even during chemo.

More tears rolled down your cheeks but you made sure to look up at him. You had no idea how much time you had left but you needed to tell him, you needed him to know. “Tell Vi that I love her and I’m so proud of her.” And you were. Inspired by what had happened to you years back, she became a doctor, specifically an oncologist. She was determined to find a cure and in the meantime, help people who had gotten some of the worst news of their lives. “And, Ben.. Thank you for our life together. Thank you for our daughter. Thank you for everything.”

You could see his eyes beginning to glisten once more and he compulsively swallowed. “I should be thanking you for that.”

“You made the decision to walk away. If you hadn’t…”

“It was an easy decision.”

You tried to give him a smile that probably came out more of a grimace. “No, it wasn’t. But I’m thankful you made it.”

He leaned down to press another kiss to your forehead before staring into your eyes. “I’m thankful for you.”

You tried to smile wider but instead a cough erupted out of you and you could feel something wet on your lip. Ben gently swiped his thumb across it, moving it out of your sight, and a slight panic set in when you realized you could barely feel the action. “Ben,” you croaked. “I’m so cold.” You could barely feel the pain anymore and it felt as if someone had turned on an A/C inside you at full blast and the icy air was making its way up to your head.

Ben attempted to give you a familiar smile. “Then I’ll warm you up, doll.” You heard the breaks in his voice but when he leaned down to kiss you, you let him, taking comfort in the familiar show of affection. You breathed through your nose and you relaxed, feeling the last bit of warmth that was infused into your lips.

Ben stayed there long after you took your last breath, long after you went limp. He knew you were gone but a small irrational part of him told himself that if he just kept trying to chase the cold away for you, he might somehow succeed. But ultimately, as he knew it wouldn’t, it didn’t work. He lifted his head and stared down at you, silently willing you to open your eyes. When you didn’t, more tears fell down his bearded cheeks and a sob tore out of his throat that he had no idea was there waiting to escape. “Baby,” he choked out, shaking you as gently as he could, still mindful of your wounds. But still, nothing. Then he said the words he’d always struggled to give voice to, thinking if nothing else would bring you back, this might. “I love you,” he let out in a broken whisper against your lips. When that didn’t work either, he knew that was it and subsequently broke down, rocking you tenderly in his arms as he buried his face in your neck while his shoulders shook. For the first time ever since becoming a Supe, Soldier Boy cried and didn’t care who saw it or knew about it. He ignored the cries of people looking for their loved ones, he ignored the police cars showing up and the sirens of the fire trucks on their way, he ignored people clamoring around the site asking what happened or trying to help others — he ignored them all. All he focused on was you. You had knowingly put yourself in front of those lasers to save him. …And now you were gone.

A/N: Please don't hate me. *ducks tomatoes and eggs*

Please let me know what you think. 👉👈

#soldier boy x you #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x female reader #the boys fanfiction #soldier boy #soldier boy fanfiction #jensen ackles #jensen ackles character #human!female!reader #soldier boy x human!female!reader #thebiggerbear

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kanmom51 · 9 months

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Ahm... HAPPY BIRTHDAY JK

And happy JK day Jikookers.

What a morning to wake up to!!!

You open your eyes and this is what you are hit with.

The black and white couple in BLACK & WHITE.

Happy birthday Kookie indeed.

Yes, that was JM's hashtag: Happy birthday Kookie or Kookie's birthday, depending on your translator.

I am definitley still processing.

Well JM, you have definitely out done yourself.

Better than even this:

Ok then, did I not say that JM will not disappoint us? He NEVER does!!!

And yes. JM posted it to his account. Not a story. Not something that will be deleted or go away within 24 hours.

No.

JM posted this photo of the two of them in Connecticut on his IG timeline for forevers!!! Right next to his hot boyfie's Hot 100 post.

Yes JM, we know your boyfie is Hot and he's all yours. And you have now told us all just that. You claimed him!!! He is definitley yours.

Had a hoot reading the comments, lol. Someone asking if they are together, and the answers. Many answer yes (surprising), but then, the denial some people are in. Besties. Brothers. Ok then. 🤣🤣🤣 Those calling them besties are probably same ones that ignore Jikook moments, ot7-fy them, dismiss them, but now they are besties... Well, my partner is also my bestie, so...

Good thing my timeline is curated, lol. I cannot imagine the way the fandom is imploding. I think this is kind of a good description though:

So yeah, JM did not disappoint.

And dropping it at the start of the day for all of us to go nuts for the whole day too, lol.

Now, doing that, posting so early on (may I remind you that the last couple of years he posted toward the end of the birthday or even just after the day ended?), I cannot help wonder if there is more coming for us today...

I mean, JK's live, well an 9 minute live, an all new record for him. Funny how his records are how short his lives are, lol.

What do we know so far?

JK was out to dinner with others that he was practicing with.

Took photos with fans that saw him out.

Posted for his birthday on 31.8.23 at 23:55 or 11:55 pm.

Coming home, still in same outfit as he was eating out, JK goes live for 9 minutes. A new record low (well, apart from his Mingyu live), lol. Shorter than his panty folding live.

He was a man on a mission. Coming to say hi.

Showing us the 2 aces. Army. Yep.

Doing a card trick.

Saying love ya, a term used multiple time by JM.

And diving out of there.

So, I wonder.

First of all, was there someone there already or someone he was expecting to arrive?

Same someone that posted that mind blowing pic to set the fandom on fire.

JK's live was at 00:55 am KST. Going for 9 minutes approx. JM posted at 1:33 am KST. I wonder. I wonder if they picked out that photo together, lol.

Oh, I got sidetracked, didn't I?

Because my point was meant to be: Is this all we are getting this year?

No cake? No long karaoke live? No long live period? No TikTok post from our birthday boy, who told us he is now a TikTok content creator? No Jikook live?

I mean, JM's pic, well it's a gift. But is it gift enough?

And no, I'm not being greedy here talking about a gift for us. I'm talking about a gift for JK. Because JK wants that damn live together. Giving him that live together, that would definitely be a worthy gift for his birthday!! Lol.

Just saying...

Did I mention everything I wanted to? Probably not. I'm writing this off the top of my head rushing to post, cause I need for this to be out there, like 2 hours ago, lol.

Kind of hoping that as the day goes by there will be more to talk about. Kind of counting on it, lol.

Oh wait, did I mention JK was wearing same brand as JM?

Ooh, and forgot to mention that PolyC reposted JM's post:

And last thing before I go:

I just loooooove seeing that JM, can't help myself.

Ok, so this gif does not do the JM justice. Watch the live and see just how pronounced it is!!! LOOOOOOOVE it.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KOOKIE!!!

#Jungkook #JK #JK birthday #JK birthday 2023 #Jikook #Kookmin #Minkook #Jimin #JM

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ronearoundblindly · 1 year

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The Root Of All Ransom (Finale)

Ransom Drysdale x rich!Reader (see previous or series)

Summary: Ransom figures out how to undo his disinheritance.

Warnings for language (I'm never kidding about how many f-bombs this boy drops), smut (blowjob, p in v sex that is consensually unprotected, general smuttery), vague contemplations of murder but we ain't going the canon route. MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY. There is plenty else for you to read on my Light Masterlist. This is not your story!

I have somehow managed to put Ransom Drysdale deep in his feels. This is only OOC if you haven't read up to this point, but we do end on a soft!Ransom note. WC 6954 (oh my fucking wat???)

Ransom huffs out a foggy breath in the night air, cold in more ways than one. All the windows glow from the mansion, yet it looks completely different in light of what Harlan’s done.

Thrombey Manor is his birthright. He doesn’t love the architecture or the eccentric layout. He hates the furniture. He’s never really enjoyed anything about the place. It’s the polar opposite of his own house, but it was his in a way, part of his status, part of his baseline of existence. He’s not prepared for any other eventuality. Ransom built his life on a perfectly stable bridge that some idiot just blew up with C4.

No, no, not some idiot. His own family. The only member of his family he would think could never do this to him. Fuck Harlan.

Ran’s been flying high on a lie, and the magic money carpet’s been ripped away.

He has one lifeline, one option he’s grasping onto.

If he can manage this, nothing will change. He won’t lose the allowance. He won’t lose you. You’ll never know how unworthy he is. He can just have everything and never speak of this again.

Harlan. Marta. Inheritance. Killing two birds with one liquid stone.

Ran could do it. He will do it, but you cannot know. He can’t have you around. He has to push, to start giving you a safe distance, to leave you plausible deniability. If you suspect, you’ll leave him anyway.

If he succeeds, worst case? He’s rich and alone. If he does nothing? He’ll be poor and alone.

One of those scenarios used to be acceptable, but not now, not anymore.

Pushing you away tonight might be the last time you ever look at him without pity, and he’s not ready for how heavy that sits in his roiling gut. He has to though. He has to make you leave, if only for the rest of the night—but it might be forever, his brain reminds him. Fucker. It’s not like Ran’s pleasant to be around. Getting away from him shouldn’t be a hard sell.

When you emerge from the house, however, what he hoped would sound sharp and dismissive sounds oddly open-ended.

“You could just walk from here,” he tries wishfully.

True to form, beautiful, pissed-off you sidesteps his expectations.

You take his coat, your coat, and the Birkin to the passenger’s side with a ferocious look.

“Get in the car,” you manage through tight lips.

Fuck. He misses you already. He hasn’t given up. He won’t, but his center of gravity is gone. He’s reeling from this.

Hugh Ransom Drysdale revolves around money.

His whole life he has stretched wide and greedy limbs to capture numbered, green rays of meaning. He hasn’t only lost the light of his sun now. No. Nuclear winter has just stripped him bare and knocked him on his ass. Ran cannot articulate all the reasons he’s so upset.

He values you and him together for relatively selfish reasons. From all he’s seen, you don’t need any more people in your life that exist so far below you. You don’t need ‘help.’ You need an equal, a free and independent equal. Ran isn’t even fucking close anymore.

With a stroke of a pen, he’s now dependent. It’s pathetic. If he stays without even the means to be your not-quite-equal, then he’s everything he hates. He’ll be clingy. He’ll be needy. He’ll be in the way. He’ll finally do it; he will annoy you.

He will bore you.

What a fucking world.

You snap him out of his dashboard stare.

“Do you want to talk about it now or at home?”

“Neither,” he quips easily. “I’ll drop you at the Carlyle’s.”

His eye twitches at his faux pas. You don’t have to correct him. He knows it’s your place, your name, your property, and your right to claim. He doesn’t need reminding.

His key twists in the ignition just as your hand comes up to his shoulder.

He can’t even glare at you properly because a tap rings off his window pane. Both of you jump in alarm because night fell hours ago. Who sneaks up on a car in the fucking dark?

Ran’s father is fucking who. Of course. The window peels down, and Ransom feels as if the last seconds of his life are draining away after the plug’s been pulled.

“Trouble in paradise, you two?” Dick asks with cheeky concern.

“No, Mister Drysdale,” you say politely, no hint of insincerity in your smile.

“Richard, please, honey. You’re practically family.”

Smug asshole, do NOT call her ‘honey.’

“Eat shit,” Ransom mutters overly loud again, but your sudden slow grip on his kneecap tells him to behave. Ol’ Dick has no right to call you ‘honey’ though. Ran’s not even sure what he’s allowed to call you, and he’s pissed, sure. He’s…something else, too; he’s obedient beneath your hand.

Richard ignores Ran’s attitude. “Listen, son, I just wanted you to know that whatever happens, your mother and I will always love you. In case…ya know, in case you ever doubted, and…well, we’re family. We stick together.” He even gives Ran a squeeze on the shoulder for emphasis.

Ransom has no fucking clue what his father intends with that entirely useless statement but doesn’t fucking care. “You know what?” He’s about to lunge out the window to choke that fucking prick. “Definitely eat shit.”

Your grip tightens, and Ran’s insides clench, knowing he toes a line.

“We should really go,” you add with a now painful, strained civility.

“Okay, you crazy kids,” Richard pats his heavy hand on the door frame. “Thanks for coming to the party and we’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Of course, Richard.”

Ransom rolls the window back up without looking at you. That sure as shit was not his father’s reaction to Harlan throwing millions at Marta fucking Candelabra. He can’t be near these people anymore, so Ran slams his foot on the gas, peeling out of the driveway, and scattering gravel in his wake.

Your sigh releases with the pressure on his knee. “I suspect it’s about his affair.”

As if that narrows it down. “Which one?”

“The first one as far as your grandpa knows,” you snort, “which hopefully Linda buys too from the way you’ve talked about it. Jesus, really? Slow down!”

Ran doesn’t want to slow down. The car is finally catching up to his racing thoughts and a plan coalescing. If Harlan knows about Richard’s affair, then his mother will absolutely divorce him, leaving Dick with nothing—and if you know that Harlan knows about it then—

“Hugh—” the hand has slid from his knee to his crotch, the heel of your palm gently digging into the stiff fabric of his jeans “—we should have taken care of you before…”

Fuck, that feels good.

You’re right, of course. Ran really should have planned a few minutes of privacy for you both to get off after the airport. Not that it’d have to be private for him (parking lot, terminal, or tarmac—he wouldn’t fucking care), but the thought flashes in his mind like the bright spots behind his eyelids that he might not get to fuck you again. That’s profoundly upsetting, and your grip on the outline of his swelling cock is profoundly distracting.

He swats at your arm, blood rushing to his tension-white knuckles only for a second, but you simply swivel in the seat to change hands, dragging down his zipper.

“Sweetheart“ slips out. Is he allowed to say that anymore? He should still act normal, right? Except he’s been a raging mess for a quarter-hour already and oh fuck. “What are you…”

Ran’s been wrong this whole time: you are a road head bitch.

He’s so taken aback by your spit-slicked lips cooly brushing the head of him that he nearly elbows your spine. The car swerves slightly as he strains to collect himself, to think of just one other thing instead of your fucking tongue sliding down his length to tease at his still-covered balls and—

Mother of fucking mercy, he has to pull over.

Only by some miracle, some blessed (or horrible) gap in his distraction, is he able to consciously choose parking off the lane just beyond the menagerie elephant statue because, otherwise, that pervy-ass groundskeeper could relive his long-forgotten past of grainy porn. Because that’s what this is turning into. Pornographic is the only way to describe the choked grunt Ran finally lets out as he slams on the brake and you snap the car into park just to get the gear shift out of your way.

“I’m only here three days,” you say around a mouthful of cock, bobbing a few more times before switching to your hand. “I’m not letting you ruin it by being fucking baby.”

“I’m not—fuck—“ he’s not expecting you to climb over him in the cramped car “—you don’t understand.”

“So you don’t want me right now?”

He shakes his head furiously, half in hope of collecting genuine thought, half in desperation for you to continue.

Space is so limited between Ran’s body and the steering column that your bent knees pin his arms to the door and the console. It should hurt but fuck if he’s gonna say anything while he watches you peel your panties to the side and line yourself up.

“Gah, you just—“ he pants as his heart rate spikes. Instead of putting him in you, Ran’s paralyzed to stop two of your fingers from sinking into your soaked pussy. You’re drooling for him, mouth and cunt, and goddamn, he is so torn between pounding you into next week or tossing you out of the car to get on with his plan.

It’s about an 80/20 split in favor of fucking you.

And then he thinks…yeah, he could definitely get off and get you to the Carlyle’s—your place—in time to sneak back. So he just lets go, shoving his face forward to capture your lips, enjoying the wet sounds as you prep for him, and eating up your moans and curses. He knows you’re purposefully dragging your knuckles against his dick as you bring them out with each stroke. Why are you so fucking hot? Why can’t he just have this without Harlan’s help?

He’s dependent.

Ran realizes he always was, but he fucking hates it.

Removing your fingers makes the bunched-up dress pool over your hips and graze his raging erection. Great, now your spit and his precum are smeared all over your clothes. Normally, that wouldn’t bother him. Normally, that would be even hotter. Now, Ran wonders how much that damn thing costs because he never even looked; he just knew it suited you.

A steady grip at his base and suddenly Ran can’t wonder about any fucking thing under the sun. Your walls welcome him inch by inch like he’s goddamn worthy of that silky squeeze, but he can’t say shit. All he can manage is craning his neck forward to mouth over your nearest breast, arms still pinned. Fuck it. More fluids on the dress. If you don’t care, he doesn’t care. Maybe. Maybe he’ll just care later. Maybe he’ll learn to look at the cost of things. Maybe he won’t have to when he succeeds at fixing this dumpster fire of a situation.

His teeth graze against a barely felt but hard-peaked nipple, and you gasp out another moan. You have to shift to wedge your leg down by his side and repeat with the other one. One of his forearms is tingling, asleep, so he switches his mouth around and uses the functioning arm to play.

You’re moving so slow, too slow.

“You fucking love to mess with me,” Ran growls, all but biting through the layers before yanking at the neckline, savoring the plush skin he exposes. “Love fucking me,” he mutters again.

“Yeah, baby, why do you think that is?” You use the name so condescendingly and roll your hips so deliberately that Ransom bites back a ‘fuck you,’ instead forcing out a strangled whine. You just drag yourself up and down until he answers, pushing his t-shirt and an errant tail of his cardigan out of the way. Your fingers gently scratch the flat plain of his abs.

“Say it.”

He knows the answer. He’s known for a while, but that’s not something Ran’s ever gonna be ready for. It’s just already the truth.

It’s as soft as a hum against your skin.

“Say it, Hugh. Tell me why.”

He can tell by how you’re getting sloppier with your movement, by how hard you grind forward against him, that you’re close.

“Because you love me.” Ran winces at how desperate he sounds. It’s almost a cry, but he can’t really resist repeating it. “You love me.”

Your hands bury in his hair, and he’s literally covered in you while trapped in this fucking steam room of a car. He can’t control anything he’s doing.

“You love me,” he says again.

“Yes.”

“You love me.”

“Fuck, yes, baby.”

You’re fluttering around his cock like a dream, shouting encouragement, and it just slips out.

“I love you.”

He has no idea if you even hear him because you come so hard that your back bends, slamming you against the steering wheel.

The horn blares in the quiet woods.

You wait for him to yank you forward and erupt into sated giggles while Ran is a whole different kind of paralyzed, hiding his face in your chest for as long as you’re simmering without care.

Your fingers card through sweaty hair, your heartbeat slowing more than his does.

“Think you need this,” you say in a breathy whisper. You pull away to cradle his face.

He’s terrified you’re gonna ask. You’re gonna want him to say it again, he thinks, and Ran’s not sure he can with your eyes boring into his, knowing what he knows, being what he is until the will is void.

“I want you to come, Hugh.” Your thumb traces across his bottom lip, gaze following before it flickers back up.

You sound so fucking innocent while your slick is smeared all over his low belly and seeping through his underwear. His boxers are kinda in the way but kinda immovable while in such cramped quarters. Pushed aside, they hinder only as much as your bunched-up panties do. Easy enough to live with.

You keep staring expectantly.

“Do you want me to stop—“ fuck NO “—or will you give me what I want?”

Ran’s whole chest clenches, and it’s only because he slams his mouth to yours that you can’t see his eyes roll in fucking ecstasy. Perfect. You’re goddamn perfect. He couldn’t deny you anything much less this, and he knows that if this is the last time, he has to take advantage.

Sliding down slightly on the seat (because everything operates in centimeters at most this close), he takes two giant handfuls of your ass and spreads you, lifting so he can thrust his hips up at a brutal pace. He doesn’t fucking care if his knees bang against unyielding metal. He doesn’t care that a vein in his neck might snap from strain. He just needs this one thing, and then he’ll let it go. He’ll be ready for whatever outcome Harlan’s death triggers.

Because Ransom needs money. He had money long before he had you. It’s what he needs the most in life. He loves money.

If losing you is what it takes to keep the money…

That’s the thought he can’t finish as control of the urge to come slips from his bruising fingers. His desire for his status quo is faltering. His equilibrium’s changed.

He does love money. He does.

Now, to Ran's surprise, he loves you, and he has no fucking clue how to love both. He doesn’t know if he can keep both.

But friction is friction. He’s surrounded by the feel and sound and smell of sex. It’s familiar and more than a little haunting to him if this is the last time, but Ran crests that mountain before any coherent thoughts form. He can’t trust himself to speak. He might repeat what he never should have said aloud.

The groan when he empties himself inside you is almost pained, swallowed immediately by your adoring and hungry kiss. He’s sweat straight through his t-shirt and his jeans are a fucking mess. Your dress is damp, stained, and wrinkled. You’re practically bonded to the leather seat, but he just absently runs the back of his fingers up and down your thighs while he comes down.

When you release his mouth, your arms settle across his shoulders, and he buries his face in your chest again, hiding, relishing, stalling.

Shit, he’s gonna miss this.

After a minute, you rest your forehead against his and lift your hips until his limp dick slides out of you. Through half-closed eyes Ran watches you bite your bottom lip, gnaw on it like he wants to, like he moves to—

“Is this about the will?”

Ran freezes.

“Did—Harlan told you, didn’t he?”

“WHAT THE SHIT.” Ran’s rage explodes, heaving you off of him and into the passenger’s seat. “YOU FUCKING KNEW?!”

He shoves himself back in his pants and scrambles for the damn zipper.

“Ransom, it’s fine. He just—“

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you warn me? Jesus FUCK.” He’s unlatched and kicked the door open before you even get a word out.

“Harlan is my friend and—“

But he slams it shut, leaving your words muffled while Ran fumes in damp fucking clothes in the frigid air.

His fists almost—almost—pound on the hood of his car as he bites out, “I could have killed him.”

Ran’s pacing toward the tree line when you finally shuffle from the beamer, pulling your dress back into place.

