#day after boot camp | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mysticalcrowntyrant · 1 month ago

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Alien x reader

The jungle swallowed sound.

It wasn’t quiet, not exactly. The constant drone of insects, the crackle of leaves, the distant howl of something—they filled your ears. But it was the wrong kind of noise. No birdsong. No signs of human life. No chatter from your team anymore.

Just the deep, oppressive silence of being watched.

You’d been in-country less than seventy-two hours when things went wrong. What was supposed to be a straightforward recon mission—collect data, tag environmental markers, report possible illegal mining activity—turned into a disappearance. One by one, your team dropped off the comms. First Alvarez, then Becker. Garcia’s last transmission was static and a scream.

You’d been trained for combat. Had been deployed before. But this was different. There were no bodies. No blood trails. Just...absence. Like the jungle had eaten them. And now it was just you.

You hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time in two days. Your legs ached from moving through uneven terrain, and your shoulder throbbed where you’d fallen during a climb. You rationed your food carefully, but the heat melted everything. You were sweating so much you weren’t sure how much you had left in your body. The only thing keeping you going was instinct. That primal, burning sense in your gut that something was wrong. That you had to move. Now.

You kept thinking back to the last full camp—before the disappearances. Alvarez had joked about the locals calling this place La Boca del Infierno—the Mouth of Hell. Said there were old legends. Warriors made of light and metal who hunted men for sport. Becker laughed. You didn’t. You remember how the forest went quiet right after he said it.

You’d brushed it off as coincidence. Now? Now you were listening to the jungle more than your GPS.

The sun was starting to fall, bleeding through the canopy in orange streaks as you stumbled into a clearing. It was the first real space you’d seen in hours. No hanging vines, no twisted roots, just a bowl of flattened ferns and cracked branches.

You froze.

Something had been here.

Recently.

You crouched low, brushing your hand across the ground. The depressions were huge—too long for a boot, too heavy for any natural predator. Four-pronged, like something walked on split hooves or claws. And around them? Scorch marks. Small, circular burns embedded in the leaves, like something hot had briefly touched down and lifted away.

An aircraft? You didn’t hear one. Didn’t see one.

You stood, hand tightening on your sidearm—not that it would do much. You knew that. Whatever was out here, it didn’t leave evidence because it didn’t need to. It was confident.

It was hunting.

And you were alone.

That night, you didn’t build a fire. You found a narrow alcove between two moss-covered boulders and huddled inside, wrapping yourself in your jacket to muffle your breathing. You didn’t sleep. You listened.

At some point past midnight, the air shifted.

You peered out.

Nothing. You waited—still as a corpse—for a break in the tension. For the forest to breathe again. But it didn’t. The quiet stretched thin, fragile as wet paper. You blinked into the darkness, eyes scanning for motion. But there was only black, deeper than night. No wind. No rustling. Just that crawling sensation prickling over your spine. But when you lay back, heart pounding, you noticed something you hadn’t seen before.

On your arm—just above the cuff of your sleeve.

A mark. Thin. Red. Burned into your skin like a brand. Four small points in a square.

Like a hunter tagging its prey.

You ducked back into your alcove, drawing your knees to your chest, every muscle locked. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just your brain eating itself alive from lack of sleep. That seemed easier to accept than the alternative: that something had crept close enough to silence the whole forest, and then stepped back before you could see it.

You didn’t sleep, but the next hour passed in a haze. Somewhere in that half-conscious drift, you heard a soft clicking. Not mechanical. Not insectile. Something in-between. It came from above. Then it was gone.

By morning, you were coated in sweat, your muscles sore from holding so still. When you emerged from the alcove, the mark on your arm was darker. Crusted slightly.

Something had touched you.

Marked you.

You ran.

You didn’t make a plan. You didn’t even eat. You just shoved your few supplies into your rucksack, shouldered your rifle, and sprinted east toward the slope where your extraction beacon should’ve been transmitting.

But when you reached the ridge, the sky was blank. No drone. No chopper. Just clouds and the low, shuddering roar of distant thunder. Your comm still flickered. Static. Then something stranger: a high-pitched tone, pulsing once every five seconds. Rhythmic. Too steady to be weather.

You turned it off.

You descended into the valley.

It should’ve taken half a day. It took two. The forest kept shifting. Paths you swore you’d taken curled back in on themselves. Landmarks vanished. Branches you’d cut were whole again the next time you passed. It was like the jungle repaired itself. Or you were being led in circles.

No—herded.

That word landed in your head and stuck like a splinter. Herded. Driven like prey by something you still hadn’t seen. Something that could touch you without waking you. Something that silenced entire ecosystems just by existing.

You began leaving signs behind you—scratches on tree trunks, scraps of cloth tied to vines. But none of them were there when you looked back.

You were sure of it.

By the third night, your legs gave out beneath you. You collapsed beneath the twisted limbs of a massive tree, too tired to move. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting mottled shadows across the ground. Your eyes barely stayed open. You kept your weapon on your chest, but your fingers felt too numb to use it.

That’s when you heard it again.

The clicking.

This time closer.

Not above. Not far.

Just behind you.

And something else—barely audible. A hum. Like distant electricity. Or a breath.

Slow.

You spun around.

Nothing.

Again.

But something was there. You could feel it— in the way the hair on your arms lifted. In the way your lungs squeezed too tight in your chest. Something was watching. Not passively. Curiously. Like a man staring through glass at a creature in a cage.

You raised your weapon and swept the area.

Still nothing.

But on the ground—just a few feet from your boot—was something new.

A feather.

No. Not a feather. Something like it. Long. Matte black. Semi-metallic. Tapered to a sharp, unnatural point. You reached down, slowly, and picked it up.

It vibrated in your hand.

Then went still.

That’s when you noticed the trees around you.

They were marked. Four-pronged, claw-like gouges running through bark in wide, deliberate circles. Patterns. Not random. Not animal.

Symbols.

And each one ringed the area where you slept.

That night, you didn’t rest.

Instead, you watched the strange, black “feather” as it lay on the flat rock across from you—just within the edge of the firelight. You’d set it down there hours ago, thinking maybe it would stop. Maybe the pulsing vibration that hummed faintly through your pack, through your fingers, through you would finally die.

It didn’t.

It hadn't stopped since you found it.

Even now, lying motionless, it gave off a subtle frequency. You could feel it more than hear it, like the inaudible pressure of a subwoofer in your bones. A quiet, rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum, in perfect sync with your pulse. When you closed your eyes, you swore you could feel it echoing in your teeth.

It was like it had tuned itself to you.

You’d thought about throwing it away. About burying it deep in the woods or leaving it behind on some high ledge.

But you couldn’t.

The idea made something twist in your gut—not fear, exactly. Something worse. Regret. As if you were abandoning something…or someone.

You hadn’t told yourself this out loud yet, but you’d already begun thinking of it as a signal. A thread between you and whatever was out here with you. And maybe—just maybe—it was thinking of you, too.

When you touched it again, the pulse spiked. Not violently—not like a weapon. More like excitement. Like it recognized your touch.

You drew your hand back. The vibration softened, but didn’t stop. Your pulse, however, kept racing. It was just an object. It had no moving parts, no electronics you could see. Just a perfect obsidian black, feather-shaped shard—smooth along the edges, but too sharp at the tip. When you’d cut your palm on it earlier, the blood hadn’t even stuck to it. It slid right off. Like it couldn’t be tainted.

And now, the skin around the cut had begun to itch.

You rolled up your sleeve.

There was something beneath the skin.

A dark line, faint, following the veins of your arm. Not blood. Not a bruise. Like a mark seeping beneath the surface. One you hadn’t noticed until now. It branched out from the base of your thumb and curled toward your wrist in subtle spirals.

You rubbed at it.

It didn’t fade.

It didn’t hurt.

But you knew it wasn’t natural.

The feather pulsed again.

You put it back in your pack and sat down heavily on a moss-covered log, raking your hands through your sweat-soaked hair. The forest around you still felt wrong. Off-balance. The way it did before lightning struck or an animal charged. Like the world was holding its breath again, waiting for something to break.

But it wasn’t fear that crawled through your spine anymore. It was something warmer. Low and uneasy, yes, but also magnetic. Like a wire had been strung between your heart and something deeper in the jungle and the vibration of that black shard was the pull of that wire tightening.

You weren’t being stalked anymore.

You were being drawn.

And for the first time since your team disappeared, you didn’t feel entirely alone. You felt seen.

—-

In the middle of the night, you startled awake—not from a noise, but from the absence of one.

The feather.

It was gone.

Your pack lay open beside you. You hadn’t heard a zipper. Hadn’t felt movement. But it was missing.

You bolted upright, heart thundering. Scanned the dark.

Nothing.

But the moment your fingers gripped your rifle, something fell in front of you with a soft, nearly soundless flutter.

You stared.

The feather was back.

Right at your feet.

Still vibrating.

Still tuned to you.

Only now there were two.

You stared at the two feathers.

They lay side by side at your feet—almost touching, both still pulsing faintly, almost like the beat of twin hearts. The fire had dimmed to embers behind you, casting long, dancing shadows across the clearing. The forest hadn’t made a sound in nearly an hour. And now the feathers, vibrating just subtly, just enough to make the leaves beneath them tremble, had returned.

On their own.

You leaned forward slowly, hand hovering. As your fingers neared them, the pulsing sped up, like excitement. Or anticipation. You hesitated.

That’s when you heard it.

A branch, just behind you, creaking under the weight of something heavy.

Not a rustle. Not a flutter.

A snap.

Then another.

You turned, weapon raised but not fast enough.

A flash of movement and then pain exploded through your arm as something massive slammed into you from behind, claws catching your jacket and driving you to the ground. Your rifle clattered into the brush. You barely had time to see it—fur, muscle, yellow eyes—something canine, but far too big. Some twisted alien jungle predator, jaws gaping wide as it lunged again—

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZT—!

A shriek tore through the clearing.

Your ears rang as white light flared—searing and sharp—and the beast jerked violently mid-pounce. It slammed to the ground beside you, limbs twitching, smoke pouring from its chest. A clean hole burned straight through its ribcage, steaming. The stench of scorched flesh hit your nose a second later.

Dead.

Instantly.

You blinked through the haze.

The feathers. They were gone from where they’d been.

Then you saw them. Both floating in the air a few feet away, glowing faintly, spinning in slow, synchronized orbits like twin daggers poised mid-air. The tips of them still sizzled faintly with heat. And then, like a pair of trained birds, they drifted gently back toward you.

Your hand shook as you reached for them. The moment your fingers brushed the first one—

BZZT.

A soft, quick pulse of vibration met your skin. Not painful. Not even aggressive.

Happy.

The other joined it, buzzing slightly faster, weaving in small circles around your wrist like it was nuzzling you.

You laughed—breathless, a little wild—not because it was funny, but because it was insane.

They liked you.

You curled your fingers around them, and the moment your palm closed, the vibration steadied—calm now. Content.

You sat in the ashes of your half-burned fire, a dead predator twitching beside you, and two alien, intelligent shards purring in your hand like eager pets.

You whispered, “What the hell are you?”

The trees didn’t answer.

But the feathers did.

They buzzed again—not a warning this time.

A greeting.

Like someone far away had just smiled.

And was getting closer.

—-

Two weeks passed and the jungle was still dangerous.

But it wasn’t the same.

You weren’t alone in it anymore.

It had taken three days before the fear started to fade. Not entirely but just enough for you to breathe without flinching. You moved more deliberately now, not because you were scared, but because you weren’t justsurviving. You were being watched. And guarded.

The feathers—you still didn’t have a better name for them—followed you everywhere. Most of the time, they drifted near your shoulder or circled your wrist, keeping just enough distance not to feel intrusive. They pulsed in that subtle rhythm, like the deep-throated purr of an animal at peace.

But if anything came too close—a snake you didn’t see, a sudden shift in the underbrush, even falling debris—they reacted instantly. One would dart between you and the threat, buzzing furiously, glowing bright white-blue. The other would anchor itself against your back, holding firm until the danger passed.

They were protectors. Messengers. Something more than drones, but not quite alive in the way you understood.

And over time, you stopped fearing them.

You began to reach for them.

You set up camp in a half-collapsed ruin. Some ancient stone outpost long reclaimed by moss and vines. The walls gave shelter, and the crumbling archway let the sun spill through in long golden stripes.

The feathers liked the sun.

They would hover in the beams like moths, drifting in lazy spirals as if they were warming themselves. Sometimes they would spin in tandem. Not for function, but for the sheer pleasure of motion. Like they were happy to exist near you.

In the quiet moments, you touched them.

At first, it was just a brush of your fingers—testing the surface, still unsure. But they responded. Gently. One would lower itself to rest in your open palm. The other would weave between your fingers, slow and curious. When you dragged your fingertips down their curved edges, they buzzed with a low hum, warm and grateful.

You found yourself whispering to them sometimes.

Just nonsense.

"Easy," you'd murmur when they twitched in response to a rustle too small to be a threat.

"You’re alright. I’m alright. We’re okay."

And they would settle.

One night, a storm broke across the valley—wind lashing through the trees, rain thundering down in sheets. You ducked beneath a stone overhang, clutching your jacket tight as lightning forked across the sky. The feathers stayed close, unusually still, pressed to your chest like frightened birds. You wrapped your hands around them, pulling them against your collarbone. Their buzzing steadied. Then deepened. You could feel it echoing through your ribcage.

Not panic.

Comfort.

Affection.

And when you whispered, “I don’t know why you’re helping me,” one of them brushed your cheek.

It lingered there, warm and vibrating, as if answering: ‘Because you are precious.’

By now, you didn’t question why they knew where to go. You’d stopped using the map days ago. The feathers always guided you to shelter, to clean water, to safety.

Or, more than once away from something else.

Something bigger.

You never saw it. Just the feathers suddenly buzzing sharply, flying to block your path, vibrating with urgency until you turned and ran the other direction. Sometimes you caught flashes of movement—deep in the trees, too far to see clearly. Once, a guttural growl echoed through the forest behind you for a full hour.

You asked the feathers what it was.

They didn’t answer.

But they didn’t leave your side, either.

You woke one morning to find them hovering just above your chest, bathed in sunlight. They dipped low, touching the mark on your palm—the one that had darkened since the day you bled on them. The spiral pattern on your wrist had grown more visible now. Fine lines like ink beneath your skin, curling up toward your elbow.

You ran your thumb along one of the feathers.

It quivered.

Then pulsed happily.

You whispered, “You’re not just tools, are you?”

They hovered silently for a moment.

Then the larger one—the one you always felt was the braver of the two—pressed itself to your chest again. And you swore, for just a second, you felt something beating inside it. Matching your heart.

The air was heavy that night. Still. Your breath came in slow drags as you crouched inside the old stone ruin, staring out into the dark trees. You could feel it. The change. The way the forest tilted, even without moving. The way the buzzing of the feathers had shifted from their usual soft hum into something sharp and distressed.

They darted in circles above you now. Not playful, not warm.

Panicked.

One slammed against the side of your head in warning. The other hovered between you and the open doorway, glowing faint blue.

Your gut twisted.

Something was coming.

It announced itself first with a guttural snarl, vibrating through the stones and into your spine. Leaves rustled. Branches cracked. And then, from the dark:

Eyes.

Ten of them. Wide. Pale. Low to the ground at first then rising as the thing unfurled itself to its full height. It stepped into the clearing and the moonlight struck its hide—matte black, armored in thick plates like a beetle's back, its limbs long and too many, some dragging, some twitching with anticipation. Its mouth split sideways. Wet. Eager.

The feathers screamed.

One darted forward, firing a narrow burst of light. It hit, but the beam deflected off the thing’s carapace, barely charring the surface.

The creature didn’t flinch.

It lunged.

You scrambled back, tripping over the ruined stone floor, slamming hard into the wall behind you. Your rifle—already useless against something like that—was still on the ground. The second shard zipped in, firing again, aiming for the thing’s eye—

Too slow.

The beast swatted it aside. The feather spun through the air, its light flickering weakly.

Then it was on you.

You screamed as claws sank into your side. It wasn’t a clean slice, but a tearing rip of flesh and fabric, hot blood immediately spilling down your hip. You struck out blindly—fists, rock, elbow—it didn’t matter. It was too strong. Its breath stank of rot. One clawed paw gripped your chest.

It was pulling you apart.

Pain blurred everything.

You thought—this is it.

You thought—this is how it ends.

And then the jungle exploded.

A roar split the trees.

Not the beast’s roar.

His.

A sound so deep, so unearthly, it didn’t echo—tt swallowed the world around it. The canopy above split with a thundering crash as something huge dropped from the trees, slamming into the clearing like a meteor.

The force threw the beast off you. You collapsed to the ground, gasping, your vision swimming with red. The feathers returned, both of them circling your head now, whimpering in soundless pulses of light. But you barely registered them.

You watched.

You watched him.

He was tall—easily nine feet, built like a nightmare carved from raw sinew and obsidian stone.

His body was plated in armor that didn’t look forged so much as grown—slick and dark, patterned with the faint glimmer of organic veining that pulsed softly with light, like heat shimmering through oil. His skin, where visible, had a smooth, bark-like texture that shifted in iridescent tones as he moved. Black one moment, blue or silver the next. No mouth was visible. No eyes, at first. But then the plates along his face split open, unfurling like a flower in reverse, revealing six narrow, glowing slits that blinked slowly across his otherwise featureless face. Each one fixed on the beast.

And the spirals, they were everywhere.

Glowing softly, raised just beneath the skin, like bioluminescent tattoos carved along his arms, his throat, his chest. Some were thick like vines. Others looped delicately around his fingers and neck like intricate symbols of a foreign language.

The patterns matched yours.

They pulsed with light as he stepped forward—not just brightening, but answering the ones on your own arm, your wrist, your ribs. Like your marks were singing back to his.

The beast charged.

He didn’t flinch.

He moved with an otherworldly grace. Fluid and unearthly, more like an underwater predator than anything land-bound. Limbs too long. Joints that bent just slightly wrong. His arm extended far past what should’ve been anatomically possible as he seized the creature by the throat mid-air, catching it with inhuman strength.

No roar.

No theatrics.

He pulled it to the ground like it weighed nothing—and when it twisted, he plunged something into it—a narrow, spike-like tendril that extended from his palm. The creature spasmed violently. His body folded over it, twisting with calculated force.

You heard bones snap.

Flesh tear.

And then silence.

You couldn’t move. The pain had turned distant, almost cold, your body sinking into shock. Every breath was shallow. Wet. You watched him through the narrowing tunnel of your vision—this towering, alien figure haloed in the silver light of the ruined jungle.

The two shards, the ones that had followed you, guarded you, bonded with you, drifted slowly up from where they hovered protectively above your body.

And left you.

Your chest clenched in betrayal.

But they didn’t abandon you.

They returned home.

The larger shard rose first, then the smaller, gliding through the air. They circled the alien’s head once, twice, then settled around him, orbiting in slow, intricate patterns. Their glow softened, their buzzing becoming more melodic, almost…musical.

He turned his head slightly, watching them.

Listening.

It wasn’t idle.

They were speaking to him.

Whatever they told him, it made the spirals along his arms brighten, blooming in soft gold light. His unreadable face tilted down toward you again.

And then—with hands far larger than yours, clawed and plated and utterly inhuman—he reached for you.

You tensed.

But he was gentle.

So gentle it didn’t make sense.

One arm slipped beneath your back, the other beneath your knees. His grip was careful, mindful of your wounds. No sudden jerks. No unnecessary pressure. It was like being lifted by water.

You felt the vibration of the spirals against your skin. His body was humming. Like the shards. Like yours.

The world blurred.

His head bowed over you as if shielding you from the night. You were pressed to his chest, and for a moment—a final flicker of consciousness—you could feel his heartbeat.

Slow. Deep. Anchored.

Like a drum buried in the earth.

The shards hovered beside your face again, glowing soft. Not buzzing for attention. Just watching.

