#Pool tile Sealing

[justabunchofdragons]

what is your least favorite animal and why

fuckicng......... shark. sorry sharks you're amazing but i Cannot . i will advocate for saving the sharks as long as i live but if i see one ever i will explode

[pearlessance]

Three's A Crowd

Tommy Miller x f!reader x Joel Miller

Summary: Tommy's new girlfriend is awfully sweet. When Joel finds out she's got a big appetite that only he can fill, he decides to satisfy the craving. Warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, threesome, praise, seduction, age gap(20yrs), size difference, oral sex galore, unprotected sex, photos taken during intercourse, mention of sending nudes, throat bulge, usual smut antics NOTE: i'm not sure if this is actually any good considering it was writen in just a matter of days because i was inspired by the new promo, gabriel luna the man that you are 😵‍💫😵‍💫 !! MASTERLIST [crossposted to AO3]

 Joel Miller knows his brother like the back of his hand. 

Which is why it’s not surprising when Tommy lets him in on the details about his secret new girlfriend. Secret—because you’re the daughter of their most consistent client. 

At first, Joel tells him how stupid it is to risk the company like that. It’s irresponsible to put on the line their biggest cash cow just to fuck around with the only daughter of the man that funds Miller Contracting through the winter. And then there’s the fact that you don't exactly fit Tommy’s type.

A rich girl with an even richer daddy compared to all those wild girls from Tommy’s previous female fixations? It doesn’t line up. It makes no sense in Joel’s head. 

Even as his brother tries to explain, “I didn’t go after her. Not at first. She came onto me.”

Joel’s got one hand on the steering wheel and the other propped on the open window of his truck as they drive home from a particularly exhausting day. He furrows his brows and asks, “Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious? You sure she actually likes you and isn’t just tryin’ to get her daddy’s attention?”

Tommy snorts. “Even if she was, I wouldn't care. You ever met a girl that loves to suck cock before?”

“Jesus Christ—”

“An’ I mean love, Joel. Not like. Love.” There are stars in his eyes and he knows it’s a serious matter but Joel can’t help the laugh that escapes him.

He thinks it must be high praise coming from his brother who goes home with a different girl every other weekend. “That good, huh?”

“Better than good.” 

And he knows Tommy’s got a one-track mind, so there’s really no use fighting it. So he just says, “Be careful. Don’t go gettin’ caught 'cause the business will pay the price.”

Tommy agrees and Joel lets it go. Doesn’t think about it again, even when Tommy cancels their plans to go out that weekend in favor of your company.

Well, not until he’s standing in your kitchen going over blueprints with your father, that is. 

Joel tries not to glance out of the floor-length windows in the kitchen to the backyard. He tries not to look at the movement in the pool that repeatedly catches his eye. And he tries, really fucking hard, not to allow his attention to linger on the way that white bikini rests so snugly against your chest, or the way your wet hair cascades down your back and sticks to your smooth skin, or the way his cock twitches in his jeans when the impressive swell your ass shakes as you pull yourself up and out of the pool.

He understands his brother a little better when he sees you, Joel thinks. Understands why he’s willing to risk such a high-profit opportunity for the chance to see you underneath him. 

Your father leaves the kitchen to find an old set of blueprints to compare to the new ones, and Joel begins to panic as he realizes this is the moment you decide you’re done swimming. 

When you open the door to the kitchen the hinges creak. Joel takes note of it. 

Water drips onto the white tile floor, the same quick rhythm as the thumping of his heart against his sternum. You cross the kitchen and open the fridge door without even looking at him. 

But Joel certainly looks at you. Can’t help but to, really. You’re like some decadent display as you break the seal of an icy bottle of water and begin to take long, slow drinks from it. Your lips are plush and swollen and Tommy’s words reverberate in the back of Joel’s head. 

You ever met a girl that loves to suck cock before?

“Thirsty?”

He nearly chokes. Joel knows you’re likely just being hospitable. Kind, even. But he feels like he shouldn’t be speaking to you, not when you’re close to naked and dripping wet. And if not because of your father upstairs, then certainly because of his brother’s affinity for you. So, despite the way his tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth, he says, “No, thanks.”

Joel turns his eyes back to his blueprints, folding the corner once, twice, trying to focus on anything but the weight of your stare.

If you notice his unease you ignore it as you slide up to the counter beside him and peer down at the layout of your father’s newest home renovation. You’re so close he can feel the heat of your skin, can smell the chlorine in your hair. “Hm,” you say. “This is for the guest room?”

“Bedroom D,” he corrects.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You turn away from the blueprints, spine resting against the marble countertop in favor of studying him instead. “You’re Joel, right? Tommy’s older brother?”

There’s no sense in lying, Joel thinks. Though he does consider it for a moment. “Uh…yeah,” he says. And then he clears his throat and nods, repeating a little more firmly, “Yeah.”

Your stare is so hot against his skin, eyes unabashedly roaming down the column of his neck. He shivers as your attention lingers on the small sliver of his chest that’s revealed thanks to his decision this morning to leave one of the buttons on his flannel unsecured. You’re standing so close to him now that a drop of chlorinated water falls from the ends of your hair and onto his arm.

Joel feels the cool liquid slide down his too warm-skin, melting as if it were ice, heating to the temperature of his blood that sings in his veins beneath your scrutinization.

He watches your tongue slide over your pretty bottom lip and his breath catches in his lungs. “Hm,” you say again, the sound a little fonder this time. “I see where he gets his good looks from.”

It’s been a long time since someone flirted with him so openly. Even longer since someone your age even took a second glance at him. And even though he knows, by the rule of his own morality, that you belong to his little brother…Joel can’t deny the giddy feeling it elicits in his chest. Can’t deny that he likes your attention, either.

“Found them,” your father suddenly says, bounding down the stairs with folded blueprints in his hand. 

Joel clears his throat and you take a small step away from him, but otherwise seem unphased by the intrusion. He tries to ignore the lingering buzzing beneath his skin, tries to shake off what remains of the electrified energy you’d created.