“Harlan’s my friend and he asked me in confidence if it made sense.”

“I’m sorry, he asked you? As in, my grandfather might not have done this if you hadn’t thrown me under the bus.”

“It wasn’t just about you.”

“It makes sense to leave me destitute? And you knew! You lying bitch,” he growls, immediately wishing the word hadn’t popped out, clawing at his scalp in a punishing attempt to think. “You watched me throw all that fucking money away and didn’t think I deserved to know?!“

“I’ve met you. Why would you listen to me about how to spend your money? That isn’t something you do, Ransom.”

“That’s not the point!” And stop calling me fucking ‘Ransom.’ “I can handle myself.”

“Then I guess your answer is ‘that’s how you spent the money,’ by choice.”

“I wasn’t given a choice. You lied to me. You’re the one who didn’t trust me.”

Your stalk forward in the dry leaves, stopping just outside of arm’s length away. “What the hell did I just say in there, huh? I love you. I said I love you, then you go and call me a bitch, so who’s the liar between us, huh? Who’s got trust issues?”

Ran’s face scrunches in distain. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Guess,” you spit back easily.

Well, he isn’t fucking saying it now. Fuck you. Fuck this. This is the worst-case scenario: poor and alone because if you know, he can never get away with his plan.

“Why do you always do that?” he growls with a venom that poisons no one but himself. ��Why the fuck are you here then?” Why are you with him?

“I’m here to support my piece of shit boyfriend at a piece of shit family event because Hugh asked me to.”

Nope. The right name is wrong. It sounds much worse than he expected.

Ran doesn’t know what to do with all this sick energy churning in his gut except burn through it. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He doesn’t know what to do with his life.

“There it is. There’s the truth,” he yells, leaning into your face. “I know it. You know it. This isn’t going to work. We’re not the fucking same. We’re not even close—“

“I don’t want someone the same as me.”

“I’m a useless—”

“Ran.” Your hands fly to gently land on his face.

“—talentless—“

“Seriously, please.”

“—sack of shit and you—“

“HUGH!” The grip at his jaw slips as he jerks back.

Ran tenses, shoving his chilled fingers into his jean pockets, pushing the wet material in front away from his crotch. He goes awkwardly quiet.

Yelling. He remembers the yelling. He’s been comfortable with yelling for longer than he’s been comfortable with affection.

“For fuck’s sake, just shut up.” You cross your arms over you chest and shiver. “This. This bullshit is why I didn’t tell you, but so what? You don’t have your own money. How do you think Harlan and I started out?”

He gives a look that shouts back everything he can’t put into words.

“You’re not useless or talentless. You’re entitled. That’s all, and you can change that state of being pretty fucking easily.”

“How? What am I supposed to do? Be a houseboy who eats you out once a week?”

“A week? Well, I hope I pay better than that.”

“Oh, what the fuck,” he grouches.

You giggle. You fucking giggle at that. “You started these jokes!”

“You don’t have to rub it in—”

“—just rub it out, huh?”

He doesn’t want to laugh. It’s not funny. His fate isn’t a laughing matter, but like everything else tonight, he fucking fails. A smile twitches at his lips.

“Ok, asshole, you want to be useful? How ‘bout driving us home? I’m freezing.”

He starts to protest but is cut off by a flinging arm.

“If you don’t get in this damn car, you will be helping me balance to pee in those woods.”

“Fucking gross,” Ran whines.

“Yeah, well, your ability to self-access is appalling too,” you jovially clap back, “but we’re working with what we’ve got.”

Fair.

Savage but fair.

He frowns and follows you into the car.

You talk his ear off on the way to his house, but he isn’t in the least bit annoyed. He’s engrossed. It’s all a type of flattery Ransom can hardly fathom: honest praise.

“I was miserably alone before you.”

He wouldn’t have pegged that based on how he saw you at all those events, but now that he considers how you’ve opened up about your frustrations and the exhaustion of being the center of attention, it makes sense. Ransom takes attention away from you. He loves that shit. He doesn’t even care if it’s negative attention. Hide behind his broad back and shine that spotlight on him; he’s game.

“You know what people you pay to be around you—people who want something from you don’t do? Argue. No one has a real conversation. No one has an opinion contradictory to yours. No one calls you out on your shit. It’s so…”

“Boring,” he whispers without thinking.

There’s a long pause until you continue softly.

“No one calls me out on my shit except you, only you.“

Your hand finds his. Though your skin is cold, he’s warmed by the touch.

“So no, I don’t think my money will change anything. If money—mine or yours—were going to change you, it would have done it by now. I mean, sure, you could stand to be less of a dick sometimes, but you don’t have to. I already…”

Your voice trails off, and Ran knows. That’s just it. You love him and he’s a dick, the poor asshole who understands what the feeling is, the one who can’t say it, not on purpose, not yet. The tectonic shift in his life’s framework leaves him uneasy. As wonderful as you are, as perfect as this has been, he has to start over.

He has to build himself up from scratch. He’s been transplanted to an alien planet that he doesn’t have the means to make hospitable. Money was his means to everything. Money provided for him. Money protected him. Money separated him from others.

He never had space for two in his now-demolished castle of selfishness.

“I thought I’d be with someone so different from you,” you laugh without heart. “I’m…glad I was wrong.”

All he can manage is a squeeze of your hand.

“But Hugh, you’re proud of my success, not fucking threatened by it. You let me work, but you also know when I need a break and won’t take one. You’re devoted without being smothering because you have your own damn life, things you want to do. You aren’t intimidated by all this shit in my stupid world or the money. You don’t give a fuck what other people say.”

That’s true.

“You make me laugh,” you say quietly, and though he can’t see your face in the dark of the road leading to his neighborhood, he hears your smile. “You asshole.”

As he turns into the driveway, he glances over and winks. “I try my best, sweetheart.”

He watches that throwaway statement melt you, and then he realizes why.

Ransom trying to do absolutely fucking anything is a big fucking deal, and he has tried. He simply has no idea where to go from here.

He turns off the beamer and makes no move to get out.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Your hand releases his to glide up his arm and lace through his hair, lightly rubbing the base of his neck. “Help me,” you breathe.

“How the fuck would I help you?”

“Hugh,” you cock your head to the side, retracting both arms to brush your palms down the fabric of your (ruined) skirt, “you know damn well you’d like to control my whole wardrobe. You would do far better dressing me for all those functions than I do…and undressing me.”

He knows what you’re doing, but instead of smiling or laughing, he tightens his jaw and huffs. “Can I burn some of your—“ he does half air-quotes “—'wardrobe?'”

It’s so hideous. That one black dress you keep fucking wearing? No amount of dry cleaning will make that look new again. That’s getting flambéed.

You purse your lips. “Donate, but yes. I would consider that a huge help.”

“You’re serious.” Ran’s not sure whether he means it as a question or a statement.

“Yes. I am. Thank you for noticing.” You swivel to open the door. “Now, you can also help get my bag in while I use the restroom.”

The dance of readying for bed becomes you pointing out things you have now that you did not have before him. Taste being one of them, Ran thinks to himself. The important thing is he could say that to your face, but he’s strategically not pushing his luck tonight.

It’s true. Nearly every article of clothing and every toiletry now links back to his insistence that you have nice things that are for you, not just for life in general. You come before the rest of the world; you come before your work. That’s his gift. That’s what he’s good at, and you make it clear: you need him for that talent.

All of these nice things, all these reasons he seems good to you, and all this need for him have Ran feeling some sorta way when you crawl into his bed naked and reach to turn off the light.

He grabs your hand before you make it to the switch, forcing it back to the mattress, keeping you facedown. His heated breath and heavy body roll over you, teeth grazing your shoulder and moving slowly to your earlobe.

“You know what else I’m good for?”

His free hand slips between your thighs and finds what slick you couldn’t clean up. The knowledge that some of it is his cum still inside you makes Ran shudder. How would he ever have lived without this?

You sigh, your mouth falling open at the intrusion, and your eyelids flutter closed.

“Fuck,” you moan, high and quiet.

“That’s right, baby,” he hisses, mimicking your condescension from the car. Oh yeah, he’s gonna ruin more than that goddamn dress tonight.

He takes time to torture you with his fingers, his weight rendering you immobile. Ran sweeps falling hair out of your face with free reign to pepper open-mouthed kisses across the stretch of skin he’s claimed since that very first fuck.

You always knew what you wanted. He never thought you’d truly want him, certainly not for more than a day. After tonight, it’s inconceivable you want him still, yet here you are, burying your face in the sheets to muffle little cries as he humps your ass cheek to get harder and harder.

Good god, why do you want him? He fucked around, he yelled at you, he called you horrible names, he left you for weeks at a time in a foreign country alone, and yet you are here.

Then your words spring to mind. He argues with you. He has opinions. He makes you laugh. He treats you like the independent person you are. He treats you like your money doesn’t matter.

Because it didn’t to him.

Ransom realizes now that you treat him as if his money didn’t matter because it doesn’t to you. Nothing changed when you knew he wouldn’t have it anymore. Not a single thing. Somewhere over the last months, Harlan told you his plan, and the only perceptible difference to Ran was you falling in love with him.

Because you love him. He is so grateful he’s almost angry. You could do better. He can give you better.

By the time you come on Ran’s fingers, he’s completely feral thinking about all those little ways you showed your feelings, all the ways you showed him kind touch is not weakness. You also showed him that touch doesn’t have to be weak to be kind. He can be rough with his feelings for you, intense as they are. He can sink his cock into you, practically screaming that he loves you, too, but the words aren’t spoken.

He presses a thick forearm across your back to keep you pinned. He spreads his legs to widen yours. He thrusts in possessive and messy movements. No words escape. His range of motion is limited this way, but he gets all of your glorious noises. They’ve become his favorite sleep track. It’s hard for him to rest without hearing your happy, panicked pleasure beforehand.

You make desperate fists in the sheets and arch your ass up higher. He sees the unnatural strain in your body, all for him, all so he can have just that fucking tiny bit more of you.

He can’t stay in this position forever though. You’ll never come again like this, and he wants to see your face. The car was dark, but the lamp is still on. He can watch you fall apart with him deep inside.

“Turn,” he orders, enjoying how dazed and shaky you are as you struggle to control your muscles.

You’re a sight. Erratic breaths hardly settle your gasps. Pliable and ruined. Torn to whimpering pieces and stitched back together only to be split apart again.

He drinks in his handiwork, climbing slowly between your legs, delicately helping to cross your heels at his ass, and sinking back into your heat slowly, so slowly, like your teasing in the car.

“Hugh,” you mutter, and fuck, he has never heard you beg.

Ransom has always loved sex, but this is different. He meets your glazed eyes with floundering blue depths and wonders why he can’t just enjoy it as basic sex anymore.

He’s always loved money, too, and although he doesn’t want to take it from you, Ran feels the weight of your charity. Money was his sun, his whole world, but it was not enough. You provide more, warmth that lets him spread out in contentment, light that keeps him from withering.

Money doesn’t need his love; it’s indifferent.

You, on the other hand, you are fucking radiant, glowing and hot with his arm tucked beneath your shoulders to grab at your hairline. He makes you look at him. Your fingernails scratch at his back while your hips grind together.

“So beautiful,” he rumbles, nose almost touching yours. “Come on, sweetheart—“ Ran drops to lave kisses down your bared throat “—one more for me.”

This time, you have no words, only grunting uh and hng as he speeds up. Your noises get higher. Ran gets rougher, a brutal rhythm for a brutal realization.

He can’t hold back when he sees you like this; he’s gonna say it.

He gets close, so very close to breaking, but you fall first.

“Please—ah.”

You fucking writhe beneath him, your whole body spasming like your silky pussy ripples over the sensitive skin of his cock.

“That’s it,” he coos in your ear. “That’s right. Good girl.”

He has to chance meeting your eyes because he wants to see you unravel again. Ran always does whatever he wants.

He slows his hips to intermittent thrusts that sizzle your nerves over and over, pulling his arm out from under you to lift your chin. You’re open for him in every sense of the word, and he is fucked in every possible way.

He’s an amoeba of a man staring evolution in the face.

You’re his. It’s clear in the light that he owns you. He’s earned you, or at least, he’s trying to. That’s a big deal for Ransom Drysdale.

Quivering, your mouth hanging open, his thumb rolling over your swollen bottom lip, he gets one word.

“Daddy.”

Barely a whisper, partly a question, but mostly an invitation. He slides his thumb up into your mouth, only letting you suck on it for a moment before it drags out.

Ran never thought you’d ever say that. He never imagined you’d beg either. You’ve always known what you want and taken it. You have never needed anything from him.

“Please,” you say again, holding your mouth wider still.

Shit. He throbs at the prospect, and he’s too far gone to deny you this. He plants one small peck on your jaw before pulling out and clambering over your hips and chest.

“Ah fuck,” he moans when you suck on one of his balls, stroking him with a smooth and firm grip. “Love y—love your mouth…so much.”

Ran leans against his headboard, hand clamped over his trap in a desperate attempt not to blabber, but you continue. You’re in tune with when he’s ready, when you’ve taken the teasing far enough and he needs to come. His hips stutter to shove himself just a little farther down your throat. He collects his wits only enough not to choke you, muffling a cry.

You’re gentle with him as he loses his absolute shit trying to keep it together, thighs shaking, breath hindered, biting the fuck out of his hand.

“Sorry, I…” he tries.

“I…I—“ he tries again.

He just can’t fucking do it.

Ran digs his palms so hard into his eyes he sees stars. His chest is tight like it’ll explode any second. The relief of orgasm has evaporated instantly, and he just really fucking can’t.

“Hey, hey,” you soothe, shifting up onto your kneels behind him, “it’s okay.” Your warm arms encircle his chest, over one shoulder and under the other, and you pull his own pliable and ruined body toward you.

He collapses back on his heels, leaning against you.

“Hugh, it’s alright.” Your whisper makes his eyes sting. “I know.”

Ran raises his arms to hold your wrists. His head drops to kiss the back of your hand. He still stays silent.

“I know…”

Your bare legs stretch across his lap, and Ransom lets the hand warmed by his mug grasp your ankle gently. You’re off in your own mind, staring out the window of his living room, worrying your bottom lip. He watches while you don’t notice.

Ran never particularly liked the unknown, and after Harlan’s shit last night, he’s off surprises for a fucking lifetime. This, however, this with you, sitting in comfortable quiet, makes him feel perfectly at ease with an unsure future.

For someone so fascinating to him, you’re so normal.

Sure, you’re beauty trumps the view outside, you’re dedicated to your work, and you’re smart enough to run circles around anyone, but…

You’re just you, sitting with a hot drink on his couch in the morning, wearing one of his sweaters again. Could be a sixty-dollar sweater from a thrift shop—or six cents for all Ran knows about secondhand sales—or the six-hundred-dollar one that he stoopidly bought three weeks ago; it doesn’t matter to you. The only thing that matters to him now is who wears it. That garment means nothing without you in it.

You sip at your tea, and he follows, staring at you staring at the world.

You two spoke more about it last night in the dark about everything but that one little phrase that’s eating him alive, a tangled mess of yourselves and the sheets. Nothing has to change except where the money comes from. Ran gets what he’s wanted all along: control over your wardrobe and, essentially, your entire presentation to that world you’re staring out into. He is not, however, permitted to burn your favorite Little Black Dress, but for fuck’s sake he’ll get all of its seams checked and the damn thing refitted. He’s hoping if he makes enough fuss, you’ll choose to toss it just to shut him up.

Fucking rules. Ran hates rules. If you kept standards on par with your New Money maybe he’d follow your rules. He’ll get you in the good stuff: the good house with good furniture, the good clothing with good lingerie beneath, right down to the good wash and lotion.

You can keep your perfume. He likes your perfume.

Yes, he’ll get you into what he wants, when he wants, where he wants, and all that implies. Ransom always gets what he wants…because you let him.

It’s remarkable what you let him fucking do, too.

He slides his hand from your ankle to your knee, knocking you out of your reverie just in time for his phone to buzz.

He holds your legs to him while sneaking a glance at the screen. Linda. Fuck no, he’s not answering that. It’s not Sunday and he’s not ditching anything. Fucking wait. Fucking choke for all he cares.

Ran instead sets his nearly empty mug down beside your two phones on the coffee table and curls up in your corner of couch. You open your arms to tuck him into your chest, and sure, it’s cutesy and gross in a way that should make Ran want to gag, but who fucking cares when he’s this comfortable. He plants a kiss right on your nipple through the knit for fun, feeling you shiver, then listens to your heart.

His phone vibrates again, dancing closer to the stoneware he just put down.

His mother’s persistence is as admirable as it is annoying. Predictably, Ran’s bored by her usual shit and ignores it again.

Instead of pushing up his sweater to wrap an arm around your waist though, he shoves his now chilly fingers between your hot thighs and sighs. His ear rings with the airy sound of your laugh through flesh.

Then your phone dings, and he just fucking knows it’s her. His groaned protest goes unheeded as you swap your mug for the device and bring it to you.

Ran snorts, and you smooth your free hand over his hair.

“Hello—“ there are harsh but restrained mumbles but he can’t make out the words “—Linda, why on Earth would I be with a man the night he yelled at me like that?”

Because you love him, Ran thinks, but he hears garbled disappointment from the other end.

“And after how your brother and his wife acted—” more rushed excuses “—I don’t have time to go around looking for your adult baby. I have work to do and a plane to catch.” There’s obvious desperation in Linda’s tone, but you don’t care. “Goodbye.”

You let your phone drop to the rug, carding fingers through his hair before finishing with little scratches. Your nonchalance is still pure honesty. You wouldn’t waste time on him, not if you didn’t want him, and you did not let him speak to you that way for more than three sentences because you knew exactly how to shut him up.

“Vicious little bitch,” you mutter.

And…in all your perfect, honest, niceness, you called his mother a bitch—not to her face but you’ll get there, Ran’s sure.

He fucking loves you. He is really so fucking in love with you that it’s fucking gross. He’s disgusted and doesn’t fucking care.

After a big sigh, your hand finds his between your legs and moves it to cup your sex. “Where were we?”

Ransom shifts up over you at the same time as you slide beneath him on the buttery leather cushions. His wildly true and blue eyes meet yours with stern sincerity.

He’s looking at everything he ever wanted, and it’s not money. There are all sorts of things he can use to survive, loads of things he can replace, an infinite amount to take, but only one you, only one complete package. Not a thing. Not replaceable. Finite. Earned. New. Fascinating. Teasing. Messy. Sexy. A total hardass badass with a great ass.

Ran lays his hand heavier on that thin layer of silk, possession laced in the caress, and the words just flow right out.

“Marry me.”

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555

Oh my god, gang, I can't believe I fucking did it. Truly, this fic has been one of the craziest things I've ever attempted, and honestly, I'm so damn proud. I'm proud that I wrote it, I'm proud that it's over, and I'm proud of whatever reception it gets. I murdered my soul for this and am delighted. Thank you all so much for reading!

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#hugh ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale fanfiction #the root of all ransom #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale smut #ransom smut #ransom x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale angst #ransom drysdale fic #ransom drysdale fluff

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ginsakatoki · 2 years

Note

Heeeey, welcome to DMC fandom! Can I request general relationship headcanons for DMC boys? Just some fluffy stuff, like what kind of dates they are into, what kind of partner each of them are, into PDA or not, etc. But it's all up to you :)

Thanks in advance!

Hey there! I’ve actually been lurking in the fandom for a couple of years and only recently decided to write about it. Thank you for this request and enjoy!

gif by @rainbow-cadenza

• I mentioned in a previous headcanon of mine that despite his loud personality, Dante is actually a shy lover. By this I mean: at first Dante will take quite a long time to acknowledge and address his feelings and even more to actually ask you out. You’ll need to be patient with him because he’ll shamelessly flirt as a joke but get flustered if you flirt back. Or expect you to understand that if he is standing next you in a specific way, he’s flirting for real and not joking.

Expert at not taking the hint. He’s used to people and things wanting to kill him so there is no way you’re interested in him that way, right?

He’s a weird unblended mix of an experienced womanizer and a teenager that has no idea what he’s doing.

It will be awkward at first not gonna lie.

When you manage to become a couple though, it becomes much much easier. All of a sudden all those weird moments and interactions vanish and the relationship starts flowing like you’ve always been by each other’s side.

Dante would want to go out on a date at least once or twice a week. He’s one of those guys that pretend not to want to be around their S/O all the time, but actually do. (He acts like a sad puppy when he doesn’t).

That said, due to his lack of money, he would prefer simple dates over anything else. A walk in the park, window shopping or cheap dates like cinema and bowling.

He’s a sucker for mundane things. His life is full of adrenaline rushes and violence so he truly cherishes the few moments of daily life he gets. This, however, doesn’t mean he’ll just settle for calm activities. He would definetely drag you to an amusement park at least once to go on rollercoasters.

If you don’t handle scary stuff well, be ready because he’ll force you to go to haunted houses or watch horror movies just so you can cling to him and tease you about it.

He’s a really fun partner to be with and he feels more like a friend you can go on adventures with than a safe home to return to.

He’s very protective of his loved ones so if you were ever in a pinch, he would come help you out any way he can. He’s not very book smart though, so you might not want him to help you with your studies.

His love language is physical touch so he loves, and i mean, loves PDA. He doesn’t care if other people are staring, let them be. If he wants to kiss you, he will. If he wants a hug, he’ll get it. No questions asked.

When walking in public he always has his arm around your shoulders, hips or holding your hands. He wants to feel you by his side, especially since he never knows whether it might be your last.