Your fingers twitched toward them.

You whispered something.

And then the world went black.

Masterlist

#yandere oc #oc x reader #x reader #yandere x reader #yandere #male yandere #yandere x you #male yandere x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines #alien x human #alien x reader #monster fucker #monster x reader #alien x you #gn reader

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mickyschumacher · 1 month ago

Text

[SUMMER SUNSHINE! PT.3]

𝐒𝐔��𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: with the great sibling camp on, oscar finds he learns something very important about himself and his heart. or in which a camp leaves everyone testing their limits.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, poor humour, camping, potential poor location tracking on my part, jealousy, set in nov/dec of '24

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: oscar piastri x childhood bsf!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 3.5k+

tag list (lmk if you wanna be added): @kakashiislut @taetae-armyyyyy @satorinnie @at-a-rax-ia @op814kitty @anayaverse @edgyficuselastica @anonomano @sltwins @utopiakys @fullyinsanepartlywriting @justvibbinghere @obxstiles

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

This plan for Oscar was going to need far more attention than you had initially thought.

While you had technically checked off the 'beach' part of your list, the event had left you wondering if you were actually helping Oscar at all.

You sighed bleakly, pushing the spoon of granola and yoghurt into your mouth.

"You okay, sweetheart?" Your mother's voice queried from across the table as she placed her cup of tea down as your dad peeled his eyes away from the news playing on the television and averted his attention to you.

You pressed your lips and nodded. "Just figuring things out," you murmured. You blinked at the slightly concerned gaze from your parents. You smiled gently. "It'll be fine," you reassured, patting your mother's hand before your front door suddenly flung open.

"What the–" Your dad furrowed his brows at the entrance of four familiar figures.

"Hi ___," the sweet voices of Edie and Mae greeted you.

Was the world ending?

Had you died?

You rested your spoon on your bowl, eyebrows softening at the sight of the two. "I knew you two were normal," you cried dramatically, standing from your chair. "Thank you!" You applauded, bringing them a long hug.

Hattie rolled her eyes, adjusting on the bag on her shoulder. "Is it ever that serious?" She queried, leaning on her brother lightly.

You narrowed your eyes, pulling away from the two sisters. "I don't expect you two barbaric heathens to understand the meaning of a simple greeting," you quipped in return.

Oscar grinned at your response while Hattie snorted.

You eyed the four siblings carefully. Day backpacks. Hiking boots tied to Edie's bag. Sunnies gracefully hung on Mae's shirt. Hattie's expensive suncream from Korea wedged on the side of her bag. Oscar in his age-old fishing shorts.

Your eyes widened, lips quirking at the corners. "The Great Sibling Camp!" You exclaimed, hands raising in excitement.

Hattie huffed. "I already have most of your stuff. Just pack whatever you need. We leave in five," she stated, giving you a pointed look. "For you that's two."

You curled your lip, narrowing your eyes. Sneaky little... "Fine," you muttered, retreating to the staircase leading to your room.

"I mean it!" Hattie called out after you.

"Okay!"

━━━━━━━━━━━

"When was the last time you brought Craig out?" Oscar queried, eyeing the old silver seven-seater Toyota Kluger cautiously.

The poor bugger was chipping and rusting in places where Oscar wondered how on earth his parents had gotten the rego this year. He could barely even say it was silver. Was that... yellow?

"I think Edie took it out l-last year, no?" Hattie queried, furrowing her brows as she turned to her sister.

Edie scrunched her nose, trying to think back. Her and her boyfriend had gone to a festival down in Adelaide earlier in the year. Was that the last time the car had been used?

You blinked. "Are we really going to ignore the fact that Oscar calls this thing 'Craig?'" You asked, looking at the siblings in disbelief.

Oscar looked at you, hand on his hip. He raised a brow. "What's wrong with 'Craig?'"

You pursed your lips, inching towards the Toyota. "This is not a 'Craig.' This is a 'Martha.'"

Mae snorted while Oscar looked at you incredulously. "A 'Martha?"

You nodded firmly. "A good ol' trusty Martha."

Hattie looked between the both of you and sighed. "Right then. Martha... Craig... whatever it is. Let's hurry up and get in."

━━━━━━━━━━━

While the drive to Great Otway was just shy of three hours, it would be a lie to say it hadn't been eventful.

With Hattie offering to drive (after you, Oscar and Edie were heavily persuaded), Mae sat in the front passenger seat while Edie sat in the back alone. You were graciously sat next to Oscar who had left no stone unturned to annoy the living daylights out of you.

You should've known when he tapped your shoulder and asked for a chip. From that moment it was "What are you listening to?" and "Did you know that ravens actually have iridescent feathers?"

By the time you had threatened to jump out of the window, Hattie had thankfully announced you had arrived.

Setting up camp had been surprisingly easier than you expected, partly due to Mae's idea to keep you and Oscar separated or you were sure you would've committed some sort of crime.

You had two tents, one the held three of you and the other holding two. Edie and Mae had naturally paired themselves together, so you had naturally expected for their brother to go with them. However, things had taken a slight turn.

"Do not put me in the same tent as him!" You begged Hattie, following her around as she eyed the area you had bagged. It was a nice view of the Kennett river if you took a quick ten minute walk.

"What am I supposed to do? Mae is adamant Oscar going to let in those bugs like last time!" Hattie retorted, hands on her hips, eyes squinting to block the sun.

Your eye twitched. "She was five and it was one time," you insisted, feeling any little hope you had slowly disappear.

The shuffle of grass was heard from behind you. "I promise I don't bite," Oscar teased, passing the both of you.

Hattie smiled at you and her brother with satisfaction. "See. All solved."

You closed your eyes in dismay, oblivious to the amused grin on your best friend's face. "Fine," you muttered, turning your head to your fated enemy for the next two nights. "If you snore, I swear to God I'll put you outside with the mosquitos," you threatened, finger pointing at the grass.

"And vice versa," Oscar replied, smile quirking at the side of his lips.

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, inching towards to help Mae and Edie unpack the rest of the stuff you had brought. Those two... impossible. They were impossible.

━━━━━━━━━━━

The evening had rolled around faster than you had thought. The lot of you had spent the day walking around visiting the river and then the iconic Great Ocean Road.

Edie and Mae had been kind enough to prepare some fruit and sandwiches to eat during lunch. Dinner was up to the rest of you. Which really meant getting your famed F1 driver to cook over the fire while you and Hattie sat underneath a tree a few metres away making terrible daisy chains and swatting mosquitos away while you talked.

You eyed Oscar from afar as you pulled a daisy through another. You sighed, looking back at the flowers.

Hattie's shoulders slumped. That was your third sigh in the past ten minutes. "Okay... what's up? Something's obviously wrong. What's going on?"

You pulled your lip with your teeth, looking back and forth between the two siblings. The conversation you had at the beach had been unsettling, gnawing away at you for days. "I... I think Oscar needs help," you breathed out.

Hattie snorted. "Well there's not much I can do about that. That stupidity comes by itself," she chuckled before quietening at the firm expression on your face. "Oh you're serious," she mumbled.

"He's struggling, Hat. You know how he is. He won't tell you. He likes letting everyone think he's got his shit together but in reality he doesn't," you murmured.

"Sounds like someone else I know," Hattie retorted, nudging you slightly.

You rolled your eyes, dismissing the comment. You sighed. "My point is... take care of him."

You could see it in Hattie's eyes. The slight wave of softness. The same one you had felt when her brother had told you to take care of her. Her hand moved to squeeze yours in reassurance. "Of course," she smiled gently.

Oscar's voice erupted your comfort, standing "Are you two not going to help? These sausages don't cook themselves, you know! Are they supposed to look this... pink?"

You and Hattie blinked before you grunted in response, pushing yourself off the grass and dusting your pants. "Now I regret leaving you in charge."

Hattie watched you make your way towards Oscar who only grinned at your words. Her brows furrowed curiously as your loud gasp filled the air, catching the attention of Edie and Mae in their tents. Her head tilted as you scolded her brother for not cooking the meat enough.

Hopefully... she thought. Just hopefully.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Oscar cleared his throat, watching you enter the tent. "Okay," he started, hand pointing at the line of pillows. "No one crosses that line."

You furrowed your brows as you zipped the tent. You slowly took a seat and folded your legs. "Oscar... we're in separate sleeping bags. I don't think we're going to wake up cuddling. Unless that's your thing," you chuckled.

He could feel the tips of his ears turn red. He pursed his lips, letting out a calming breath. "I know that," he murmured, although you'd bet slightly unsure. "I just have the vague memory of waking up next to a certain koala in 2010."

Your lips parted, cheeks flushing at the memory. "I-I was seven!" You countered, voice slightly squeaking.

Oscar shrugged, unable to keep his grin away as he dug himself further into his sleeping bag. "Just making sure."

Blinking blankly, you turned towards your sleeping bag feeling unsettled. Why would he bring that up? Was this revenge for pinching his slice of bread off of his plate?

You internally sighed, making yourself as comfortable as possible for a good night's sleep. You were exhausted. Most days you were tired from the stress of studying. But for the first time in a while, your happiness had tired you out instead.

The silence in your tent was luring you to a darker abyss, eyes fluttering shut when Oscar's voice grasped you.

"Can I tell you something?" He queried.

You stayed quiet for a moment, fighting to keep yourself awake. "Mmh hmm," you hummed in response, rubbing your eyes tiredly.

Oscar stared at the roof of the tent, hands tapping the top of his sleeping bag. He swallowed hard and took a breath. "I want to say thank you. It's barely been two weeks back here but I feel like you've seen me in a way no one has in a while. I don't know how we keep getting into these types of conversations but they make me feel better. I really appreciate, well, you. So thank you. ___? Are you– oh."

Oscar turned on his side, watching you silently sleep on the other side of the pillows he had lined. He pushed himself closer, unknowingly smiling softly at the way you had bunched yourself into the sleeping bag. From there he could just make out your face with the small lamp you had put in the corner of the tent.

His eyes trailed over the small faint splotches of freckles here and there on your face. The Australian sun was never so forgiving. Your lashes, although ordinary to the naked eye, Oscar found entrancing the way they swept over your skin. Stress lines from all your studying were etched into your forehead, and he almost just wanted to... reach over and smooth them.

Oscar blinked, retracting back his hand. His heart was racing, ears hot. Shit... what was he doing?

━━━━━━━━━━━

"After all these years and you're still a morning person," Oscar's voice interrupted your peaceful silence as you sat at the beach, a towel underneath you and a tree giving you just enough shade to read your book.

You opened your mouth to spout out your usual nonsense but Oscar had bet you to it. "Hi ___," he greeted.

You blinked in surprise, taken aback. You squinted, firmly registering the colourful scenery mixed with Oscar's bright smile. You furrowed your brows at the sudden churn in your stomach.

What the hell?

Clearing your throat, you looked up at the figure that had suddenly replaced the sun in the sky. "Hi," you lamely responded, eyes averting to the sand as you closed your book, resting it next to your legs.

"Mind if I take seat?" He asked, gesturing to the spot next to you.

Curse your brain for bringing such a large towel.

You shrugged carelessly, holding a hand over your eyes as you watched him take a seat next to you. You pursed your lips, examining the mop of hair on his head that clearly stated he had just gotten out of bed, each tress flinging in an odd direction.

Oscar, unaware of the looming grin on your face, spoke again. "Surprised you're up this early. You fell asleep pretty quickly last night. Must've been tired," he commented, brown eyes cautiously averting to your face.

How much had you even heard last night? He wondered.

You smiled in return. "It's exhausting taking care of you kids," you joked, stretching your arms for effect as you yawned. "I was basically knocked out the moment I got into my sleeping bag."

Oscar nodded slowly, lips quirking at your joke while he processed your words. It didn't seem like you had heard anything. Maybe you had truly fallen asleep the moment he started talking. He couldn't tell if he was relieved or not.

"How long till you go back to training?" You asked out of the blue, watching the waves reel back in slowly, revealing the damp sand underneath.

Oscar hummed quietly. "A month I think? I don't know," he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

A month.

It wasn't that long.

You had a lot of work cut out for you.

You hummed in acknowledgement. "New year, new me?" You queried, grinning lightly while you nudged him playfully.

"Something like that." Oscar huffed in amusement.

Another stretch of silence settled upon the both of you. You played with the grains of sands near you and Oscar quietly watched, revelling in the cool morning before it got too hot for the rest of the day.

"Rocky would've loved this," Oscar suddenly said.

You snapped your head towards him, sand quickly falling out of your head. "What?" You laughed, eyebrows raised in shock.

A grin graced Oscar's face. He leaned on his arms, hand sat next yours. "Rocky was an outdoors guy."

"He was a fish," you deadpanned. "A fish you murdered."

"How many times am I gonna have to say sorry?" Oscar queried, an amused plea underlying his voice.

He watched you shake with laughter, your eyes smiling while you shined in the sun and he wondered why his body felt so warm. Why did it feel like his heart was going to burst out of his chest?

━━━━━━━━━━━

The following night and two days were filled with nostalgic activities (or introducing Mae to her rights of passage). It was eventful to say the least.

Your sandcastle competition left Hattie stomping over Oscar's poor rendition of the Australian Grand Prix. A campfire paired with roasted marshmallows had left Mae screaming as you mustered the worst story you could with a flashlight under your chin. Edie had lead the stargazing that night, pointing out certain constellations that had Oscar rolling his eyes in disbelief. Oscar and Mae had caught up, skimming some stones over the river while the rest of you cooked lunch. Before you left the park, you all swam at Port Phillip Bay, which you'd argue had been the highlight of the trip. Only because you had been greeted by some particularly playful dolphins.

To Oscar, it had been perfect. That was why he was in such a good mood driving back, even actually stopping at the petrol station unlike Hattie who had absolutely refused to on the way. The call was actually made by Mae who desperately needed to use the bathroom after jugging a bottle of water.

You and Oscar stood in the convenience store, eyeing the overpriced chocolates and chips. He had already been holding half of the sweet stock you had given to him and proceeded to make a face at the bar of mint chocolate in your hand. "I can't believe that."

You curled your lips at the bar and nodded in agreement. "Hattie's a sick freak," you murmured in disgust, tucking away the chocolate under your arm.

"You're one to talk," Oscar commented, looking down his "Black forest chocolate? Really?"

You mended your brows, lips lightly jutting in offence. "That's the best flavour there is."

Oscar suppressed his small smile upon your reaction. He cleared his throat, tilting his head at you before he shook his head in disagreement. "Dark chocolate is the best."

It was your turn to make a face. "Keep talking and we're no longer friends."

Oscar blinked as you resumed your scrutiny of the snack aisle. Friends. It was odd. On one hand, his heart warmed at those words. After all these years with limited contact, he was happy you still considered him a friend. Even if you both annoyed each other to death. But on the other hand, it rubbed him the wrong way. And he just couldn't put his finger on why. It's like every time he tried to find the answer, you made his brain malfunction.

"Okay. I think that's it. Now come on before Hattie comes in here herself," you muttered, knowing very well the girl would keep you here for another thirty minutes without fail.

Oscar swallowed hard, nodding slowly. He followed after you, heading towards the front of the store to pay when an unfamiliar voice cut through the air.

"___? Is that you?"

Both you and Oscar turned to the male holding a glass bottle of ginger beer.

Oscar eyed the man carefully, taking note of the tanned skin and curly hair. Why did he look so familiar? He looked back over at you, wondering if you had any familiarity with the stranger.

And indeed you did by the way your eyes widen slightly in recognition.

"Blake," you greeted, watching him open his arms for a hug. Oh. You awkwardly returned the gestured, not wanting to be closer than necessary. "It's been a while."

Blake nodded in agreement, hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts. "Yeah, I know. Haven't seen you since the grad party back in school."

You mulled over his words, wondering if had actually been that long. Over four years ago now. You supposed it had. "It's been a while," you agreed, small smile planted on your face.

Blake opened his mouth to speak but was lost for words when his eyes landed on Oscar. "Oh my God, Oscar! Dude, it's been so long!"

Oscar watched the male pull him in for a handshake, patting his back.

That's when Oscar had clocked it.

Blake. Blake Bennett. A kid in your grade. He used to lived right across from the both of you before he moved three streets away. Oscar remembered fondly how much he liked you.

Blake laughed in surprise as the driver smiled awkwardly. "It's crazy... like so weird. We used to walk to school together and now I watch you on TV," he grinned, looking over at you. "Like he's actually an F1 driver? Like he dreamed. So cool!"

You chuckled softly at his enthusiasm. "Something's never change, huh?"

Blake nodded. "That's true. You're still cute as ever," he commented, smiling at you.

Oscar froze, watching you blink while your cheeks flushed lightly.

"Thanks," you murmured, fidgeting with the food items in your hands. You peeked a glance at Oscar's stoic face and internally winced. God, why did this have to happen now out of all the times?

"I was wondering..."

Oscar's throat bobbed, grip tightening around the sweets. Don't... for the love of God, please don't.

"Would you want to go out sometime?" Blake queried, eyes hopefully looking down at you.

Oscar could feel bile creep up his throat. He was hot and annoyed. He felt sick. Fuck.

"Um..." you trailed off, feeling awkward as ever. God, how were you supposed to respond to this? "Um.. can I think on it? We follow each other, right? I'll message you."

Blake smiled and nodded. "Sure. I'm gonna go catch some waves so I'll see you around, hmm? It was good seeing you, mate," he placed a hand on Oscar's shoulder. "Good luck next year."

Oscar smiled tightly while you waved your former classmate goodbye. You blew some air into your cheeks, thankful that interaction was over for the time being. You edged towards the cashier, placing the items in your hands on the counter. "Oscar, come put down the–"

You furrowed your brows at the blank look on Oscar's face. It looked like nothing was going on but those brown eyes were swarming with thoughts.

"Oscar? Are you okay? What's wrong?" You asked, stepping toward him with concern.

Oscar moved his eyes from the door and to you. He blinked, swallowing hard. He could finally answer his question. The answer to why he felt so warm. Why is heart felt like it would collapse. Why he was reaching for you that night in the tent.

The answer was you.

He had a crush on you.

#mickyschumacher #formula 1 #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #f1 imagine #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x you #micky's summer sunshine series 🐚

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gutsby · 10 months ago

Text

Stupid Prizes

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Before you head back to college, your dad wants to go on one last family outing: the county fair. The only problem? Your secret fuckbuddy, Joel, is there.

Warnings: 18+. Sneaky, unprotected p-in-v. Joel pining for you while your dad is beside him, oblivious for now. Semi-public sex (on a ferris wheel—don’t ever do that). Gross misuse of a candy apple. Age gap. Jealous Joel. Teasing. Angst(!) Mentions of infidelity/abandonment.

Word count: 10.0k

Read on AO3

The gingham dress was your best idea yet.

For Joel, nothing could’ve been worse.

He’d cum down your throat no more than ten minutes ago, and with just a glimpse of your new getup bounding down the stairs—you’d had to change after he painted your last one white—Joel almost inhaled his Heineken.

He coughed and sputtered and hacked the beer back up while you strolled past the sofa and grinned at your dad.

“Ready to go, old man?”

It was just a short red frock with a sweetheart neckline.

The fabric cinched at the waist and flowed with every step you would take. Turning slightly to toy with the hem, and teasing the only eyes on you, you corrected yourself:

“Sorry…old men, I mean.”

Something like amusement flashed in Joel’s eyes.

Didn’t seem to mind this old man’s cock down your—

“I was born ready, kid,” your dad answered, still messing with something on his key ring, “How ‘bout you, Miller?”

“Yessir.” Joel stood.

He recalled you saying something similar before opening your mouth in the guest bathroom just fifteen minutes earlier. Joel’s cock twitched in his jeans at the memory, and his cheeks might’ve tinged a little, remembering how fast he’d cum. You’d only smiled and sucked your thumb, getting a taste of the residue that had missed your chest.