You greet your dad with a kiss on the cheek and tell him you’re going out tonight. Your father asks with who, and you glance past him, staring only at Joel as you say simply, “Just a friend.”

And he knows you’ll likely be at his little brother’s apartment within the hour. Thinks about preparing himself for yet another of Tommy’s cancellations of guy’s night but this time there’s no frustration on Joel’s part. 

Because he doesn’t blame his brother at all. If anything, he understands a little better now. Understands why getting drunk with Joel at a bar is a far less tempting activity than spreading those pretty thighs of yours. Understands why he’d rather stay home than go out, especially if you’re there in his bedroom on your knees for him. 

His assumption is confirmed later that night when he gets a text message.

Tommy: Have to cancel again. Sorry, something came up.

Joel knows exactly what ‘came up’ and decides to put on an old western movie to distract himself instead.

But when he lays in bed that night, the image of you in your bikini surfaces in his brain and makes a home there. He tries for an hour to get himself to relax enough to shut it out, to just go to sleep.

Eventually, though, he realizes there’s no fucking point in trying. And even though you’re in his brother’s bed and your father’s blueprints are sitting on the kitchen table downstairs, Joel Miller takes his cock in his hand and has the best orgasm of his life. He thinks about your smooth skin and supple curves, thinks about the way that single droplet of water felt against his skin, thinks about your pink tongue and the way you looked at him with such insatiable hunger.

It’s a secret Joel decides he’ll take to his grave.

He tries not to think of you after that. Tries to keep his distance from you, from your house in general. Joel’s not a man who enjoys technology but opts for emailing your father instead of meeting with him to avoid another post-pool incident.

Tommy finally makes it to guy’s night two weeks later but he’s glued to his fucking cell phone. Joel tries to make conversation, tells him about upcoming projects and opportunities for contracts, and mentions that this summer has been their most profitable yet. But Tommy only nods every so often. Giving Joel a stupid, uninterested, “Yeah, for sure,” or “That’s great, Joel,” or “I don’t know, maybe.”

There’s no salt to his words, no meaning other than oblivious agreement. And it starts to anger Joel because Tommy’s been distracted by girls before but never like this. Never so much so that he can’t sit and have half a conversation with his brother. Eventually, he lets out an annoyed sigh and says, “If you’ve got somewhere better to be you can just fuckin’ go, Tommy. Jesus Christ.”

The irritation seems to finally get his attention. Tommy locks his cell phone and says, “She’s sending me pictures, distractin’ me, I’m sorry,” but there’s a stupid ass grin on his face and Joel can feel the insincerity radiating off his brother.

Joel rolls his eyes and waves down the bartender for the check. 

“No, no, okay,” Tommy insists, setting his phone face down on the bar top. He shoos the bartender away and says, “Okay, seriously, you’re right. I’m sorry.” It’s a little more genuine this time, and so Joel decides to meet his brother halfway.

“You really like her? S’that what this is?”

That smile returns to Tommy’s face, eyes glossing over in a mystifying way. He must, because Joel’s never seen him like this before. “We’re not even together,” he says.

Joel’s brows furrow. “What are you talking about? You spend every weekend with her, you might as well be.”

“Believe me, Joel, I’ve tried, man. She’s…I don’t know how to explain it. She doesn’t want anything serious. Doesn’t wanna be exclusive or nothin’ but isn’t fuckin’ around with anyone but me. I just…” he shakes his head and his eyes widen and Joel can see the awe in them. 

“So she’s acting like you,” Joel supplies.

It makes Tommy laugh. But the more he explains, the more Joel starts to believe it. “She’s so sweet but that girl is insatiable. Just wants to fuck and have a good time and that’s it. Doesn’t care about much else.”

“I’m not sayin’ you shouldn’t have fun, Tommy, but don’t let her consume your whole life. Get some space every once in a while,” Joel says. But he understands the infatuation, understands exactly how enticing your company would be. 

He leans in close, one hand wrapped around his whiskey glass and the other tapping the back of his phone. “Those pictures…she’s taking pictures in the shower, Joel. For me. An’ you wanna know what she just told me the other day?”

Joel knows what’s coming next. Knows Tommy’s about to clue him in on something Joel has no business knowing, but he can’t fight off his curiosity. “What?”

“Said her biggest fantasy is a threesome with two guys. Told me, and I quote, that she wants to get fucked while she’s got my dick in her mouth.” He makes a sound of disbelief but there’s this grin on his face that lets Joel know Tommy’s biggest fantasy is to be with a filthy girl like you.

Joel just shakes his head.

But the image his brother paints lingers in his brain for days.

In fact, he’s still thinking about it during his next meeting with your father. Thinking about the fact that you’re up in your room, fantasizing about getting fucked by two guys at once when your dad suddenly says, “I’ll be out of town for a couple of weeks, I hope you don’t mind I gave my little girl your phone number. Just in case anything goes wrong. It won’t, but I hate being so far away while she’s here alone. I’m sure you understand, being a father and all.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to respond, unsure how to explain how terrible an idea that is, so he says nothing. Just nods stiffly and begins discussing the renovations for the ensuite of bedroom C. 

Less than a week later, Joel gets a phone call from an unknown number, and his gut sinks because he knows it’s you. He debates on ignoring the call but then begins to worry that something’s actually wrong and puts himself in your father’s position. Thinks he’d be furious, had it been Sarah, if she’d called someone for help and they’d ignored her. 

So, he presses his cell phone to his ear and says, “Hello?”

“Joel? Hi, sorry, I know it’s kinda late. Do you think you could come over really quick? I need your help.”

“Help? With what?” It doesn’t really matter, he thinks. Because he’s already lacing up his boots, phone held to his ear with his shoulder.

“I locked myself out,” you explain. “My dad’s out of town for work and I didn’t grab my key before he left. You have a spare, don’t you? For the renovations and stuff?”

Joel can’t help but wonder where you’ve been for the last few days. Someplace you wouldn’t have needed to come home, it seems. “Uh, yeah, I do,” he says. “I’ll be there in a minute. Hang tight.”