When holding hands, he runs small circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. It feels very intimate to him.

He adores kisses. Mouth, forehead, cheeks, neck, hands, wherever. He loves it.

Speaking of kisses, he is very intense when he kisses you. His lips will blend on yours stealing your breath away and he’s greedy, so he’ll always ask for more.

"Just one more… No no that didn’t count, one more"

Cuddles on the sofa are a must. He is a literal human heater so he’ll gladly warm you up in winter.

If you tend to have cold hands or feet he will warm them up for you but you have to warn him first.

That one time you put your cold feet on his legs without telling him first he literally screamed.

gif by @CAPCOM

Vergil is a cold and diffident man. It will take him a long time to trust you and if he develops feelings for you, he’ll be in denial for the longest time. When he accepts his feelings, however, he won’t act on them and would consequently become grumpier with everyone. There would be a huge contradiction between what he feels and his behavior.

He might look at you like he wants to kill you and be thinking that you look very pretty with the clothes you’re wearing, for example.

His inner struggle wouldn’t really be caused by a disgust for feelings rather his intrusive thoughts take control and start sabotaging him. For example he might believe that no one would ever love him so he isn’t allowed to love anyone. Or that he doesn’t deserve happiness because of all the pain he’s inflicted on others.

He would start ignoring you and crave your presence. If he saw you at Devil May Cry, he would go the other way but stay close enough to be able to see you.

Things would change if you asked him if he hates you. It is obvious to him that the answer is no and that his behavior is clearly misguiding you so he would try to be around you more.

Communication about feelings with Vergil is complicated so it seems unlikely that he’d confess them and get into a relationship. It’s more likely for you two to slowly get closer to each other until you both realize you’ve been acting like a couple without explicitly saying so.

It starts with Vergil always be around for one reason or the other.

“That seems heavy, I’ll take it for you.”

“I just had a commission nearby, that’s all.”

“Didn’t know you would be here” “Vergil… I work here”.

He gets so flustered it’s cute. He turns away immediately though, so you never truly see him blush.

Like Dante, he likes mundane life so he loves walking around the city with you, going to theatres and museums and, obviously, visiting libraries and bookshops.

He doesn’t speak much but he listens to everything you say and remembers every little thing. There’s a book you mentioned you like? He reads it and tells you his opinion. There’s an event you keep forgetting about? He reminds you of it, and so on.

His love language is complicated to pinpoint. I’m pretty sure he loves physical touch but, being the touch starved man he is, too much of it would make him short circuit. Same with words of affirmations. He grew up surrounded by hate so loving words are new to him, they would make him feel vulnerable and he hates that.

It would take a lot of trust and time but he would learn to love cuddle time on the sofa or on the bed. He would even find comfort in laying on you and hearing your heartbeat.

Vergil as a partner would show his vulnerability to you and you only once he truly trusts you as in: he will allow himself to cry in your presence, but don’t expect him to allow you to see him cry. He will hide his face on your shoulder or keep his back turned on you.

Besides his hurtful past and his feelings, Vergil worships you. You see in his eyes how much he cares for you, suddenly his grey eyes don’t seem so cold anymore. His touches are very light and delicate like he’s afraid to hurt you.

Not his kisses. He usually has a lot of self control around you, but when he kisses you it all vanishes. They’re deep and passionate, like he’s trying to merge his soul to yours, and will hold you impossibly close. Because they’re so intense, kisses with Vergil aren’t that common and they definitely don’t happen in public.

PDA is a big no for Vergil. What’s between you two is no concern for other people and, as such, it must stay indoors. He will allow you to hold his hand or circle your arm around his but he won’t initiate.

Overall Vergil is a man you’ll need a lot of patience with but he will make sure you feel as loved as he feels.

gif by @BlinchixOfRivia (Tenor)

Out of the three Nero is the most normal when it comes to relationships. If he’s interested he will show it, spend time with you and ask you out on a date. He’s pretty straightforward and honest so you really won’t have problems understanding if he likes you or not.

He’s had experience in relationships before with his ex-girlfriend Kyrie (they’re still on good terms) so he knows how to act around a lover and is not the least worried about his feelings.

Despite acting and looking like a punk, Nero has a clean and mostly sorted out inner world. He has his good amount of issues, obviously, but at least he isn’t as emotionally constipated as his father and uncle.

When in love, Nero smiles and laughs much more than usual which makes his interest pretty obvious.

He has a specific tone he only uses with his S/O and I think that’s beautiful. It’s not really a puppy or lovesick one but his normally gruff voice becomes gentler and his words soft-spoken.

Nero would most likely enjoy going on interactive dates like cinema, concerts, skating or paintball.

Do not, and I repeat, DO NOT go to watch horror movies with this man. He might be a devil hunter but he’s terrified of ghosts. He will scream the girliest scream you’ll ever hear and tell everyone it was you.

Dates with Nero are pretty frequent and spontaneous, but he’d like to go on a fancy date either once every two weeks or once a month. He likes eating good food and wants to spoil his partner.

During normal dates he probably takes the two of you to eat at Taco Bell or something.

He’s not exactly romantic or one for cliches so you’ll never see him serenade you or buy you flowers, but he’ll always show he cares in his way. For example he will always bring you a snack at work or help you clean your apartment.

His love languages are acts of service and quality time. He isn’t the best with words and physical touch is pretty neutral to him.

He doesn’t mind PDA, he’ll honestly go with the flow. If you like PDA he will drap an arm around your shoulders, hold you close to him and occasionally kiss your forehead. If you don’t, he’ll just hold your hand or pinky finger.

Inside jokes. A lot of inside jokes. People might say something about shoes and you’d start laughing for apparently no reason after throwing a look at each other.

He gives the best hugs, whenever you’re sad or not feeling well he just grabs you and hugs the problem away. You’re actually surprised by how well it seems to work everytime.

Being in a relationship with Nero means having Nico tease you all day, all week. They’re a 2 for 1 deal. You might be casually speaking or joking that she would come out from nowhere and tell you to go get a room.

Arguments with Nero happen pretty often because he has a short temper. However you found a nice way to end them quickly: pillow fights. Whenever you see that you’re having a disagreement you both grab a pillow and start hitting the other while stating out one of the reasons you are right. The one who wins the pillow fight, wins the argument.

Obviously, if it’s about an important matter, you’ll be responsible and talk it out as calmly as possible.

Some people see your relationship as childlike or teenage-like but it’s really healthy and it works for you, plus they don’t know how serious both of you can be about it.

Kisses with Nero are always surrounded by giggles, for some reason. You have so much fun with each other that even kisses can’t seem to be serious.

One of your favorite activities together is playing videogames. You once showed him Mario Kart and now he’s obsessed. Every Sunday you must have a Mario Kart tournament or he will get grumpy.

You’re the only person he doesn’t mind losing to.

Thank you for reading this, let me know what you think about it! I ended up writing a lot about this lol.

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chuubbles · 5 months

Text

bad decisions

pairing: s.jaeyun x f!reader

also: l.heeseung

warning: mentions of drinking, cheating, suggestive

—> even after a messy breakup, you still found yourself still attracted to jake, and he felt the same. its not a healthy relationship, but how could you both avoid it when it its just too good?

🎧: greedy, everytime, break up with your girlfriend, motive (ariana grande

author note: holy moly its been a hot minute since ive posted on here!!! anyways, i was listening to ariana so much recently so that is the cause of this writing ✍️

party. get drunk. make up. get down. kiss. say goodbye. repeat.

that was the continuous pattern you had with none other than jake sim. fate had somehow twisted its ways to urging you to always run into the boy again, again, and again. it was unavoidable, no matter how much you tried.

3 years ago back in your senior year of high school, jake confessed his huge crush on you right at your front door at night. of course, you felt the same which led to eating each other’s faces off under the dim porch light for your neighbors to see (cough). he loved you, and you loved him. there were bumps and dents through the span of your 2 year relationship, but you couldnt have asked for a better boyfriend. until he took you out to the worst party of your life.

in the moment, the party was amazing and the energy was through the roof. jake’s frat friend was hosting it as his place since his parents were out on vacation, and boy was it a huge home. we’re talking mulitple refrigerators, a movie theatre, gaming room, high balconies, and a jacuzzi on the second floor. after having too much to drink, and talking it up with strangers who were now acquaintances, you realized jake was missing by your side. normally during parties, jake would always follow you around to make sure no one unecessary bothered you, held your cup when you had to use the restroom, and would make the dance floor intimate. concerned, you walked around and through the atmosphere of sweaty bodies and alcohol, looking for any sign of jake. with your red cup slipping out of your hand, you made eye contact with jake in a hallway. making out with a girl. a girl that wasnt you. her back was facing you, but you had to see the abomination of jake going crazy with a random girl near the bathroom. you could feel big globs of salty tears blurring your vision, and your breath hitching immediately. at this point both jake and the girl noticed you, still not letting go of each other’s grasp. when quickly turning around and running off back into the crowd, all you could hear was the yelling of jake, desperate for you to come back.

that tragic and unforgettable event was 7 months ago. you were eventually immune to jake’s random calls and texts, asking for forgiveness and checking in on you. they didnt feel the same as before, and did not make you feel any better. you ended up blocking him on everything, including deleting his contact information on messages. you were way past this toxic incident, now talking to a guy named heeseung. at your college, you couldnt deny that he was one of the popular guys on the basketball team. although he was basically a himbo and a jock, he was still anything better than jake.

yet, that didnt stop you from running back to jake himself. he was like a drug you couldnt stop taking, and no matter what you always wanted to come back for more. soon your excuses to go to parties with heeseung werent to get down with him, but jake. your ex of 2 years now clouded your brain, and even though you never unblocked him on social media- you hoped to see him at multiple parties. and of course, he was always there.

party after party since the incident, it was the same deal. bring heeseung and let him wander off towards a different group, get drunk with jake, find the nearest bathroom to make out in, get down, and end it all with a sloppy kiss without a verbal goodbye. you never expected to reach this level of insanity, especially with your long-time ex you swore to never go back to. you didnt care how horrible jake was and how disloyal you were— as long as he was yours for the night.

you saw him as a toy to be selfish with, using him to your likings. make him feel weak in the knees, and leave him empty handed afterwards. this weird situationship soon blossomed and churned into a possible second chance with the man.

however, you did not expect to wake up in his bed on a saturday morning so soon. it was just like how it was 3 years ago. turning around to face the other way, jake was wide awake, looking into your eyes with a loving look. you stared back in interest, suddenly feeling a craving to be bad, once more. this obviously wasnt a healthy relationship or whatever this turned into, but you couldnt help it. neither could he. “wanna wanna go for round 2?” jake spoke under his breath. responding with a sly smile, your lips were already locked with his; meanwhile your hand was reaching towards the bedstand to silence the multiple calls from heeseung.

this was far more important.

#fluff #enha fanfic #enha imagines #enhypen ff #enhypen scenarios #enhypen x reader #enha reactions #enhypen #enhypen jake #jake enhypen #jake gif #jake sim #sim jaeyun #sim jake #engene #enhypen reactions #enhypen imagines #enhypen fluff #enhypen angst

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crash-and-cure · 1 year

Text

If I Were You Part 4 (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: Elvis is here. Elvis is here and you have to deal with the tight rope that will be navigating his presence in your life both inside and outside of the party.

Note: Fun fact, this party was orignally meant to be a retirement party for reader’s dad, though in a certain part I couldn’t figure out a way to make it not seem as though Elvis wasn’t confessing his love for reader’s dad, so I switched it to an anniversary party (My original outline was insane, at one point there was an Elvis impersonator that was scrapped within the hour of me putting that idea in my notes). I know this one came out a lot earlier than the last one but that was because I was working on both of them at the same time with the intention of posting them as one. But then I went off the deep end and so they became 2 big parts rather than 1 insanely large part. That being said don’t expect the next part to be out for a while at least, becuase yes there will be at least one other chapter (please note I said the exact same thing two chapters ago). So please let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for the final chapter(s?) of this story and the upcoming one shots.

Word Count: 14.5K

Warnings: Oh boy get ready for this one. Yandere!Elvis so expect themes of obsessive, manipulative, jealous, and delusional behavior as well as some heavy allusions to blackmail, emotional and otherwise, here too. Dubious consent in some areas. Inappropriate relationship with Therapist (Which should go without saying). Explicit sexual content depicted that includes Penetrative sex (m/f), Daddy Kink, Praise kink, cum eating, and oral sex (m. recieving). Also brief depictions of choking and a nightmare sequence featuring implied drowning. Depictions parental abuse that include parentification, favoritism, as well as emotional neglect and abandonment. Also mentions of Elvis' mommy issues, and more exploration readers daddy issues. Period typical misogyny depicted. Finally depictions of a toxic relationship that include power imbalances, emotional manipulation, uses of coercion, grabbing that leads to bruising and verbal mistreament. Please do not interact if you are under 18.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5

My Masterlist

He of course has the gall to look amazing right before he ruins your life, his suit almost entirely black which only serves to highlight the bold red scarf that draws your greedy eyes to his open shirt. The scarf itself you’re horrified to recognize, not because you’ve seen it on him before but because it’s almost the exact shade of red you’re currently wearing. His eyes give you a once over before his face breaks into that devastating grin of his, and the dress that previously made you feel dowdy now leaves you feeling exposed.

As he approaches you make an attempt to back away only to be halted by bodies that obstruct any escape. You can feel the beginning of a panic attack as he advances, the crowd parting as though he were Moses himself. You genuinely fear that your heart will leap out your chest as he gets within spitting distance and he spreads his arms while loudly declaring “Now if it ain’t my favorite Doctor.”

Before you can fully pass out from the lack of oxygen going to your brain, you finally see that he’s not looking at you. No… he’s looking past you. “And if it ain’t my favorite patient,” you hear your father say from behind you, all but shoving you out of the way to grasp Elvis’ hand and shake it vigorously. “So glad to see you could make it.”

“Other plans fell through, and I wasn't about to let the night go to waste. That reminds me though,” he looks back to one of the Mafia members who hands him a bottle of wine. “Now I know you said no more gifts, but I ain’t ever ‘bouta show up to a party empty handed,” he said handing off the bottle to you father. You catch a glimpse at the label, and you’re just barely able to suppress your gasp once you recognize it. Your father apparently takes it as his cue to make introductions.

“You remember my boy over here,” he said, patting your brother on the shoulder. “And my beautiful wife, and this,” nudging you forward, causing you to stumble slightly. “This is my lovely daughter, Y/N.”

“Um… Hello…” you say trying not to meet his eyes, so that he won’t know how rattled you truly are. “Pleasure to meet you um… Elvis,” you stick out your trembling hand. Your hope that he wouldn’t see how truly shaken up you were over his presence is quickly dashed when you seemingly jump ten feet in the air upon feeling his lips at the back of your hand.

“Pleasures all mine Ms. Y/N,” he says and you feel his lips brush against your hand.

You’re unsure whether he’s this committed to pretending he doesn't know you or if he’s purposefully baiting you, but as you all but rip your hand out of his, you can’t help your next response. “Actually it’s Dr. Y/N,” you say in your most self-assured tone that you could muster at the moment.

You feel the eyes of the party turn from Elvis to you as though everyone is prepared for god to strike you down for having the audacity to correct him. Your mother especially has told you off for how gauche it was to correct people on your title, as though she herself doesn’t correct people when they use the wrong title for your father and Danny. You can feel all of their gazes, your family’s especially, and you truly believe you’re going to suffocate under all the looks, and you wonder how Elvis can not only stand it but build a career off of it.

You’re only saved from this scrutiny by Elvis’ boisterous laugh, and suddenly your impudence toward the king of rock and roll went from blasphemous to downright charming as everyone within earshot followed suit. “A whole family a doctors,” he states while looking at your father. “You must be so proud, Doc.”

Your father is quick to recover from the apparent shock to his system and wraps his arm around your shoulders, though his tight fist tells you that he hasn’t forgotten how rude you just were to Elvis. “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he said, bringing you closer to him. “Proudest moment of my life was seeing both of them get their degrees. This one especially” he says while ruffling your hair. “You don’t see a lot of girls becomin’ doctors, and I’m so proud that my little princess here did the impossible and became one of ‘em.”

This is news to you.

“I gotta daughter myself. Can’t say I don’t love the sound of a Dr. Presley,” he says unabashedly, looking straight at you.

That is also news to you.

You feel your heart leap into your throat at that comment. You’re contemplating letting yourself collapse to escape this situation, you wouldn’t be the first woman to do that in his presence and you’re about 60% sure that at least one of your family members would watch over you in such an event and Elvis wouldn’t be able to spirit you away. But you are already pushing your luck with that earlier comment, and the last thing you want to do is be the cause of another scene tonight. So you instead take the next best course of action, and you decide to run.

“Oh excuse me, can you hold that thought for a moment. I think I see my date over there,” you point to nowhere in particular, “I’ll be right back.” You don’t wait for any sort of dismissal as you make a quick exit from this conversation. Once you feel that you are away from watching eyes you pick up the pace, and once you’re out the front door you all but sprint to your car.

You can’t do this anymore. You have to get away otherwise, you're liable to explode from the sheer stress this entire situation is causing you. You’re leaving, and damn whatever consequences may come.

That fire within you is quickly stamped out when you turn the key in the ignition determined to leave, only to be met with silence. You test it a few more times again only to be met with the same result. Finally you give up and rest your head against the steering wheel while you scream in frustration. You have to fight back tears, as now going back inside is inevitable, and you do not want to have anyone seeing you now when you look as much of a mess you are on the outside as you are on the inside. You nearly jump out your skin when you hear a knock coming from your window, and you look over only to see a familiar blonde.

“Do I even need to ask?” you say tiredly, after opening your car door, part to talk to him, mostly in the hopes the cool night air will steady you somewhat before you go back inside. Jerry offers you a cigarette, and with the way he looks at you, it truly feels like the last offering before the firing line.

“He… he sent me out here to make sure you don’t do something stupid.” he says, which while an answer is far from comforting.

“Do they know?” you ask and he only gives you a questioning look. “The rest of you guys, I mean. About how I met him?”

“Hell most of ‘em don’t even know he was still in therapy after San Diego.”

“Tell me something. Was it one of you or him personally?” you say, but as you see his hesitation in raising a cigarette to his mouth, you back track. You doubt either answer will make you feel better.

“Look Doc,” he says, solemnly lighting up. “You gotta understand this ‘bout us. We all love him, but before Priscilla convinced him to go to rehab, we spent years just watchin’ him die. And now we can’t really say no to him, no matter how off the walls it looks from the outside, ‘cuz we gotta make it up to him somehow.”

“But why?” you ask. “If you saw how he was hurting himself, why didn’t you step in earlier? You do realize that more than likely it was the fact that nobody was saying no to him that kept enabling him?”

“You don’t think we tried?” he says bitingly, smoke seeping out his mouth. “That’s the thing about Elvis, even when you say no, that just means he’s gonna look for someone else to say yes. ‘Till you came along.” he says, using the cigarette to point at you.

“Oh yes, he’s really respecting my refusal,” you say sarcastically, thrusting your hand toward your childhood home as Elvis is no doubt laughing and mingling with the family you never wanted him to meet.

He goes quiet after that, letting a heavy silence fall between the two of you, and you feel somewhat vindicated by his clear discomfort at this whole thing.

“Would it really be so bad, Y/N? I mean most women would kill to be where you are right now,” he says after some time.

“Most women don’t have as much to lose to be with him.”

“Maybe, but I know that you’re good for him,” he says pleadingly. “And I think he could be good for you if you let him.”

“What the hell do you even know about me?” you say venomously.

“Doc listen… I don’t agree with how he’s going about this,” Jerry says, his hands thrown up defensively. “But I’ve known him for years and I’ve never seen him so… so…”

“Focused?” you finish.

“Exactly.”

Being the object of his focus is an intense thing to experience, and it’s something you didn’t fully appreciate until now. When you first started working with him, it was just the two of you alone together in your office and you had nothing to compare it to. The two of you were there for him and to help him get better. And then when you started to become further immersed in his world the focus was still on him, but back there he made it clear: He’s here for you and only for you.

You look down at your feet at this point and you notice the bruise he left on your inner thigh just barely peeking out from the hem of your dress, “What’s he planning Jerry?” you barely manage to whisper.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Either.”

“I’m serious Jerry,” you say with no doubt a crazed look in your eyes. “What the hell am I up against? Proposal? Asking me out in front of everybody? Exposing the relationship here and now? What?”

Jerry takes a long apathetic drag off of his cigarette, before taking an equally long smoky sigh. “I can’t speak for those other things, but I do know that all in all he’s pretty private, so I doubt it’s the last one.”

“...but not impossible?”

“Is anything impossible for him?” he says as he lets the cigarette fall before stomping it out and turning around to head back inside. And you’re once again left alone with your thoughts.

Elvis Presley truly does live on another planet than the rest. That not only he can live in this fantasy but bring people in as well. That’s what truly disturbs you about him. You’ve learned that even the most rational seeming people can fall prey to the likes of him and even your awareness hasn’t been able to shield you entirely from being just as affected by him.

And even knowing this doesn’t stop you from making your way back into the house, back into his orbit.

When you return to the foyer, you don’t need to try too hard to figure out where Elvis is in the house, as you can see many partygoers hovering around the den trying and failing to not look like they're waiting for an opening as Red and Sonny act as bouncers to the door. You speed walk past that entrance resolved to make yourself scarce until the end of the party. Evidently you’re not fast enough as Elvis calls your name, and you hope that people mistake your expression as being starstruck instead of being terrified.

“Why don’t you come in here? From the sounds of things, you probably got some interestin’ stories to tell,” Elvis says.