“Quite a mess you made there, Joel.”

And you repeated those words, at length, with only you and him to know what it had meant to you both before.

You gestured to the smattering of crushed potato chips on his shirt, and your grin got bigger. Joel grew redder.

“Yeah…” he mumbled, brushing the crumbs off his front. He wasn’t nearly as fast with the comebacks as he was with other kinds of comings and goings, and he knew it. He set the bag of Lays aside and seemed ready to leave.

But when he’d licked the salt off his lips and caught you staring—when he saw his friend go back to the kitchen:

“I had to be quick,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, “You know better’n anyone what a messy eater I am.”

Of course you knew that. Joel winked at you, and you winked back, mostly making fun of the boomer move. He reached for you—the edge of your skirt scarcely hanging a fraction of the way down your thighs—and he opened his mouth to speak again, when there was the sound of heavy boots at the threshold of the room. Joel leaned past your body and snagged the bag of chips instead.

“Food for the road?” He turned to his friend.

“All you,” your dad replied, smiling and waving the chips off as he went for the front door, “I swear your stomach’s a bottomless pit, man. Eatin’ me outta house and home.”

Joel looked at you when your dad was past you both.

House and home ain’t the only thing I’m gonna—

“Let’s go,” you chirped, fast, “I call shotgun!”

This would be a long, long day, no doubt.

The county fair had been his friend’s idea. One last day of ‘family fun’ before his little girl went back to school out East, and Joel hadn’t seen Bellville in years, so he’d asked him if he wanted to join. After a shared, brief stint in abstinence camp, the answer should’ve been clear:

‘NO.’

But Joel hadn’t learned very much from the Fireflies in the less than 72 hours he’d spent living—and also fucking you—there, so he’d nodded and said ‘Okay.’

Now you were twenty minutes out from the fairgrounds with a near-depleted tank of gas in the truck, obliged to make a quick pit stop at a Texaco. It was the first time he’d been alone with you since you’d set off from Austin. The second his friend was gone and headed inside to buy a pack of smokes, he heard a seatbelt come undone.

Earlier, he had raced you and beat you to the car to lay claim on the passenger seat, so you’d been in the back this whole time. He barely saw you before he felt you, climbing over the center console and then into his lap.

Straddling him while the Eagles played faintly overhead.

“Feel fucking insane not being able to touch you right now,” you huffed against his lips, kissing him hungrily.

Joel groaned. Felt your lower half grind into his. Almost rutted his hips up and yearned to have you seated on something other than just his denim-clad crotch when he sucked in a breath and remembered where he was. He nudged your hips and fisted the fabric in his hand.

“You in this dress ain’t helpin’ me either,” he growled.

You grinned against him, then hiked the red-and-white material up your legs a little more. Joel felt something like a shockwave when he saw what was underneath it.

Or, rather, what wasn’t there at all: your panties.

“Bathroom quickie?” you said, already breathless, “I’ll tell my dad I got cramps. I’ve been so wet this whole ti—”

“Darlin’.”

Joel’s eyes had drifted down to the place where your body and his were touching—rubbing—now. Even from this limited vantage point, he could see a glistening patch sticking from your bare seam to his jeans, and it was pooling on the fabric. Practically oozing out of your cunt while you rocked your hips and begged him please.

“Please, just one. I’ll be good the rest of the day, daddy.”

“Fuck,” Joel hissed.

His pupils were wide, and his mind was seriously considering it. Stupidly so, he reckoned; your dad was bound to be back any second, and surely you couldn’t both be gone for more than five minutes without raising suspicions. It was a reckless endeavor, he already knew.

And when he saw his old friend strolling out the front doors of the Texaco, his decision was made for him.

He watched you scramble off his lap and back to your seat, body quick and lithe and giggling the whole way.

“Gonna get me murdered, girl,” Joel panted, gruff.

Your own smile didn’t waver; you just settled back into the middle seat and let your gaze trail out the window, trying to fix your eyes on something to calm you down.

You already had the sense that nothing would. Your teeth bit your bottom lip between them to forestall the threat of another laugh while your dad approached the vehicle.

From the radio, ‘Life in the Fast Lane’ kept playing.

As old as they were, Joel Miller and your dad had a funny way of acting more like kids than you ever had, at any age. As your trio approached the wide, gleaming gates of the Austin County Fair, you saw your dad nudge Joel, and Joel shoved him back, and somewhere in the midst of all the ribbing, you heard your dad say, clear as day:

“If I’m takin’ a whole day off work, I’m gettin’ hammered.”

You knew by that tone this would an interesting afternoon, to say the least. You held your ticket tighter.

And for a moment, you wished you’d worn underwear. It’d been a split-second decision to peel them off before skipping downstairs, and it had worked well enough—Joel walking with a limp all throughout the parking lot and trying to shield the tent in his jeans—but now you were the one in greater danger still. Seeing your secret family-friend-with-benefits in his tight, light, heather grey shirt and jeans, hips adorned with a hefty belt and moving deliciously with each new step he took, you were transfixed. Left to watch him and gawk and grow wetter between the legs with every passing second, there was nothing you could do about it now. Likely sensing this, Joel raked a hand through his grey-flecked hair and hummed to himself. His bicep bulged through the sleeve.

“Nice little view, ain’t it?” he asked, nodding to the outline of a dozen shining rides and attractions ahead.

Go fuck yourself, Joel.

“Can’t wait to ride that.” You pointed to the ferris wheel, though the finger in your mind was aimed closer to him.

“Funnel cake,” your dad beamed, eyeing a nearby stand.

The three of you weren’t walking for much longer before he insisted on buying one. Joel had had a hankering for lemonade himself, so he’d fallen in line behind you and your dad. When it was your turn to order, you paused.

Then, pointing again:

“Can you get me one of those?”

You’d had to stand on tiptoes to see it inside the display, but from Joel’s own height, he was certain to have seen what you meant. While your dad shilled out the cash, not batting an eye, the man behind him clenched his jaw.

Candy apple, hon? Real fuckin’ mature.

Your eyes met his as soon as you’d turned, treat in hand.

I thought you liked seeing big things in my mouth, Joel.

He would’ve scowled if he wasn’t next in line—and your dad wasn’t walking so close behind, sniffing his food.

Joel ordered his drink, drank it fast, and found his thirst no better quenched than when he’d started. You’d sat across from him at the table and made sure of that.

You dragged your tongue up the sugar-coated apple just like you’d done to his shaft that morning and blinked, savoring the taste. Feigning innocence as he looked on.

And what else could he do? If not watch you, then peer at your father, furtively, and make sure he wasn’t able to see so much as a second of this little show you were putting on now. Joel glanced around you, too. No one else seemed to notice what was going on, even when your lips left a soft, sweet suction near the top of the apple, and he could’ve sworn he’d heard you moan.

It was just in his head. He was remembering how you’d done it that morning, mouth sinking down his length and whimpering when you’d reached the base. The way your eyes had watered, your free hand had reached between your legs, and your lips had welcomed him in; it was all burned in his memory, and not retreating any time soon.

Neither was the blood rushing to his dick, he reckoned.

You didn’t seem to care. Even when a bright pink river of spit and sugar trickled out of your mouth, you didn’t flinch. You let it slide down to your chin. Right before it reached the end of your face, and you were certain Joel’s gaze was glued to the spot, you licked a little bit of it off. You didn’t get it all in one go, so you shifted your snack to the other hand and then swiped your thumb under your lips. You brought it up to your mouth and sucked it, just like you’d done with Joel’s cum on it earlier that day.

Joel chucked his cup in the trash. Your dad took another bite of his deep-fried pastry and, talking between chews:

“That was fast.”

“Need’a stretch my legs,” Joel announced, abrupt.

He turned to you, and your thumb came out of your mouth. The frown on his face was unmistakable, though your father probably thought it was just from having to squint against the sun. Not because he was incensed.

Out for revenge.

“Ready to get wrecked, kiddo?” he asked you.

Your eyes widened, and your tongue quit licking.

What?

Then you saw him nod to some spot over your shoulder. You didn’t have the nerve to follow his gaze as he did.

Faintly, you could make out a smirk crossing his lips.

“Arcade’s over there. Unless you’re too scared.”

Your dad raised a dumbass, not a quitter.

You’d accepted Joel’s proposal without a second thought, and your father seemed pleased to have the chance to peruse the food stands and beer carts to his heart’s content. You’d set off quickly. Your candy apple was still in your hand when you saw your friend lean over.

Joel opened his mouth, and he took a big, angry bite.

“You’re insane,” he said after, words muffled by fruit.

You took your first steps inside the dark, cool building littered with machines and fun activities of every kind, and deep down, you were happy you’d had that treat. You took a bite yourself, then discreetly patted his ass through his jeans and told him, ‘Only for you, Miller.’

You weren’t sure why you’d said it. As soon as the words came out of your mouth, you regretted it, no matter how stupid and playful the message was meant to be read. But then Joel nudged you back—actually wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side.

His mouth was close to you, and you could feel the smile:

“Just how I like it.”

Your cheeks heated a little. You weren’t so fond of the intimate move—in public like this, even as dark as the arcade happened to be—but you couldn’t deny the flutter in your stomach. You swallowed the rest of your apple, and with it, any shred of emotion, or so you were hoping. You nudged Joel off of you under the guise of trying to point to something new, and his eyes followed.

“C’mon. At least pick something you’ve got half a shot of winning,” he said, swiftly. Sounding smug as he spoke.

You plodded on anyway, not hesitating at all.

“I’ve got more than half a shot,” you assured him, tone arguably twice as conceited, “Now if you’re scared—”

“You can’t use my own lingo against me, little girl.”

“Then nut up or shut up, old man.”

Joel scoffed. You chewed. The two of you approached the Skee-Ball machines with near identical looks of ambition and zeal, and sensing this tension wouldn’t dissipate with any more shit-talking, you got to work.

The first game was close. You beat him by less than ten points, and you guessed that that had been due in part to Joel’s own will. You saw him make more than two pitches so outrageously bad that you’d had to have guessed he was going easy on you. As soon as you felt that, you’d scowled. Pointed angrily at the scoreboard.

“You can’t just let me win, Miller!” you said, shrill.

Joel’s hands went up, and you knew he’d deny it all.

“No need to gloat, now, honey—”

“Fuck off,” you snapped, all while fighting back a smile, “Gimme your A game or don’t bother playing, honey.”

And he did.

The next game left you destroyed, roughly 900 to 320. You stepped back from the machine, feeling a frown start to form on your lips but knowing you’d asked for this, and just as Joel was about to lean in to offer a conciliatory hug, he had to stop. Both of you turned.

Somewhere behind you, you’d heard a voice.

It was young, male, and audibly amused.

“He really whooped your ass, huh?”

Your eyebrows raised as soon as you saw the source. Your scowl morphed into a smile, and your eyes were bright—too bright, almost. You ran over to hug the boy.

He was a boy, after all. Likely no more than half Joel’s weight soaking wet and wearing the biggest, dumbest grin that could only belong to a guy your age. He hugged you back, and his arms tightened around you. Comfily.

“Wade!” you gushed, squeezing him hard. You stepped back and looked him over, as if in shock, “It’s been…”

“Forever,” Too-comfy-cozy Wade finished for you.

Joel frowned.

“And here I thought you were gone away for good!” you laughed, “Went off to get that fancy Stanford degree—”

“—and you, in Boston—” the boy chimed in.

Before the reminiscing could go on much further, you remembered yourself and turned back to Joel. Still beaming as bright as you’d been when you first saw the kid, you gestured indistinctly, tongue-tied for a second.

“This— Joel, this is Wade Pritchett, one of my friends from high school,” you introduced him. Letting the two men—or, rather, mustached boy and muscled man—shake hands. Evidently, you were too stoked to notice.

“He moved out to Sacramento our senior year, and none of us thought— well, we— we figured we’d probably never see him again. Fuckin’ west coast hot shot he is.”

You smirked as you nudged his ribs, and something in Joel turned to month-old milk: sour, rancid, and heavy. His stomach turned inside him, and he hardly knew why. All he noticed was that he didn’t like the eyes you were making at him, and he hated the face Wade had for you.

Joel was just looking out for you, really.

You could do so much better than this douche.

“This is my friend,” you said to Wade, motioning back. Then, reconsidering just a second, “My dad’s friend.”

Joel didn’t like that.

Wade gave him a brief once-over and hardly seemed to see him at all. In that millisecond of a look, Joel saw it:

‘Old family friend. No worries there.’

Foolishly, Joel wished the chump could’ve seen what you’d been doing the night before—impaled on his cock and riding him as hard as your knees would allow you:

‘Daddy, please, daddy, daddy, daddy.’

“Joel?” Your voice cut in his mind like a knife.

Joel blinked.

“Yeah?”

“Okay if Wade joins?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

Not that it mattered now. Royal pain-in-the-ass Pritchett was already getting the machine next to yours set up.

Joel eyed him once more and tried to swallow his pride.

Somewhere along the way, it got stuck in his throat.

Three rounds was all he could take.

You on Wade, Wade on you—goading each other on in the most sly, flirtatious ways. Or maybe it was just Joel imagining that. Regardless, the man didn’t feel guilty at all when, at the conclusion of the third game, he’d tried to feign a casual tone and told you your dad would be expecting you back any minute, better wrap things up.

“He texted me like twenty minutes ago saying he’d be neck-deep in craft beer for an hour. I think we’re good,” you replied, and the indifference in yours didn’t have to be faked. You grinned at Wade, and Wade grinned back.

“Well, he texted me a second ago that he was holding a spot for us in line at the ferris wheel, so let’s roll, kid.”

That was a lie.

Joel didn’t like himself for doing it. But, again, he didn’t like Wade Pritchett even more, and he reasoned that he was doing you a favor, anyway. He searched for the exit.

“It’s alright, my mom’s probably looking for me, too.”

We get it, Pritchett. You’re a mama’s boy.

“Ah, okay.” You almost sounded sad.

Don’t be, baby. You’re daddy’s girl, remember?

Wade pulled you in for a hug; Joel wanted to deck him.

“I’ll be in town all week if you wanna—”

“I wish. My flight leaves tomorrow,” you cut in. Now your tone was really despondent. Your mouth was pouting.

It was just Joel’s eyes. He was seeing things. He was thinking you cared for this guy more than you probably ever did, and he was getting himself worked up over nothing. He clenched one hand into a fist by his side and waited for the anger to subside. Sadly, it was slow to go.

“Maybe we could…go out for drinks later or something?”

That suggestion didn’t make things any easier on Joel.

“I’d love to.”

Your reply didn’t exactly set his mind at ease, either.

At last, he decided he’d had enough. Turning on his heels, he bid a terse goodbye to shithead Pritchett and walked out of the arcade. He didn’t stop until he’d hit one of the bar carts your dad had been raving about outside.

He contemplated buying a drink. Maybe two. In fact, he’d just been eyeing three cans of Coors Light and was fishing for his wallet when he heard your voice again.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?” His tone was clipped.

If you felt it, you didn’t show it.

“Are we riding the ferris wheel or not?”

He probably should’ve given a verbal answer in the affirmative. Instead, he’d just nodded his head and started off the other way, expecting you to follow.

The walk was short. You’d had to weave through a sea of fairgoers, including schoolkids, college-aged drunks, and more than a fair share of loved-up couples, but that wasn’t too bad. Joel just ignored each one and didn’t stop until you’d reached the line for the ferris wheel.

Or what was left of the line, anyway.

Unlike what Joel had told you, there was no wraparound queue for you to join. Your father wasn’t there. Once you’d passed a look over the dozen-odd people waiting patiently for it to be their turn on the ride, you felt your stomach turn. Joel had never texted your dad at all.

“He’s not coming, is he?” Dispensing with the obvious.

Joel still wouldn’t look your way. He’d just sidled up behind the last people in line—a group of older folks who all seemed eager to get on the ferris wheel. You scoffed when you saw Joel’s expression harden, and you planned to turn away. Then the people up front started to move. For a moment, you were torn between telling him off and leaving him there. At length, you settled on saying, low:

“You lied.”

Joel followed the moving line, and a few more people started to trickle in behind you. Before you could even think to speak again, you were nudged ahead by the force of that crowd, and had only to keep glaring.

“Hey—” you hissed, only five steps away from the platform now. The ride attendant was scanning the line, appearing to count the people approaching the gate, and when his eyes landed on you, you made out a little grin.

“Aww, your daughter scared’a heights or somethin’?”

He’d said it to Joel, sounding cheeky. His teeth gleamed in the light of a hundred different neon bulbs, and you had to avert your face to keep from revealing its disgust.

So everyone else still thinks he’s my dad. That’s nice.

You couldn’t see Joel’s expression, but you imagined it looked the same. You shuffled ahead, reluctantly, and heard a lady behind you laugh; the sound had a tipsy lilt.

“My kid’s the same way—you’ll be fine, hon,” she slurred.

Heights aren’t the issue here, you’d wanted to snap back, for no other reason than your own disdain for Joel and the present situation. He walked in front of you, still refusing to meet your gaze, and soon you were perched on the platform, sandwiched between two semi-rowdy throngs of fairgoers with no clear means of escape. You crossed your arms and stared up at the back of his head. The look you gave him probably could’ve burned holes in his skull if irritation had been the means of achieving it.

You were seated on the ride in minutes. The compartment was surprisingly large, and its walls high, with glass on every side. Under a waning afternoon sun, the views you expected to see were bound to be pretty. All that was left to detract from its splendor was Joel— hunkered down opposite you and manspreading. Wide.

Sitting in total silence with his denim-covered legs split in a ‘V’. Watching you and rubbing one thigh, absently.

“You’ve got some nerv—” you started in.

“Yeah, no. No. That kid was gettin’ on my nerves—”

It amazed you how fast Joel was to return your words with a hostile quip of his own, anger flashing in his eyes.

“What’d he even do?! He’s my friend— my best friend—”

Fury flitted to something like discomfort, momentarily.

“Oh yeah? Just friends?”

“What the fuck does it matter to you?”

In your own expression, rage flared unchecked. You didn’t particularly care what Joel thought now if he was immature enough to act like this, and the walls of the compartment were thick enough to prevent anyone else’s hearing a word of it. The ride continued to rumble along, letting on new passengers with each new stop.

Joel might’ve paused. Could’ve stared out the window for all you knew—everything but the wheel itself seemed to be moving at lightning speed, and time was sliding.

“Because I— I— I give a shit, kid. I care.”

“And that makes lying to me alright?”

“I was just worried for your—”

“Bullshit. What would you need to be so worried about? Me playing Skee-Ball with an old friend and maybe getting drinks? You can fuck right off with that.”

Joel opened his mouth to speak, but he shut it when the ride suddenly jolted to a stop. It sputtered. Then, after a long, tense moment, it slowly ascended again. You took this lull in speech as your own chance to re-intervene:

“That’s not ‘care.’ Or ‘worry,’” you continued, words dripping with condescension, “That’s controlling.”

“Controlling?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Joel Miller always did.

“It’s not—”

“It is—”

“Protecting you from assholes like him—”

“—he’s not—and I never asked you to do that!”

“So I just sit by and watch him touch what’s mine—”

“I’m not yours, Joel!”

Your last words echoed through the car like a shotgun’s report. You’d said it with such force—so emphatic for him not to be mistaken in what this was, or whose you were—when you hardly even knew how you felt yourself. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and one that Joel knew only too well. The last time you two fucked, he’d begged the same: ‘Say you’re mine,’ and no matter how close you’d been to release at the time, you simply couldn’t say it. Now, clear-headed and mostly clothed, you still despised those words. Emotions. Uniquely juxtaposed with Joel’s jealousy over Wade, you’d never wanted to say it louder:

“I’m not yours, and I never will be. So just stop.”

More cruel.

“Are we clear?”

The car came to a halt near the top. When Joel still hadn’t deigned to answer, you leaned in closer.