He finds you standing on your front porch with a backpack slung over your shoulder, your phone charger in your hand, and a look of relief on your face. “Thank you so much,” you immediately say. “I swear I never forget my key but I was distracted this time.”

Joel unlocks the front door for you and lets you inside. He lingers on the threshold, saying, “No, it’s fine. No worries at all.”

“Come inside,” you insist, and he can feel the bad decision from a fucking mile away.

“Really, it’s fine. I’ll just—”

“Please,” you interrupt. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? Let me make you something to eat before you go. It’s the least I could do.”

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. But he does.

Joel nods, unable to resist you and how pretty the word please sounds in your mouth. He follows you into the kitchen, lingering at the island counter as you drop your bag onto the floor next to the stairs and immediately plug your cell phone into the extra outlet he’d placed into the backsplash per your father’s request during last winter’s renovation. You look over your shoulder at him as you open the refrigerator and ask, “You like grilled cheese?”

“Uh, yeah. I do.” He sits in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the way you move as you prepare the bread and heat up a cast iron pan. Eventually, he finds the courage to ask, “You…uh…were you at Tommy’s?”

He watches as your cheeks redden the smallest bit. But there’s no shame in your voice as you answer simply, “Yes, I was.”

“Figured you’d tire each other out eventually,” he teases.

You laugh softly, and the buttered bread sizzles as you place it into the pan. As you lay the slices of cheese on top of it you explain, “Wasn’t like that. I’m home for the weekend so Tommy can talk to you, actually.”

It surprises him to hear it, in truth. “Me? What for?”

You flush an even deeper crimson. “Uhm…I think it’s better that you hear it from him,” you say.

Joel’s mind wanders to a million places as you dig out a spatula and flip the grilled cheese. But then a terrifying thought strikes him and Joel suddenly asks, “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Ew, no,” you say with a laugh. “Believe me, Joel, I like creampies just as much as the next girl but I’m not irresponsible about it.”

This time, it’s his face that warms. Joel swallows hard and sits on the barstool at the island, trying not to think about your inadvertent admission, trying not to imagine it, to imagine how fucking good it would feel to—

“Here,” you say, placing a glass plate in front of him with a perfectly crispy grilled cheese cut diagonally. He’s thankful for the distraction, thankful to convince himself the watering of his mouth is from the food in front of him and not the thought of how you would taste on his tongue.

“Thanks,” he says simply, trying to massage some of the tension from his shoulders. It had been a long day on the job site and he’ll admit to himself only that a grilled cheese and the sight of a pretty girl certainly feels like a treat.

You seem to notice his discomfort and ask, “You okay?”

He nods and takes a bite of his sandwich. It’s the most delicious thing he’s ever had and he tries to hold back his moan to no avail. When he looks over at you, you’re wearing a satisfied grin that only widens when he says around another mouthful, “This is incredible.”

As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, you step up behind him and place your hands on his shoulders. Joel opens his mouth to stop you, to tell you this is wrong, inappropriate—but then you kneed your fingers into the tender muscle, and his eyes flutter closed. 

All argument leaves him as quickly as it appeared, and all he can manage to say is, “Jesus Christ.”

Your quiet giggle is the cutest thing he’s ever heard. And Joel knows he should be thinking of his brother right now, knows he should be thinking of your father, thinking about the fact that you’re just a young woman, twenty years separating the two of you…but all he can focus on is the way your hands feel on him.

They’re warm and soft but clinical in their pursuit, thumbs pressing hard into the muscle that brackets his spine. Your delicate fingers feel like heaven, bringing relief he never realized just how badly he needed.

You slowly massage down his back, pushing against the knots, working them free. When you get to his lower back, he groans when you slip your hands beneath his navy t-shirt. You’re touching him with no barrier and it steals the breath from his lungs.

Never in his life has he wanted to be touched by someone so badly. Never in his life has he enjoyed the feel of another person’s skin against his so much. Your thumbs dig into the sore muscles, working the tension out.

You lean in so close that he can feel the heat of your breath against the shell of his ear as you say, “Will you take your shirt off?”

He’s thankful you’re standing behind him, however. Because it means you can’t see the way his cock stiffens in his jeans.

The words are tempting and seductive and wrong, he knows. He looks back at you and the heat in your eyes takes him off guard. The angle has his mouth so close to yours you’re sharing the same breath.

It’s then he knows just how badly you want him. As much as he wants you.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you say. While you speak, your fingertips trace soft patterns into the skin of his lower back.

Joel knows it’s a bad idea, but he does it anyway.

You step away from him only long enough for Joel to grip his t-shirt at the back of his collar and pull it over his head, laying it on the marble countertop.

And then you go back to your ministrations as if nothing changed; massaging the tension from his muscles, starting low and working your way back up to his shoulders this time. But it is different, Joel knows. Because he can feel the heat of your skin against his and his heart rate picks up, a different kind of tension filling him instead.

But it feels so fucking good that he doesn’t ever want you to stop.

So, he eats what remains of his grilled cheese. Lets you work the tightness from his bones, trying not to hiss in pain when you touch a particularly tender spot in the center of his back. You lighten the pressure there and begin building back up to it slowly, bringing him to heights of euphoria he’d never known existed.

When he wipes the crumbs from his hands and pushes his now empty plate away, Joel knows he should stop you. But he doesn’t, because he can no longer find a reason good enough to say the words. He lets you dote on him in a way he doesn’t deserve and soaks it up while it lasts.

And when you press a sweet, chaste kiss to the top of his spine, Joel feels the energy shift but doesn’t say anything then, either.

Because he likes the way your lips feel against his skin. Even more so than your soft hands.

You do it again, a little higher this time. You kiss the back of his neck and he shivers. He realizes you can see the goosebumps that break out across his skin, because he can feel the smile on your lips as you press another wet, open-mouthed kiss to the junction of his shoulder.

Joel’s cock has never been this hard, he thinks. He’s never wanted someone so badly, has never been so incapable of making the right decision as he is at this very moment.