“Oh, I don’t know about that?” You say, looking around and praying for something that will get you out of here.

“Nonsense. Come sit over here,” he says, patting the coffee table in front of him. You glance at your parents, expecting some type of protest on their part. But nothing comes, if anything they are all too eager to follow his lead, so you concede and make your way into the room. You walk in with the same eagerness as you would walking into a lion’s den, and you take stock as to who was deemed worthy enough to sit with the King. You can make out most of the Memphis Mafia members and your immediate family alongside some of the more prominent friends of your father, all of which has you on edge.

You sit down in front of him, while he sits comfortably in your fathers armchair. The same armchair where your fathers episodes typically take place and where you used to sit with him for hours at a time in your youth. Your father has always been overly protective of that chair and hated when anyone took it, so to not only see Elvis sit in it with ease, but to see your father stand beside and even look glad that he is there is mind-boggling to you. Admittedly the image of him in your fathers spot, is making it a little harder to breathe.

To your horror Elvis notices, “Aaahhh, you don’t gotta be like that lil’ one, I’m just a man like any other.” His tone is comforting, but you can see a mischievous glint in his eyes, telling you how much he is enjoying your humiliation. “Here drink this,” offering his own wine glass. “It’ll help you simmer down.” With all eyes in the room on you, you shakily accept the all too familiar wine.

As you drink, he looks toward your parents and askes with an amused huff if you’re a fan. Your mother jumps at the opportunity, “Oh the biggest. This one was always beggin’ us to let her go to your shows when she was real young. I even remember her crying when you got drafted.” This causes you to do a double-take. You’re not sure if she’s knowingly lying in an effort to add something to the conversation, if she’s conflating you with your brother who was the fan or if she genuinely doesn’t know you that well. You share a look with Danny, who undoubtedly has the same thought as you, but gives an expression telling you not to contradict your mother.

It is at this point that you realize that the odd energy surrounding the two of you is not going unnoticed by the rest. You almost have to admire how bold it is to make a grand entrance to someone else’s party, and then proceed to shamelessly flirt with the host’s daughter. No doubt that is how the rest of the party is interpreting this interaction. Elvis, clearly aware of the audience and the part he’s playing in all of this, leans forward, and says teasingly “So I guess this is a dream come true for you.”

A nightmare really. “Yes,” you say looking down, humiliation burning your face, and desperately wishing you were anywhere else right now. “Speaking of drafted” you squeak out in an attempt to shift focus away from you. “I don’t think you’ve heard my dad’s stories from the war.”

If there’s one thing you can rely on is your father’s willingness to tell war stories. He can go on and on for hours about the men he saved during the war, you suspect so he doesn't have to focus on the men he couldn’t. It has the desired effect and your father begins to regale those around you to the tale of one soldier who everybody thought was beyond saving but he refused to give up on him, and how in the end he was able to save that man. As you think about the fact that you’ve no doubt heard this same story more than a hundred times all through your life, you glance at Elvis, you see he’s been keeping his eyes firmly on you. The unease you feel due to his gaze and the revelation of where you got your fervent need to save him, has you refilling your glass more than once.

When your father finished his story, you hear beside you, “Oh Y/N, where’s your friend Mark?” Your mother asks this innocently as you take a sip, and you try to refrain from choking on the wine. You’re not so shocked at the question itself but the fact that your mother is calling him your friend, when typically she’s the one to insist on referring to him as your boyfriend, despite all of your protests. The fact that she surreptitiously takes a glance at Elvis, is all the confirmation you need to tell you that it was by design.

“Oh yes umm… I thought I saw him, but it was somebody else.” You say trying to act as dismissively as possible, even though you feel so humiliated.

“Oh that’s too bad,” she says, clearly not feeling bad at all. “Well I'm sure he’ll be here soon.” You give a tight lip smile to your mother, as you steal a glance at Elvis who is trying to hide his grin behind his glass.

“Yes, it’s a real shame,” you say.

“Well it’s his loss, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here.” Elvis pipes in, his gaze focused on you alone. You look away in apparent shyness, though in reality you’re trying to figure out who to bring in to steer the conversation away once again. That is until Elvis says “So tell me Y/N, where’s the prettiest girl in all of Memphis been hiding this whole time?” and you choke.

“Oh this one, when she doesn’t have her nose buried in books, she’s working at her own practice,” your father pipes in. “You’d never know it, but she’s one of the hardest workers I’ve ever known. She got her degrees early and opened up her practice only two years out of school. And she insisted on doing it all by herself.”

That’s not true, you think to yourself. Your father refused to pay for your last two years of undergrad, and you had to practically beg on your knees for the funds they had set aside for a hypothetical wedding of yours to fund your practice. Despite the feeling of being more akin to a lamb being offered up for slaughter, and the backhandedness at the comment itself, you're happy, as that was the nicest thing your father has said about you in years.

Though to be fair it’s one of the only things he said about you in years, you tell yourself which immediately brings your mood back down.

“Sounds like she takes care of business.” Elvis says, leaving everyone in the room practically in stitches, but he does see your somber expression, and in his only act of mercy this whole night he changes the subject. “So Mrs. Y/L/N how’d ya’ like the spa today?”

How did he- Of course he did.

“Oh. My. Goodness. It was wonderful, I’ve never felt better in my life,” your mother gushes. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Oh don’t worry ‘bout it. Ain’t nothin’ but a phone call to get you spots. Who’d you end up takin’ anyway?'' he asks.

“Oh Y/N, of course,” she says. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Aaahhh, shoulda known for myself,” he says, reaching over to lift your chin up. “You’re practically glowin’.”

“Um yes, thank you,” you feel your face burn, and he grins at your discomfort.

That’s how the rest of the night proceeds, he would blatantly flirt with you, you would bashfully recoil, everyone would titter at the scene, and you would change the subject. When he figured out what you were doing, he ended up shifting gears and asking questions about you to your parents right in front of you, which only made you burn. What irked you the most was when he referred to your father as Doc, not because your automatic response to that was to look at him, not even at the sly look he gave when he noticed. No. It was that slight pang of something, you refuse to call jealousy, that you felt in the briefest of moments as though it were a pet name he was using on somebody else.

You know that you don’t have to put up with this and that nothing is keeping you in this room, so you could leave at any time. But you’re too afraid of what he might say when you’re out of earshot. There’s also no guarantee he wouldn’t follow you, and from the way everyone is still so enraptured by him, it’s almost certain that they would all accompany.

The only one who seems to have gotten over Elvis’ presence appears to be your brother. You can’t exactly blame him as he had grown up without your father for most of his childhood and upon his return, he very much craved the attention of the stranger that returned. Growing up the two of you had seemingly always had a designated time and place where one of you would receive your fathers love and attention. For you it was privately where you were more akin to an emotional crutch, and that was only when you were younger, whereas for your brother it was publicly where he could be shown off and bragged about like a trophy. Now intentionally or unintentionally, Elvis has seemingly usurped his place as your father only had praise and admiration to sing for him.

At some point in the night your sister-in-law asks you to hold your baby nephew while she runs to the bathroom, and you're left at a loss. Not because you’re inexperienced with babies, but because of how Elvis looks at you as you hold the infant. This is truly the moment that you pray everyone misses in this night, the way he goes a bit slack-jawed at the image of you right now only to be swiftly replaced with a look of hunger in his eyes. This, coupled with that Dr. Presley comment earlier, has you worried beyond belief of your hopes for his affection to wane.

You had hoped that eventually the novelty of having you would wear off, especially given the prospect of the upcoming world tour, and as terribly as it made you feel, you secretly wished this energy would ultimately find a new target. Now you realize, if anything, having you has only reinforced his feelings toward you.

Danny interrupts your inner spiral as he stands at the center of the room and clinks his glass. He picks up his son from your arms and makes a speech about your parents relationship and how wonderful and beautiful it is. He especially takes the time to thank your father for teaching him all the ways to be a successful man and how he’s going to impart all that he learned from your father on to his own son. You hope for your nephew’s sake that he doesn’t. Eventually he wraps up his speech and passes it on to you to continue the toast.

You had maybe recited the speech you were going to make for your parents ten times yesterday, but your muddled thoughts aren’t letting you concentrate, not to mention all the wine you’d been downing since Elvis had arrived. Maybe a sentence or two in do you realize that you’re going to have to compress your speech as the only thing worse than a slurring, erratic speech is a long one. So you end it by thanking your parents for giving you the kind of fairytale love and life to aspire to, and how you wish to find yours someday, and you purposefully avoid looking at Elvis. While everyone decides to kindly ignore your faux pas and politely clap to your words, your father is having none of that and quickly “suggests” you go lay down upstairs for the time being. Before you can get defensive and tell him that you’re not a child that can be sent to her room because he said so, you hear clinking glass from across the room.

You close your eyes, as you know exactly who it is before he even opens his mouth.

“If y’all don’t mind, I’d like to say a few words ‘bout the happy couple,” he said, grinning when he’s met with sounds of approval. “Now I only been knowin’ Dr. Y/L/N here for the last few months now. But goddamn 40 years… that tells you all ya’ need to know about ‘em. Love is a beautiful thing,” he pauses to look directly at you by this point. “But it’s also work. Like Y/N said, love is what makes life worth livin’ at the end of the day. So when ya’ find it, you gotta grab it, and hold onto it with both hands.”

You feel as though you’re going to suffocate at this point, with all the eyes moving back and forth between you and him. Typically you’re able to talk yourself down from the idea that people know about the two of you, but now you’re petrified as you can see the gears in some peoples heads turning as he’s no longer even trying to hide who exactly he’s looking at.

“The fact that these two, been able to make it work this long is truly inspirin’ to me. The life and beautiful family they made together is a dream most people could only wish for, but the fact they made it happen is absolutely wonderful. I always believed that there was such a thing as soulmates, and I truly believe we’re in the presence of some tonight,” his are eyes only on you by now, no longer entertaining the rest of the crowd with his attention. “Now I wanna raise a toast for these two, to the past forty years,” he says, lifting his glass upwards, with every single person following suit. “And…” he pauses, his eyes boring into yours, making sure you’re watching. “The next forty years to come.”

You’re going to be sick, the wine you gulped down not enough to settle your stomach. Everyone is so quick to fawn over Elvis or your parents, you’re able to slip past everyone undetected and make your way upstairs. Wanting to be as far from the party as possible, you find yourself in the upstairs master bathroom, where you proceed to empty the contents of your stomach into the toilet.

Dolly, your dad’s beautiful black labrador, was apparently locked in here so as not to disturb the guests downstairs. You appreciate her efforts in comforting you by laying her head in your lap and nipping at your hands in an effort to get you to pet her, however this inner turmoil you feel is not something that can be eased with playing with a dog. Eventually she gives up and wanders out, and that makes you cry even harder because how fucked up do you have to be that an emotional support dog gives up on you?

Why you? Why is he doing this to you? Months? Months!? He’s been your fathers patient and you only learn this now. Why would he hold onto this for so long other than to spring it on you at the worst time? Does he take it as a challenge everytime you push back, to further ingrain himself in your life?

You had opened yourself up to him, letting him in on the complicated dynamic between you and your father, because of all that you knew about him and his mother. Now he’s weaponized that knowledge to further entangle himself in your life. What scared you most was the fact that this was undoubtedly meticulously planned on his part. You could excuse that first week as more taking advantage of the opportunity with the chaos that followed that session, but now there’s no denying how capable he is of thinking things through. You never doubted his intelligence, but you never could have imagined how it would shine through.

And for what? What does he gain from this? To show you how he has your parents' approval? To corner you into a situation where you couldn’t be as closed off as you normally are due to an audience? To demonstrate to you how he is seemingly a viable option for you as a surrogate father figure? In one fell swoop he was somehow able to accomplish all of this.

You sit there and weep for a while, truly believing that you’ve hit rock bottom. But as you start to settle down you hear a very distinct voice coming from your parents bedroom, and you realize that rock bottom has a basement. As you rinse out your mouth, you can only hope that he at least gave enough time between the two of you coming up here.

You find him sitting in your parents bed furiously petting and praising Dolly, not even acknowledging you, which affects you more than you would like to admit. You whistle to get Dolly’s attention and when you point to the bathroom she obediently walks back in.

“You know that rope was there for a reason,” you say bitterly, still facing the door.

“What’s the point a bein’ famous if you can’t cross some lines?” he says with the most self-satisfied smirk you’ve ever seen.

You thump your head on the bathroom door, “Ok, I walked into that one.” And he only responds with a deep chuckle at your frustration as you hear him coming closer to you.

“What did you do to Mark?”

“Oh you know how cars can be sometimes,” he says dismissively, though you can hear that slight edge in his tone as he boxes you into the door. The hands roaming your body and the kisses on your neck make it evident why he truly came up here. “Something as simple as a pulled wire and it don’t start.” He uses one hand to move your head to look directly at him. “Sometimes it’s somethin’ big, like all four tires bein’ slashed.”

It’s odd, he no longer tries to mask his downright terrifying behavior to you. It’s because he’s so sure that you can do nothing about it, you think furiously.

As he begins to gently pull down the zipper on your dress, you’re painfully reminded of the party downstairs as you hear someone’s laugh down below. You decide to just give in and hope that you’ll be able to satisfy him before anyone can come looking for either of you. “Now I answered your question,” he says, dragging the red material down before his fingers lightly trail back up your abdomen and pull your bra above your breasts. “You gotta answer mine,” you shiver at his raspy baritone as well as the cool night air hitting your nipples.

That pleasure is almost immediately replaced by fear as you feel his large hand take a firm hold of your neck and he gives a small squeeze for emphasis. “Why the fuck did you lie to me ‘bout where you were gonna be tonight?” he all but growls, and for as frightened as you are, you can’t help the shot of pleasure that races to your core.

“I…I,” you stutter, fear stealing your words. “I didn’t want them to meet you.” Your honesty is evidently unappreciated as you feel the ever so subtle increase in his grip, briefly cutting off your air. You want to say that you don’t think he would kill you, but if he’s proven anything tonight, it’s that you don’t know him as well as you would like to believe.

“And why is that?” he hisses in your ear, loosening his hold slightly.

“Because…because…” your mind scrambles for what has the potential to be your last words, trying to figure out what could possibly save you through the lack of oxygen. You fear that this may be the end until you see a photo on your parents wall; that of them and your brother at his graduation ceremony, all of them with grins that actually reached their eyes for once. All at once you have an answer that is not entirely untrue. “You… you saw how my parents were. I was afraid that they would try to take advantage of you. I’m so sorry Elvis.” your apology punctuated by your tears streaming down your face.

He takes in your words, and you’re terrified that it wasn’t a good enough answer until he finally releases his grip on your throat, and you’re finally able to take a shaky breath in relief. “Still tryin’ ta look out for me,” he purrs into your ear as he’s turning you around and planting a filthy kiss on you. Still unsteady on your feet you wrap your arms around his head as he guides the two of you backwards until his knees hit the bed. “Baby, you gotta come talk and talk to me ‘bout these things. You told me once that communication is key and all that.”

“I’m sorry daddy,” you mumble into his chest, and you feel him rumble in approval at your words.

“Well,” he says as he unbuckles his belt. “Show daddy how sorry you are.”

Your mouth goes dry as you look down and see he’s already standing at full mast. You doubt you’ll never not have this reaction every time you see how big he is, and you don’t need to be told twice as you drop to your knees. Though you do give yourself pause as you glance back over at the door, worried that anyone could walk in at any moment, but then you feel a hand underneath your chin and his ocean blue eyes draw you out once more as he tells you not to worry about the outside world, only him.

You gather as much spit as you can muster before you ease him into your mouth. You immediately start bobbing your head up and down his cock, praying he finishes quickly so that he can go back down without raising too much suspicion.

“Take your time darlin’, I ain’t goin’ nowhere” he purrs, putting his hand on your head as he’s still deep in your throat. “I need to know how sorry you really are.” As much as you want to make this quick in order to avoid anybody walking in, you oblige and continue at a more languid pace. You’ve done this enough to know just how to tease him and prolong this but also as a sort of punishment for how achingly empty you feel without him.

You try to justify your next action as you being efficient and wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, and not because you actually enjoy this. But as your fingers circle around your clit while you have a mouthful of his cock, even you realize how hollow those words sound.

“Hands where I can see ‘em darlin. I’m still upset with you.” he says, and you quickly pull your hand out of your panties and place it back on his thigh. You’re humiliated that he had noticed, but that is promptly replaced by longing as he takes your still glistening fingers and places them in his mouth giving a slight groan as he tastes you. “God I missed that taste,” he rasps. He brushes some of your fly aways out of your face, “I ain’t ever going that long without it again,” he promises.

You can’t help the moan that comes out of you at his words, nor the way your thighs clench together in an attempt to keep yourself from dripping everywhere. He evidently appreciates your enthusiasm as he forces your head all the way down and you're finally given that salty taste you’ve been seeking.

You swallow every bit of him, you say to avoid leaving evidence, definitely not because you enjoy the salty taste of him. Nor because you enjoy that purr he always gives after you show him you’re now empty mouth.

“Come up here and show your daddy some love,” he says in that deep baritone of his and your wine and cum addled brain has no choice but to comply. You should be more worried at the prospect of being caught and make this quick but as you crawl onto the bed with him and you see the way his eyes roll back into his head at the feeling of your wet panties brush against his sensitive cock. You feel powerful in a way you haven’t felt in months, so as you move the offending material away to fully sink down onto him, you put your hands over his mouth to hold in his groans. He merely quirks an eyebrow as he looks at you and you feel him bite his lip, apparently willing to listen to you.

You hate to admit this but you missed this feeling of being so full of him. You should never have experienced this in the first place, but now that you have, you wonder how you ever lived without it before. You take a moment to fully enjoy this feeling of being so complete, before you continue to grind down on him.

In the months since you’ve been with him, you’ve learned he has a particular love for your nipples, and rather than overanalyze it you choose to relish in it as he takes one in his mouth. You throw your head back but you have to bite down on your lip as some pathetic little whimpers escape from you as you do your best to not broadcast to everyone downstairs what the two of you are doing.

“Ahh look how good you take me baby,” he says, lifting the hem of your dress up to get a better look at the two of you joined together. And the sight is too much for you as you pick up your pace and essentially bounce on top of him, mesmerized as you watch him disappear into you. And before too long you finally cum, and your forced bite down hard on his shoulder to hold back what would have undoubtedly been a scream.

You relish in him as well as he snaps his hips upward, determined to finish once again, making the lingering aftershocks all the more powerful. And finally he lets out a strained groan and you feel him painting your walls. You bring him as close as you can manage in that moment, and you find yourself lost once again his fantasy that this could be the way things always could be.

“I love you so much Y/N.” you hear him mumble against your skin.

Your eyes snap at that and you’re pulled back into reality upon hearing his words. This is the first time he’s ever said that and you're frozen, barely able to breath in that moment let alone speak. But that’s ultimately for the better, for as much as you want to respond you know you can’t without saying the worst possible thing.

“Mama you gotta say it back.”

You do love him. You love him and you shouldn’t and you hate yourself for that. And you hate him just as much for forcing these feelings on you.

“Please Y/N, I need to hear you say it,” he begs, and you hear the slight quiver in his voice.

It’s those words that break you and you're now fully weeping, frustrated that he’s offering his love, but you’re burdened with the knowledge of how misplaced that love is. You remove yourself from him as you sob, guilt making it hard to look at him let alone touch him.

“Elvis I can’t love you,” you’re finally able to choke through your tears.

“Can’t?” he says with a hint of a crazed smile on his lips.

“What?”

“You said can’t not that you don’t.”

“Because it’s wrong Elvis!”

“If it’s about your job you don’t gotta worry about that, you can quit and I’ll take care of you. You don’t gotta worry mama.” he says trying to kiss away your tears. “You said it yourself, that there ain’t nothin’ wrong with how we feel, and that we should feel comfortable in expressin’ them.”

You hate it. You hate when he quotes you on something you said just to turn it around on you. This frustration alongside your uncertainty and humiliation is what finally breaks you, and you’re no longer thinking about tact anymore. He’s in your house, he’s in your head, he’s in your heart. You cannot let this go on any longer. “It’s wrong because you don’t actually love me!” you all but shout, “You just miss your mother.” When you realize what you had just said you slap your hands to cover your mouth as though that will take back what you had said. So scared you are of his reaction, you close your eyes and wait for the inevitable blow-up.

“And what about it?”

That truly takes you aback, as you were prepared for any other reaction from him besides seeming acceptance.

“Ain’t it normal? That our folks shape what we look for in who we wanna be with.” he said, taking your face in his hand. “Baby, you asked me once what I missed most ‘bout my mama. And I found all that and more in you.”

“Elvis, do you even realize how fucked up that sounds?” you say ripping his hands away from you.

“You wanna talk to me ‘bout fucked up?” he says with a derisive snort, before taking your jaw and forcing you to look at him for what he had to say next. “I ain’t the one that just sucked a man off in her own daddy’s bed.”

Your eyes widen at that statement, and you feel all the blood drain out of your face. He lets go, and you feel yourself fall back onto your parents bed, your knees suddenly unable to support you. He just looks at you with the slightest smirk on his face knowing he’s well and truly rocked you to your core.

You hurt him beyond belief with your refusal to admit say that you love him, and he paid you back in kind.

“Baby, either we’re both fucked up or neither of us are,” he says in an unsettlingly calm tenor, as he readjusts your dress for you. “I’ll see you monday mama,” he whispers against your cheek, before taking off and you feel yourself sink onto the mattress truly numb to the tears that fall down your face.