“I said, are we fucking clear, Miller?”

Then you didn’t have to wait.

“I hear you.”

Of course he heard. His face was hard. His eyes were like two brown stones in the sockets, and the line of his mouth was tight. Whatever use you might’ve had in trying to decipher that look was ignored for the time being; you were still too angry. And, perhaps owing to this state—with a white-hot look fixed on him and your head full of blinding, bitter thoughts—you were more than susceptible to surprise. You jumped when you felt it.

Felt him with a hand moving from his leg to yours.

It went quick but was almost too ridiculous to fathom—how swift Joel was in reaching for you, hoisting you into his lap, letting your limbs straddle his hips with all the ease of old, welcome habits. It might’ve worked just as well, were it not for the tension in your legs. The short, sharp, ‘Joel’ and a look flitting out to either side of you.

“What?” he grunted.

You heard a fly unzip.

“We’re on a—”

Before you could finish, and as if to furnish the answer for you, the ride shuddered back to life. Its descent was slow, but any movement now made your stomach churn. It didn’t matter that most of the cabin was encased in metal, the rest semi-tinted plexiglass, or that your space was almost entirely shielded from the view of other cars—it was too much of a risk, as was everything with him.

Joel remained blind to it all. Your cabin came to a stop, still high in the sky, and then you felt him grip something between you. In one swift motion, he had the head of his cock rubbing your seam. You sighed; his eyes were cold.

“C’mon then…show me what ain’t mine,” he murmured.

His voice was low. You hated those words. This was more than just that. Your cunt slid and accepted him anyway.

For a second, your gaze was level with his. Your hips hadn’t stirred, and he was crawling inch-by-inch inside you, pulling you down. The act could’ve been intimate, had the words that passed before not been so harsh—and the place not been a fucking amusement park.

When the ride resumed its slow, rumbling circuit, he didn’t make your bodies part, but instead flipped you around. Your back was flush with his front, and by all appearances, you were innocently perched on his lap.

What the tens, or dozens, or hundreds of strangers ambling around down below couldn’t see was that a cock was nestled inside you, too. That with every gentle bump of the wheel, a man several decades your senior was filling you to the hilt, sending waves of pleasure through your body and his while he stuffed you tight. What your dad didn’t know was that this was his friend. That the nose nudging the skin between your sleeve and your neck belonged to Joel, and his breaths were short.

Trying to calm the flutter of his pulse and the pull of his lungs, he flattened his hands on either one of your thighs. He rubbed his palms back and forth, and you glanced down to find the insides of your legs extra shiny.

Slick, pretty, and full of him. He tilted your chin back up.

“Nice and quiet for daddy—nice and still. No squirmin’.”

He nudged your hips forward, and his cock brushed a wet, spongy ridge inside you. You had to purse your lips to swallow a noise. You felt your cunt drool even more.

The car swung low, in the line of sight of far too many eyes, and then it stopped again. You weren’t at liberty to move at all, and still, the feel of Joel inside you was raw.

Grating, almost.

It made the prospect of conversation seem the tiniest bit easier, though—forced to face away from each other and act civil now. Right before the ride started up again, you gripped the armrest and anchored your feet to his boots.

“Feels…good,” you whimpered.

“That so?” Joel murmured back.

“So—oh.”

Your words fell apart at the next brush of his hand, sliding down to your heat and taking his index and middle fingers to the precious, pulsing bud in between.

Soon the car was up at a comfortable height. You sighed.

Your legs pressed together over Joel’s, and you felt him rub the tips of his fingers even harder, circles tighter.

“I know,” he said, sensing your words before they came, “I know it feels nice, baby. Keep that chin up for daddy.”

Don’t let them know I’m inside you. Stay quiet.

But his girth was so much. The tug of his smooth, throbbing manhood between your walls was almost more than you could take. You laced the fingers of your free hand with his over your thigh, and you held them tight as your hips wriggled back. You couldn’t help it, feeling a welt of pleasure start to blossom in your belly.

“Joel—” you started.

“Don’t talk,” Joel grumbled, stern, “It’ll draw attention.”

You sensed there was more to it than that. Your fingers threaded even deeper through his, and he squeezed them back. Between your bodies, there rose a soft, gentle tap, tap, tap with the thrusts Joel was able to deliver now that you were back up high and out of sight. If there was any time to speak, this was your window.

Joel probably wished you hadn’t, but you tried, anyway.

“You know it’s been years since—”

“Since?”

Now you didn’t want to say it. But you knew you had to.

“Wade’s been my friend since—”

Another influx of something soft and tender inside you. Joel holding your hand, pushing himself deeper, and trying not to groan when you clenched around him. Hating that he had to hear that name, most likely.

You despised the words even more before you said them:

“—since my mom left.”

It was an awful time to be bringing this up, admittedly. Both of you on the brink of release with Joel’s cock buried as far inside you as it would go, his fingers entwined with yours, and the ride drifting lower.

And lower, lower, lower still. Joel’s breaths picked up.

The car shuddered to a halt almost halfway down. You didn’t have to see his face to picture it a little more rigid than it’d been before. He’d known your dad long enough to remember the time his wife had walked out on him.

“Ever since we were kids—” You continued, as if you needed to remind him of any of the particulars. Joel hardly knew you back then, though, “—he was my friend. Wade’s been one of my— my closest— he was there—”

You couldn’t be sure if it was the subject of discussion or simply how close you were to cumming that kept your tongue from forming a coherent string of words, but here you were. Joel’s grip on your hand had loosened, and the movements of his hips had slowed considerably. You hoped he’d be too lost in his own pleasure to care.

“I remember,” he returned quietly.

That was all he said for a moment. Out of habit, your legs parted more for his touch, and you whimpered, feebly, as the fingers kept circling your clit. The ride started again.

“You don’t have to—” And again, his voice was low.

“I’m not saying that as an— as an excuse or anything.”

You didn’t know why you were saying it at all. You just wanted Joel to know he didn’t need to be jealous. That Wade had been a friend through a dark and bleak season of your life, and that was all it had ever, or would ever, be.

While the car was still suspended in air, and the sights below all relatively small, you got the sense you’d have to deal with this budding bliss inside you a bit quicker than anticipated. Joel was all wordless encouragement. You almost wished you could’ve seen his face as he urged you to come undone, keep making yourself feel good, that’s it, cum for me, but frankly, it was probably for the best you couldn’t look him in the eye right now. Beyond just needing release, you wanted him to see you in a more vulnerable light than you’d ever been—facing away seemed the least painful position to have that happen.

With your fingers and his still interlaced and your hips moving a little more quickly, Joel could feel your pleasure soaking his jeans, and he pulled you down closer to him.

He nudged the back of your neck with his nose. He panted against it gently, tenderly. Then he kissed it.

“Don’t need’a say anything else, darlin’. I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

Under any other circumstances, an apology from a man would have been the last thing to send you over the edge, but today, you couldn’t help it. Just as the car started up again, you hit your peak with Joel still stuffed inside you, and you gripped his hand as hard as you could. You fought to keep the moans contained behind your lips, but it was hard—and Joel’s constant, tender caresses with his lips and fingers made it that much worse. He trailed kisses down your neck and shoulder and told you gently, ‘That’s it, good girl, that’s my girl.’

My girl.

Again.

You almost didn’t mind it being said this time around.

Almost.

In truth, you didn’t have half a mind to think much of anything in that moment. You just curled your toes and pressed your back into Joel while the warm, euphoric waves coursed through you, and you let yourself be content with what he’d said. Whatever he meant by it.

In the minute that followed, you sensed he was perilously close to finishing, too. So, as soon as you’d made it down from your high—and the ride, too, was circling back and making its way through the final cycles—you crawled off of Joel. You got on your knees. For the first time in what seemed like hours, you locked eyes with him; your mouth moved lower still. You’d barely latched your lips onto the head of his cock before he was shooting off rope after rope after rope of his cum. Warmth splattered down your tongue and throat, and you swallowed it all obediently.

You didn’t need to be told when the ride was over. You heard a buzz, felt it jolt, and, unfortunately for you and Joel, your car was one of the first to be let off. You had to hurry off your knees and back into your seat, across from your panting, silver-haired friend, just seconds before the door to your left swung open. You began to stand.

Joel followed you out. His spend was still stuck to your throat in some places, the scent of his skin and his stubble and his extra heavy load all fresh to your senses. You wiped one corner of your mouth and kept walking.

And it was in this state you remained another second or two. You were just about to take your first steps off the platform, mind floating over somewhere tranquil and warm, when your thoughts were presently interrupted.

Your steps, too, were cut short. Joel had stopped you.

Then he grabbed your face, and he kissed you.

Your world froze a moment. You didn’t have time to think, or react, or even kiss him back, so you just stood there and let him hold you to him. It was over in a blink.

And one glance over Joel’s shoulder after he did it, to the ride attendant and nearly every last person in line, said they were just as stunned. Some sick, by the looks of it.

‘He’s NOT my dad!’ you wanted to yell, out of habit.

Seeing the eyes Joel had fixed on you—the smile that followed—their suspicions didn’t matter to him at all.

You walked off together, still considering those words:

My girl.

A month wouldn’t be so bad. Two was tolerable, even.

The next few hours spent with Joel made it seem like you could go a year or longer without seeing his face, and nothing between you would change too much.

He was a friend. A good friend. Not just your dad’s old companion, but your own. Whatever else was left beyond that could be explored down the road, but for now, you were content to just let him hold your hand in places you weren’t likely to be seen, and kiss you in those he hoped your dad wouldn’t be. Maybe fuck you on a ferris wheel.

At the thought of going back to college tomorrow, not seeing him again until Thanksgiving or Christmas at the earliest, you didn’t feel too sad. You did get an extra burst of yearning when Joel’s hands would find your hips and push you off to some shaded, semi-discreet area and he’d tell you, softly, ‘I don’t know what I’m gonna do without ya, kid’ before kissing you with a hunger all over again. That made you think you might miss him a little.

You’d warned him not to lie to you again. He promised he wouldn’t. You believed him, at least as far as your general mistrust of men would allow, and you had left it at that.

Now the tips of his fingers were brushing your own, and his mouth was grinning—coated in all sorts of sauces from the barbecue you two had been devouring. It was approaching six o’clock. He held the last Carolina-style pulled pork slider up to you, and you shook your head.

“I’m stuffed,” you said, pained.

Really, you were. You and Joel had decided to join in on the fair’s 25th annual BBQ and Chili Cook-off an hour ago, and now your stomachs were suffering immensely.

You made a face in disgust when he tried to push it closer, ‘Joel, I’ll projectile vomit if you don’t— don’t—’

You squealed when he leaned in, thinking he was planning to smush the patty in your face—you’d done that to him with some coleslaw not too long ago—but instead, he dropped the burger. He pressed what non-sticky parts of his hands he could get on your face and, cupping your cheeks between his palms, he kissed you.

Then he kissed you again, and again, and again.

This time, it felt more like an attack. Not an attempt at being affectionate, which he’d shown himself amply capable of all day, but really just a way to smear your lips and chin with sauce and get you extra pissed off at him.

It worked. You bit his lower lip at the last kiss.

And, instead of wincing in pain or biting you back, Joel surprised you by groaning a little bit against your mouth. His grip loosened from your face, and he leaned back.

‘Behave’ was all he said. Smirking.

If any one of Joel Miller’s quasi-fatherly lectures had ever met with success before, this would not be one of them. You only rolled your eyes and were about to reply with some variant of ‘Make me’ when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out to see the new notification.

Nothing more than a reminder to check in for your flight. But that sight also roused some awareness in you that it was just then starting to get late, and you hadn’t heard a word from your father in hours. You and Joel had been extraordinarily fortunate that day in hearing that your dad happened to run into some friends at the livestock show, and had been occupied—plastered, most likely—ever since. You hadn’t thought to question it before, just happy to have your dad out of your hair for the afternoon, but now that it was late and all the shows were long since over, you had to wonder if it wasn’t time to shoot him that text. Bring your last happy, fun-filled night with Joel for the next two months to an end, and head home.

You started to send him a message. Joel peered over your shoulder, absently wiping his hands on a napkin.

“He said he was headed over to a concert last time we talked. Some band he likes,” he hummed, “Wanna go?”

You weren’t too keen on seeing the likes of any Creed-adjacent artist your dad so loved to listen to himself, but if it gave you an excuse to stretch your time with him and Joel, you didn’t mind. You nodded, then deposited your phone back into your pocket. You were just about to stand when Joel held you back. He’d snagged your hand.

“Hang on, ya got a little—” he said, soft. Then he lifted his napkin and started wiping at the sides of your mouth. His motions had all the crude, brute force of a man who’d never wiped a person’s face before—he seemed more concerned getting the vinegar-based glaze off your cheeks than impressing you with how tender he could be—but the gesture was received well enough. For once, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes and just smiled.

“You’re taking me to the airport tomorrow, right?”

“Long as it’s alright with your dad.”

“You could spend the night, too.”

Joel paused. He flitted a look from your lips to your eyes, then, finding a sly playfulness in both, only hummed. Stopped wiping long enough to kiss you on the cheek.

“We’ll see—”

“I’ll be real good—”

“Oh, I bet you won’t.”

But by the end of it, Joel was grinning too. He didn’t protest when your lips returned the favor from his, and they left an equally sweet and clean kiss on his cheek.

He didn’t bat an eye when your hand slid up his leg either. He just squeezed yours back and helped you up.

“Gonna get me murdered, I’m tellin’ you,” he murmured in your ear as you stood, just like he’d said to you earlier.

You figured if he’d had his pick of ways to risk his life, sneaking into your room tonight wouldn’t be the worst possible option. You threw your trash away and started off for the entertainment pavilion, following the music.

It was almost like you could feel Joel contemplating whether to sling his arm over your shoulder while you walked. Not once, but twice did his fingers twitch beside him, and he looked around you both from side to side. He decided against it, at length, and contented himself instead to just nudge your elbow and tell you that he liked that dress a lot—he hoped you would wear it again.

Come up for a football game, and you might see it then, you’d urged him back. The red of your dress wasn’t quite the perfect match for your school’s hundred-year-old crimson and black color scheme, but that was alright. You’d bend the rules for him. The two of you were just approaching the outskirts of a big, noisy crowd when Joel was about to respond. Your eyes glazed over a sea of people, surprised by its size, when you cut back in:

“We’re never gonna find him in here.”

Joel assessed the crowd. Checked his phone. Heard the wail of a guitar from somewhere up at the front and instantly surmised this was a Lynyrd Skynyrd cover band—and that your dad wouldn’t leave until he’d heard every song. Silently, he kicked himself for suggesting coming to look at all. He could’ve taken you on a few more rides, filled your overstuffed belly with a little more cotton candy, popcorn, or ice cream, if you’d been up for it, but instead, you were obliged to find your old man. It wouldn’t have been awful if it wasn’t so hot and—

“Hey,” Joel broke in, before he could think.

His eyes had landed on a person—a pair—in the crowd that you hadn’t seen, and his heart clenched in his chest.

You’d barely tilted your head to him, “Yeah?”

“We should go,” he told you. He hadn’t meant for his voice to come out so rushed, or strained, but it was.

He couldn’t help it, especially when your gaze had shifted fully to him. Your eyes searched his, curious.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I…” Joel trailed off, looking around. Scrambling to procure an excuse of some kind, “I gotta…go piss.”

“Then piss. I’ll wait here,” you replied.

You didn’t get it. Really, there was no way you could. You hadn’t yet seen the short-sleeve, turquoise-colored PFG shirt at the back of the crowd, the beaming face Joel spotted above it. You hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of the man’s profile, much less the full, wide smile on his face, the beer in his hand, or the woman by his side. She was either laughing, or singing, or nudging his hip. They looked happy. And yet, you shouldn’t see it.

Joel would kiss you—that was it. It would be the riskiest thing he’d done, but at least it’d save you from seeing.

So he tried. Joel leaned in and ventured to press his lips to yours, gripping your face, but the second he did, you pushed him away. Your eyes were wide. Cheeks heating.

“What the hell, Joel?” you hissed, “Dad could be—”

Your gaze darted to the side, and then you stopped.

The eyes grew wider. Your lips stayed the course, as if to keep going, but no sound came out, and all that was left of your mouth was a round, stunned ‘o.’ You blinked, like you couldn’t believe it: the two people were kissing now.

Joel reached for your arm, but you were far too fast. You shot off to get away, toward them, and didn’t stop until you’d made it to the edge of the crowd where they stood. The music was loud, the audience was rowdy, but still, even at a distance, Joel could hear you as clear as day:

“Dad?!”

The man and the woman split as quickly as they could.

You were standing there, watching them watch you in utter shock for a second or two. Joel wasn’t counting, but he did find himself next to you before he could blink. He was reaching for your arm again, then stopping. Looking to his friend, whose gaze was plastered on his daughter with all the markings of awe. Embarrassment.

“Honey—” he started.

“What the fuck is this?”

Bad question. Terrible timing. Joel knew what it was—clearly his friend knew it too, but you weren’t supposed to find this out yourself for at least another month or two. That was what he’d told Joel back then, anyway.

“Sweetheart, this is my—this is Helen.”

You looked like you wanted to be sick.

“I know who she is!” you spat. You waved an angry, inarticulate hand in Helen’s direction. Helen looked away.

“Why don’t we go someplace quieter?” That was Joel, cutting in over the thumping bass and the strain in the air like he might’ve been a father to you himself. Wanting to shield you from what was coming next if he could help it.

Once more he reached for you, and still inflamed, you shoved him off. Your eyes were too hurt to turn away.

“What? This is y—your—” you started back, stammering.

“We were going to tell you, honey, I swear.”

In all the years he’d known him, Joel had never seen his friend look so contrite—or fucking moronic. The man had ditched his beer, was wringing his hands trying to pace a little more carefully your way while he spoke, but you weren’t having it. Or anything, really. When Joel brushed his touch against your elbow the slightest bit, about to murmur words low in your ear, like, ‘We’ll talk. C’mon,’ you’d jerked your arm away from him entirely.

He didn’t need to see your face to hear the pain in:

“Fucking stop, Joel!”

That caught your father off-guard. He didn’t hesitate before he cut back in, looking more pointedly at you.

“Hey. You don’t talk to your Uncle Joel that way,” he said, sharp. Joel winced. He went on, “I’m the one who told him not to say anything, okay? Now just calm down—”

And whatever effect his friend had intended to produce created just the opposite in you. Instead of focusing on your dad, your eyes shot to Joel, and in an instant, your body was turning. Your face was half-hatred as you did.

“You knew?!”

“Honey, I told him—” your dad tried saying.

But your look was too enraged. Your jaw was too tight. Your mouth could barely form the words you wanted to say, and your eyes were like two bloodied daggers. Joel was amazed you could speak a syllable at all, but when he heard it, he got a sense for why that was. He had to.

“You knew?”

You were hurt.

When you left, he followed. He wasn’t sure what he’d bothered saying to your father as he did, but it sounded like an excuse—‘It’s fine. I’ve got her.’ He didn’t, though. You were gone quicker than he could turn around, and by the time he’d made it far enough away from the crowd to yell your name, you were too removed to hear it. He saw the top of your head through a whole new cluster of strangers, and he yelled it again. You kept walking.

Joel was fast, but you were adept, all things considered. You slipped through the crowd with ease and gained more and more distance than he could attain in twice the time. Joel bit the inside of his cheek and kept going. He didn’t reach you until you were approaching the front gates, when he called out for you again, out of breath.

You probably wouldn’t have turned if you’d had a choice. But as it was, you were up against a bottleneck effect of more people trying to leave than the exit could fairly handle at once, and everyone at the back was at a standstill. Your jaw tightened when he said your name.

“Darlin’— hey— baby, just let me—” Joel had weaved his way around your neighbors, but the area was cramped.

You didn’t move. Your gaze was trained elsewhere.