His breath comes fast and labored as you press yourself to him. You’re not wearing a bra beneath your oversized t-shirt, and he can feel your pebbled nipples against his back. Your hands move forward, circling his abdomen, sliding up and over his chest. He knows he should stop you now, knows this is the beginning of something he can never come back from.

But the two of you are all alone in this big empty house, and how can he deny you? He doesn’t have the strength. Not then you slide pretty, delicate fingers over his soft stomach, through the dark curls that disappear into his jeans.

Your hand is slow in its pursuit but still adamant as you palm the bulge in his jeans. Even through the thick denim, the feel of your hands on him makes him shake. He cock throbs with each gentle stroke, each small movement. “You can tell me to stop,” you tell him. “Is this okay?”

He can’t bring himself to say anything, but the moan that escapes him is answer enough. He places his hands on the edge of the counter and straightens his spine, getting a full view as you undo the button of his jeans and lower the metal zipper at an agonizingly slow pace.

And then you’re slipping a hand inside his jeans, below the elastic band of his boxers, and all thoughts eddy out of his head. He can think of nothing, nothing as you begin to stroke him. Your hands are small, barely fitting around his cock, but you make do with what you have and it’s more than enough.

You pull him out of his jeans completely, and it’s a sight to behold, seeing his cock in your pretty hands. He tries to catch his breath as you pull one of your hands away for a single moment. And when it returns, your fingers are sticky with webs of spit.

This time, when you wrap your hand around his cock, you’re able to stoke him a little easier, the added lubrication allowing for freer movement. You move slowly at first, hands grazing from base to tip.

He watches with reverence as you familiarize yourself with him. When a bead of precum forms at the tip of his cock, you use your thumb to add it to the sticky wetness already in your hands. Joel can feel the smile on your face as you continue to press desperate kisses to his spine, and he knows he won’t last long like this.

Watching you stroke him with both of your small hands, watching you take care of him like this…it’s too much. It’s too fucking much.

So he closes his eyes. Lets himself sink into the moment with you instead, listens to your pretty whimpers as you press your tits against him. He wants to reach around and slide his hand between your thighs but knows better, knows that this is already bad enough.

You tighten your hands around his cock, squeezing a little harder, and he feels his end begin to build at the base of his spine. “Fuck.”

“Does it feel good?”

He tries to breathe slowly, tries to draw it out. But you pick up your pace, stroking him a little faster, and Joel can’t stop the groan that escapes him.

“You make me so wet, Joel,” you whisper against his skin. “I think about you and touch myself sometimes, thinking about how fucking big you are, how good it would feel to have you touch me…how good you’d feel inside of me.”

Your filthy words bring him to the brink. Joel fights it, doesn’t want to finish so fast he embarrasses himself. He wants to see the look on your face, wants to fuck you right here on this kitchen counter that he built.

Joel clenches his fists instead. Stays stone still because he knows if he moves an inch he’ll be giving into these desires. Knows a single shift in position would have him pulling your shorts down your thighs and licking your pussy until he makes you cry out for God. 

But it’s not his place.

It’s not his fucking place, and you’re not his fucking girl.

So he doesn’t move.

You do, though.

Joel tries to catch his breath as you pull away from him, the absence of your touch leaving him cold and wanting. But then you’re nudging your way in front of him, in the small space between his knees and the island, and then you’re lowering yourself to the marble floor.

You ever met a girl that loves to suck cock before?

Slowly, you run your hands over his jean-clad thighs. You look up at him through your lashes and he feels a little like he’s being worshipped.

And when you lean forward, pretty, soft tongue licking the underside of his cock, Joel can’t keep his hands to himself. His resolve withers, and he threads his fingers through your hair but is careful not to rush you.

He lets you take your time, lets you swirl your tongue over the head, lets you taste every inch of him to your heart’s content. And when you finally take him into your mouth, cheeks hallowed out, creating a tight seal around him, Joel’s head falls back in bliss.

You savor it, relish in it, swallowing him down inch by inch. He hits the back of your throat and still you keep going, choking on him, nose pressed against the hair below his navel. With each pass, you begin to bob your head, tongue smoothing over the sensitive tip. You set an insatiable rhythm, drool sliding down your chin.

It doesn’t take him long. His hands tighten in the hair at the nape of your neck and he breaths out, “Fuck, fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna-”

Your watery eyes meet his and the adoration in them sends him over the edge. Joel finishes at the back of your mouth, your fingernails digging into the meaty flesh of his thighs almost painfully, but you take everything he gives you and swallow it down.

It’s the sexiest thing he’s seen in all his life.

When he finishes, Joel strokes your hair affectionately and you smile up at him with his cock still in your mouth. It makes him laugh, and he realizes how soft and sweet this moment feels. How easy it is. How he never wants it to end.

Slowly, you sit back and begin to stand to your feet. Your lips are swollen and red and glossy, even when you wipe the spit off your chin with the back of your hand.

You cross the kitchen, grab your phone, and make your way to the staircase. “Thanks again, Joel. Can you lock up on your way out?”

He doesn’t understand how you can feel so casually about this. Doesn’t understand how you’re likely texting his brother as if Joel’s cock wasn’t just in your mouth, as if the taste of his release doesn’t linger on your tongue. 

The guilt doesn’t set in until he’s in bed that night. He can’t sleep, because he knows he has to say something to Tommy but knows, too, he’ll likely pay the price of a right hook in reparation. 

At three in the morning he sends a text to his brother; Come over in the morning. Need to talk. Important. 

Joel doesn’t sleep. He lays in bed and thinks of you, as he so often does these days. Thinks about how uncomfortable it’s going to be to tell his little brother that he indulged himself in the pretty little thing he’s been spending all of his time with. He decides he’s just going to say it outright, tell him the truth without beating around the bush, and immediately apologize for it afterward.

Because he is sorry, Joel thinks. Not sorry that he did it, but sorry that it’s hurt people in the process.