You don’t know how long you lay there curled in a fetal position in your parents bed before they arrive. You feel like a child seeking comfort after a nightmare, only this is one you can’t easily wake up from. Your mother seeing you in clear distress acts immediately and goes to your side, but your eyes follow your father. He was never one who knew how to handle any of your negative emotions, and as a result he quickly strides to the bathroom, opens the door for Dolly and just as quickly leaves you alone with your mother. You’re thankful for the small mercy you were given. What Elvis said, it definitely struck a sensitive nerve you didn’t even realize was there. You can’t even bear the thought of having to face your father so soon after hearing that.

“Oh sweetie,” your mother says cloyingly, while rubbing your back. “I understand why you’re upset.”

No you don’t. “You do?”

“Of course,” she said so sure of herself. “I know I would be upset if my date stood me up, especially for an important event like tonight.”

Despite her flaws and her inability to protect you from becoming your fathers emotional crutch for most of your childhood, you empathize with her to an extent. You’re hardly qualified to deal with your father’s condition as you are right now, you could hardly expect a young woman who spent most of her married life away from her husband to be able to handle this. In any case you at the very least appreciate her concern and her willingness to jump into what she believes to be a simple situation.

“Yeah, he… he really hurt me tonight,” you say in a small voice. For what feels like the first time tonight, you’re not lying to her, and you’re overcome by all your emotions at once.

“Oh I know sweetheart,” using her baby voice with you, wiping your tears away. You try to even out your ragged breathing, as best as you could as she continues. “Though I can think of one good thing to come from tonight,” a small mischievous smile adorns her face.

“What?”

“I think Elvis likes you~” she whispers in your ear, as though you were both schoolgirls.

“Ma,” you say in protest.

“No. No. I’m serious,” she says, trying to stifle her grin. “You shoulda seen how that man kept looking over at you. And now don’t be mad, but I may have let it slip that you ain’t that serious ‘bout Mark.”

“Mama you shouldn't have done that,” you say exhaustedly.

“Oh hush you,” she answers, swatting at the air. “He was the one askin’, and I’m not ‘bout to be rude to a guest askin’ questions.”

“You know your daddy and I only want what’s best for you,” she says while raking her nails down your back. “From what I've been hearin’ he’s got a type now, and you fit the bill perfectly. Hell, maybe your daddy can slip him your number. Who knows, maybe he’s in mighty need of a therapist.”

You have no idea. “Ma, don’t even joke about that,” you say in what you think to be a severe tone. You’re caught between wanting to laugh or wanting to cry over the fact that even your own mother didn’t recognize you when you were with him. Who are you becoming?

She only laughs at you. “Alright. Alright. You’re still sad about Mark.” she says while pulling you into a hug. She holds you there for a while and despite your limp state you still relish in it all the same. Eventually she kisses your forehead and says, “Tell you what though, why don’t you go sleep it off in your room. And in the morning I'll make your favorite.”

You already know you’ve extended your welcome in this room, so you eventually stumble your way to the door. “Might even extend an invitation over to Graceland while I’m at it,” she teases when you’re at the door.

You simply close the door behind you, not responding. You blindly make your way to your childhood bedroom and collapse on to the bed relishing the silky feel of your pillowcase on your face. You just want tonight to come to an end and you’re far too drained emotionally to even contemplate what you’re going to do moving forward. You feel a small smile arise when you breathe in the soothing, vaguely citrusy, scent of your pillow, and your eyes snap open, as you remember you didn’t have silk sheets in this house. You don’t even need to turn on the light to figure out what it is, and you simply bunch up the scarf and throw it on to the nightstand, now more irate than conflicted over his antics.

And what do you do about it? You ask yourself. He’s done this so many times, and your only response is to compromise. Despite how upset you are with him, you’re somehow able to fall asleep with his scent lingering on your pillow.

You’re not someone who ever put much stock into the concept of dreaming beyond a reflection of a person’s subconscious emotional state. So it’s not too surprising that your nightmares would do just that as well. You find yourself standing in front of a pitch black body of water you’ve never seen before and you hear a child screaming for help. You’re lucid enough to recognize this for what it is, and that in and of itself is your own personal hell. The feeling of knowing there is a trap before you but also knowing there is no way forward than through there.

You know this is a trap the moment you feel your feet touch the lake and you're barely able to lift it to take the next step in the viscous substance. But you keep going determined that if you can get that kid out then this will all be over. The closer you get the less frantic he starts sounding but you can’t stop yourself from trekking forward determined to see this through to the end at this point.

And at a certain point he starts singing and you know already that you’re not being called: You’re being lured.

Suddenly his voice stops all together and you fear the worst. Until the voice returns just behind your ear alongside strong arms that wrap around you. Before you can even scream, your mouth fills with oil and you’re unable to make noise anymore.

You know you should try something. Anything really; writhe, kick, thrash, hell even bite something to fight your way back to the surface. But somehow you don’t, and not even because your muscles won’t respond to you.

No.

You simply don’t want to.

And you know why.

Because in spite of the fact that you can feel the liquid entering your ears, you still, clear as a bell, hear his melodic voice.

And as you feel your breath leave your lungs, you simply reach behind you to bring him closer.

It is that very real lull in your breathing that wrenches you back to the land of the waking, as you fight for oxygen because clearly not enough is going to your head.

You’re horrified at the dream, but more so at your very physical reaction to it. You’re gasping for breath, tears stream down your face, and sweat beads at your brow. But most worryingly is that feeling you get when you shift your legs ever so slightly.

You didn’t wake up in a cold sweat.

You woke up wet.

It’s not the first time you’ve had this dream in the last few months, but it is the first time you’ve responded like this. Once you settle your breathing somewhat you finally take note of the fact that the sun is nowhere in sight meaning you at best got a few hours of sleep. Despite your resolve to do so you can’t fall back asleep. Still that ache between your legs is not something you can easily ignore.

You give in but try to think of anything besides him, though all that does is make the act feel cold and almost clinical, leaving you only more frustrated. Eventually you look over to the nightstand, and see his scarf in the minimal light of the morning. Its mere presence taunts you, until you take a hold of it and breathe in his heady masculine scent, and that’s when you finally accept what you need.

That’s how you find yourself biting down on the scarf to muffle your whines, relishing in his essence as one hand rubs the ends of the cool fabric on your sensitive nipples and the other desperately rubs your clit. You don’t even bother with penetration because you know you can’t fill yourself as well as he can. It’s on that thought you finally peak, your hips involuntarily rising and falling, and you can almost feel your entrance intermittently clench, still desperate for someone who’s not here.

As you come down from your high, your euphoria is quickly replaced by worry, not so much over the act itself, but over the fact that you physically couldn’t come without him in mind. There is no getting around this anymore. You are addicted to him, just as much as he is addicted to you.

How stupid could you be that you really thought you could try to teach him what a healthy relationship looks like by being in one with him. He’s hurt you. He’s actively causing you stress and grief over your career. And yet that doesn’t do anything to quell the ache in your chest at the prospect that you have to end this.

The fact that you’re hurting him just as much by being with him doesn’t help either. And that only further feeds your guilt over being so emotionally invested into his well being in spite of all he’s done to hurt you. And so on and so forth do you stew in a seemingly endless cycle of grief, rage, and shame all surrounding Elvis, until your mother knocks on your door a few hours later.

True to her word, your mother does make your favorite breakfast, and you're roped into helping clean up. You don’t fault her as it looks like a lot of work and your father has, thankfully, made himself scarce. You stick close to her while you clean up and she patters on and on about family drama and church gossip that you missed the night before. You meanwhile spend that time in your head just reflecting on the night before and having an internal spiral.

What Elvis said couldn’t be possible, could it? Because if that’s true, what does that say about you? Did you come into this field as some sort of voyeur that wished to gawk at the lives of people like you under a professional veneer and pacify yourself at the thought that you’re not as bad as them?

Or worse. Did you come into this job searching for a suitable father figure? Subconsciously looking for one that would attach himself to you, and by sheer chance that happened to be Elvis?

Are you even good at your job? You ignored much of Elvis’ alarming behavior long before the relationship turned sexual. Did you have blinders on only in regards to him, or did you do this with all of your patients? Some patients did on occasion cross boundaries, but you were always able to remain firm with them.

It’s these thoughts that have you eventually leaving your parents home and driving like a mad woman to one place.

“Am I bad for my job?”

“...Well hello to you as well, Y/N.” Mark says dryly as he opens his front door.

“Sorry… um hi.”

“That’s better.” he sighs. “I have no business being snippy with you right now. I’m so sorry about missing last night, but my tires got slashed and I had to handle it,” you internally cringe at that knowing the reason why, and you feel that in some twisted way it was all your fault. “Would you like to come inside, and discuss what’s got you so worked up?” He says stepping back and gesturing for you to come inside.

You walk in and silently seat yourself on the sofa, while he disappears into his kitchen and you can hear him shuffling around until he returns with two mugs. He places one in front of you before sitting opposite of you and taking a sip.

“What’s this about Y/N? Is this about seeing your parents again?” So he’s apparently decided to get right into it.

“No… Yes… Kinda, I don’t know.” you say defeated. “It’s just something one of my patients said to me recently. I…” you let out a long sigh, before taking a drink of the coffee in front of you. “I fear I myself have a codependent personality, and I… I don’t know subconsciously specialized in this very topic as some sick form of denial or normalization. That no matter how bad I may personally be, I could take comfort in the fact that I was not as bad as them. And I don’t know, something about seeing my father yesterday somehow reinforced those doubts that I’m some kind of hypocritical gawker of my patients.”

Even though you know that this isn’t a session, you find it odd to be on the other side of this. You know without giving him the full context he won’t be able to properly help you, but you know you can’t without facing serious repercussions.

“Your… contentious relationship with your father is something that I believe does affect your relationships. But not in the way you fear. When we were together I felt that you were distant emotionally, and you were very reluctant to be vulnerable with me. But in contrast you did want me to be as open as possible, which was hard to do without that reciprocity.”

“...Why am I just hearing this now?”

“I’m gonna be honest, I wanted to bring it up. But I felt like the last thing you wanted to hear from your colleague, let alone your ex, was that you needed to see someone about your issues. Especially considering it’s hard to frame that in a way that doesn’t make it sound so… Freudian.”

You want to argue, but instead you sigh in defeat. Objectively you know he’s right, as he’s one of your closest friends and confidantes, yet even you can admit one of the things that made you incompatible with him, was how tight-lipped you were about your feelings. Hell, he didn’t even know about your issues with your father, until about a year after the two of you had broken up for the last time. Which makes it all the more striking that you’ve been so open with Elvis in comparison.

“Now… about this patient.” he starts, snapping you back to the conversation at hand.

“I’m not here to discuss them.”

“Yes you are,” he says, putting down his mug. “Y/N, I’ve known you for years, and you’re not one to so easily be shaken. So forgive me if I find it hard to believe that one thing a single patient had said would affect you to this point.”

“I…” you start, but quickly deflate as what was the point of even coming here if you weren’t going to be honest with him, if not yourself? “I fear in this case, I’ve become a little too emotionally… invested in this particular patient,” which is as vague as you can get while still describing the situation. “And due to that I’ve most definitely crossed some ethical boundaries that I shouldn't have.”

He gapes at your confession before clearing his throat. “Y/N, this… this happens to the best of us. Some patients may have similar experiences and so we uninten-”

“You don’t understand Mark,” you nearly sob, “What I’ve done, it warrants nothing less than my license being revoked and… and…” you begin to hyperventilate at what possibly awaits in your future. It’s not as though you haven’t imagined the worst case scenario, but this is the first time you’ve had to verbalize that possibility. And even still you're not able to fully express what you fear, because your greatest fear isn’t just that you’ll lose your job, or that he'll get bored and let you go eventually. It’s that he won’t.

You bury your head between your knees as you try to calm yourself. Mark crosses over and rubs a comforting hand on your back, which only makes you weep, because all you can think about is how you wish Elvis was the one to comfort you right now. All your resentment, both for Elvis and yourself, your frustration and your anguish comes out all at once and you cry for at least twenty minutes. What a pathetic image you must make right now, sobbing your eyes out over a man, on the precipice of being unemployed due to your own actions in your ex-boyfriends house.

Eventually when you’re able to pull yourself together enough, Mark finally says something. “I’m not gonna ask what this boundary crossing entailed, but here’s the thing Y/N. Whatever ethical boundaries you crossed with this patient, I think you’ve built up the possible punishment as being worse than it actually would be.” This gives you pause as he continues, “The secret you’ve been trying to keep, it’s not worth the emotional turmoil it’s causing you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Y/N, I’ve heard enough cases where the therapist in question should have definitely had their license removed. However they were able to appeal to the board and simply got slapped with a probationary period so long as the accusations didn’t delve into criminal territory and they cut all ties with the patient in question. Not to mention these were all men, so more than likely the board is going to go easier on you because you’re a woman.” He throws his hands up defensively at that statement. “I’m not saying I necessarily agree with them, I’m just pointing out the reality of the situation.”

“...These men in question, what did they do that you feel warranted their licenses being removed.” You suspect what he may be hinting at, but no matter how much you don’t want to hear it you have to confirm for yourself.

“I’m talking full on sexual relationships with patients. Which yes typically would call for immediate license removal, but these men were able to get away with it due to the fact that they reported themselves, which at the very least did display some level of remorse. Even if it was as a means of getting ahead of the patients reporting them.” He looks at you solemnly, “If it’s a matter of reputation you’re worried about, these cases tend to be handled as quietly as possible, names rarely even being used if no criminal charges are filed.”

As he says those words, the tightness in your chest that has been a near constant presence for months begins to alleviate somewhat. How… how did you miss this? If what he’s saying is true then you can walk. You can walk away and not have to lose everything. There is the small chance of him going public in an effort to ruin you, but with his pride, you doubt he would want any of this being known. You have a way out now, and when you realize that it makes you… sad.

Shame and guilt washes through you, because you know what you are doing is wrong and the fact that you feel distressed that you won’t be able to continue to do the bad thing, is definitive proof as to how terrible a person. You know that you have to end the conversation now because if he’s already bringing up those types of therapists, you fear that he may already have an inkling as to how involved you are with Elvis. You hang your head not wanting to see if he’s figured it out or not, and you gaze into your now cold coffee, just barely able to make out your own reflection. But even with a clear picture you doubt you would be able to recognize yourself.

“Look Y/N, I don’t deal with patients as consistently as you do. But I do know that in this field, attachment is not as uncommon as we would like. Especially with the type of patients you specialize in. That being said, the very nature of our field makes it hard for us to not become attached to some degree. But it’s the level of that connection that defines how well we are able to do our job. If you have become so attached to this particular patient that something they say will affect you this much, you won’t be able to treat them properly, and you definitely won’t be able to treat your other patients properly.”

You nod solemnly at that before letting out a long sigh. “Thank you Mark, I-I really needed to hear that. You’ve… you’ve definitely given me a lot to think about,” you sigh, putting down your coffee with unsteady hands.

“Of course.” He smiles, before a pensive look comes over his face and he catches your shoulder. “Out of respect for our friendship, I’m not gonna report this, but understand that this is the last I want to personally hear about this situation until you’ve taken proper action.”

“Meaning until I’ve reported myself and cut ties with the patient.” you question, completely drained from the madness that has been the last two days.

“Meaning until you’ve done what you think you can live with, whatever that may be.” he says while pulling you into a hug. For all that you had to hold back, you feel some pressure lift from your shoulders now that someone knows to some extent what has been making you act the way you have been.

You can reflect on why you essentially needed Mark’s permission to break it off with him at a later time, but right now you’re going to use the momentum in order to officially purge Elvis from your life.

Once you’re back in your apartment, you immediately get to work removing any and all physical evidence of his influence in your life. You pack up all the clothes, all the jewelry, all the records, and every other gift you can find, you even go so far as to remove a lightbulb he had replaced for you. In the end you’re left with a gutted apartment and a painful visual reminder as to how much of an impact he’s left in your life in such a short amount of time.

You’re almost grateful at the sound of your phone ringing, as it pulled you out of your thoughts before you could dwell on that observation for too long. As you lift the receiver off the hook you realize how late it is and that the chances of this being a normal phone call are slim. Hesitant though you may be, you still commit to answering.

“You’re a remarkably hard woman to get a hold of Ms. Y/L/N,” a voice answers in an accent you can’t quite place, though the man sounds vaguely European. You’re completely caught off guard by the man's use of your last name, as you don’t recognize the voice and you hope against all logic that for once, this not be Elvis related. But you’re not that lucky and you know it.

“Dr.”

“What?”

“It’s actually Dr. Y/L/N. And may I ask who this is?”

“You’re speaking to the man that gave the world Elvis Presley of course.”

You realize all at once who you’re talking to. How could you not? He’s not only been the villain of the media but he’s been the proverbial boogeyman in your office. You had never met the man, nor heard him speak, but you’ve heard the very worst about him from Elvis himself, so you already don’t have a favorable opinion. But you can’t act on those feelings without giving yourself away as having some connection to him.

“Uhm… Ok. I-I don’t know what that has to do with why you’re calling me?” You say, willing your voice not to betray how shaken he has you. In the back of your mind you never feared being confronted by your patients' abusers as you always told yourself that if this were to ever occur you would be a bulwark for your patients. A pillar of strength and self assurance that those that did them harm had no power over you, therefore no power over them. But now with all that you have to lose you find your palms are clammy and your knees quite literally shaking.

“Don’t play coy with me girl,” he says in a voice so vile it has your skin crawling. “Now I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout therapy, but I think even I would a heard about this radical new treatment of shrinks fucking their patients to make them right in the head. But only the best and newest for the King of Rock and Roll I suppose.”

Your blood turns to ice in your veins, as this is the first time you’ve been directly accused for your repeated misconduct. “I think you have me confused for someone else,” you say in a small defeated voice. In spite of the fact that you know you’re made, you still hold on to the smallest sliver of hope that playing dumb will somehow get you out of this mess.

“I know exactly who I am talking to Ms. Y/L/N.”

And it’s with that final misuse of your title that you start seeing red. “You obviously don’t, as I’ve told you before, Mr. Parker, it’s Dr. Y/L/N. Unlike you I take pride in my title because I've actually earned it. And do you know how I earned it?” you say all the pent up rage at your situation of the last few months finally coming out, and being directed at a man who both does and doesn’t deserve it. “From studying the likes of you and how you operate as nothing more than a parasite that is determined to suck the life out of vulnerable people. You go through life believing we’re all simply puppets for you to control, but here’s the reality you refuse to accept, you have no authority over him, and you sure as hell hold no authority over me.” Your chest is heaving at this point, the smallest ray of pride finally shining on you after all these months of shame. All too quickly though, all the wind is knocked out of your sails, as you hear him do an almost full belly laugh at your tirade through the phone.

“Quite the spitfire, ain’t you? I can see why you remind him of his Mama.” That hits you like a punch to the gut, because that observation on his mother didn’t exist in Wilson’s notes. Only yours. How could he have accessed those?

“She ain’t ever had a nice thing to say about me either,” he continues on, emboldened by your stunned silence. “But it’s you and me who are the same, ain’t we? Choosing his schedule, his medical doctor, hell his family even. Of course the only difference is I ain’t ever get into bed with the boy. The other girls ain’t never had nothin’ between the ears that I had to worry ‘bout. But you… you’re different. You came along with your snooty degree and your cockamamy talks about feelin’s, and you think you can take everything I worked so hard to build.”

“I don’t think you understand Mr. Parker,” you say sternly. “Even if I was his therapist and even if I was doing all that you're accusing me of, after all I’ve heard you done to that man, what does this have to do with you? As far as I know from what the news has been saying, you’re his former manager, who abused and exploited the man for almost twenty years.”

“It is a shame really, his ability to be so easily influenced by outsiders,” he says, ignoring your denials and not even trying to refute your statements. “Truly he’s incapable of being left to his own devices for too long. And the fact that he now latched himself on to his shrink of all people proves my point, he needs someone else to be in charge of him. Now there are of course legal routes to go through with that, but I don't think we need to do all that, especially when you’re now in his ear.”

“What are you talking about?”

“His daddy, a good friend of mine, would of course be appointed guardian and of course with his hands full taking care of his son, someone’s going to have to take care of the business side of things. In spite of all that ugly business months ago, he loves his son and would no doubt be happy to step in.”

You’ve heard of such circumstances where an adult is deemed unfit to take care of themselves, and all financial assets, medical decisions, and power of attorney are handed over to a family member with the understanding that they will have the interest of the person in mind. Elvis’ next of kin wouldn’t be his young daughter, it would be his father. Vernon, whom you never met personally, but the last thing you heard about him was that his role in the company had been reduced significantly, to the bare minimum monthly stipend and almost no contact with his son.

“Nothing about his mental state would deem that necessary and he’s a grown man capable of making his own decisions.” you assert, more to yourself rather than Parker.

“And where have those decisions led him? Sleeping with his therapist speaks volumes as to how unwell he is in the head. Not to mention all the other crazy stunts he’s been pulling in the last few years when he was givin’ away cars and shootin’ TV’s. He even tried to put a hit out on one a Priscilla’s boyfriends, and he only gave up on that idea because he went to rehab. No doubt any judge will just take one look at all that and know that this boy can’t take care of himself. Especially when he don’t know who to trust.”

“And he can trust you!?”

“He can trust that I want him to make money, so that I can make money,” your stomach roils and your jaw drops at this statement, truly astounded and rendered speechless by the audacity of this man. But you know that it’s not the money, it's the power that Parker wants back. You realize that this is why he went to you rather than Elvis, he wants to control him and he believes he can do so vicariously through you. He doesn’t realize how little control you have anymore.