“—explain. Let me explain, and I promise, I didn’t—”

The line shifted forward, and you moved with it. Your body was turned; while you kept walking, shuffling, Joel earned a few uneasy looks from the people around him.

“I didn’t mean—” he forged on.

But as soon as he reached for you, he knew he’d overstepped. Confirming every onlooker’s suspicion that you didn’t want to be disturbed, you snatched your arm away, and your eyes flared with anger. You faced him.

“Fuck you.”

Before he could reply:

“Leave me the hell alone, Joel.”

And, while the words were still fresh on your tongue and no one else tried stepping in themselves, you walked off.

You left him again—for what other place, Joel wasn’t sure. You just made off the other way, breezing past carts and stands and now-shuttered booths and more faces than either one of you could count. You kept walking until you found an open space a tolerable distance away from all the noise, then went further.

Your face was fixed in a hard, immutable stare when Joel approached you again. The look behind your eyes was worse; he could tell in a second you were about to cry.

“Darlin’—”

“You knew this whole time,” you said. Seething.

“I didn’t—”

“My dad’s been dating the woman he cheated on my mom with and you didn’t think to fucking tell me?!”

“I thought—”

“Not ONCE?! Huh?” you screamed it this time, “Known you my whole goddamn life and you hide that from me?”

Joel winced. He knew the tears were coming before they even filled your eyes, but the sight still made him hurt. You wouldn’t let him near you, either. You just shook your head and swallowed a lump and blinked hard, and he felt stupid. Whatever favor he’d thought he was doing your father—and you—seemed infinitely small to him now.

That knot you’d tried pushing down in your throat kept you silent for a minute. Joel opened his mouth to insert a word or two himself, but then you looked keen to keep hold of the conversation, no matter how much it hurt, and you were starting again. Blinking harder. Hating it.

“She’s the reason mama left,” you said, hoarse, “Helen was her best friend, and then she went and— and— and— fucked my dad, and because of that, I didn’t have a family for half my fucking adolescence. You knew that.”

Another beat. Joel’s own throat constricted considerably as he considered his next words, but there was no need.

“You saw how much I hated my father, and her, and myself for years, thinking there was something just…wrong with me not being enough to make her stay. And you knew all that, and you still kept it a secret from m—”

“I know, baby. I shouldn’t have kept it from you, I know.”

He’d also known your dad was in the wrong. That hadn’t stopped Joel from trying to rationalize his friend’s actions while they happened: it was a one-time hookup with Helen, then a casual, no-strings deal that the man only indulged when he was feeling extra lonely, then a thing, a relationship of two, three, six months now. Joel had known all along what kind of profound ramifications these decisions would have if you were to ever find out. But his friend wasn’t so easily swayed from old habits, and Joel couldn’t stomach having to break it to you.

Then the roadtrip from Boston happened.

You seemed to be remembering the same.

“Was fucking me a way to make yourself feel better?”

Your words had never struck Joel with more deliberateness or force. He croaked ‘No’ in a moment. You took a step back, and there came the look again—more spiteful than before and repulsed to its core.

“Is that why you offered me a ride back in the first place? Just felt guilty for all the stuff you knew my dad was—”

“No. No, no, honey, I would never, ever—”

“Then why hide it?! Why all this? Why bother?”

You gestured between his body and yours; you didn’t seem to know what you meant. Your cheeks were wet with tears. You had to scrape your palms down your face, sniffling and struggling to clear your own vision, but the efforts appeared to be in vain. You couldn’t stop crying.

“For you,” Joel said, and he hated the way his own voice was splintered. He didn’t know how to make it better, “You were off at school when it started, then— then Boston. Just thought it’d be safer…for you…for us—”

Somewhere in his brain, he’d meant to say that he didn’t want the news of your father to hurt you, or else jeopardize a shred of something Joel had had with you.

It was stupid. Your instantaneous reaction said as much.

“Us?!”

Joel blinked. The eyes across from his were alight.

“Us, Joel?! Are you fucking kidding me? There is no us.”

Their brilliance wasn’t appreciative by any means. If anything, the words made the flow of your tears even worse. You pressed your hands to your face, rubbing your cheeks and trying to shield your eyes, and saying again, ‘There is no ‘us,’ Joel, that’s not an excuse—you knew!’

With his insides in knots, Joel wanted to hold you again. You were still in pain, and your scowl wouldn’t move, and when he tried to touch you, you stepped back in disgust.

He knew better than to think he could reach you now.

“Whole thing was a mistake,” you spat, unfeeling.

“Baby—”

“You and me. Dad and Helen.”

“You don’t mean—”

“Anything you need to keep a secret probably isn’t worth keeping at all, right?” And when you said it, he could tell you’d meant it to hurt him. As if the tears and the time and the sheer resignation in your eyes didn’t say enough.

Now Joel felt an ache in his bones, worse than it’d ever been, and he still couldn’t touch you. Where the heart demanded comfort of a kind you couldn’t give, the head knew better than to ask, and his hands fell limply at his sides. He saw you cry and had only himself to blame.

You turned back to the fairgrounds’ exit. The crowd was as big as it had ever been, but anywhere away from him seemed to be as welcome as anything else, Joel guessed

He’d try something stupid. Again. Even more desperate.

Never in his life had he said the words to someone else, and he sensed it wouldn’t do a thing to change your mind right now, but he’d say it anyway. If not to extricate himself, to let you know what he felt beyond every thing that had taken place tonight. He reached for you again.

“Darlin’, I lov—”

But before the words could register with you, the simple act of pressing his fingers to yours made you blanch. You hadn’t heard him at all, and seemed only concerned with jerking yours away as fast as you could, then shrieking:

“I HATE YOU, JOEL!”

Then you choked back a sob, trained your glossy gaze on him in one last pitiless look, and left him. He didn’t move. He didn’t try to. Sights and sounds and the ground underneath him seemed apt to swallow him whole, and still, he couldn’t move an inch. Somewhere ahead of him—too serendipitous, really—he heard you call a name.

Of course, it wasn’t his. You weren’t running to him.

It wasn’t Joel in the crowd making its way out the gates. It wasn’t him standing a little ways off to the side, eyes wide and confused as he watched you rush over. Almost stumble over yourself falling into his arms and hugging him, burying your face in his chest. Joel watched it all with a raw and hollow heart and wished it were him.

But it was Wade.

Wade hugged you back and held you close, and the look on his face was too bewildered and distraught for Joel to blame him. He hadn’t been the one to hurt you. Joel had.

He watched you leave.

There was nothing more to say.

#HAHAHAHAHAHAHAi’mgonnashitmyselfHAHAHA #dbf!joel you will always have a special place in my heart #and my *****#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic #dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller #joel miller fic #joel tlou

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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 10 months ago

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✧ Fantasies in the dark - I

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: In which Arthur catches a glimpse of your intimacy, the vision driving him into madness until he finally decides to give in to his urges. ✦ Warnings: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Masturbation, nudity, voyeurism (reader not aware he's staring), self-depreciation, and lots of shame from this poor man. Arthur's pov. ✦ Words: 2,7k Arthur's pic is mine, others are from Pinterest. And as always, as English isn't my first language, prepare for some possible misspellings. Read on AO3

Part I - Part II - Part III

Lately, Arthur had a problem. An incessant, disturbing, haunting problem.

He couldn’t sleep at night.

This could have been related to the gang’s precarious situation, being hunted down by the Pinkertons and surrounded by enemy gangs, O’Driscolls and Lemoyne raiders everywhere. Or even because of some older wounds, the loss of Eliza and Isaac amongst others, reminded almost every day by the complicated family portrait John painted with Abigail and Jack. Or the hurtful thought of the life he never had with Mary that was always following him since he had seen her again near Valentine. Life doomed from the start by his inherent violence and the mountain of corpses he was responsible for.

Arthur had plenty of reasons not to sleep at night. But this wasn’t because of any of that.

He couldn’t sleep because of you.

Not that it was your fault. In fact, you didn’t even know about any of that and Lord have mercy, he was praying that you’ll never find out; because he would never be able to look at you in the eyes then.

A few weeks ago, the gang had settled at Clemen’s Point. A rather pretty spot just near the lake, and not so far from town. But it wasn’t exactly the place that was causing him trouble. It was the unexpected view he was having from his tent.

For some unknown, mystical reasons, Miss Grimshaw while deciding the camp’s ajancement had decided to place your tent right next to his. Not so big of a problem at first sight, right?

Except that you were a night owl combined with the suffocating warmth of the place. Making you get to bed naked.

Oh, Arthur knew you do, because every night, every single one, you let a candle lit to read, or write, or God knows what before sleeping. The light casts your shadow against the tent’s canvas. The shadow of your very much nude body.

The first night Arthur had noticed, he had come back exhausted from a job in the middle of the night and laid on his cot without even taking the time to remove his boots or hat. A very usual and typical slice of his life, which lately felt more and more like a terribly used one. As if all these slices were repeating again and again. An accumulation of jobs and missions and robberies and fights; deceiving, lying, stealing, killing. Over and over again, going round and round. At night, he was reduced to a slumbered mind in a spent body, that was definitely becoming old and rusty. Already half asleep, mud and twigs surrounding his tired limbs, his thoughts all tangled up like a ball of wool, he had turned his head to his left, reaching from instinct for his pack of cigarettes on the little table next to his bed. Another slice of bad habits from a bad life.

That’s how his eyes had met with this quite erotic shape displayed on your tent.

Said eyes had grown so big that it had fully woken him up all of a sudden, as quickly as if someone had dumped a bucket of iced water on his shocked face. After half of a second of pure stabbing surprise and incomprehension with his hand hanged in the air, his breath stuck in his throat as if really being punched in the gut, he instantly turned his eyes back to the ceiling of his own tent. Cheeks burning red, heart pounding, as if someone had caught him in the act of doing a terribly shameful thing. Exactly as if he had really seen you naked.

He had feverishly grabbed the cigarette pack without looking at it, gaze refusing to turn again, these two blue diamonds locked on the ceiling of his tent, and had messily pulled one out of it, his shaky fingers fumbling, almost spilling everything on the ground.

He must have looked so damn ridiculous.

The smoke helped him to calm down, its soothing and comforting feeling spreading and burning through his lungs. He had fallen asleep, turned to the other side facing the wagon, trying not to think too much about the peek of your intimacy he had witnessed, telling himself it probably was going to be an isolated incident.

But of course, of course the Lord had to torment him even in the rare moments of peace he could have enjoyed.

Turns out this was apparently a habit of yours.

To be honest, he probably deserved to be tormented. But this was years from what he had in mind when it came to the Lord's punishment for his life of crimes.

And Arthur, even though a hardened man in many ways, able to lock lips during torture, kill men with bare hands, and stay emotionally strong in any kind of situation, was still only, after all, a man. A man with needs.

Filthy, disgusting needs.

He had tried to resist. Had tried not to let his eyes slip in your direction like that first night. Sometimes he would allow himself a quick glance, just to check if you were wearing any clothes for once, like a normal person. And maybe the night after would be different? Every evening spent at camp, his pupils would end up brushing the sinful silhouette in just a soft, slight sight, as if not to scare you, as if not to feel too bad about it.

But it was getting harder and harder not to stare. The easy lies about just checking on you or looking at anything else in the same area as your tent to have the chance of winning a glimpse of you would soon not be enough.

Just the mere fact that he knew you were completely bare, only a few meters away from him, singly the thin and superficial fabric of the tent between the both of you, was getting him hard and sweaty, and making his blood boil as a virgin teenage boy would. He could almost physically feel it, like a burning presence in his back when he was sleeping head against the wagon's wall.

The Human mind may be well designed for a lot of things; it forgets an event too hard to carry or can trick you into thinking you're not experiencing any physical pain in extreme situations. But Arthur had learned that it was extremely poorly made when it came to ignoring something. The more he was trying to not think about his unholy urges, the more he ended up being plagued with them. As sure as the seasons always turned in circles, you would come back to his effusive psyche.

And Oh, he was ashamed. Ashamed and revolted by himself. This was absolutely not in his habits, all the contrary. Yes, he was an old miserable bastard who had killed and plundered. But for God's sake, he had never acted obscene towards a lady before.

But the shame wasn't enough for him to stop. On the nights when the guilt was at its lowest —when the tediousness of his days was nibbling at his patience, he had let his eyes wander to your sinful figure, telling himself that maybe if he did, he could just go on with his night and finally rest. Just a quick taste, not too long.

But it only made things worse. It made him dream of you.

Dream of you stripped, his imagination taking the lead of what the tent’s fabric was preventing him from seeing. Dream of you moaning, taking him so tightly, welcoming him in your warm body and into your arms. Dream of the feeling of your skin under his fingertips, of the sight of your naked body squirming with pleasure. He would now often wake up frustrated and angry, if he had succeeded in sleeping at all, his member hard and throbbing on its own, his heart beating powerfully in his chest as if it had been real. His pants and blanket had even been damped one or two times.

What was he, a fifteen-year-old boy again? He was so angry and mortified by the physical obsession his body was having with you that he was constantly in a foul and fiery mood; bitter with everyone, his tension leaking into every movement and every word he spoke. He started missing targets when shooting, getting even more reckless and hot-headed during jobs, jobs often ending up missed or taken care of negligently, yelling at people when they weren’t fast enough, or clever enough, or silent enough, breaking things, breaking rules. The lack of sleep was making his deadly efficiency fade away, replaced by sloppy and messy gestures, stopping enemies from falling dead at his feet like his lethal skills always did, castrating the only thing that was left of his masculinity.

And yet, he couldn’t stop watching you from afar during the time he was at camp, telling himself he knew, or at least had an idea, of what you looked like without these clothes on; feeling a twisted sensation of pride imagining he was the only one who did. On top of that, your sweet personality and beautiful face weren’t helping him at all with his addiction. Filthy old bastard, stop it- he had to mentally slap himself to prevent staring at you for too long, especially staring at your chest that this goddamn dress you had chosen to wear wasn’t covering at all; or your ass these goddamn pants were fitting way too well.

Tonight, Arthur is avoiding going to bed too early. He knows he would just lay in it waiting for you anyway. Instead, he goes for a walk along Flat Iron Lake’s shores, bringing his journal with him. Two entire pages are already dedicated to your shadow. He had no idea a picture exclusively made of black and white flats on a sheet could have such a powerful erotic effect. Or maybe he is a complete degenerate —which, he is sure, is more and more true.

He has to be honest with himself, he could just go to a hotel, or out of camp for a few days to sleep under the stars, and the matter would be settled.

But he doesn’t want to. Because deep down inside, his urges are winning, making him feel like the most foolish and weakest man alive. He enjoys watching you. He enjoys seeing those forbidden plumped curves cast on this canvas. He feels like you're not leaving him any mercy, pitiless, his days dictated by the wait for his taboo rendez-vous, his nights by your sensual apparitions in his dreams.

He is trapped, you have completely tamed him, and irony of it all, have absolutely no idea you are making him feel like this.

This woman is drivin' me insane.

After a few hours on the cold shore's sand, his fingers only capable of creating quick little sketches and scribbles, his feet lead him back to camp. What a surprise. He finds most of the gang's members already asleep, apart from the ones on guard duty and some late campfire enjoyers talking about life, about love, grief, the future, the past. He briefly nods at them without a word and walks to his private space. He already knows what’s waiting for him there, your tent looking like it’s still illuminated, his thoughts and body avid for it.

No, don’t be a fool, Morgan.

He sits down on his cot. Mumbles to himself orders and curses to try and stay reasonable. Takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and dirt from his busy day, as all the other ones, as always. Scratches his beard and his ears with a sniff, tells himself he needs to take a swim into that lake. That he’s as dirty on the inside as he’s on the outside. Pulls down his suspenders before stretching his shoulders, a pained groan escaping him. A cigarette joins his lips, a match lights it, and he breathes in slowly. He tries to calm down, focusing once again on this homey feeling it brings him.

But his brows furrows. His lips tighten. He knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer. He needs to sleep properly. Even being the all-mighty Titan he is, he still needs a good night of sleep from time to time to keep the engine of his body turning, and you have kept it from him for days.

He lies to himself promising this is only for his health.

That this is the only way for him to stay focused during the day; the only way to rest properly and be at his best again tomorrow.

That this will be the only time he’ll do that.

His only moment of weakness.

The still-lit cigarette and his good conscience fall to the ground as he lies on his cot, settled on his left side, his right hand already roaming on his lower belly.

His eyes drop on the scene he had fantasized about for what seems like years to him at this point.

Lord have mercy…

Your shadow looks so perfect. He takes his sweet time to notice every detail of it, enjoying to the maximum his sinful behavior, now that he had succumbed to it. How you’re laying on your back, reading your book with your legs crossed. The curvaceous shape of your body looks divine to his insatiable gaze. Your hair messily tangled around your head. The silhouette of your chin and throat making him hungrier than any feast he could have attended. Your belly, rising and falling with your chest and breasts, gives the shadow an organic appearance. Your delicate legs, from the base of your thighs to your calves, to your feet, your toes mindlessly curling as you get lost in your story. And of course, the blurry outline of what was between them…

Damn it.

His hand quickly reaches his belt, unbuckles it, fiddles with his pants, opens them carelessly in an urgent grip. He spits in his palm, lashes out at himself when the desire of it being your wetness instead crosses his mind, and slips it between the buttons of his union suit. It finally wraps around his desperate shaft, gorged with blood, and he wonders if he already had been this hard before.

The moment he feels the pressure of his own fingers around it, he can’t help but sigh deeply through his nose, and has to physically block the groan he was about to let out.

Make no noise, moron.

He bites his lips to stop any other immoral sound from crossing through his mouth. Last thing he needs right now is to get caught. He slowly rubs one languorous time from up to down, then up again, his fingers brushing his swollen head right where he needs to. He instantly knows he won’t last. He had dreamed about this, about you, both during days and nights. His eyes are locked on your tantalizing silhouette, this deiform delicious flesh. Goddess of the night, Queen of his desires.

His hand rubs once again and his muscles tighten. He starts to stroke in a rhythmic pace, his moves are efficient, messy, careless. He masturbates the same way he takes care of himself —quickly, roughly, as if matching his disgust towards his own self. The exact opposite of what he would do to you if he could. This is pure physical relief.

Yes, God, yes…

Your name turns in his mind between blasphemous curses as he pleasures himself, stroking faster and faster, delightful warm sensations spreading through him. Finally. The burning is no longer in his back or mind; it's right there around his erection, flames licking all around it.

He wants to be able to join you there, so badly. He wants to discover the tone of your bare skin in those places you never show to anyone. He wants to whisper sweet things in your ear and you to sigh back, your voice high and softly shaking from pleasure. He wants the lewd intimacy, the shared tension and the electric, exciting touch of two foreign skins discovering each other for the first time. He wants to see your hardening nipples he can only have a glimpse of through the fabric.

He wants to have you, to take you, consume you, all to himself. He wants you to think about him the same way he is now, wants you to come while thinking of him, only him, your mouth to moan, whimper, scream even, all thanks to him.

He wants your hand instead of his, around his cock right now, pressing harder, moving faster.

Yes, yes, jus’ a bit more darlin’… -

A movement from you, a real one, makes his pace slow down and his heart stops, afraid you might have by some sort of divine knowledge understood what was happening. But you’re just shifting in your bed, positioning yourself on your belly with your book open against your pillow, and Arthur’s balls spasm; he now has the most perfect view of your ass, its gorgeous, decadent round and plumped contour making his member twitch in his fist.

Ahh, shit… So god damn perfect…

Pearls of sweat leak from his forehead to his neck. His ears shut close to the outside world, his surroundings completely disappearing. Now, there’s only you and your perfect back beautifully arched ending with your perfect bottom and him, and no one else’s on Earth. His breath is jerky, his entire face completely crimson, his fingers pumping so hard and fast he’s basically fucking his hand —your hand, with those wet and unmistakable noises filling the air.