How can he come to regret the most gratifying sexual experience of his life? It’s a comfort, to hear some of Tommy’s words echo in his brain. 

We’re not even together.

She doesn’t want anything serious.

It’s like she just wants to fuck and have a good time and that’s it.

Joel hopes his brother feels a similar way. Tommy’s never once indicated he’s ever wanted to settle down with a woman, but…something sits in his gut and twists up his insides. Because as much as he wants to deny it, Joel knows this…knows you are different. What Tommy feels for you is different.

He’s drinking whiskey by ten in the morning for no reason other than to calm his nerves.

And Joel’s thankful for the liquid courage when Tommy finally pulls into the driveway at noon. He comes barrelling through Joel’s front door with a scowl on his face, and for a second Joel wonders if his brother already knows and is here thinking Joel had every intention of keeping this secret of yours.

But when he speaks, Tommy doesn’t seem angry. Just…concerned. “What’s up, man? Pretty ominous text to wake up to. Where’s Sarah? She alright?”

Joel shakes his head and raises a hand between them. “Sarah’s fine, she’s alright,” he says quickly. “Staying with a friend this weekend. Sorry, I guess I should have mentioned it wasn’t a life or death situation.” 

For Tommy, anyway.

With a slow nod, Tommy’s shoulders slump and he drops himself onto the couch. “Alright, then. That’s good. I was worried, came haulin’ ass over here.” It’s then he notices the tumbler in Joel’s hand, half filled with amber-colored liquid. “You good, Joel?”

He takes a seat next to his brother and tries to recite the speech in his head. But nothing comes out. Joel opens and closes his mouth once, twice, and then finishes off the whiskey in his glass.

Tommy’s patient, for what it’s worth. He lets Joel adjust in his seat three different times, saying nothing while he tries to find the courage he’s been building for the last twelve hours.

“I…I, uhm…I have to tell you something an’ I…” Joel shakes his head and squeezes his jaw. “Alright, look. I…did something.”

A quiet, curt sort of laugh leaves Tommy. “I know what happened last night, Joel. She already told me.”

It surprises him. Not that you told him, Joel can’t fault you for that considering he’s presently trying to do the same thing. What’s surprising is that Tommy seems relaxed about the whole situation. Relieved, even.

A million different questions surface on the tip of his tongue, but only one comes out. “What?”

“It’s alright, man,” Tommy says, laying a comforting hand on Joel’s shoulder.

“You’re not…mad? I don’t understand. I let her—”

Tommy’s mouth stretches into one of the widest smiles Joel’s ever seen on his brother’s face. “It was good, huh?”

Joel doesn’t know if saying yes is a good idea. Doesn’t know if a simple three-letter word is sufficient enough for the things you made him feel with that pretty, pink tongue of yours. 

But it seems his thoughts are written plainly on his face. “Fuck yeah, it was,” Tommy says with a laugh. “She called me right after you left her house last night. Told me everything. She makes a mean grilled cheese too, doesn’t she?”

Try as he might, Joel can’t seem to wrap his head around what’s happening. Can’t seem to process his brother’s ease, his indifference. He tries to put himself in Tommy’s place but knows that if it was his bed you slept in for the last week, Joel would be furious to learn you’d wound up on your knees for someone else.

But if that someone was Tommy? His own brother?

Maybe that’s why it’s different. Because Joel would never do something to hurt his brother intentionally. And he knows, too, that Tommy would never do it to him, either.

He trusts his brother with everything in him. There’s not another soul on the planet who knows him like Tommy does. So, surely, he knows that what you and Joel did wasn’t born of malicious intent, right?

“She’s a sweet little thing,” Tommy says quietly, as if they’re sharing a secret. “But that mouth on her is somethin’ else. She’s a talker, through and through.” There’s pride on his face as he speaks. “Said she felt real bad, runnin’ out on you like that, but she’d gotten so wet from just goin’ down on you that I could hear it through the fuckin’ phone, Joel.”

Though he tries not to, Joel begins to wonder what would have happened if you’d stayed, if you hadn’t disappeared so fast to take care of the ache that had settled between your thighs.

It would have been only fair, right? You helped him. He would have helped you.

“She wanted me to talk to you about something, anyway,” Tommy says.

He’d nearly forgotten that you’d mentioned the same thing last night in all the chaos. It piques his interest, because what on Earth could you need Tommy to ask him?

But his answer comes quickly when his brother says carefully, “You remember a couple of weeks ago when I told you what her biggest fantasy is?”

A threesome.

Joel’s standing from the couch and shaking his head before his brother gets another word out. “Have you lost your fuckin’ mind, Tommy?”

“Joel, just listen—”

“Listen to what, man? You got any idea what you’re askin’ me right now?”

There’s a smirk on his face as he stares at Joel from the couch, looking just as comfortable as if they were having a normal conversation about what they should eat for dinner. “I’m askin’ you to fuck my girlfriend,” he says.

Somehow, the word girlfriend surprises Joel more than the rest. It’s the very first time he’s ever called anyone his girlfriend. “I thought you weren’t together.”

Tommy shrugs. “Call it what you will. Does it really matter?”

“Yeah, Tommy, it does matter. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have feelings for this girl. Tell me this doesn’t mean anythin’ to you, that doing somethin’ like this wouldn’t fuck it all up in a minute.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t lie to you, brother. ‘Course she means somethin’ to me. That’s why I wanna give her everything she wants. And she wants you too, Joel. Is that so bad?”

Joel sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots.

For a second, a single second, he considers it. Thinks about how any price is worth it for a single night with you, to hear the sound of your moans, to feel your warm breath against his neck again. He’d bet you sound real pretty, all filled up with him.

“Don’t trust anyone else to take care of her the way I do,” Tommy says. “No one but you.”

It’s too much. It’s way too much to ask of him.

“You’re insane, Tommy,” he says, grabbing his whiskey glass from the coffee table and escaping to the kitchen to refill it. He wishes he had something a little stronger.

He’s not surprised when his brother follows him to the kitchen. Tommy leans against the archway and says, “You can say no.”