“I take it, you know exactly what a situation like that would mean?” he says smugly over the phone. “I am not an unkind man Ms. Y/L/N, and I know you just wanted to help him. But perhaps you can start helping yourself. I made that boy what he is today, and I want back in. And I know you’re the key to that goal. You’re going to preach the benefits of forgiveness to him or whatever the hell story you need to spin, and once you get that done, I can work the rest.” He says slowly, emphasizing every single word of his sentence, as though you were stupid.

“I would never in a million yea-”

“You probably thought the same thing about sleeping with a patient. And yet you did just that,” he tuts as though you were simply a naughty child. With the way you’re rendered silent while looking at your feet, you have serious doubts that you aren’t. “If your fancy degree can tell me one thing, it’s that you’re not a stupid girl. And from the song one of his buddies’ been singin’, you want out.”

“Who?”

“It don’t matter who,” he states gravely. “What matters is that the only way you can get out is if I can get him to let you go. I’m a man who always gets what he wants, and in either case I will. The only thing you need to worry about is if you will be on my side or in my way.”

“You’re not gonna get away with this!” you shout, but you’re only met with the sound of the dial tone. Elvis had described how in his worst interactions with Parker he was prone to fits of destructive rage, and you have never sympathized more with him than after this single encounter with the man as you throw the receiver to the ground.

But you don’t have the luxury at being righteously angry at him because at the end of the day this is all a result of your pride and stubbornness. You should have let Elvis go long ago, you should have turned yourself in long ago and now the relationship will not only hurt you but devastate him. There was no reason it had to have gotten to this point.

It’s ironic really, you wanted to be the hero of this story, who helped a troubled man out of this dark place, only to get just as lost in that place with him. It hits you like a semi what those dreams meant now. But unlike those dreams you’re given the awful choice now of who will be the one to get out. You are so far from the heroine of this story, you are in a position where you have to decide whether or not you’re going to become the villain.

No… It’s choosing how you’re going to be the villain, as either option is going to hurt him in the long run. Unless…

As the idea forms in your head, you surprise even yourself how you don’t feel the onset of a panic attack, instead you feel an almost unsettling sense of calm. This dreadful feeling of finality washes over you, keeping you grounded to the moment, because no matter how much you had tried to prevent this, this shoe was meant to drop eventually. But that doesn’t mean you're going to let that asshole be the one that comes out on top of it in the end. As you pick your phone back up to make the call, you know that this is the end for you, but it doesn’t have to be the end for him.

You would think that it's lucky that he’s the one that picks up, were it not for the fact that this night has you truly believing you’ve tapped any luck of yours dry. You don’t leave a alot of room for him to speak, you just tell him to meet you in your office as soon as he can. He sounds perturbed but intrigued and he agrees to be there.

As you sit in your office, you once again see your doctorate degree. You know that save for proven academic dishonesty, your old university can’t revoke your degree, but you idly wonder if they would make an exception once they hear how monumentally you’ve messed up. You hang your head in shame as you prepare yourself to face the future.

You hear him enter your office, though with your head in your hand you’re too ashamed to look at him fully. You ignore his questions and simply slide the document toward him.

“Baby what’s this about?” He said, grabbing the papers.

“That's the file needed to make a complaint against a licensed psychiatrist in the state of Tennessee,” you say, absolutely sure of the steps that must be taken to protect him. “If you need, I can give you the number of the board of psychologists to file the complaint directly to them.”

“Darlin’ you’re scarin’ me. Why would I do that?” Sounding even more confused.

“Elvis, I-I’m so sorry,” you say, your voice quivering. You steel yourself as you take a deep breath and open your no doubt bloodshot eyes again. “I don't know how… or who, but… Parker got a hold of me.”

The concern in his face drops and is quickly taken over by a fury you’ve never seen in him before. He stands up and immediately begins to stalk around the room, restless and enraged like a caged lion as he all but roars “What did that sonuvabitch want?! What did he tell you?!”

“Elvis…”

“That old toad ain’t never spout anythin’ but lies! I swear if I ever see him again, I’m gon-”

“Elvis he knows!” you shout. You’ve never raised your voice to him, so he's taken aback and you continue. “He knows about us, and he’s threatening to go public with it if I don’t get him back in. And if he goes to the media, then he’s going to use this as a reason as to why you should be under a conservatorship.”

“What the fuck is a conservatorship?!”

You swallow the bile in your mouth as you tell him what that would entail for him, and how either way Parker finds a way back in. “Elvis this is why you have to be the one to report me, because then it’ll at the very least demonstrate how you are capable of looking out for yourself.”

You expected more rage. You expected belligerence. Hell you were even prepared for denial. What you weren’t ready for was the quiet. Elvis, who's someone almost constantly in motion, falls back into his seat, completely frozen. His face is devoid of all color and his breathing is coming in short bursts, but it's his eyes that frighten you the most. It’s the look you’ve become all too familiar with as it’s the almost exactly the same thousand yard stare you’ve seen in your fathers eyes hundreds of times. Acting on instinct alone, you crossover to him, drop to your knees and bring your hands to his face to try your best to ground him.

You beg, you bargain, you even resort to kissing him all over his face in an effort to bring him back to you, until eventually you feel the tears start to fall down his face. It’s like a floodgate has been open as he leans forward and you hear him break into heart-breaking wails on your shoulder. You’re no stranger to people crying in your office, not even to men crying in your office, but this is a new experience with Elvis. His full body, wracking sobs are a devastating thing to hear, and you can’t help the tears that fall from you as you hold onto him. You cry even harder as he begins to whimper how much he loves you and how sorry he is that he got you into this mess.

“I-I’ll go back,” your head snaps up at this. “Y/N, I’ll go back to him, if that’s what I gotta do.”

“Elvis, please…” you sob.

“He’s still got his goddamn claws in me!” He shouts in your face, and seeing your fear he dials it back with a softer tone. “But he ain’t gon’ get them in you Y/N. I-I can’t lose you too.”

“No Elvis, listen,” you plead, taking his hands and all but begging on your knees. “If you report me, and we stop, then he-”

“Then he can still go public and paint me as a fuckin’ headcase,” he says disheartened, as he seems to accept his fate.

You, on the other hand, are having trouble wrapping your head around how you could have overlooked something so crucial. He’s right, you think, Nothing can stop Parker from going public at any moment. Unless…

Suddenly a new idea strikes, and you gather yourself for what you have to say next, “Not if you get ahead of the story.”

“What?”

“If you get to the press before Parker, then you’re the one who controls the narrative. Parker is a known crook so anything he has to say about it will be seen as him desperately trying to be a part of the story.” you try to reason.

He looks at you and you can hear the gears shifting in his head as he thinks of this suggestion. In spite of his tear stricken expression, a small smile begins to form until it abruptly drops, “Baby… if I do that, then ain't you gonna lose your-”

“I know,” you cut him off, attempting to sound as neutral about the whole thing as possible. You’re trying to remain a bulwark for his sake, because the last thing you want is for him to feel guilty for the situation you created. “It’s alright Elvis. If you go back to him, you’re going to die.” You’re not sure what makes you so certain, but you’ve never been so sure about anything else you’ve said to him. “I-I couldn’t live with myself if you went back to him because of me,” you speak truthfully, though your bottom lip quivers. “This is-” you choke, but quickly recover. “This is the best way to ensure that he doesn’t have anything over your head.”

And just like that everything you’ve built, everything you’ve worked for will be dashed away. You could have potentially survived a private investigation, but being thrust into the spotlight on an international, no global, scale and your actions of the past year being put under the microscope. There is simply no way, whatever story Elvis comes up with, the psychology community at large will have to put up a hard line as to acceptable behavior and they will do everything in their power to disown you.

All those sleepless nights spent studying, all the money you saved, and all the estranged relationships. You’ve put everything you are into building up this practice and all of it is being thrown away to save one patient.

Let’s hope he’s worth it.

“You’re comin’ with me,” he states, taking your shaky hand in his.

“Elvis, no…” you half-heartedly protest, but it seems that the last twenty-four hours have taken all the fight out of you, as your grip on his hand tightens because even you recognize you don’t want to let go. You’re fucked anyway you spin it, so whatever story he spins about your relationship is out of your hands anymore.

“Yes you are,” he states, putting his hands underneath your face and bringing you to look into his eyes. His cerulean pools bore into yours, and you know you’re done for. “Baby, I promise you right now. I’m gon’ take care of you, and you’re gonna take care of me.” he breathes out caressing your cheek. You lean in further and you resent how easily you submit to his touch, how you’ve both literally and metaphorically put your life into this unstable man's hands. You see one corner of his mouth curl into an relieved grin as he says, “Our life’s gonna be perfect. You know why?”

You know for a fact it’s not (at least not for you), but you know exactly what he wants to hear. “Because I’m your girl” you answer in a small voice, while a few tears fall out of the corner of your eyes.

“That’s right mama,” he says, brushing away your tears, his mind fully lost in the fantasy you’ve helped make a reality. “You’re always gon’ be my bestest girl.”

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thejediscrolls · 11 months

Text

Bad Guy

Tech x Bounty Hunter reader

A deal between a group of pirates that needed to be made for Sid goes off the rails when your lover shows up.

Fluff

“Boys and kid. Meet the best bounty hunter in the galaxy.” Sid introduced as she pointed to her bar.

“Quite the flatterer Sid.” I muttered not bothering to look behind me.

I was mindlessly shuffling through the credits I collected from my recent bounty, trying to figure out what I could use for my ship.

“She seems harmless.” Wrecker stated, squinting his eyes at my flowery dress and sandals.

“It’s the best disguise is it not?” I asked as I spun around on the stool.

The guy looked even bigger than I expected, but that wasn’t what caught my breath. No… It was the tall soldier to to the left of the big guy.

Right there stood someone I knew for sure was going to be the death of me.

“Are you strong?” The big guy continued, “How do you catch all those bounties?”

“Her specialties may lie elsewhere Wrecker. Just because someone may not hold physical strength doesn’t mean they can’t subdue their opponents by other means.” The handsome one with the goggles stated, “That doesn’t mean they are not strong.”

“Should I be flattered or offended?” I wondered with a raised brow.

“My apologies, I only meant to compliment your possible skills.” He said while adjusting his goggles, “Given your stature and height. It is clear that you are agile and clever minded, giving you an advantage against your opponent.”

“No offense taken.” I stood up, taking a few steps to meet him, “I think it’s fascinating how your mind works.”

His eyebrows raised as he watched me skeptically. I gently raised my hand in front of me waiting for him to grab it. He did so with uncertainty.

“My name is…” I offered my name along with the sweetest smile meant only for him.

“Tech.” He stuttered out his name.

“Well Tech, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I grinned, running my thumb across his battle worn hand.

“The pleasure is mine.” He replied, a pink dust sweeping across his face.

“So that’s how she gets them.” I heard one of the other men whisper to the guy in the red bandana.

The bandana man chuckled, “She’s going to eat him alive.”

Oh how wrong he was…

Music blared throughout the club, a sweet scent wafting through the air from the specialty Asmos cocktails being made. Yet I had no time for a drink if the group of pirate thugs in front of me had any say about it.

A chip containing information that Sid needed sat just out of reach while a case of credits sat out of theirs. You would think this would be a simple switch. Case closed, but pirates were greedy. Especially them.

I’m a bounty hunter not a dealer. I thought as I held back an eye roll. Of course Sid would make some do her dirty work.

“What is a little thing like you gonna do to us?” The pirate Zen sneered, his gold eyebrows glittering under the purple low light of the club.

“There’s ten of us and only one of you so why don’t you slide those credits over and call your serpent of a boss to double the credits for this priceless information.” He stated smugly, his read scarf doing nothing to hide the tattoos across his neck.

“I suggest you comply Zen.” I tried to give him one more chance at a civil exchange.

I watched as his gold earring swayed as he leaned back in his seat.

“Or what? You got some knight in shining armor at your beck and call?” He scoffed.

It was at this point that I sighed, completely bored with this interaction. The soft look on my face fell as I glared at the group.

“I don’t think you understand who’s in charge here.” I leaned my elbows onto the table, my gaze turned from impassive to a look that had the pirate looking between my and the table nervously.

I grinned, “You see… I’m the bad guy.”

“Hello Cyar’ika.”

Every ounce of aggression, any thought process that I had to intimidate these pirates left my body the moment his voice graced my ears.

I practically melted under his gaze as I turned my head to meet his brown eyes.

“You were saying?” The pirate crossed his arms, clearly disinterested in my scare tactic.

It would have worked too…

“I’m the…” I trailed off.

If it weren’t for his alluring presence…

Suddenly I felt lost in thought as I stared at a pair of glittering amber eyes gazing down at me.

It had been a few weeks since I had seen him, the only thing keeping us in contact with one another was the bracelets on our left wrists. Tech made it for us after our one month anniversary.

We had too many jobs given to us by Sid to see each other that often and so he made something that was only meant for us without any prying eyes. It was a bracelet that would buzz and light up on the others wrist each time either one of us would tap it.

To me each tap signified that I loved and missed him and so I tapped it… I tapped it a lot.

My heart leapt for joy even with the small smirk that graced his handsome face, the same face that looked tired and yet collected all the same after a tough mission.

I hope his mission wasn’t too tough… I will have to asked him about it later tonight. Maybe after we grab a bite to eat?

My thoughts suddenly disappeared as Tech leaned in close.

His left hand gripped the back of my chair as his breath fanned across my face and I couldn’t help the small noise that came out of my throat as he said, “You’re the what?”

“I’m the…” I barely remembered his question as my eyes flutter closed when Tech tilted my chin up towards him.

“What she means to say is you and your crew are going to cooperate or you have me to deal with her soldier not shining knight.” Tech stated, his demeanor unfazed.

“We’re not afraid of you.” Zen huffed without any truth showing in his eyes or the way he fidgeted in the booth.

It didn’t help the pirates menacing stance as they all suddenly began to toy with their weapons.

Of course Tech would have this effect on them. He was a highly skilled clone trooper after all. He’s seen more battle and bloodshed then all of them put together.

This had a smirk spreading across any face at the thought.

They are all dead meat.

“Your hands are shaking.” Tech glanced to the man, “By my calculations you have -1 chance in making it out of those doors alive if you don’t give her that chip.”

“And why is that?” Zen motioned to his group as if he still had the upper hand.

The group of pirates chuckled alongside their captain even if it was evident that fear laced their entire beings.

If only they knew.

“Because he’s not alone.” I spoke as the rest of the bad batch surrounded the pirates.

I couldn’t help the fluttering in my chest as Tech helped me out of my seat, reaching over to grab the case with chip.

“I suggest you take your credits and call it a night.” I recommended as I slid the case over to the pirates.

They didn’t even have a moment to blink before the rest of the Bad Batch were on them. A satisfied feeling filled my chest watching Hunter press a knife to Zen’s throat, finally wiping the arrogance from him.

Hunter waited silently for an answer with all the patience in the world. He knew how to deal with pirates and when Zen relented… Hunter casually released the scarf around his neck, at the same time removing the knife from his throat as well. The stony look on his face never left as he took as step back, sheathing his sharp blade.

Wrecker huffed at the lack of excitement, pushing the pirate with purple hair down into the booth. Echo remained quiet and composed as he stepped back from the woman, lowering his blaster.

“It was pleasure doing business with you.” I smiled before the boys and I walked away.

“I had it handled you know.” I stated the moment we were out the door.

The night was warm yet I still couldn’t help, but wrap my arms around his waist as we walked to their ship. It felt nice being able to hug him without feeling his muscles tense.

I remember the first month of us dating. I chuckled inwardly at the thought of how hesitant he was to touch me.

I knew it wasn’t his form of showing affection, but he also knew that it was mine and so with time we finally began to understand each other.

Now look at how much he has changed…

“I know you did. I just couldn’t help it… Plus, it’s fun make you blush mesh’la.” Tech teased.

“How did you know where I was?” I asked as we walked up the ramp.

“He asked Sid the moment we got back.” Wrecker slapped Tech’s shoulder as he walked by.

Tech huffed as he stumbled from his brother’s blow. A smile forming on my face as we steadied each other.

“You asked about me?” I wondered, “Why not call?”

“Sid said you were on a job and I didn’t want to interrupt you.” A soft laugh fell from his lips, “However, it seems I did just that by walking in on your deal.”

Echo didn’t help as he smirked at his brother, “To put it simply he missed you.”

My heart soared at the words, “You missed me?”

Throughout our time together, he’s never outwardly said that he missed me.

He was always composed after missions, meeting me when we set a time and place. He’s never crashed one of my deals like this before... All because he missed me?

A rare blush crossed his face and it made me squeeze onto him tighter, the smile never once leaving my face.

He was even cuter when he became all shy like this.

“I missed you more than I would like to admit.” Tech stuttered over his words, failing to look me in the eyes.

I giggled at his cute reaction, leaning up to place a gentle kiss on his lips. It was a kiss that made my heart melt and his eyes flutter close before looking at me again. This time his shoulders were more relaxed and a calm smile rested on his plush lips.

“Now that this love fest is over, get on board. I don’t know how long Sid can keep Omega settled before she starts trying to track us.” Hunter chuckled as he waved his hand to the two of us to follow him.

“I missed you too brown eyes.” I spoke softly as the two of us walked up the ramp, “More than i would like to admit.” I teased his words back to him.

His hand to wrap around my waist, pulling me into his side.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page then.” He smiled.

“Me too, my love.” I said as my heart filled with warmth.

I have never felt this way with anyone before I knew for a fact that…

I will never be able to let go of this sweet and gentle man.

#star wars #star wars imagine #starwars #clone wars #bad batch #bad batch imagine #bad batch x reader #star wars x reader #tech x you #tbb tech #tech x reader #bad batch tech #tech bad batch #tech x y/n #tech #tech angst #starwars imagines #bad batch fluff #tech x reader fluff

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iamasaddie · 9 months

Note

Aly!!!😍All my WOOs and HELL YEAHs are for you today!!!😘 Congrats on your wonderful milestone!!! You’re super talented, kind, hilarious and all-around amazing!!!🤩💕 For your celebration can I request some gun play with Comandante Veracruz? “Whatever you want” is the best fic I’ve read with him!🙌🥵🥵🥵 It can be as dark as you please😈😘

My Sweet Sweet darling! Thank you so much for all your beautiful words and immense support <3 I hope this thing I wrote will be to your liking, once again I went hella further than the initial limit haha

you put me on a feelin' I never had

paring: Veracruz x f!afab!Reader rating: explicit (18+ minors DNI) word count: 2k~ warnings: ER; gun play; explicit sexual content; praise!kink; dirty talk; jealousy (kinda); fear kink (super mild): no use of y/n. let me know if I missed anything. un-betaed so sorry i tried my best a/n: bc apparently for some reason Comandante Veracruz doesn't have an official name, I wrote this with my own idea for his name (Cezar, the pussy destroyer). Reader calls him "Cee" a couple of times, but you can ignore my HC and think that Cee is short for Comandante. dedicated to @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog MY MAIN MASTERLIST 1k celebration masterlist

The heat of the gradually fading August sun slowly penetrated your half-naked and fully aroused body when the man in whose hands you were melting like clay in the hands of a potter pulled away from you. Your lips were red and swollen from long kisses, and a promising smile was playing on his face, while you were at a loss why he suddenly got off you and off the bed in general.

"What is it?" With greedy eyes you watched as Veracruz, standing a few steps from the edge of your shared bed, adjusted his deliciously hard cock, which had been trying to break out of the shackles that were his rough black jeans for the last twenty minutes.

"I want you to meet someone."

"What?"

You turned your head to the right and left as if expecting that after his words someone would appear from under the bed. "Who?"

Veracruz brought his palm to his face, lightly patting his lips curved in a mischievous smile with his index finger.

"Remember we talked about maybe bringing in my friend sometime, to spice things up?"

Of course, you remembered, a quiet confession was literally sucked out of you when orgasm after orgasm your body became weaker, and the part of the brain responsible for the filter apparently fell into complete disrepair. Then, in the dark, with sweat and pleasure staining the room, when the strong hands of your lover squeezed your exhausted body, you admitted that sometimes you watched porn with a less classic number of participants, and sometimes even imagined yourself as the main character. There was something exciting about it, thrilling you, but considering how you were physically exhausted by the night of sex with just Veracruz, you were afraid to imagine what would happen to you if there was more than one man who wanted you in the room. So, you let him kiss your wet temple while humming thoughtfully and never brought the subject up again. Until now.

"Yeah, I… I guess. I just thought you'd tell me in advance."

His smile could be called predatory. The black gaze literally chained you to the bed without any handcuffs. "Now what would be the fun in that?"

"S-so, who is it?" Not that you'd ever imagined any of his friends in your bedroom, maybe only once when he introduced you to some new colleague of his, what was his name? Jose? Javi? You couldn't remember now, but you thought he went away, didn’t he? Question after question popped into your head, and all of them were left unanswered.

"This loyal boy," Veracruz put his hand behind his back and pulled out a gun. You knew he had several different pistols, you even saw him use them once when he took you to the shooting range with him. There was something mesmerizing about the way the metal merged with his flesh. It was as if he was becoming one with his gun, there was no doubt in his eyes, and his movements were clear and practiced. It was sexy as hell. But what does that have to do with...?

"Cee, what's going on?" Your voice trembled, and fear crept into your excited body. What the hell is going on?