His breath speeds up as Arthur feels his deliverance coming, blood rushing in his veins. He sees himself behind you grabbing fistfuls of your cheeks, he sees his erection diving deep between them. And it's the last straw. His brows are crunched in an exquisite expression of pure sexual delight, jaws so tensed he’s about to break his teeth, your pleasure-filled voice screaming his name in his head, dragging every sensation out of him. His orgasm hit him with the strength and speed of a thunderstorm, lightning bolts of satisfaction striking every fiber of his body.

Yes! Yesss —Damnit!

He comes hard with a low and throaty growl he forgot to —or couldn't repress, silently repeating your name again and again, his lower lip almost cut open from how hard he had bit himself, an enormous vein on his forehead where sweat covers his skin. His thick, hot cum spills messily in an indecently large amount, the aftermath of having held himself back for so long, leaking on his pants and fingers and staining his cot; a dash of white contrasting with the darkness of what he just did.

He’s praying to the Lord and the Devil, any mystical forces known to man, that nobody had heard his final relief sound, especially not you. It was louder than what he would like to admit.

Shit, so damn good…

Using his black bandana, he roughly cleans himself then tosses it somewhere on the floor, his cock finally softening as he shoves it back under his clothes, balls empty. And it feels good. So good a wave of shame and guilt crashes onto him once more. What a pig he was for jerking off while ogling you. What an old bastard he was to mingle you and his filth. But at the same time, he feels like his muscles are thanking him, his restless flesh satisfied, even though he almost hurt himself with how fast he had stroked, lost in his haze.

His bittersweet and contradictory feelings accompanied him as he took a last glance at your tent before drifting off to sleep, his breathing still a bit raspy as if he had run for hours. You had closed your book and taken the candle between your hands to blow on it, the little flame flickering before fading. And then, darkness.

The curtains falling on the stage at the end of this private decadent act.

Eyelids heavy, Arthur knows he will finally sleep tonight.

But he also knows this isn’t the end of his torments at all; the conflicting thoughts paint his mind just as the sun pierces through the dark ebony clouds of a thunderstorm, creating those abruptly dazing shapes and color, pitch black laced with blinding light.

Never in this life or the Other he will forget the form of your naked body, no matter how wicked he feels. Because when it comes to you and only you, Arthur Morgan is, indeed, a very weak man.

↣ Part II

tagging : @a-court-of-valkyries and @zae-heeyyy

#hello I'm not dead #I hope you'll like this one its a bit filthy #honestly I was inspired by this very specific art piece from the wonderful Attckher if you know you know #Also should I write a little something more in which reader catches Arthur in the act? 🤭#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan rdr2 #pinefic #rdr2 fanfiction

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wosospacegirl · 2 months ago

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Brunette roots - Alexia Putellas

Summary: You love brunette Alexia, and you'll do anything to get her back

Word count: 2.6k

a/n: they could NEVER make me hate you, baby

Also last fic of the week!

The blonde was beautiful. It was hot, sexy. It made Alexia look powerful.

Alexia has had her fair share of blonde shades, going from dark blonde to bleached hair. Her blonde hair was almost like her signature by now. Some people forgot she was actually a brunette.

But you didn't. You never did.

You started dating Alexia when both of you were teens at La Masia. Alexia was serious about her football, it was her passion, it was who she was. You, not so much. You liked to play football, but that was it. Just a hobby, just something to do after school.

When it got to the point where you needed to choose between pursuing a football career or another career path, it was easy. Off to university you went. Alexia stayed, and she grew into it, winning every challenge thrown at her.

It was difficult to balance your relationship, but you guys always did.

The hardest phase of your relationship was when Alexia tore her ACL. Saying she was depressed was an understatement; she was completely devastated. Her mental state showed through her physicality, especially in her hair. She stopped dyeing it, she stopped eating.

When she got back on her feet again–literally–she was back to her old self. She got back to dyeing her hair.

You were happy and relieved that Alexia was okay again, that she was feeling like herself, but you missed the brunette so much. It not only looked beautiful on her–it made her eyes pop–but it also reminded you of the young Alexia.

The one who was sixteen when she first kissed you, the one who would pick flowers on the way to La Masia to give to you.

Blonde Alexia belonged to Barcelona, to football, to the media.

Brunette Alexia was... yours. Completely yours.

It was turning into an itch you longed to scratch.

Whenever you saw a little bit of brunette root, you had to hold yourself back from jumping on Alexia and kissing her. But then, days later, she would be back to bleaching it, and you'd be back to pouting and whining.

So you realised... all you needed was a plan. It started small, but it grew.

"Fuck!" Alexia said as she was packing her suitcase to go to yet another camp. She was looking at her watch. "You let me sleep too much! You knew I needed to dye my hair before I catch the flight."

She had a frown on her face, a small pout that she would never admit doing, on her lower lip. She was mad at you.

You had promised her to wake her up from her nap three hours ago so she could get everything ready to leave. But she was so sleepy and tired, you didn't have the heart to do it.

"Just don't dye it then," you said, giving her boots and shin pads to pack.

"But I wanted to dye my hair before going. I won't be able to do that at camp," she said, annoyed, taking her sports gear from you before closing the suitcase more aggressively than needed. "I hate when my roots are showing."

"I love when they're showing," you said teasingly. If Alexia was annoyed, you would make sure to annoy her even more.

She got riled up easily, and you liked that.

"Well, you do," she said. "Yo no!"

Alexia put the closed suitcase on the bed before heading to the big mirror in your room. "Look, it's awful." Her eyes were squinting, as if she were counting each strand of hair that needed to be dyed.

You rolled your eyes but walked toward her, hugging her from behind. "You look pretty, hair dyed or not." You kissed her neck sweetly and smiled when Alexia didn't pull away.

"I like blonde," she stated firmly, but her body language was anything but firm. She was soft now, realising that she wouldn't see you for two weeks.

"I like you whatever," you said, your cold hand making its way under her shirt before stopping at her bra.

"If you really liked me–" Alexia breathed, her body shivering when your hand found her nipple. "You would have woken me up."

You laughed a little. "Oh, are we being dramatic now, la reina?"

"Sí," she breathed, eyes closed. "You were mean to me. You promised me you would wake me up, but you didn't."

"I didn't because you looked too pretty," you said. "You can't blame me."

"I bought it," Alexia said, taking the pillows from the sofa and throwing them one by one on the floor. "I know I did. I put them in a separate bag, too."

"Alexia," you held the bridge of your nose. "The bottles of blonde dye are not under the sofa's pillows, for the love of God."

"Then where are they?" Alexia turned to you, an exasperated expression on her face.

"I don't know!" you said.

You were lying. You knew where they were: at the bottom of your office's trash. You wanted brunette Alexia back, and you were willing to do it, even if not by the most righteous of ways.

"I haven't dyed my hair in two months," Alexia said angrily, sitting beside you on the loveseat and wrapping an arm around your waist, bringing you closer. "This is my first day off... I wanted to finally dye it!"

You put the book you were reading aside and lifted your head to look at her. "Do you hear how ridiculous you sound? You have a full day off in sixty days and you want to spend it dyeing your hair rather than being with your wife?"

Alexia was silent as you began kissing her jaw.

"I'm still spending time with you, though," Alexia said, tilting her neck to the side so you would have more room to kiss.

"Uh huh," you shook your head. "You spent the last thirty minutes looking for a bottle of bleach when you could've spent it with me... that's thirty fewer minutes of our life that were thrown in the trash."

"Don't be so manipulative," Alexia mumbled, holding your body so you were straddling her.

"But you like it," you whispered against the skin of her cheek.

"Yes, I do," she agreed eagerly as you slipped your tongue inside her mouth, kissing her deeply.

"Ale, come here," you said as you sat on the other end of the sofa. Alexia was playing FIFA.

"Un momento," she said without looking at you. "Almost done."

You waited while flipping through the pages of the very new and handmade album you had just finished. It took you a few weeks, but it was finally done.

When Alexia scored a goal–really Alexia, because her game character was the one who scored–she closed the game and sat beside you, kissing the top of your head.

"What do you have there?" she said, curious eyes gazing at the photography album opened on your lap.

"Just a little thing I've done for Valentine's Day," you said. "Take it as an early gift."

You handed it to her, watching as she flipped through the pages. They were filled with pictures of you two.

It began with you and Alexia at thirteen, both too small in Barcelona's jersey. Alexia's hair was cut very unevenly, she had told you her mom was mad about that. You said she looked cool. That's when your friendship started.

There were pictures of games you shared together, both of you playing for Catalunya under-15s, then more pictures of you dating. Alexia kissed your cheek when you were both sixteen.

"This is so beautiful, amor," Alexia said. "You did it yourself?" she asked.

You nodded, smiling. "Yes, I asked our moms if they had pictures of us when we were younger."

"I love it, thank you," Alexia said. "We were so young."

"Yes, literal kids," you said.

You did the photography album because you knew Alexia would like it, yes. You didn't have millions of dollars to give Alexia an expensive gift, actually, you did, because Alexia's bank account was your own, but you didn't like to use it. Instead, you wanted to create something intimate, something meaningful to give to her, something only you could make.

But this wasn't the only reason. You wanted to show–very subtly–how much you loved her brunette hair, wanted Alexia to associate her brunette hair with the first few years of when you started dating.

Some would call it emotional manipulation. You just called it psychology.

Well, psychology didn't work.

Alexia kept buying bottles of bleach, and you kept throwing them away, while very artistically pretending not to know where they were as you helped her search the whole house for them.

Your last plan was something, between the lines, criminal.

You started to pretend to be someone else.

Yes, you weren't proud of it. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

When Alexia would mention she was going to book an appointment to dye or bleach her hair at a salon, you were faster. You would call all the salons you knew Alexia could go to and book appointments during all of Alexia's possible free time.

"This is the fifth salon already!" Alexia complained while eating the fruit salad you had just given her.

"What?" you asked as you were making coffee for both of you.

"Somehow all the salons that specialise in blonde hair are fully booked today," she grumbled, taking a bite of a strawberry. "That can't be normal! I even said they could book me during lunch, and even that time slot had someone already booked."

"Oh," you said in faux pity. "That is so sad, baby."

You were beaming on the inside.

"I think I'll need to go to France to get my hair blonde again," she said.

Oh no, you thought to yourself. Another crime you would have to commit: steal somebody's passport

Alexia didn't go to France, but she did find herself a salon in Madrid, of all places. She told you the night before that she was catching a flight to go there, but that she would be back the next day. She was literally just making the trip to get her hair done.

You, of course, couldn't let that happen. Her roots were almost at eye level now—the brunette was coming out beautifully.

When she had her small backpack ready, that's when you began your show.

You lay down on the sofa, legs pressed against your chest, pout on your face. You didn't call Alexia, you didn't need to. She was by your side the moment she noticed you were in pain.

"Hey, princesa," she said worriedly. "What happened?" Alexia was kneeling on the couch, her backpack long forgotten somewhere by the door. Her flight was in one hour, and she would still have to get through Barcelona's traffic. You needed to keep her with you for at least half an hour.

"Cramps," you said, pout on your face. "Got my period this morning."

Alexia looked at you, confused. "Your period? What do you mean? You were on your period two weeks ago."

You almost rolled your eyes. Why did Alexia have to remember everything?

"Well…" you said, trying to think of some excuse. "Guess my hormones are all wrong. My period has been irregular for a few months now."

"It has?" Alexia tilted her head. "Why didn't you tell me? I can book a doctor's appointment for you."

"It's okay–"

"No," Alexia said. "I'm booking a gynaecologist for you tomorrow, sí? Maybe they can get you on the pill. You can't be having two periods a month…you'll get anaemic."

You wanted to hold Alexia, tell her to stay with you, but she was already up. For a moment, you got scared that she was leaving for the airport. But she wasn't.

"I'm going to the pharmacy," she said, hand brushing your cheek gently. "Gonna get some ibuprofen and some iron pills."

You froze. Alexia was taking this too seriously. You didn't need any medicine. Hell, you weren't even on your period, you just wanted a reason for her to stay home and not dye her hair.

"No, Ale, it's alright. Just stay with me."

But Alexia thought she was the one responsible for fixing everything. Of course, she went to the pharmacy like her life and dignity depended on it.

In the end, you had to take two ibuprofen pills that day, plus iron pills for a week, and go to the doctor Alexia had booked for you.

But hey, at least Alexia's roots were growing during that time.

At the end, you didn't need to formulate any more elaborate plans. It was Tuesday night, and Alexia had come home after a long day at training.

Her hair was now half brunette. You had worked hard enough that Alexia wasn't able to dye it, even if she wanted it a lot.

Alexia walked into your shared bedroom. She looked different, like she had something to say. You knew that look very well, it was the same look the same look she got when she was thinking of something for a long period of time and had finally made up her mind.

"I'm not dyeing my hair anymore," she said, just like that.

She dropped her body on the bed like a starfish. On a normal day, you would smack her arm playfully and tell her not to lie on the bed with her training jersey filled with grass, but you were completely caught off guard.

Alexia's words felt like an angel had just materialised in your room, telling you your biggest dream would come true.

You looked up from your laptop, where you were definitely not researching how to sabotage a bottle of bleach to make the hair of whoever uses it darker.

"What?"

"Yeah..." she said, looking at you, a small smile on her face.

She wasn't necessarily close, your feet were just touching her torso from the way she was lying, but you could smell her post-training scent, the smell of the deodorant she uses.

You couldn't help but peek at her little brunette roots that were getting longer every day.

"I'm letting it grow out–" she stated.

Why? You wanted to ask, but you were scared that if you said anything, she might change her mind. So you just stared at her, trying not to smile too big, trying to keep casual. You let her talk.

"--because," she said quietly, and then, in an instant, she got up and pulled the photography album from the little drawer on your nightstand. She began flipping through the pages.

"I was seeing these pictures again the other day, and realised how cute I looked with brunette hair. It makes me look younger, I think."

Your heart was doing something weird in your chest.

"And also," she continued, and there was this little smirk on her face, "because I know you've been throwing away my hair dye, amor."

Shit. Your face went hot. Your heart was beating faster, but not because of her brunette roots, but from nervousness. You were caught.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, avoiding eye contact.

"Mhmm." She moved closer, her voice dropping. "And booking appointments at every salon in Barcelona under fake names."

You opened your mouth to deny it, but she put her finger against your lips.

"I'm not mad," she said. "Actually... It's kind of hot how obsessed you are with my hair."

"So you're really going to let it grow out?" you whispered against her finger.

"Sí," she said, settling against you, her head on your shoulder. "Blonde Alexia can take a vacation, don't you think?"

You nodded eagerly, wrapping your arms around her and kissing the top of her head, breathing in her hair, already imagining how perfect she was going to look in a few months when all the blonde was gone.

"Te amo," you whispered.

"Te amo también," she replied. "Even though you're completely loca."

a/n: i had so so so much fun writing thisss!! <3

#woso x reader #woso fanfic #alexia putellas #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas writing

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bluetimeombre · 1 year ago

Text

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ And I wouldn't marry me, either.

You were Azriel's mate, but it took losing you three times for him to realise.

[this is long. i'm talking 5k words long so i've split it into two parts. anyway, azriel is the best bat boy and no i won't hear anyone out. i'm so excited to write for him and hope you enjoy. it's very angsty but that's what i love. i hope i can write more for him and maybe other characters if you like. it's been a while since i've actually read the series so if any information is wrong, do let me know. also it was my first time using the term y/n and yes, i cringed NOT PROOF READ... enjoy]

warnings: references to sexual assault and references to suicide. nothing explicit but please don't read if this is sensitive to you.

Part 2 soon…

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The first, was the worst...

You were Rhys's half sister, the bastard daughter of his father. But when your mother had died giving birth to you, Rhysand's mother took you in and raised you with your brother and sister. You were so little and adorable that your sister loved you at once. Rhys did to, at some point of your life, you were sure he actually cared about you.

But when his mother and sister had died, his eyes shifted, he started to look at you with contempt. After all, you were only his half-sister. The worst half. He only kept you around because it's what his mother would have wanted.

And because there was no way Cassian and Azriel would ever let anything happen to you.

Besides, Rhysand knew when to use you.

Although Azriel was his spymaster, you were pretty good at staying swift-footed too. And you were frankly, very terrifying when you wanted to be.

You tread with power through the war camps, all of them looking at you as you went. All of their gazes wrecked with a predatory gaze. They either wanted to have their way with you, or kill you. Or both.

Rhys had said you could handle it, it was only supposed to be a check in. Cassian hadn't liked it, neither had Mor but it was Azriel who had almost- and for the first time- disobeyed his high lord to accompany you. But no, your brother wanted you to do this alone, so alone you would.

Just to show him you could.

'I can come with you,' Azriel had said, standing in your room as you tied your boots up. 'I won't even have to be seen.' At that, his shadows wrapped up your calf.

You smiled at them, as if they were his own pet. 'I'll manage just fine. Besides, i'm sure that's what Rhys wants, me needing a man.'

It had done nothing to calm your friend. The worry was still stuck between his brows, marring his handsome features. You'd held his cheeks, your wings hiding the two of you. His large ones (enough to swallow the both of you) over-lapped yours.

It was the last time you'd feel your wings.

The war camp wasn't as easy as you'd hoped. It was terror and horror in a place. You'd been to the court of nightmares, you'd gone to the slaughter of the spring court after they killed your family. But this, this was hell of another kind.

You had no idea how many days you'd been locked up, wrists bound in chains and hanging from the cell roof above you. Blood rolled down your arms from the force you'd tried to use to get them out. Your eye was swollen shut and your body trembled in pain.

All because they wanted to know your brothers secrets, and you wouldn't budge.

Your check was only supposed to be a day, but you were sure it had been longer. Days of endless pain and torture. Your uniform hung in rags of stripped material, your hair matted with blood and hiding your face.

You'd used the last of your energy to keep your walls up. You weren't anyone's mate, you didn't have anyone on the other end trying to feel what you felt. But should Rhys come looking (though you doubted it) you didn't want him to feel it. You didn't want anyone in your mind.

The gates opened with a sickening clash.

One of the Illyrian's knelt in front of you, his wings hiding those coming in behind you. 'Listen sweetheart. I don't want to make this any harder than it's about to get. All you have to do is tell us your brother's hide outs.'

You grit your teeth, staring down at the ground.

'So loyal, to a man who doesn't care if you live or die.'

Suddenly, your wings twitched as hands grasped them. Brute hands, the sort you wouldn't want touching any part of you.

Fear spiked in you, horror twisting your gut. 'What are you doing?'

'I told you I didn't want to get things messier, darling.'

You whipped your head from side to side, trying and failing to get a look at the assailants behind you. Your wings were being held apart, no matter how hard you tried to bat them away. You knew the sort of people they were, and what they did to girls like you.

That's when the begging started. 'No, no please. Anything. I'll do anything! Beat me, kill me, rape me, not my wings, please!'

'Anything?' the bastard asked, tongue poking out from his lips. 'Then tell me where your lord's hideouts are?'

You should betray him, you thought. He would never lose his wings for you. Perhaps it was stubbornness that kept you from, or maybe you were clinging to the last bit of love you want from him.

The bastard scoffed, 'anything, she says. Your brother has his own bitch wrapped around his finger.'

That's when they started hacking at your wings.

Your screams tore through your throat, blood spitting and dripping down your chin. Tears soon joined when they hacked away at the bone, the membrane, the flesh of it all. The three of them worked through your screams and your tears and your pain, tearing and cutting at it like it was nothing more than paper.

Not your whole life.

Let them hear you. You hoped your brother heard you, you hoped all and every court heard the pain.

Eventually, even you couldn't keep screaming. The only sound was the hacking away at your wings and the drops of blood.

'Now look at these beauties. I've got a perfect spot on my wall for these.'

They left you after that. There wasn't much more damage they could do. It already felt like they'd destroyed your life. You had never really thought about your wings, they were just part of you, as much as your wit or hair was. But they'd took it and now, you felt empty. Never would you fly with Azriel again, or use your wings to smack Cassian over the head.