“Good, 'cause I’m sayin’ no.”

Tommy laughs, but Joel thinks there’s no joke to be found. “Just wanted you to know the offer’s there and she’d jump at the opportunity. Y’know, if you change your mind, that is. Ask her about it, if you wanna.”

“I won’t.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, not tryin’ to push it or anything. You know how to get ahold of me.”

And then his brother retreats, leaving Joel with nothing but his whiskey and his thoughts.

Thoughts that run rampant in his brain. Filthy images of you beneath him, back arched in pleasure, pretty mouth hung open just wide enough for Tommy to slip inside.

How terrible would it be, really? Tommy might have impulsive tendencies, but he seems so sure of this. And if there’s not an ounce of jealousy in his brother, so much so that he offers you to Joel like some sort of prize…maybe there won’t be the repercussions Joel’s afraid of.

Maybe it’ll be as Tommy says. Maybe it would just be a good, safe way to give you what you want, to indulge your wildest desires. 

And it would certainly be an indulgence for him. Just feeling your hands on him had brought Joel bliss like he’d never known. He can’t imagine how much higher he’d feel if he could taste you, if he could finish deep inside of you and not at the back of your throat.

It takes twenty minutes of pacing in his kitchen and another ten of shaking the nerves from his hands before he picks up the phone and calls you.

“Hey, Joel. I was just thinking about you.”

“S’that right?”

“Mmhm. Did…did Tommy talk to you yet? He told me he was going to this morning.” 

“Yeah, sweetheart. He did.”

A strange sort of silence stretches on. He can hear your hesitance and realizes you’re just as nervous as he is. “And? What did you…what did you say?”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell you he declined the offer. Not when it was a no mostly out of fear and unease. “You wanna tell me how this is gonna work?”

You snort and he can almost see the playful smirk on your face. “I think you know how it works, Joel.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he says, but can’t fight off the smile that climbs onto his face and makes a home there. “Brat.”

“Hm, I think I prefer the term princess.”

Joel laughs but thinks the name is real fitting. He can see why Tommy likes you so much—can understand why he wants to give you everything it is that you desire. Everything about you is so playful and carefree and innocent. You’re just so sweet. A tooth-rotting confectionary. 

“I don’t know how it’ll work,” you finally say. “I’ve never done something like this before, but I know it’s what I want.”

Your conviction is reassuring. Both you and Tommy seem certain that this is the path you want to take, no unease to be found within either of you. But it’s not the physical that worries him. It’s…everything else. “An’ what happens if it becomes something more? Sex is just sex until it isn’t.”

He can hear the smile in your words as you ask, “You worried about catching feelings for me, Joel Miller?”

“I’m bein’ serious,” he insists. “Tommy feels somethin’ for you. I know it and I think you probably do, too. I don’t want to do this and ruin what the two of you have been workin’ on.”

“You won’t ruin anything,” you insist. “And if…if things do get…complicated, then we’ll just take it day by day. No use in worrying about something that might not happen, right?”

It’s such a naive way of thinking. Joel wishes he wouldn’t have said no so quickly. Wishes, too, that you were a little different. Maybe if you weren’t so sweet, so tempting, he wouldn’t be so worried about ‘catching feelings,’ as you’d put it.

Your voice is quieter as you say, “For what it’s worth, Joel…I like you, too.”

By the end of the phone call, you manage to convince him to consider it. To genuinely give the idea a shot, to weigh all the pros and cons. You promise not to be disappointed with either decision and though he knows the whole thing has been your idea, Joel believes you.

Several days later, Joel stops by with the intent to fix the creaky hinges on the door to the pool. But the moment he steps into the kitchen, Joel forgets all about the task at hand because he can hear your moans echoing through the house.

He follows them like a moth to a flame.

The door to your father’s bedroom is wide open. And in the center of the king-sized bed, covered with gray satin sheets, is you and Tommy.

Tommy’s turned away from the door, but you’re looking right at it. Looking right at Joel, as you bounce in his brother’s lap. When your eyes connect with him, your pace only picks up, your moans only grow louder.

Joel watches, frozen in time, as you chase your release. Tommy swirls his tongue around your pebbled nipple, leaving a trail of wetness in its wake. You thread your fingers through his hair and moan his name but you stare right at Joel.

He can’t breathe. Has suddenly forgotten the process of inhalation. He’s seen you in your bikini but never like this, never completely bare. You’re beautiful, Joel thinks. Beautiful in a godly way; a woman the poets write for, a woman the sculptors display in cathedrals.

You reach a hand between your bodies, circling your clit and arching your back.

The thought doesn’t even cross Joel’s mind that he should leave, that he should give the two of you some privacy. It feels right that he’s here. 

You grind yourself on Tommy’s cock and give Joel the sweetest, most innocent smile as you say, “It’s so big, you’re so deep. God, fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

Tommy grabs at the soft swell of your ass, lifting you just to slam you back down onto his lap. “Yeah? Gonna cum all over this dick, princess?”

I prefer the term princess.

No need to wonder why, Joel thinks.

“Mmhm, yes, yes, right there.”

“Can feel her gettin’ all messy,” Tommy says. “If I knew you’d get this wet ridin’ me in your daddy’s bed I would’ve said yes weeks ago, pretty girl.”

Joel knows the reason you’re all worked up has nothing to do with the location and everything to do with his eyes on you, but he stays silent. Stays still.

Even as he watches you fall apart on his brother's cock and soak the satin sheets beneath him. Even as Tommy does the thing that Joel’s been dreaming about every night for days, filling you up with his release. 

He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t fix the creaky hinges, either.

Joel barely makes it back to his truck before he’s reaching into his jeans to stroke his cock, right there in the driveway in broad fucking daylight.

It only takes a few quick tugs before he covers his hand in sticky ropes of cum. He tries to catch his breath, wiping the mess you’ve made of him onto his jeans and driving home ten over the limit. Before he makes it inside to shower and change, Joel sends a text message to both you and Tommy that reads; Okay. I’m in. My place. Friday night at ten.