"This one right here is my best friend." He ran two fingers over the metal casing, gently, as if he was holding a lover in his hands, not a murder weapon. You no longer saw where his pupils ended and the iris of his eyes began, his gaze burned with aggressive passion and impatience. "Saved my ass dozens of times. Don’t trust anyone but him. Quieres saludarlo?"

Again, what the fuck? Yes, your man was jealous to hell and back, he broke the jaws of strangers and friends if they dared to look at you for too long, but you were never on the receiving end of his aggression. A little comment a month ago and what, he’d kill you?

"Cee, don't be stupid. Put that thing away."

"I thought you wanted my friend to fuck you?" He arched his thick eyebrows and finally looked at you, dragging the muzzle up your body, naked except for his worn-out T-shirt and your simple panties. "And there's nothing I’d like more than to fulfill that wish of yours, chiquita."

"Please, baby, I was just joking." Your lips trembled and tears came to your eyes. What the fuck was this? Who did he think he was, a fucking Othello? If I can't have you no one can or some bullshit? He was on edge, and judging by the huge bulge in his pants, there was catastrophically little blood left in his head, so you understood that you shouldn't make a scene, you just needed to calm him down, and…? "I didn't mean that."

"Shut the fuck up and take your panties off, baby."

He came as close as possible, resting his knees on the mattress and wrapping both of your ankles with one hand, he pulled you to him with one strong jerk. Your legs were hanging off the edge of the bed and you didn't dare move while he studied every emotion dancing on your face.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, but you need to remember one simple lesson: this," he ran the icy muzzle of the gun over your thigh, lifting the edge of the T-shirt and slowly bringing the hard metal to your heated and shamefully wet core, "is the only thing that's gonna fill your holes besides my cock, vale? And to let that sink in your pretty head, I’ll let you know how that feels."

"You don't need to." You were shaking your head from side to side, even though you knew this battle was lost. If he wanted something, he got it. If he had decided something, he would do it, and even your sweet pleas would not stop him. "I don't need to know. I don’t want anyone but you, you know that. I was just playing."

"I know, chiquita." His voice was so gentle and so imbued with warm feelings that his words almost seemed absurd. "But it's my turn to play now."

At least he didn’t want to kill you, you almost laughed to yourself. The idea of him fucking you with his gun was terrifying, but why did you feel another gush of wetness spurting into your panties? One wrong move and you were injured, or dead, but why didn't you doubt him for a second? What the fuck was wrong with you?

He bent over you, the gun in his right hand hooked and lifted the edge of your T-shirt even higher, exposing your stomach to his lips. Tenderness and deadly danger played out their dance on your skin. You caught your breath and hissed when, instead of another kiss, he bit your tender skin, leaving an imprint of his teeth on it, and then licked your wound with a wet and persistent tongue. Gradually descending, he grabbed the edge of your panties with his teeth and pulled them down without encountering any resistance on your part.

Once naked, you felt surprisingly less conscious, and seeing him on his knees between your spread thighs almost gave you a sense of power, like you decided what happened next. Maybe you did in some way. But most likely you didn't.

"This beautiful cunt is already drooling with excitement," he trailed the tips of his fingers up your slit and spread your puffy lips apart, enjoying your vulnerability. "Hermosa." He whispered, not taking his eyes off your wet entrance.

His movements were slow, and it drove you even crazier. Your body was vibrating with excitement, fear, and expectancy. Your skin was bursting with emotion. Counting the seconds and trying to predict what would happen next, you still jerked when the freezing metal came into contact with your feverishly hot pussy.

"Please, just…" You didn't know what you were going to ask. Please be careful? Please, don't accidentally kill me? Please don't kill me on purpose?

He raised his eyes, and just his look made you relax your shoulders and untense your body. "I won't ever hurt you, chiquita."

You barely nodded, and even if he noticed he didn't say anything else.

His hand confidently wrapped around the body of the gun while he pushed the hard and unyielding muzzle into your tender body. You felt every curve, every gap. You felt every scratch. Your body accepted something more than a soulless weapon, it accepted all the sins, all the violence, all the deaths. While you were mesmerized by the power and possibilities of your mind, your lover was mesmerized by the abilities of your body.

"I have never seen anything more beautiful." You didn't see his face, eyes tightly closed while your mind was focused on perverted pleasure, but his voice really did sound mesmerized. "Look at her, taking my friend so well, taking such good care. Your pussy is so wet, baby, I'm jealous of my gun."

And you were wet, no question about that. The shape of his gun managed to hit your pleasure spots just right, and the slight fear combined with reckless trust heightened your senses, making your pussy weep like a fucking waterfall. The barrel was in no way as thick as Veracruz's cock, and you missed the fullness it made you feel. You found the strength to open your mouth and let actual words form.

"Maybe you should fuck me with your cock then." You heard him bark a laugh that was only half-amused like he was actually considering your offer but fought himself tooth and nail. You pushed a little bit harder. "I miss it. My pussy misses it."

His growl was almost tortured, but he took a deep breath in, moving the gun in and out of you faster. "Oh, I will, baby, don't you doubt that. But I need you to cum on my gun first."

His smooth and confident movements brought you to the edge of orgasm faster than you could imagine. Everything that was happening should have scared you at least, but instead, you were shaking with pleasure taking over your body. Sweat appeared in thick drops on your temples, and licking your bitten lips you felt a familiar salty taste on the tip of your tongue.

"Please, please." You could hardly form sentences, every pore in your body begged for only one thing.

"What do you need?" Your lover's voice was even, but you could hear the subtle tension. You knew that seeing you at the peak of your pleasure was something of an addiction for Veracruz. He felt proud and strong when he could take you apart into screws and nuts, and then put you back together.

"I, fuck, touch my clit, please, touch my clit." The words were barely intelligible in their attempt to break through a series of rapid breaths and exhalations, moans and blissful cries.

"Hm," in an excruciatingly slow movement, he lowered his lips to your clit while continuing fucking you with the gun and gave it the lightest suck, and it tore you apart. Every blood cell in your body exploded. He might've shot you. Maybe he did and you were dying, because this never happened to you before. You'd never felt like that, blackness taking over your vision and your eyelids closing.

"Good job, my friend." Veracruz gave his gun a greedy kiss and licked the barrel, removing your taste from the metal, wanting to be the only one who gets to trap the essence of you. He squeezed your thighs gently and looked over your breathless body. Slowly, he got up and dragged his bare feet to the kitchen to get you some water for when you woke up.

#iamasaddie fic #comandante veracruz #comandante veracruz x reader #veracruz x reader #veracruz x you #pedro pascal fic #i am not a saddie

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goth-iqqa · 1 year

Text

BLAME THE ROSES

Chapter One- Words of a Broken Fool

18+ MDI

Life can only be paid with death. After the demise of Princess Allysanne, a cursed couple brings forth a new life across the Narrow Sea, unbeknownst to the war approaching.

Daemon × Fem!reader, Aegon II × reader

Warnings: angst, cheating, smut, neglect, violence, death/gore. mentions of suicide. kidnappina. dub con, non con, (Targ)incest, pregnancy, miscarriage.

Thank you for your support 😫💕 (comment if u wish to be added)

@myrcxlla @alisonbecker @hightowerwife @winxschester

YEARS AFORE THE BIRTH of the Saddened Queen, the lore extended further than the books of vines and kings told. The fool, Mushroom, tethered with the laughter of court, said it started way before Prince Daemon sowed the love of the Manmo Princess, before all the bodies fell and the wings of a dragon took forth a flight across the Narrow Sea. He said it began amidst a rumble of the crown and a greedy offer from the lions of Casterly Rock.

“Betroth them, Your Grace.”

King Viserys did not expect the words to taunt his hazy mind. Laughter had tumbled in the tent, a facade to veil the shouts of a docile princess who wished not to marry, but the sweet taste of grapes blessed his lips and the offers for a wildling’s hand did not make haste. He was trapped, among the men who lusted after a white stag and the women who whispered of the Stepstones. The least a king could do was to drown away, expecting the fire to burn outside and the ashes of a lost dream to fly with the wind.

“What?”

“Prince Aegon and Rhaenyra.”

His eyes searched for the boy he sired. Behind the silken curtain of wild skins, Aegon whined and writhed in the arms of his maids. He reached for the girl across the small square, stuffing her mouth, round and full, of lemon tarts and raw honey treats she was not kind to share. Alysanne, daughter from her father’s loin, was the bare mimic of the beauty Queen Aemma had been, before the butchering came and the curses hallowed a corpse. She looked up at the King, eyes wide with mischief, and she smiled at him.

Viserys returned it, waving the girl’s attention back to the souring brother. “The boy just turned two,” he said. “Otto, he is a child.”

The Lord Hand nodded. “Yes. But it would cease the endless proposals for Rhaenyra’s hand. Only then, they will move on to Alysanne. The Lord of Casterly Rock sounded open to a marriage with a princess. If Rhaenyra and Aegon are betrothed, he will settle for princess Alysanne—“

A peal of laughter broke from the King. “Princess Alysanne will remain untouched by offers from a man whose ego is greater than his head.” His chest rose and the goblet of wine touched his lips again. “I came here to unwind,” with a loud gulp he turned back to the man who spoke. “Not to be suffocated by all this politi-king!”

“Of course. Let us speak no more of it.”

Otto Hightower stood from the stolen chair and parted, shamefully, away from the King.

When the last bit of his cup dried, and his belly could hold no more, King Viserys raised to the quiet tent and watched the flickering light of endless logs. He, stolen from sober sanity, had not felt the tug to his leg and the eyes of his youngest daughter, Alysanne, that watched him from below the shadows. The calls of servants for their small princess went unheard, filched away by the cackling flames of the fire that burned the skin of his cheeks red and raw.

“Is Rhaenyra to return soon, father?”

The princess of just nine name days, as Mushroom would include, was well-spoken for a girl her age. It was no surprise her tongue ran fluently when only the proper knowledge, provided by maesters and scholars from the Citadel, was given to the princess who acted with wildness like her sister’s. “My tent is dark, and she promised to sing to me. She promised, but she isn’t here.”

Viserys did not waste his breath on a foolish explanation, he did not know where his daughter hid nor did he care to know after the mockery that left her lips and silenced the entire court. Instead, he kneeled before his daughter and his warm hands caressed the cold of her cheeks. “She will sing to you. Rhaenyra always keeps the promises she makes to you, does she not?”

A smile spread on his face. Not a genuine one, but one enough to satisfy the hesitant ache in the flicker of Alysanne’s eyes. “Head to bed, now. I am sure Rhaenyra will return before you are tucked in.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Gods were cruel, Mushroom explained. Their eyes, twisted and vile, had dotted on the most innocent soul who wandered the halls of the palace and pleaded giggles and jokes from a mere fool. For the moment the fire died, and the King vanished into a deep slumber, the light of one tent remained.

The death of Princess Alysanne was no mistake. Not when the blood pooled at the bottom of the hill, and strands of hair and milky flesh caught on the spikes meant for the white stag Otto so proudly chanted for. It was a tragedy, truly, the guards began the puzzle of the unknown, and their theories, hazy with sleep, mocked the cries of King Viserys all at once.

It was said the youngest princess wandered into the line of twisted trees, calling out for her sister, brimming with tears, as she stared into the deep, green abyss of weeping winds. When her sworn shield saw her, Alysanne was lurked further away by the claws of darkness.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

Alysanne had tripped in the mangled roots and rolled down the drop-off that sliced through the terrain. In the shadows and fog, the girl dove into a pit of sharp branches—a deadly trap meant to ensnare another life.

"I deserve the highest punishment; I failed my only duty. Princess Alysanne is dead because of me."

King Viserys stared at his daughter's body, at least what remained of it. He'd been quiet the entire time, frozen in place, watching as if the last piece of his beloved would fade away with a single blink. It would, eventually, when the fire devoured what was left and her ashes flew away with the scorching wind. Until the chants of Syrax came, and the Silent Sisters took her, he held onto his daughter's hand.

"Husband." his wife, Queen Alicent, said after a while. She'd been sleeping, at least trying to, in her tent when the news of the missing princesses arose. Her father had been the one to deliver the news, the old man of brown hair bursting into her tent despite her ladies’ pleas to not disrupt the pregnant queen's sleep.

His words were drenched with sarcasm, and a mocking song escaped his lips as he wondered about Princess Rhaenyra's whereabouts and if she too whisked the younger princess to her savage adventures. She had shushed him when his tongue twisted to place blame on her friend for causing a rumble of chaos on his grandson's second name day. Then, after he suggested poor Alysanne’s demise, she marched in search of her drunk husband's tent.

"My sweet girl,"

Only fate would have Otto Hightower's words be true. For the moment the eldest Princess returned, bloody and disheveled, and in the company of Ser Criston, without knowledge of her sister, did the noblemen, ladies, and servants begin to search for the second daughter of the crown.

It had been Jason Lannister who found the young princess’s guard. His armor of steel was off and he cradled himself against a tree, crying, or sweating—the Lord couldn't tell. His shirt was off, his once fair skin now rubbed raw with dirt and blood. His nails had been ripped out from climbing back up the hill, he muttered between gasps, "It was my fault." Beside his legs, on the cold mossy ground, laid a disfigured body covered by his linen shirt.

"My innocent girl," Viserys cried when the Lannister twin arrived with the body of his young daughter. He'd wobbled up to him, snatching the girl from his arms and taking her into his own embrace. The King collapsed to his knees, rocking the child, begging, no, ordering, demanding, for her eyes to open at once. They didn't. He blamed the wine from the night before, the septa in charge of her, his own guards, the useless servants—for a moment he thought of blaming Rhaenyra.

Surely, if she'd just agreed to his offer, or at least showed a bit of interest in his choice, they wouldn't have fought. She would have stayed at their side and poor Alysanne would have remained asleep, lulled away by that stupid melody Aemma would hum into her ear.

When his eyes turned to the crown princess, she too kneeled beside him. She hummed that same song with tears brimming in her eyes. Her voice was soft and shaky, probably caught by the knot he felt in his own throat.

She gently caressed the muddy locks of hair, soothing as if the child were to awaken by a sudden pull. "I'm sorry.” He wasn't sure what he apologized for. His eyes met hers, violet and flickering in red pools of water. "I’m sorry.” For your mother, for your sister. For everything.

Rhaenyra remained quiet. The taste of grief was becoming a familiar palette to the princess, she was sure her father savored it on his tongue as well. She hoped he would, at the very least.

"It's time."

When the guards approached to take the child, the King yelled at them, pointed a dagger of pure Valyrian steel, and told them to stay away. He begged for another moment, a mere second to enjoy the touch of his daughter like he’d done before by the cackling of the fire. But the body was beginning to swell and maesters warned him of the morbid process of decay.

"A father should never witness such a thing, Your Grace."

"Don't! Don't you fucking tell me what to do!"

In the bite of it all, it was Rhaenyra who tugged at his arms, soft pleas rolled from her lips till they silenced with a kiss to his temple. He finally gave, then. One of the remaining pieces of his darling Aemma silently slipped from his arms once again. His heart ached.

Viserys didn’t feel the hands of his wife fall on his shoulders, the gentle whisper of comfort that failed to reach his ear. Instead, he was taunted by the promise he did not hold. Rhaenyra had not returned to sing to her. He wondered—no, hoped, her death was peaceful, at once, and not slow and painful. He choked, and for the rest of his days, he would wonder why no marks sowed to her skin, and when the rebirth of a flower bloomed, the King would slowly die. Surly and painful.

He watched as Rhaenyra left, trailing behind the servants who carried her sister into an empty carriage surrounded by ladies and lords of court, and Mushroom, who stood ghastly still.

“She shall have a bed of roses prepared for her burial,” Queen Alicent spoke, for both her husband and the late princess's maid. "Red. They were her favorites."

Though his head rested low, the king nodded. "Red,” he whispered to himself, almost like a chant. "They were her favorites."

When it first happened, years after the demise of an infant princess, a new season bloomed and the streets of King’s Landing were covered in a bright sheen under the pale sun. Clouds were shaped like tufty pillows then, and glided slowly across the sky, until they shattered, pulling apart when the wings of a golden dragon flew past and ringed ribbons of flickering light from its throat into the frail sky above.

It was the morrow of Prince Jacaerys’ tenth name day, and an open invitation traveled to the realm, spreading to every corner of the West like vines sowing through the soil and tugging at the last speck of ice in Winterfell. It was no surprise when ships of every house arrived at the port of Blackwater Rush, bearing gifts and hailing the prince, a future king, while others, in vile whispers, hailed a bastard born of sin.

Before the Saddened Queen, there was the Churlish Princess, wild and poisoned like the waves that separated the mouths of her ancestry home and Dragonstone. In a fleet with unfurled banners of a black jaguar in a yellow field, Y/N Endo stretched across the border of the deck to watch the dragon kiss the ripple of the sea. The golden dragon, saddled with a faceless rider, waved his wings, and light, drizzling rain greeted the skin of her face with strangling coldness and the taste of salt on her lips.

“Beautiful, ghastly beasts they are,”

Her eyes, brown and wide like her father’s, turned to the man who dared stand at her side. “You said they were filthy creatures. That one seems to be made of gold, brother dearest.”

“From afar, yes. Up close, sister, you will tremble to your knees with fear and disgust, alike.”

Syrion Corgel was the bastard of Manmo, sired by an unknown and birthed by the same womb of their blind mother. It was often rumored of the men she entertained at her husband’s wish, they were not true. But her name carried a filthy history. Alanis Endo was said to be a whore like her own mother had been, blind, and sold to the wealthiest. A curse expected to follow like thorns to the next babe born of her blood.

Y/N, however, would not. “I hope to see one up close. Then, maybe, I’d die the death of my choice.”

“Being devoured by flames?” Syrion laughed. “You have been speaking of death since the moment you stepped into this ship, why? What’s grasping your small mind, sister?”

“Father seems to think an offer for my hand will be made tonight. He says Targaryen court is the most thriving for a proposal, even better if I catch the eye of a prince or the mother of one.”

“All your father wants is the crown back to the head it belongs to. It was only your luck to be born an Endo,” he mocked. “If it’s fated, the Queen has borne three princes, and the crown princess has a future king and the future Lord of the Tides.”

A small scoff left her lips. “He already decided my fate. Yet, all I want is a home with a big garden, brother.” She leaned away against the deck, and a wave of long, pale-silver hair cascaded down her sides, waving in the wind, as she continued to watch the golden dragon disappear in the flames of the sun. “I want nothing more.”

While many servants and charladies of the princess spoke different versions of what led the Endos away from their seat in Manmo, the truth only laid in the intentions of a father to wed his daughter to a Targaryen prince. It was no surprise when a smile strewed across the face of Princess Rhaenyra, a gentle and affirming one, when her eyes landed on the ones of the girl promised to her eldest son. Y/N Endo, the heir to the Solstice name, and future leader of Manmo, would join the books of dragons, unaware of the infant stud butchered and crossed from history meant to be reborn in her sake.

“Prince of Manmo, Lord of the Solstice name, Calyx Endo, and his heir, the Princess of Bilge, Y/N Endo.”

Above her gaze, the Iron Throne sat on a raised iron dais with high and narrow steps. King Viserys plumbed himself in its sharp edges and melted handles, and on his lap, with a smile so timidly, Prince Jacaerys waved at the girl he knew only by a vaunted name.

It was said, even before their meeting, his mother did not spare untold details of the great beauty his future queen was. A wife with the blood of Old Valyria, blessed by the gods, their children would bloom just as beautifully and the silent questions of a certain heritage would stop, once and for all. Had their betrothal gone through, and the princess had not ached for the greed, the betrayal of queens would remain a thought to be wither away with the winds of a war.

“I’ve brought you a gift,” Y/N said with a smile. From behind her, her bastard brother carried a golden cradle and presented it to the feet of the young prince. “Jaguars are said to symbolize strength, ferocity, and courage. Black fur is rare among them. Being born on the same moon as you, my prince, it seemed awry not to bring you two together.”

Jacaerys raised the cub in his hands. It screeched, writhing away from the unknown scent before him, biting and clawing at the hands of the prince who gasped and shook nervously.

With a painful poke to her rib by the cane of her father, Y/N stepped forth. Purpling fingers stretched over Jacaerys’ own and she tugged at the black fur of the tiny creature. “He won’t like you for a while,” she said, softly for only him to hear. “He was taken from his mother’s side. Unsureness and fright is the cruelest and most dangerous form of men and animals alike, my prince.”

The Churlish Princess pushed the frail ball into his chest, letting the claws bite at the leather of his shirt instead of the reddening flesh of his hands. She rubbed the tiny cuts, whispering luring heals into his ear. “May the gods always keep you in their good grace.”

From the side of the throne, Rhaenyra raised her goblet in the air and toasted to her son’s name. Her eyes, however, did not leave Y/N Endo, not when the girl bowed and retrieved back to the crowd of chanting guests with a vanished smile. Instead, she nudged Mushroom, and with lips red by the wine, she requested of him a new task.

“Do make the princess laugh. Happy people tend to speak more freely than words laced with wine, do they not? I want to hear her laughter before the sun sets.”

The broken fool could not say no, not to the princess he adored the most. When he wobbled to the youngest, eyes gleaming at the beauty of a girl he once knew, he bowed and the bells sewed to his clothes clattered against one another. “I am Mushroom, princess, this court’s fool.” He bowed again, “It is my pleasure to meet you.”

“Mushroom,” she repeated. “What an odd name.” Her lips twisted to a smile and she extended her hand out.

When the fool did not move and stared at her waiting fingers, confused, she laughed. “I am Y/N. It is common for people who have just met to shake hands, Mushroom.” Y/N explained. She extended her hand out, once again. “You and I have just met. Come on, now.”