Rhys, your dear brother, had took that from you.

The days blended in together after that. You were pooled in your own tears and blood, vomiting up anything they forced down your throat. No, they'd made it very clear they didn't want you dead. They just took pride in making it feel like you were.

At some point, you'd stopped reacting to the gate opening. You let them do whatever they wanted with you. Your wrists were still chained, arms still hanging up, your clothes hanging on your thin body in strips of dirt.

'No...' you heard a mumble. 'What have they done to you?'

Suddenly, the chains gave way and you lurched forward, with no strength to catch you. Luckily, you didn't have to, as strong and warm arms pulled you into his chest.

'Hey, wake up, look at me, dammit.'

Azriel.

You'd know the voice in the darkest days, in the pit of your worst nightmare you'd know.

You try to speak but your head's heavy, your lips are stone and your arms can't lift to hold onto him. You're exhausted, you're dying. The only thing you could do use all your strength to try to open your eyes.

'Please, please, look at me. You have to look at me,'

You were trying, you wanted to tell hm, snap at him, but you couldn't.

You felt Azriel shake, or maybe you were. Then, there was wet drops landing on your cheeks- you flinched.

'I'm sorry, i'm sorry. Rhys! Rhys! hurry up, please!' he was screaming. You'd never heard him scream before.

You heard the rush of feet at the cell doors, you knew it was your brother. You knew it from the presence of him, from the shuffling of feet and chocked sob. Your brother didn't cry, least of all for you.

'Her wings, oh mother, her wings,' said Azriel, his voice barley above that of a whisper.

Your wings. You didn't need reminding. They were gone, long and far gone. You were without a part of you, the very part of your soul that loved to be free. Never would you watch the stars up close or fly over everyone. Never race Cassian or make jokes with Az.

No, this would destroy you.

'y/n,' your half-brother called. 'No, y/n. Can you hear me?'

Your lips parted, mumbling. 'Hurts.'

Azriel's grip on you tightened. 'I know, we're gonna get you out of here, just hold on for me.'

You wanted to tell him you would hold on, you'd always need to hold on to him. That, no matter what he asks, you'd do it. To kill, to live, to breathe, to die.

And that's when it clicked. Amongst all the pain and the doubt. In your blood soaked clothes. In the fear you wouldn't make it, there was a tug. Weak and one-sided, but there. You knew you'd be safe with Azriel, knew you would always be with him.

Mate.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The pain subsided to a dull ache, there and beating but not excruciating. You were warm and covered in a soft material. Nothing like the cell you'd been kept in. Your fingertips sunk into something soft- a bed. Your bed. It was familiar in its lavender scent to you and the silk wrapped around you gave you some semblance of warmth.

Your wings.

Even coming to consciousness was difficult. You were exhausted but light, without the weight of wings holding you down. You'd never realised how much you needed to feel that weight, to feel pulled down in order to be free.

Gone, all gone.

Your hand twitches around something cold, a shadow holding your hand, creeping up your side.

'You're awake, thank the couldron.'

It wasn't Azriel, master of the shadows. It wasn't your mate. Mate. The word replayed like a terrible song in your mind.

How dare the mother do this to Az. How dare he- nothing but loyal and kind- get stuck with a person made in darkness, who bled shadows, who's heart was so full of hate there wasn't room for love. They'd cursed Az, with you.

But luckily it wasn't him, it was Rhysand.

'It really happened,' you whispered, voice hurting from the screams.

He sighed. 'I'm sorry, i'm so sorry. We-we thought you weren't going to make it, you'd lost so much blood.'

In spite of the pain in your shoulders, you made a shift, turning from him as he ranted on about your condition.

'y/n... sister, please,' he said. He'd never called you sister before. He'd always been content to treat you just like you worked for him.

'Leave me alone.' you couldn't bare to look at him, couldn't bare to face him. The shadows at your hand grew heavier, as if more were piling on. You stretched your fingers away from them, trying to get them off you.

'Are you in any pain?' asked Rhys.

'Get out,' you mumbled.

The end of your bed dipped where Rhys settled, hand splayed on the covers, begging for your hand. 'y/n.'

'Get out!' you snapped, body tense and straining. You felt your wounds open up, blood wetting the bandage around you. But you didn't care. You'd happily bleed if you couldn't fly. A part of you, sick part of you wanted to be left there. It would be better than false sympathy.

Be better than your mate being disgusted.

'Get out!' you yelled again, voice tearing through an aching throat.

'I just want to help you! please, let me help you!' said Rhys, standing from your bed and walking around, trying to face you.

'I don't want your help!' you screamed. You reached for the closest thing you could, a jug of water and chucked it toward him. You aim was terrible, marred with pain and exhaustion. 'Get out!'

Though hesitant, Rhysand slowly started walking back to your door. He did it all looking at you, his hands out to show he wasn't gonna hurt you, but you didn't care. You went for the glasses next and chucked them but they landed against the door which he disappeared through.

Before it slid close you caught sight of Cassian , Mor and Azriel. All crowded, all waiting to see you.

You'd be happy if you never let them see you again.

'Can we see her?' you hear Mor ask.

'Give her time,' said Rhys.

The shadows at your hand grew heavier, darker, tighter.

'Go away!' you yelled at them. To anyone else, you probably looked crazy, screaming to darkness. But the shadows understood. They departed, slithering away and under the crack of your door where you could see the shadows of feet.

Tumbling from bed, you stumbled over and locked the door, leaning on it to and catching your breath. Your nightgown was starting to get sticky with blood all over again. When you closed your eyes, you pictured the cell, the rough hands holding you down, the chain keeping you up.

And the pain, it all washed over you. The hacking at your back, the sting of a slap. It hit you like a tone of bricks as you slid to the floor.

There was a knock, rattling the door.

'y/n,' Cassian. 'Please let us in.'

Us. You felt him on the other side. Your mate, his presence lingering. His shadows under the door, wanting to come in but keeping their distance.

He didn't know. It hadn't snapped for him, you could tell. It was one tug on your end, a chord in your heart. At least he couldn't feel what you did. At least you could shoulder it alone.

'Please.' his voice was almost your un-doing. He sounded so sad, so desperate. It hurt you just to think you were hurting him.

Tears streamed down your face as your curled your fingers into a tight fist. You assumed Mor had left with Rhys, leaving you there with the males.

Cass was always like a brother to you. Granted- a brother you had slept with once or twice- but he was your best friend. You'd always been close to him. But you'd always been good, a happy person.

You couldn't be that for them now, perhaps ever again.

It lasted like that for hours. Cassian and Az begging to come in, you curling into a ball with tears down your cheeks and blood down your back.

Eventually, they gave up. You couldn't hear them anymore and the shadows of their boots had disappeared.

Except Azriel's shadows that still lingered under your door. Maybe he'd ordered them to be there while they left you.

Eventually, you managed to find your footing on shaking legs. Your room was large, one of the largest. It was just as much a mess as it was when you'd left for you mission, clothes thrown over the place, books propped open on the pages you'd left them on. Everything was the same but could never be again.

It took you longer than you'd care to admit to get to your windows and throw the curtains close. Candles light at your request, the house looking after you as it had since you were a child.

You caught sight of yourself in the full length mirror. It seemed smaller, everything in the room felt too large and you too small, as if you were being swallowed by the expanse of it.

Your frame was small in the mirror, your hair disarrayed. Your eyes were red and shutting of their own accord from the tears that had drained you. The starving in the cells had made you look weak, made you feel weak.

And your back. There was no more looming black figures there, no more fluttering. There was just nothing. In spite of the ache as you lifted your arm, you felt around your back, feeling the hitch there, the lump from where they'd been torn from you.

You cry. You sob. You scream.

The scars were long and the nightdress was sticking to you by the blood you'd shed. All you could do, was hold yourself up as your body wracked with tears.

A breeze came from your windows, shadows tugging at the curtains.

You felt him before you saw him. You wanted to tell him to leave you but you couldn't talk without chocking. Without feeling like you couldn't breath.

Azriel had you in your arms before your knees could hit the ground. He fell with you, softening your body on the floor. His arms held you into his chest, his legs caging you into his body. His head rested on yours as he held you. He didn't try to talk, he didn't try to help. It was just him, you and his shadows.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Azriel remembered dozing off with you, his head on yours. His arms holding you into him, as if it was up to him to keep the sadness away and take it for you.

Afterall, you were his best friend. He should have been there for you, and he'd failed terribly by letting you get hurt and your wings stolen from you. He could hate himself every day for it, for letting you down. But it would never amount to what you felt for yourself and that killed him.

He could see it in the way you cried, in the way you were already keeping everyone out. He'd rather die than let you go through all the pain alone.

When his hands had been scarred by his brothers, you'd help heal him, tell him about everything he still was and all the power he still held in his hands. In the worst days, when he didn't let anyone touch him, he let you.

It was always you.

Azriel wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, or how deep. He was sure he was still with you, still in your bed.

His shadows crept up on him, engulfing him slowly and whispering to him. Your name, just your name on repeat. It was enough to lull him back into sleep, to keep him calm.

Gone. Missing. y'n. Roof.

He shot up and ran fastest than he ever had in his life. It was as if he'd never been asleep but had been fighting a battle with the way he raced over.

He burst through the doors, the cold hight air hitting him.

You stood facing the stars, your bloody back to him. It wasn't as much blood as when he'd found you, but it was still enough to put a lump in his throat.

Immediately his shadows fell to you, cascading down your body and wrapping around your waist. There was a breeze in the air, pushing your hair back and exposing more signs of the pain and torture you must have gone through.

'I'm not gonna jump, if that's what you're thinking,' you said. You didn't even have to turn to him. The shadows probably told you enough.

'Why are you up here?' he asked, walking to you slowly and with careful steps. As if every step closer could you push you away from him.

'I'll never feel the win properly again,' you answered.

Azriel gulped down his own pain. You’d never sounded so small. ‘Can you get away from the ledge?’

'I'm not on the ledge.'

'You're too close for my liking.'

'Leave if you don't like it.'

'Don't do this,' he said.

'Do what?' you asked, folding your arms over your chest. You were cold, out in the hight but you wanted to see the stars. Needed to see them.

'Make me leave. Make everyone leave you. I know that's what you're doing. It's what you do every time,' you could feel him dawning closer. His shadows were all around you, almost drowning you.

‘Every time,’ you scoff, stepping down and turning on him. ‘It’s not every day you lose your wings Azriel! But don’t let me stop you from leaving, flap them and go!’ You yelled, unable to stop yourself, no matter how hard you tried. You didn’t want to hurt him, you just wanted to be alone.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

'You jump and I’ll catch you,' he said. He was a step away, he could just reach out and touch, just a gentle caress. 'I swear it, whatever you do, I’ll follow. I’m not letting you get away.’

He watched your back shudder as he reached out, brushing knuckles against your shoulder blade. He heard your sharp inhale follow.

'Don’t think I won’t follow, y/n.'

Finally, you turned around in his shadows. You couldn’t meet his eyes but at least you could face his chest.

His hands were gentle on your shoulder as he rubbed it gently. 'Can I get Madja to clean you up?' He asked.

You nodded as he led you away. You truly did not deserve your mate.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Fifty-two years later...

When Amarantha had trapped the high lords of Prythian under the mountain, it hadn't be a conscious choice to follow your half-brother down. How Amarantha had allowed it, you weren't sure, but perhaps she wanted to use you just like her brother, or she thought it would bring more pain for him to see you suffer under there too.

You and Rhysand had barley spoke the last two years.

It had took you almost two months to heal fully enough to leave your room, another few months to face your family again. But even then, everyone knew something had changed in you. You didn't laugh as loud or smile as wide.

Rhysand was careful to ever let you out on a mission. Mor tried to take you out every night. Cassian spent all day every day with you and Azriel- he'd healed you better than any nurse.

Still, you had not told him he was your mate.

Still, you thought he wouldn't want it.

Still, you cared for your brother enough to not want him to go alone.

But being under the mountain, you could avoid your mate. At a painful price.

Until her. Rhys's mate. He hadn't shut up about her since he first met her, much to your dismay as you had to sit around and listen- having absolutely nothing better to do. And it only got worse when she turned up under the mountain. She was declaring her love for Tamlin- again, annoying your brother, and throwing Lucien into danger- which rather angered you. You had nothing against the ginger.

Rhysand had once sent you to find the girl to summon her as part of a bargain he'd made. He didn't want to go, he didn't want to look too forceful. You'd been lucky enough to find the two tangled up in each other against a cold wall, clothes ripped and hips moving together.

'Well, well well,' you'd intterupted.

Tamlin all but growled at you, but feyre was looking over you- evidently confused. She had no idea who you were. You, in your skimpy outfit that Amarantha kept you in (they all dipped low at your back, showing off your scars) and your eyes that were like a night sky.

'Amarantha's looking for her pet and Rhysand is looking for his. Honestly, i'd be a bit more worried if I were you. You know, considering Lucien still has an eye to lose.'

The two parted with your words as you sent Tamlin back to his master, the high lord glaring at you as you went. While Feyre tried to fix herself.

'Rhysand is over there, better not keep him waiting.' That was the first time you met her, having no idea how much trouble she'd be worth. The family that she'd become.

But Rhysand made sure you knew it all. From when the bond snapped in him and he'd stumbled. He ranted and ranted as they climbed out.

If only you were so talkative about Azriel. If only you could talk about him with your brother. But you'd tried not to painfully think about him. Climbing out of the mountain. It was all you could think of.

Maybe he'd have forgotten you? it had been fifty years. He'd probably realised how happy he could be without having to take care of you.

Rhys was allowed out of the mountain, he'd felt the breeze in his hair but you hadn't in fifty long years. You stood there a moment, bathing in the warmth as everyone left, as everyone ran off for their families and courts and the war that was inevitable. Eventually, Rhys offered you his arm. 'Shall we go home?'

He winnowed you there, on the balcony of your home. In a cloud of black smoke, the two of you appeared.

He went first, slipping through the doors slowly- like it could all be taken from them any minute.

You were hesitant, taking a moment to glance at the landscape behind you. It hadn't changed, not at all. The mountains were still there, everyone was still alive. Your home. In the last years it hadn't felt like home, but how could anywhere ever feel so close in your heart.

When you could find your feat again, you managed to slip through the doors. You were suddenly aware of how little clothing you were wearing, just enough to cover your chest and run down your legs. A chill settled down your back, your scars would be on show. What a way to great them all after fifty years.

Mor had her arms around Rhys's shoulders, crying into his shoulder.

Behind them you caught Amren, with something like tears in her eyes. You were just about to tease her before a body barrelled into yours in a blur of red syphons and your feet were lifted from the ground.

'Cassian.'

His arms tightened around you. You shoulder started to dampen with tears, his tears. The last time you'd seen him cry around you was when he'd seen a dog with only three legs. 'I'm keeping you on a leash from now on, stupid idiot.'

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, a smile gracing your lips. 'Is that a promise?'

He held you longer, tighter, not daring to let you go but at least settling you on the ground. He sighed against your head, controlling himself. 'He's missed you, you know,' he said. He was the only one you'd told, about your mate. 'Now that you're back, tell him. He deserves to know.'

Cassian slowly pulled away, holding you at arms length and smiling at you. He kissed your cheeks and then your forehead before parting to Rhysand.

Mor approached you next, slapping you in the arm.

'Ow!'

'Why would you follow him?' she snapped.

You blinked at her before she took you by the arm she'd slapped and embraced you, like a sister would. You dared not looking over her shoulder to find the one who hadn't come to you. Maybe Cass had got it wrong...

Mor pulled away, wiping at her eyes.

Azriel was as beautiful as the day you left him. His hair was the same length, he was the same height. He was just as you left him. It was hard to tell fifty years had passed on him.

And inside of you, tugging in your soul and heart you felt the familiar string of gold throbbing. But you still didn't feel that tug. You'd hoped it would have faded from you after half a year separated. Or at least have snapped for him. But no such relief.

He approached you, slowly. As if he was scared of scaring you away. But you just stood there.

His arms were delicate and soft around you as he brought you into his chest. He still smelled the same, cedar wood and shadows. Shadows that wrapped around you, shielding you from the rest of the room. They caressed you, head to two.

You held onto each other for what could have been another fifty years, but this time, it wasn't so painful.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Although nobody wanted to part after yours and Rhysand's return, you were exhausted. A trip to Rita's could wait another night or two. The only thing you wanted to do was hide in your room.

Strangely, your room looked lived in. As if somebody had moved in since you'd left. A moment of anger replaced grief. Had they brought someone else and given them your room? but then you smelt it, Az.

Lying in bed that night, exhausted, you couldn't find sleep. You closed your eyes and pictured Amarantha. You'd never been afraid of her, you weren't afraid of anything. But you re-played the horrors. Watching servants beat Feyre, watching Amarantha use your brother and on the occasion, even you. How she flaunted. How the most powerful lords were weak.

Under your door, shadows seeped in, rushing across the room to you. You smiled, watching your hand disappear in their darkness.

'Azriel?' you called.

There was shifting on the other side of the door before he slipped in, clicking it shut behind him.

You sat up in bed, shadows moving with you. 'Couldn't sleep?'

He wondered in, looking around your room. 'Sleeping's been... hard.'

You rolled over, opening the blanket and nodding your head. You couldn't think about the bond, not yet. Not while he looked so.... ruined. Beautiful- the most beautiful person in the world, but sad. As he climbed in next to you, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders slumped and his wings too.

His eyes scanned over you. You were in a thin and silk night dress that only brushed your knees, but the way he looked at you, mother you could've been naked. 'Fifty years,' his voice sounded barley controlled. 'Fifty years. You followed your brother down for fifty years? Why would you do that?'

You gulp. 'I would've done it for any of you. Except maybe Amren, she'd probably enjoy the peace for fifty years.'

You go to brush your hair back but Azriel seizes your wrist. He was angry. That's why his voice was rough and his chest rising and falling with barley controlled emotions. Could he feel it? your nerves, your lying?

'You left. You should've stayed, y/n, you know Rhysand didn't want you under there with him,' he said. 'For fifty years I haven't been able to sleep through a night thinking about the pain you must have been going through. After I swore to keep you safe, after I promised to catch you every time!'

'You couldn't have stopped me. You didn't promise, Az.'

His grip grew tighter. 'It went without saying.'

You looked around his eyes, seeing the pain and grief there also. Slowly, you brought your other hand up. He flinched as you took his cheek but eventually settled as your thumb ran over his cheekbone. 'I won't leave again, ok? I promise.'

He gulped, letting go of your wrist and looking down. 'I slept here,' he mumbled, but just loud enough to hear you. 'I couldn't sleep in my room. This was the only place I could rest.'

Your heart stuttered. Your hand dropped from his cheek. This man was your mate. Your mate. Your only love, whether or not the cauldron deemed it.

Azriel took your hesitation. 'I-i'm sorry, you probably didn't want to hear that. I've probably ruined your one place of peace-'

'Stay,' you said, before you could think of what you were asking. 'Sleeping wasn't exactly easy under the mountain either. I just trust I won't have to put a wall of cushions between us.' as if you wanted that. As if you haven't thought about his calloused hands all over you.

Azriel smiled and stayed the night.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The third time he almost lost you, broke him...

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

#acotar #azriel #cassian #rhysand #rhys acotar #feyre archeron #tamlin #lucien vanserra #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x female!reader #cassian x reader #books and reading #booktok #angst #azriel x cassian x reader

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stottlemorgan · 3 months ago

Text

A Dog is a Dog

Pairing: Low Honour Arthur Morgan x Female Reader. Summary: Arthur returns to camp in the middle of the night after being gone for weeks. Will this time be any different? Tags: Smut, 18+, MDNI! Angst within smut. P in v mostly, kissing, grinding, Arthur bring a rude bastard and not in a fun way. He's a little bit pushy and very aloof. Word count: 4,250. Author’s Note: This fic is purely self-indulgent but after posting snippets, I've had people very interested in it, so thank you my loves! <3 I'm not suuuuper enthralled by parts of it but my enthusiasm at my own writing tends to wax and wane quite rapidly. I hope you enjoy, my dears. Ao3 Link. All photos above are sourced from Pinterest.