He tries not to think about it too much. Tries to go on about his work week like normal, going through the motions of making dinner each night and taking Sarah to school every morning with Tommy in the passenger seat.

They don’t talk about it, though Joel can sometimes feel his brother staring at him a little too long as if there’s something he wants to say. But he doesn’t. They don’t bring it up until after Joel drops Sarah off at her friend’s house for another weekend-long slumber party. 

Tommy says, “I’m gonna take her out for dinner. Do you want to come with us? Could help break the ice a little. Loosen you up.”

He agrees, and instead of going home, they pick you up from your house. You’re wearing a pleated blue skirt that’s a little too short, but Joel thinks you look like something divine. Tommy helps you up into the truck, and everything starts to feel real the moment you’re sitting between them. Joel behind the wheel, Tommy on the passenger side.

You look so small in the center of the cab, surrounded by two brothers who possess nothing but longing for you. Like pretty prey caught in the clutches of two predators.

Joel has to readjust himself in his seat when you lean over and press a kiss to his cheek. Sweet. “Missed you,” you say. “You look good. You both do.”

He doesn’t comment on the fact that they’re both still in their work attire; dirty blue jeans, sun-faded t-shirts, and muddy boots. He’s surprised to hear your appreciation, considering how put together you always seem to be.

But maybe that’s the appeal for you. The blue-collar archetype. Your daddy probably expects you to marry the son of one of his friends, just another rich boy.

If he could see you now…

Tommy slides his hand to the inside of your thigh and squeezes. “You hungry, princess? Let’s get you somethin’ to eat.”

As much as he hates to admit when his brother’s right, dinner works wonders for Joel’s nerves. The three of you talk the entire time; you tell Joel about your friends and the subjects you’re studying in that fancy college you got into on a full ride. It’s not the one your father wanted you to attend, but it’s the one you wanted.

Even though he knows Tommy has heard it all before, he lets you and Joel have this moment. He sits beside you and smiles at you as you speak, eyes glued to the side of your face and full of adoration. Joel realizes then that he thinks his brother might be in love with you.

He gets it. Thinks it must have been a real easy fall.

Tommy slots himself in the conversation naturally. The two of you clue Joel in on some of your inside jokes and it doesn’t feel weird at all. He doesn’t feel left out like he’d worried he might be, and he doesn’t feel jealous when you steal bites from Tommy’s plate because you steal things from Joel’s, too.

It’s easy. Nothing feels forced, no conversation out of place.

Halfway through the meal, you switch sides of the booth and sit next to Joel instead. You lay your head on his shoulder and he holds your hand beneath the table and it feels right. Tommy smiles at the two of you and carries on with his story as if the dynamic you’ve created has existed for years and not just hours.

When it’s time to go home, Joel finds that his nerves have completely vanished.

Tommy offers to drive. And he’s thankful for it because it allows him to focus on just you.

You take Joel’s hand and lay it in your lap, palm open. He shivers as you trace the lines in his hand. You ask him, “How are you feeling?”

And the answer comes to him easily. “Good,” he says. “Better.”

“Told you,” Tommy says, one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh. “She’s a real good girl, Joel. Always does as she’s told.”

Even though the sun is setting below the horizon, he can see the crimson that stains your cheeks and it brings a smile to his face. “S’that right?” He takes your chin gently in his hand and forces you to look up at him. “You a real good listener, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, she is,” Tommy answers wistfully. “Why don’t you g’’head and give Joel some sugar, princess.”

You lean into Joel’s side, pressing a kiss to his jaw. It feels good just being close to you, holding you in his hands, but when you touch him, it’s something else entirely. An uncontrollable desire, an unfamiliar sort of decadence.

Joel cradles your face in his big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone, and gently presses his lips to yours. It’s soft at first, a tender curiosity. He kisses you again, a little more heated this time, and when he flicks his tongue across your bottom lip you grant him access as if it’s second nature. 

His tongue explores yours, tangling together, invading your sweet mouth. Joel thinks you taste a little like honey and a whole lot like fortuity. If you had asked him ten years ago if he’d ever imagined he’d be in this spot, tasting the inside of his brother’s girlfriend’s mouth, Joel would have said it was a delusional thought. 

Yet here he was, cock stiffening in his jeans from something as simple as a kiss. Like he’s some teenage boy, experiencing a woman for the first time.

But it is his first time experiencing you, and Joel knows that’s what makes all the difference. 

The kiss turns sloppy and desperate. And when your panting breaths turn to moans, Joel realizes Tommy’s hand on your thigh has disappeared beneath your skirt.

It surprises him, the magnitude of the moment. Joel would have thought he’d feel jealous somehow, envious that his brother’s touching you and he’s not. But there’s nothing but satisfaction to be found. Joel likes to see the dark look in your eye, likes to see your breath hitch in your throat.

He takes your legs and spreads them wide, draping your thigh over his, giving his brother more room to touch you.

“What do you think, brother? Think we should give her what she needs before we even get home?”

Your face is so close to his that your breath fans across his spit-covered lips as you say so beautifully, “Please, Joel.”

A smirk finds its way to his mouth. “You look so fuckin’ pretty when you beg, sweetheart,” he says. “S’that what you want? Hm?”

You nod frantically, eyes pleading.

“Hold your skirt up, baby,” Tommy instructs. And you do as he says without question, fabric bunching around your hips. 

Joel can’t deny the pleasure he finds in discovering you’re completely bare beneath. Even from his spot in the passenger seat, he can see how glossy your pussy is with arousal, desperate to be touched by both of them. “Oh…look at that, Tommy. She wants it bad, doesn’t she?”

“Always does, brother. Needy little thing. S’why she needs the two of us,” Tommy says. His fingers trail lazily over your slit, a teasing caress. He presses his index finger against your clit and makes a satisfied hum, a sound that comes from somewhere deep in his chest. “Can feel your heartbeat right here, princess. Tell Joel what you want.”