For a moment, Mushroom seemed to hesitate before her poised stand. Her hands were much larger than his, every finger, long and cold, decorated by fine rings and jewels that danced to her wrists. She’d been too naive then, the eyes of her father watched them from afar, almost ashamed of the way her words addressed a man lower than a servant. Had he been close, the older man would not hesitate to pinch the bruising skin his daughter held beneath the fabrics of her skirt.

“Mushroom?” Her fingers flexed.

At once, the smaller hand swarmed into her own, bending to palm, and they shook, like friends would have done. For the first time, the broken fool smiled, genuinely, at the girl who fated their end.

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tokusaatsus · 1 year

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s. kanata — thalassophobia

warnings: drowning, suicidal thoughts, cult mentions

The endless yearning for the ocean is something so integral to his being, that Kanata doesn’t know how to live without it. When you spend your entire life in the absence of something, it starts to define you.

Emptiness, synonymous with Shinkai, 深海 the deep sea. A curse. Kanata, 奏汰, so out of reach.

The salt of his tears is comparable to the taste of the sea and he relishes in it, if only to feel—if only for a little while.

Desire has taken root in his heart.

For as long as the god-boy known as Shinkai Kanata has existed, he has always wanted for something. Companionship, care; all those simply a far-off pipe dream.

What can a god know about the pursuits of mortals? The nature of love is beyond him—unconditional affection seems more fictitious than the idea of a boy-god who emerged from the sea, because he has never had anything that did not come from a system of exchange.

Of course, there is the issue of the anomaly. As in, someone whose wish he cannot grant. There are more of those than you would think. Morisawa Chiaki is one of them.

You are another.

You are soft. Too soft, he might say. You’re so used to swimming freely along the surface, that you don’t think to look for the sharks lying in wait underneath until they’re lunging for your exposed underbelly.

Kanata cannot fathom why you would refuse his offer. That is his purpose in life, what makes him. Is there any use to a god who cannot do the feats his followers boast of?

He beseeches you. Please, let me grant your wish. You reply, no thank you. There’re some things that just seem too good to be true, and you’re one of them.

Your fingers brush against his as you walk past. He expects that to be the end of it but you smile at him in the hallways when you pass him by and sometimes, he smiles back.

You would think, after all these years, he would have gotten used to it. That loneliness. But Kanata is greedy. More, more, he wants more.

It’s addictive, is what it is. Like submerging yourself beneath the waves and letting them close over your head, one with the ocean at last. Like feeling your lungs burn with a lack of oxygen as your heart beats a panicked staccato in your ribcage, trying to keep those bubbles from escaping. Like feeling the water envelope you, five senses and all, until all that you can think of is the vast, endless blue and—I’m going to die here.

Then the war happens and suddenly, in the midst of the Eccentrics (Rei-Wataru-Shu-Natsume) and Chiaki (hero) and Tenshouin Eichi (angel), you are there.

A sanctuary. As soothing as the waves, his heart soon fills its empty spaces with you, you, you.

He aches for you. It’s still addictive, yes, but slightly different this time. Like desperately scrabbling for the shoreline as your body compresses itself. Like breaking the surface and taking in the rush of air that follows. Like clawing yourself onto the sand, drenched and exhausted but—I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.

In the race to the end, he cuts himself on crushed shells hidden underfoot. The brine of the ocean stings. But still he keeps pressing onwards, because there behind the finish line he sees you.

He stumbles right into your waiting arms. Maybe his sufferings are finally over. And the path to salvation is, in his mind’s eye, littered with pictures of you. As he sinks into your embrace, Kanata thinks; peace, at last.

wc. 605 words

reze txt. hm. it seems i am not immune to sea metaphors. i am also not immune to a boy who thinks he's a god. i need to study him. i need to blenderise him. hi 🦢

taglist. (fill out the form or send an ask to be added!) @prpne @gabirii @kazemiya @engurishu @kkomaism @asbestieos @mikctp @lilikags @lolthia @unwantedsleep @hasumilvr @head-full-of-empty @pr3tty-jennie @narumika

#✒️...scribbles!#shinkai kanata x reader #enstars x reader #shinkai kanata #ryuseitai #enstars #esworks

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fiftytwotwentyfour · 4 months

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Puzzle 4:

I Expect You To Die

Created by Schell Games

Puzzle Classification: Digital Escape Room; VR Escape Room

Price: $24.99 (I purchased the "I Expect You To Die Bundle, 3 Games, making each individual game ~ $20.83 before tax)

Review:

I discovered this game via a late night scrolling search through the Meta Quest App Library - obviously the catchy title lured me in.

Based off a one time viewing of a game trailer and reading NO reviews, I took a gamble and purchased not only I Expect You To Die, but I also purchased the 2nd and 3rd counterparts/follow ups - Yep- I spent over $60 on three puzzle games.

And, Boy-Howdy, It was well worth it.

I loved this experience.

It's James Bond meets a comical version of Edge of Tomorrow (or a comical (less gory) version of Happy Death Day).

I also admired the unique concept of the "escape room" where your (constant) failures helped you progress through "the room".

I thought the stages were the right amount of challenging, but not too hard where the scenarios sparked aggravation.

If you do plan to play this game - I highly suggest playing this game utilizing your own wits and merit - this game is a few years old so it could be very tempting to find a forum or thread with guidance and walkthroughs , but trust me, if you just sit (or just blow yourself up enough times) solutions will come to you and the gratification of escaping with no assistance will be pure exhilaration.

And as I said earlier, your failures are a good thing as they help you progress throughout the game - but - they also provide a unique bit of humor as well.

I may still be in the honeymoon phase of this game - I found the format of I Expect You To Die infiltrating my dreams, no joke.

I cannot find a single gripe about the game. After completing all the stages - I even found myself going back and revisiting all the missions so I could complete/collect each achievement/souvenir - and - upon revisiting I also discovered there are sooooo many different ways to go about completing a mission - sure, there is the same end goal, but there's definitely more than one way to skin a Zoraxis Henchman.

If I did have any negative statement... I wish there was more... and this is just me being greedy.

I think if you buy just the first installment of this game series - even at full price - you will definitely get the bang for your buck.

I am currently holding off playing I Expect You To Die 2 and I Expect You To Die 3 so I can drag out the enjoyment of the game... I don't want to... uh... blow my wad too soon... lordy, there's gotta be a more eloquent way to say that.

*photos/screenshots courtesy of Schell Games/I Expect You To Die*

Completion Time: 5hr17min42sec53ms

Hints/Clues Used: Zero

Items Not Included / Needed:

Nothing Once Downloaded

Personal Rating: 9/10

2024 Puzzle Record: 4/4

#52 in 24 #puzzle #VR #meta quest #oculus #IEYTD #i expect you to die #Schell Games #virtual reality #escape room #James Bond

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starryeyedadmirer · 1 year

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Penn Badgley: Mother’s Goodest Boy | Part 1

!!CW!! — Stuffing (Soft), Belly Worship (Rubbing), Sub & Dom,

Synopsis: Penn is one of Mother’s favorite boys, and she always makes sure to take good care of him. After one of her best treats fails to fill up his little belly, she’s forced to try out an experimental, new recipe. Penn only wants to serve her, and make her happy… and he’ll eat anything that she offers him, even if it’s something new.

Words: 3.1k

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"There you are." She said, her voice sounding as thick, and smooth as southern butter. "That's a good, good boy, Penn. Swallow for me... now, and take another bite." A look of satisfaction, and approval in her maple syrup-colored eyes, Penn couldn't help but to press his lips to her fingers once again, and steal another mouthful of cake from her hand. "Mmmm... such an obedient, hungry boy. Chew, and swallow."

Be good, hungry, obedient... good, hungry, obedient... good, hungry and oh so obedient. That's all she needed him to be. Her good, hungry, and obedient boy.

"Now, how does it taste." She asked him once again, watching intently as he turned the spongy loaf between his jaws, like an oral tumble-wash — her thumb pressed softly against his bottom lip. "I spent a lot of time on it this morning. Baked it just for you. I expect nothing less than perfection from my recipes... you understand this. I won't be pleased if it's anything less than satisfactory. You may speak." Her syrupy eyes seemed to blister and bubble as she awaited his answer... lit up with and impatient expectancy.

"G—Good, Mother." He answered, his voice quivering at the edge of her still fingertip. "It's... delicious, as always. W—Well done, really."

"Just as I'd hoped. You know, I want only the best goods for you, Penn... you've certainly earned such a high honor. Out of all the boys that I've had... all of the ones that have been here, sitting in the same seat that you are now... you're the most impressive. It's not too often that they come back for more than one session with me... and not many boys of your slender build can take on such a challenge as this." A sly smirk raised across her lips, Mother traced the end of her thumb down from his mouth, and took him swiftly by the neck. "You're a rarity, darling... I truly mean that. A different breed. I'm going to take good care of you."

"Thank you, Mother. Anything for you." Conceding to her dominion, Penn closed his eyes — pressing his Adam's apple to her palm, so that she may use more force to choke him — and swallowed the last of his cake. "I'd take on a thousand of your challenges. I swear it! If my goal is to please you, I'd do anything."

How good of him, to make such a promise. How greedy he is. How obedient...

"My, you flatter me. So charming. Hmmm... I love the smell of chocolate on your breath. It's sweet... just like you." Pleased by his eagerness to serve her, and harboring somewhat of a fondness for him, she tightened her hold on his throat — clenching its sides, as hard as she could — until his eyes began to water, and he could no longer breathe. "Mommy is very proud of you, Darling. You've eaten quite a lot... an entire cake. I know that you're feeling incredibly full. Mother always knows best. It's time to see how much you've grown. You must be such a big boy." As she spoke, her maple gaze slowly dropped from his lips, and fixed itself onto his unclad stomach. "A big, big boy... indeed. Just look at you!"

Observing her command, Penn looked down at his midsection... only to be displeased with the pathetic degree of which it had grown. It looked as though he had hardly eaten, from his point of view — his tummy being about the size of a small melon — and, although Mother seemed to be pleased with his new mass, he couldn't help but to feel like a disappointment. For a man who'd just devoured an entire cake on his own, without being allowed a single intermission between mouthfuls, his gut had hardly grown... a direct insult, and undermining of her hard work. He wanted to be big for her... to show her that he could handle even the heaviest of her treats... and, in his mind, this was an awful look for him. There was more than enough room in his stomach to perform a second stuffing... maybe even a third... nothing inside of his body but space and opportunity. "I'm... I'm not big enough." He groaned — his neck throbbing as he spoke. "Please, Mother... I need more. I need more!"

"How enthusiastic of you, begging to be fed." She replied, kneeling down in front of his chair — her eyes still locked onto his stomach. "I admire your gluttony, but remember... I'm the one in charge, here... and I give the orders. I won't allow you another bite, until I feel that you've earned it... and your barking is very unbecoming. Now, let me see." Examining him as though he were a specimen in a lab, she ran her soft palm along the expanse of his belly, and gave it a nice slap — her mouth twisted into a dissatisfied frown. In addition to it's inadmissible growth, his stomach had taken on quite an irregular shape; curving gradually outward, from the bottom of his chest, and carrying the brunt of his bloat in a small, puffy pocket of flesh, just below his belly button — which created an odd, rounded point in the center of his stomach, that Mother's hand could feel. It wasn't tight at all... nowhere near as full as she thought it'd be. Even without the use of her words, after her brief examination, it was clear that she was unhappy with his size. "Hmmm... I guess you are still on the smaller side... and a bit unshapely. I have to say, I'm very confused. Perhaps you've convinced me." By the looks of him, It seemed that she would have to work harder than she was used to, in order to stuff him up to his full capacity — bring out the biggest dish that she could find, and force it down his gullet — and she'd never let a single one of her boys leave her kitchen unless they'd reached their potential. "This is quite curious, isn't it? Well, Penn... it seems as though you've force my hand. Are you ready to have another of Mommy's treats?"

"Yes, Mother! Yes, I am!" He answered — squirming in his restraints, tightening them further around his wrists, ankles, and chest. "More cake! Please! I'm so small, and hungry! I know that I've disappointed you. I'll redeem myself, I promise! Please, just feed me!"

"Perfect. A hungry belly always gets fed, in my kitchen... and you shall be satisfied, no matter how much I have to stuff you. Mommy will be right back, boy. There's another cake waiting for you in the fridge, only the second goodie that I've prepared for tonight's dessert. Don't you dare try and move from your seat, or I'll have to fetch my spatula as well, and give you a proper spanking. You've got one strike already, thanks to your distasteful outburst. Now, be a good boy, and sit still."

Good, hungry, obedient... good, hungry, obedient... good, hungry and oh so obedient. A rarity, in the eyes of the master. Mother's boys must do exactly what they're told to do... even the most outstanding among them.

Her hands braced firmly on his kneecaps; spine straight as a board; and her shoulders held high, Mother arose from the floor. "I'll be right back," she said — teasing him with her soft, buttery voice, "Don't miss me too much, while I'm gone." With the silence of a ghost, she quickly disappeared into a dark corner of the kitchen... taking her precious time to select Penn's next goodie.

~🍰🍰🍰~

"Alright, Baby! Close your eyes." Mother ordered him as she stepped out from the cloak of the shadows — chirping her command like a songbird, with his extra special treat resting in her open palms. "This one should fill you up nicely, and it only took me ten minutes to bake! Isn't that thrilling? I decorated it beautifully, if I do say so myself... and, with everything that I've thrown into the batter, it should taste like you're biting into a slice of heaven. Full disclosure, there's a secret ingredient of mine sprinkled in there. I mixed a little dash of magic into it, before I popped it into the oven yesterday. This particular... very, very unusual ingredient... takes no time at all to... well... rise, when it comes in contact with something that's wet... say, your saliva. I got it from one of my most trusted suppliers... and added my own little twist. You know that Mother only gets the best ingredients for her boys, and I've only made it better... for you."

"Thank you, Mother." He replied, sat diligently against the back of his chair — anticipating the sweet taste of frosting to hit his tongue. "Smells good. I can't imagine how great it looks, smelling like that. Tell me, what flavor is it?"

"Strike two." She chimed — stepping under the glow of the single incandescent light that hung from the ceiling, once again. "You're pushing it again, dear. Now, If you must know, it's a cherry-flavored shortcake... cherries and cream, stacked three hefty layers high. How delicious? Sit still, Penn... and open your mouth. I'm going to stuff you up... punish you good, for that smart mouth of yours." Wasting no time at all, she punches her dainty hand down into the shortcake and yanks up a fistful of moist, fruity bliss. "This should do the trick. Are you ready?"

"Yes, Mother. Sorry, Mother. I'm ready." Like a hungry chick, expectant of it's next feeding, Penn stuck out his neck — his eyes still tightly shut — and waited to receive his proper fill of cherry goodness. He could feel his ankles shaking beneath his shins... and his bare, cold toes curling against the green-tiled floor — tensed at their knuckles, with anticipation. Surely, his gut would fill up beautifully this time... like Mother wanted it to... if the cake would do as she said it would. The expansion would begin as soon as the sponge touched his tongue, and continue to progress inside of his stomach — stuffing it full, and bringing them both great pleasure. He was ready... ready to make Mother happy, and redeem himself for her... ready to gulp down every bite; like a greedy, obedient boy.

"Don't apologize. Just eat. Here you are." With the gentle touch, that only a southern matriarch could provide, she pressed her loose fist to his lips and opened her hand — dropping the entire fistful of cake into his mouth. She could feel the heat of his staggered breath on her skin as he mashed the sugary treat between his teeth, and his thickening saliva dripping onto her fingertips. Reveling silently in his warmth, Mother closed her eyes and allowed her mind to merge with his... finding herself simultaneously aroused, and deeply comforted by the intimate connection between the two of them. It was a true out-of-body experience for her... every time his jaws bit down, the shock of their force would vibrate through her bones — up through her arm... down her back... into her hips... to her most intimate place — and back into his head. They were one... a single consciousness. "Yes. Eat up, sweetheart." She crooned — her thighs clenched tightly together. "Mother wants you to grow big and strong, and fill up that gut of yours. How do you feel, darling? Is my ingredient working?"

"Yes, Mother... I can feel it." He struggled to speak as the cherry cloud enlarged on the top of his tongue — pushing against the sides of his mouth, and rendering him unable to enunciate his words effectively. Penn felt as though there was a big, messy glob of aerated taffy stuck to his back teeth... a shapeless lump, that just kept growing and growing, beyond his control — taking up every inch of room that it could... and stifling his breathing in the process. The cake was doing exactly what she said it would do... and he couldn't wait to swallow. "It's... it's growing!"

"Wonderful! I've been waiting for an opportunity to see my ingredient in action! Now, take it all in for Mama. Let's see how it fares in that gut of yours." Her face lit up with anticipation, she watched closely as he choked it down. "It shouldn't feel heavy, or weigh on you like a ton of bricks... not like the last cake. This one uses a different trick to accomplish the very same goal... in a steady, and far more rapid manner. It should be as light as air... and expand just the same... like a cloud. If it makes you gassy, or upsets your belly... makes you feel like you have to burp, or pass wind... just let it go, okay. Mother enjoys the fragrance of your wonderful stench, Penn... you stinky little thing. Don't think you have to be modest around me... not this way. All that pressure inside you has got to release itself somehow, darling. Flatulence is only natural for hungry boys like you... and the most manly of habits to have."

"Yes, Mother."

"I know your brand well... the sweet stench of your airy offenses. I've smelled you so many times before. Those moments when you thought you were being sneaky... that I wouldn't incur your wrath after you'd relieved yourself... notice it over the wonderful smell of my creations. I'm familiar with your stench, and I do not mind it at all. It'll make you feel so much better, to break wind as you need... so don't hold back. We don't want an upset tummy, do we?" A slight smirk rose across her lips, she poked his nose with the spit-covered end of her finger, and let her gaze follow the doughy glob down his throat — the cherry cake still held in her left palm. "Put my heart at ease, boy, and allow yourself to relax. Understand me? Just... loosen those muscles in your hips, and let it all out."

"Yes... I understand, Mother. I... I will. Promise."

"Good.. good boy."

Penn's throat began to bulge and twitch as the cake made its way down to his gut, followed then by his chest — which inflated with such a great deal of air that it looked as though his sternum had split open — and then, as it continued further, his stomach. He'd never experienced such agony before... a searing, tearing sensation, surging through his abdominal muscles... a powerful, throbbing pain, deep within his gut... and a complete loss of breath. Mother said that he would feel somewhat light during the expansion process — like a feather, or a cloud — and, to a certain point, he did... but she failed to mention just how excruciating his transformation would be.

Don't squirm... don't wriggle... don't cry. Good boys sit still while they are tied up. Good boys do what they're told... even if it hurts. Be a good boy.

His stomach turned and twisted with a violent force — wrestled valiantly with her new experiment, in an attempt to contain the foreign food — but, after putting up a brief, decent fight, it finally gave out, and began to stretch as well. Penn felt as though he was in labor... like he had been made to incubate some kind of cake-like monster within his belly, and it was finally ready to break free from the confines of his womb. Within seconds, he'd gone through the torments of an alien birth... and, by the time the torture finally stopped, he looked as though he had swallowed an oversized melon... a sight that brought Mother much joy.

What wonderful agony. How lovely of a feeling. What an obedient boy he was... willing to suffer for her pleasure.

"My, my! Look at you!" She blurted out, in awe of how massive he had become. "Oh, how beautifully you've grown, Penn. Your gigantic! I knew that my new ingredient would work perfectly on you... in your special case... and, my, has it done the trick! Now, boy, how do you feel?"

"I... I feel good." He answered — refilling his lungs with as much air as he could inhale. "Like a... big cloud. Am I fat enough, Mother? Have I made you happy?"

Her maple-brown eyes still fixed onto his stomach, she smiled once again. "Yes, Penn... you have. You're perfect, darling... now, more than ever. I... I think it's time for us to try something new. No more cake. It's about time that Mommy shows you how much she cares for you."

"Yes, Moth—"

"Strike three! You were not asked a question! You no longer have my permission to speak. Now... I'm going to be a merciful mother, and unbind you from your seat. When I tell you to stand, you will rise up, onto those bare little feet of yours, and you will follow me into the den. Do you understand Mother's orders?"

He stayed quiet... afraid to utter a single syllable — even to answer her. He'd never behaved so poorly before... never let his excitement get the better of him, but he just couldn't suppress his eagerness to do as she wanted. This was his first time striking out on Mother's three-strike system... and, as such, he would be punished. With nothing to say, and a ball of fear clogging up his throat, all that he could do was nod his head.

"Good. So, you'll do what you're told... and I will have mercy on you." She knelt down, and grabbed hold of the line of cables that had been tied around his ankles — carefully undoing her intricate knot-work. "Mother knows how excited you can get." She began to lecture him. "It's only normal for a boy like you to get overwhelmed... though you've done a far better job keeping it under control, in the past. You're one of my favorites, Penn... the hungriest, and most obedient of the bunch... but I don't except any form of insubordination... not even from the best of my babies. Do not speak until we've made it into the next room... and even then, wait for my OK. I won't spank you... not this time." With the swiftness of a veteran Girl Scout, she unfastens the tie around his feet, and pulls them free from her rope. "You're gorgeous, you know... all big and round... full of my cake. My little piggy... that's what you are. Mother will spare you her rod. Go ahead and stretch your legs. Straighten those knees out, and wiggle those little toes. I'll get started on your wrists."

Thanks for reading ❤️❤️❤️!!!

#starry eyes #smut fic #mother’s kitchen #penn badgley #penn badgley belly/tummy #penn badgley smut

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