Blankets and pillows unbelonging to you grow heavy with the floral musk of your sheened skin in the early summer warmth. Yet another sennight has passed and the cot you doze in feels as though it belongs less and less to the man who owns it. Days spent growing quieter with each morning that you wake alone; your stomach clenching alongside your fists as you anticipate the abrupt return of the wild dog who has so firmly locked his jaws into your rump.

The camp is draped in a slumbersome blanket of indigo; the communal campfire bidding the previous day a farewell with its last lingering smoulder. The warm whispering breeze weaves between the strong legs of a Hungarian Thoroughbred as it slows to a thumping trot before halting, followed by equally heavy boots meeting the dirt. The clunk of spurs and the whip of reins being thrown over a hitching post disquiets the still night air. Two firm pats to the horse’s neck sound out as a hand sinks into the satchel at its side, retrieving an apple and guiding it to the horse’s mouth with a satisfying crunch. Steady steps soon follow, working a purposeful path through the camp and into the tent where you lay amidst your dreams.

“Girl.”

A baritone voice grates through the gentle sough of the soft summer wind and your sleepy breaths.

“Girl.”

The word is reiterated, low and impatient as hands move to pull off boots, dropping them loudly one after the other. A brief furrow of your brow is met with a deep nasal huff and a palm coming to roughly shove your shoulder, “Up.” Another shove of your shoulder streamlines your senses further. Blurs of bronze and blue blend through your fluttering lashes as you stir. Your upper lip curls, a weak grumble croaking through your throat. Yet another rude shove into your arm strengthens your gentle grousing into a truculent groan. The rustling of the sheets as you turn over toward the object of your annoyance clashes uglily with the shucking off and discarding of a jacket.

“Mmhn– Arthur?” You rasp, inhaling deeply, your hands coming up to rub some focus into your vision before your muscles tingle with the urge to stretch. A slow shudder streams up through your body as you reach above your head, your back and hips arcing. As a quiet strained sound leaves you, your blinking eyes are greeted with the sight of Arthur unbuttoning and pulling off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor.

Through the dim and fuzzy night, you drowsily register the soft and strong shapes of his body. The faint gleam to his unwashed skin, the hug of his jeans around his thighs as he pushes his hips forward to unfasten his gun belt and lets it drop with a clank. The slight plushness of his stomach that bunches at the waistband of his jeans as he takes a hefty seat on the cot beside you. The warm, thick veins that snake through the skin of his hands and arms as he unbuttons his jeans with one hand and reaches out with the other to palm greedily at your hip through the blanket before moving to your waist, then your breasts. A surprised, shaky gasp fills your lungs and he subtly responds with a low hum as he clumsily lifts his hips, yanking his jeans and drawers down in a few jagged motions before kicking them off to the floor. You bring your hands down to bat his away but it quickly moves from your chest to pull the blanket draped over you down, his eyes trailing over your wrinkled chemise.

He shifts to face you more, taking a deep breath, savouring the special way your flowery musk mingles with the sharp remnants of his own. Your attention is drawn to the peek of his flushed cock as it bobs upwards from between his thighs, and then to the tug of a smirk which bares his teeth for the briefest moment.

“My bed comfortable enough for you, Miss?” A tilt of his head and a raise of his brow only adds to the cattish tone of his voice. Your mind lags, snagged on slumber, on the rosy tip of his cock, on the acrid scent of his sweat as he leans in over you, his hands grabbing the hem of your chemise. “Up, sit up.” He grumbles and before you can properly follow, he tugs the garment up, bringing you with it.

“Arthur.” You protest, your voice cracking, but he keeps pulling, forcing your arms up and taking it off over your head, baring your upper half. He presses the bunched up chemise to his face for a moment, his eyes closing. The quiet meaning behind the covetous gesture muddles your annoyance with a hot flash of yearning and you very almost whine. He throws it to the floor and leans back in. A strangled sound bursts from you as his mouth opens against the softness of your stomach. You sit up further, swaying a little as you push a palm into his head, knocking his hat off in the process. He glares up at you and bites down, his teeth smarting your flesh.

“Arthur!”

“Quit your whinin’.” Arthur warns as he climbs onto the cot, it dipping greatly with the added weight. He pushes your thighs apart and ducks down, mouthing at your ribs. You writhe and sigh, a hotness flowing from his mouth down through to your core, your drawers starting to stick to your skin from more than just the humidity. With a huff, you push yourself up the cot with your feet but he’s quick to grab your waist and firmly pull you back down as if you’d not even tried. You grunt and push his head but he grabs your wrist and thumps it back into the cot. His eyes flit up to meet yours and they’re dark, the usual springy hues of his irises clouded over by a familiar and nasty hunger. Your hand twitches, about to move again but the way his eyes widen slightly gives you pause.

“Stop.” He breathes against the skin of your breast.

“You drunk?” You whisper as he closes his lips around your soft nipple, swirling his tongue until it grows hard. Your mouth drops open and you shudder out a sigh to which the edges of his mouth curl into a smile. He continues until he draws a whimper from you. Until your head lolls to the side. Until he feels your back delicately bow. He teases with his teeth briefly, and his hands squeeze low on your hips, dipping into your skin. His breath draws and releases, deep and shaky through his nose, and a quiet rumble of triumph vibrates in his throat when he feels the faintest buck of your hips. Gotcha.

He releases your nipple with a quiet pop and licks his lips, “No.” He murmurs and palms about your sides, fiddling with your drawers until he pinches the fabric and drags them down. You huff as he unceremoniously bends your leg and pulls the drawers to your knee, and repeats with the other leg. He then slips your drawers from your calves in one move, throwing them away, and uses the moment where your legs are raised to press down against you, your underthighs warm against his solid chest. His cock throbs as he presses the underside flatly against your clit, his balls resting warm and heavy against your ass. A sigh seeps from his chest, tired and low, soothed.

“Then what–”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head, his brow furrowing and you let out a little vexed breath in response. A moment passes quietly between you. He thumbs at behind your knees, his head tilting as he just watches you. Your flushed, aggrieved expression. Your chest rising and falling that bit quicker. Your arms resting either side of your head, no longer making any attempts to move. He loves it when you wait for him. He loves it when you accept what he so desires to give you. You feel his cock twitch and he feels the tension move through your legs as your toes curl. He takes in the faint wince that curls your upper lip and pinches your brow. A lazy smirk pulls at his mouth and in tandem with how his grip on your legs tightens, so does the ticklish want coiling through your gut. It takes you another moment to find your voice again,

“Where you bee–?” He thrusts and your eyes roll back, a tight whimper bursting from you as he warms his thick cock between your slick folds. He groans quietly, rocking his hips languidly, his hands finding your breasts. He circles the pads of his thumbs gently over your nipples, the sensation drawing the hairs on your skin towards him as your skin tauts and prickles. “Where–” You huff out but cut off with a sharp gasp when he laps at the sensitive skin behind one of your knees. Your corresponding foot kicks in the air, your leg seizing and he hums into your skin, the roll of his hips picking up.

“Where I’ve been don’t matter.”

Pleasure and aggravation swirl in your stomach, making you feel drunk with both the want for Arthur and the burning urge to smack him. You find yourself reaching for his head, trying to pull him down, to kiss him, but the column of his neck stays locked straight as he watches his cock glisten with your arousal, his lips parted. You join him in peering down at the sight and a shaky moan slips from you before you look back up to his steadily flushing face. Through the haze, you notice that his beard has grown, the scar on his chin buried beneath bristling hazel hair. You also notice that his hair isn’t in fact pomaded back as you’d thought but tied back.

His eyes flit to yours and immediately back down in response to the sudden doting look on your face, “I miss–” you squeak only to watch him swiftly press down onto you, catching your mouth with his. Stop talking. Stop looking. Light traces of rum and something savoury coat your mouth as Arthur’s tongue licks at your teeth and curls against your own, moving in sloppy tandem with each thrust of his twitching cock between your folds. Your hands grasp at his hair, feeling the leather strap tying it back and pulling him ever closer, letting him in as you always do, as he always hopes you will. The both of you moan into one another’s mouths, so similarly heated that his breath shakes at the vulnerability of the moment. You feel his hands squeeze your waist before one trails down to stroke your swollen clit, teasing the building pressure between your thighs. The way your thighs push at his inner arms, trying to open further, and the huff from you that warms his mouth draws a strained gasp from him as he pulls back. He brings that same hand to your mouth, palm up, resting the tips of his fingers against your bottom lip.

“Spit,” he orders breathily, and you lift your head a bit, pooling some saliva into your mouth before dribbling it onto his flattened fingers, “Gonna need more than that for me, darlin’.” He gives a slow thrust of his hips and you shiver, having to force yourself to pay attention in order to drool into his hand further. He grunts in appreciation before brushing the remaining spit from your lips and moving to slather his cock with it, his gaze drawn to your soaked core. He returns to slowly rocking his hips, his now fully slickened cock pulling a gasp from you as your slightly cooled saliva makes contact with your tingling warm tissue.

“Arthur, please, it’s been–”

“You know I ain’t here to talk.”

Arthur takes hold of your underthighs yet again, holding them apart and pushing them upwards until your knees brush your shoulders. You yearn to pull him down again, to hold him close, but the set of his jaw stops you. He arches his back, pulling his hips back a little more with each thrust, his cock slowly sliding down your centre until his tip notches into the rim of your core.

“We can talk some other day.” His hands come to hold your shoulders. Despite the gulp that thickens in your throat and the way your hands grip the blanket as you realise what’s coming, you snark up at him,

“When’s that, then?”

“God, just shut up–” He bares his teeth as he pushes his cock slowly but firmly all the way in, a growl in his throat underscoring the keening moan that slips from your gaping mouth. Your mind blanks, your thoughts simmering down to just feeling as he uses your shoulders to keep you steady and carelessly starts up a rough rhythm that makes your feet bounce either side of his head. His body rolls against you, the soft ridges of his length rubbing against your plush walls with each eager thrust. A whine shakes in your throat and your head falls back into the cot, your core squeezing around his cock and your back begging to arch. Arthur bites down on a curse, his hands sliding down your chest to massage your breasts, pinching your nipples between his thumbs and the sides of his forefingers. “S’nice, ain’t it? You shuttin’ up for a second?” He stickily mouths his way up your chest to your neck. Your response is a breathy mewl, your hands snaking around his shoulders and threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. He hums into your skin, suckling and steadily biting harder and harder until you cry out. He keeps his teeth locked into your purpling flesh as he picks up the pace, the familiar buzzing pressure forming in your stomach causing you to dig your nails into his scalp.

“Oh, Arthur–”

He releases the skin of your throat with a wet sound, his voice ragged, his teeth tacking against your glowing skin as he speaks, “Better not be another question, girl–”

“Don’t stop!” Your voice comes out loud and pleading, your toes curling. Arthur feels your walls starting to pulse and a shivering groan tears through his chest. Driving himself deeper, enough so that his cock meets your sweet spot, he circles his hips, grinding his pelvis against your clit. His curly pubic hair burns at the soft tissue and your moans only louden. The cot beneath squeaks and groans along with you, growing egregiously noisy when Arthur grasps the top edge of it, pulling and using it to keep both depth and speed. A sonorous whimper bursts from you, out into the quiet of the night, and Arthur licks his lips,

“Yeah?” He breathes, his cock throbbing as he grinds into you.

You give a dumb low-lidded nod, your hands clammy and pawing around to grab hold of his face. His lips press into a thin line and he growls, so close to release that he quells the ache in his chest at the feel of your affectionate and needy gaze flickering about his face, instead roughening his movements and forcing you over the edge.

“Arthur– Oh, my Arthur!” You keen breathlessly, squeezing his cock with your walls and his head with your hands. Your hips rock as much as you can muster in an uneven rhythm as your orgasm snakes through your spasming muscles, tingles of bliss gracing your sheeny skin. Arthur almost looks pained, his lashes fluttering, his breaths strained as he maintains a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the cot. He draws out his thrusts, deciding to fuck out the sweet feeling threatening to bloom in his heart. Each whimper you let out, the way you let him carry on, your shaking thighs, the glimmer of tears in your eyes– he finds himself itching with the compulsion to evade the tenderness but he can’t.

His orgasm strangles him, a shuddering groan searing his throat and you take the chance to tug him down into a messy kiss that very almost makes him spill within you. With a panicked gasping moan into your mouth, Arthur arcs his hips back to quickly slip out of you before slamming forward, his warmly slickened cock sliding up your centre and spurting his release over your stomach as his balls tighten against your clit. His weight drops to his elbows and he partially smothers you as his heaving chest brushes your own. Your legs fall open as he releases them and slips his hands beneath your back. He cradles you, lost in the sensation of your lips gliding against his again and again. You gently hold his face, feeling his jaw muscles flickering as he kisses you and a small laugh puffs from your nose when you feel some of his hair fall forward and tickle your cheeks. He feels the smile in your lips against his own and he pulls back, a stuporous expression melting the usual tension from his brow. Your smile fades slightly, a stirring of worry in your gut, the usual question suffocating you both.

Will he leave?

Arthur lifts himself with a grunt and moves to kneel back on the cot but, as he’s halfway there, he gives a heavy sigh and ducks back down. He plants a singular, firm kiss to your mouth before pulling back again, standing up. You remain where you are, your lips slick with his spit, your skin tightening with his drying spend as you blink up at him. A nervous hope spindling around your spine, you quietly watch Arthur wipe himself down with his shirt before he passes it to you. You clean yourself up as much as you can, casting him the occasional glance while he unties his hair and runs his fingers through the knots. He lifts his head and gives a scrunch of his nose, avoiding your attention as you sit up and drop his shirt to the floor. His voice is slurred and overly casual,

“Ain’t got nowhere to be ‘til Sunday.”

“Sunday?”

“Mhm.”

You recall how you had laid in bed that morning, having woken to the sounds of Uncle playing the banjo and to the dull aching yen in your lungs at the thought of being three days from yet another Sunday parted from the man who seems to not fully understand that he tucks your heart into his satchel along with his revolver each time he leaves. Three days until Sunday. Is he suggesting that he’ll be staying for three days? Arthur sinks back down onto the cot and you watch his throat undulate as he tries to form actual words in place of snapping, “I know it’s been a while–”

“Just over a month,” you answer and shift, curling up on your side, facing the canvas of the tent, exhausted and ever used to his excuses. You let your eyes flutter shut, letting the gentle throb in your core and the tingling of your mouth remind you of the fleeting affectionate embrace Arthur had held you in moments ago.

“Don’chu start with me, woman,” he grouses firmly, climbing into the cot with you and grabbing the blanket that had made its way to the bottom. His tone makes you tut, sensing his already thinning patience that, despite its innate fragility, wears slower when it comes to you.

“Start what? Ain’t nothin’ to start when you keep endin’ things,” you peck back at him, and barely a second passes before he sighs irritatedly and forces his arms around your waist, pulling you back against him.

“You’re lucky I didn’t end what was just happenin’, darlin’.” His chest hair tickles your back as he pushes your hair out of the way with his face, whispering lowly against your neck, “Lucky you kept your mouth shut long enough to give us both a good time.”

He begins to mouth slowly at your throat, one of his hands grasping your hip, the other coming up to knead your breast. In spite of your enjoyment of his touch, you frown, slapping his hand. You let your head grow heavy against the pillow as you grumble,

“You’re a bastard.” His shoulders shrug with a quiet chuckle as he continues his ministrations and speaks between lapping at your neck,

“I been tellin’ you that, sweetheart.” You sigh, your mind and body aswirl with tiredness, hurt, and the bubbling arousal that lingers in your loins at the presence or mere thought of Arthur. Your voice softens into a slur as his repetitive movements and warmth begin to lull you into sleep,

“Whatever, Arthur.”

“Mm, whatever, darlin’,” he responds quietly. He rests his head on the pillow behind yours, letting his focus glide up and down your spine, seeing the way you tuck your feet up, the way your hands lay against the cot. He feels the rise and fall of your chest as sleep fully takes you, relaxed and deep. He takes a bigger breath in and holds it, savouring your soap and the sweet tang of your sweat. A cold guilt settles into his bones before it freezes into a stiff and sick self-loathing. He sighs out the breath, and it blows gently into the back of your hair, along with the spark of desire he had to stay. He can’t do this.

Taking a sliver of your dreams along with him, Arthur is uncharacteristically careful as he quietly detaches himself from you and collects some fresh clothes from the chest at the foot of his cot. As he dresses, he casts half-glances over at your sleeping form, your mussed hair and the way your cheek is smushed into the pillow drawing a soft curse from his lips. Longing flows through his chest, heavying his breaths as he pulls on his boots.

Steady steps exit the tent, working a purposeful path back toward the Hungarian Thoroughbred. With two firm pats to the horse's neck, the whip of reins being retrieved from the hitching post and the clunk of spurs sounds out into the quiet of the night as Arthur mounts the horse, landing weightily with the burl of his stature but also an awful load of feelings and questions choking him of much thought other than get out of here.

“Girl,” he grunts, tugging the reins and guiding the horse away from camp, gradually falling into a trot.

An inappreciable breeze breaks through a small gap in the tent flap, creeping up your bare back and through the hair at the nape of your neck as if to mock the touch of your lover. You fight the heaviness of your eyes as you rouse, the muggy summer heat already having set in for the day, blinding your bleary vision with the vivid bluish hues of the tent canvas. Kneading at your oily face, you lift your hips to turn over only to halt with a whine when a familiar string of discomfort threads through your abdomen. “Bastard,” you whisper to yourself, an equally familiar upset flooding your limbs and soon enough your eyes. Your watery gaze drifts about, steadily picking up on a few unwonted items strewn about the floor.

Arthur’s gun belt. His hat. His jacket. The shirt and pants he had stripped himself of are sprawled across the grass. For once, the tent looks lived in, as lived in by Arthur as your heart is. Dreamy visions of the night before begin to dance through your mind as well as warm your sticky and sore body.

The kiss he gave, awkward but filled with something. How he held you until you fell asleep. How he held his tongue more than usual, lacking the venom but maintaining the usual aloofness. A gentle whirl of tentative affection flurries in the depths of your chest, shaking your breath. He has left behind things which he knows he’ll have to come back for within a day. Within the stifling summer heat, which pales in comparison to the overwhelm of your realisation, you lay back into the cot. Unfocused, you stare up at the canvas, wondering whether these hiccups in his usual behaviour were due to anything in particular, wondering about the permanence of them. Overhearing the early morning goings on of your fellow camp mates, you debate whether to exit Arthur’s tent so soon. You know there is no way you hadn’t woken anybody with your mewling pleasure, with the creaking cot, with Arthur’s grunting and the smack of his skin against yours. You have done many, many times before to the displeasure of some and the ardent curiosity of others.

You shift onto your side, facing out to the rest of the tent, trailing your sleepy focus over Arthur’s belongings and dangling an arm toward the floor. You graze your knuckles over his gun belt, your nails catching on the bullet casings with a quiet, twinkling rhythm beneath which the distant thumping trots of a nearing horse sounds. The thwip of reins followed by a wary greeting call of his name from John brings your heart into your throat; whether it be from excitement or dread still remains elusive to you but one seed of hope nestles itself into the far too long barren garden of your stomach.

He’s come back to you.

Tags for my sweethearts: @thundermartini @zae-heeyyy @pinescent-and-gingerbread @frillydolle @arthurmorganist @thesweetestapplepie @thoughts-of-bear @kayyqua @thedilfdiaries - Apologies if I miss anyone, just dm me or comment below to have me tag you <3

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