“I want him to touch me,” you say, a little bit breathless. “Want him to make me cum while you kiss me. You taste so good, Joel. You make me so wet.”

The words don’t sound filthy or obscene in your voice, despite how vulgar they are. Joel squeezes your jaw in his hand and delights in the way you grin when he says, “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Wanna see the look on your face when he fills you up with his fingers.”

You’re so pretty, Joel thinks. But it’s nothing compared to the way your pupils dilate as his brother stretches you open. Your lips part and Joel takes the opportunity to crush his mouth to yours, to taste the sweetness you possess. 

He drinks up your moans as Tommy sets a steady pace between your thighs. Joel grabs the back of your knee with a rough hand and spreads your legs further apart. He can hear how wet you are, can feel the goosebumps as they form down the column of your throat.

Joel pulls away from your spellbinding kiss only to catch his breath. “How’s it feel, baby? That feel good, hm? Tommy takin’ good care of you?”

“Yes, yes—mmm—fuck. His hands are so big, feel so fucking good,” you whimper. One hand is clutching Joel’s shirt, holding on for dear life, and you move the other to rest on his cock. You gently knead it over his jeans, and he wonders if you can feel just how hard he is for you.

It doesn’t take long until his brother has you trembling. Your thighs shake and a crease forms between your brows as you chase after the relief you seek.

He kisses you again, tongue brushing against yours, and when you breathe Joel’s name into his mouth he knows what you need before you even ask. 

Slowly, experimentally, Joel’s hand on your knee travels upwards. Over the soft skin of your thigh, taking it all in, savoring you—and then his fingers are circling your clit while Tommy’s are shoved deep inside of you, curved to hit the perfect spot, and you come undone within seconds. 

“Oh, God, Tommy, I—”

“I know, baby, it’s okay. Go ahead,” he says, giving you full permission. 

The words are the last thing you need to reach the full height of euphoria. You’re reduced to a trembling mess in his hands and Joel thinks this is so much better than his dreams. Better than standing in the doorway, watching you, wishing he could hold you.

“That’s it,” Joel praises. “There you go. Bein’ so good for us, sweetheart.” Wetness coats his fingers as he continues to circle your clit until your breath stutters in your chest. He kisses you hard as Tommy’s rhythm begins to slow, eventually stilling completely. 

You wince as they both pull their hands away from you at the same time, a synchronized movement. 

Tommy pulls the truck into Joel’s driveway and chuckles as he looks at you, skirt still hiked up around your hips, limbs boneless. He strokes the side of your face and kisses your hair. “You’re alright, princess. We’re just gettin’ started.”

Joel climbs out of the truck and adjusts your skirt, holding you with an arm around your waist to ensure your balance until both feet are on the ground. Tommy comes to your side and slides his hand into yours, handing Joel the keys.

While he works to unlock the front door, Joel can’t help but smile at the sound of your sweet giggles. He looks over his shoulder to see his brother kissing your neck and grabbing your ass, and the two of you look so infatuated with one another that it’s intoxicating. A magnetism he can’t help but be drawn to, a warmth he wants to embrace.

The minute you walk in the door you’ve got your hands on Joel again. You slip them beneath his t-shirt and he’s thrilled to give you what you want. He pulls it off over his head, discarding it on the back of the couch, and lets out a pleased sigh as you begin peppering wet kisses over his chest, down his sternum, fingers grabbing needily at his skin. 

Tommy stands behind you as you lower yourself to your knees between them. He runs his hands through your hair lovingly and says, “Show him what you do best, baby.”

You smile up at him and it takes Joel’s breath away. He’s never seen someone so pleased to please him, never felt this wanted in all his life. The metal of his belt buckle clinks against the button of his jeans as you undo them, pulling down his zipper in a way that’s familiar to you now.

When you pull his cock out, you wrap one hand around it and guide the tip to your mouth. He’s so hard already that he aches, but the feel of your soft tongue on him grants him ease. You lick every inch of him, an indulgent sort of torture. And then you’re swallowing him down, creating a tight seal with your plush lips.

Your mouth feels like heaven, Joel thinks.

“Look at the way she’s got her legs pressed together,” Tommy murmurs, thumb caressing your temple gently. “Gets so turned on with a dick in her mouth she just doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

“We’re gonna take care of that for you,” Joel says, cupping your jaw in his hand. He shifts it a little lower and can feel the outline of his cock through your throat as you swallow him down, gasping for air you never once ask for. “Gonna take care of everythin’ for you, sweetheart.”

Pleasure coils around his spine, a vise-like grip that threatens to end this night well before he’s ready for it.

Tommy grabs a handful of your hair and draws your head back. Strands of spit still connect you to him and drool runs down your chin. It’s the most pornographic thing he’s ever seen. Tommy laughs and says, “I know, brother. S’almost too good.”

Joel knows it should be a strange thing to hear, but it feels innate. He helps you back to your feet and pulls your shirt over your head while Tommy unzips the back of your skirt and slides it down your legs.

You turn and wrap your arms around Tommy’s neck and he lifts you up in his arms like it’s second nature. Joel supposes it is—the two of you have had a whole lot more practice together than he has. Tommy starts towards the stairs, heading towards Joel’s bedroom, but you let out a whine and reach out for him.

He can’t deny how warm it makes him feel, seeing you all wrapped up in his brother but still reaching for his hand. The smile you give him the moment he touches you makes his heart constrict in his chest. It’s such a soft, intimate moment, and Joel can think of nothing but your conversation on the phone last week.

You worried about catching feelings for me, Joel Miller?

He wasn’t a week ago. But now…? Now, he’s not so sure.

Tommy lays you down in the center of Joel’s bed and the sight of it pushes away his anxiety. You’re so beautiful with your hair splayed out behind you, an angelic sort of halo. The thought crosses his mind that you might have always been meant to exist in his bed.

It feels like second nature to crawl over you, to let his hands roam over your chest, your ribs, your hips. Joel follows each caress with a kiss, mouth following the echo of his hands. He sucks a bruise into your hip, ensuring this moment is real with physical, tangible evidence.

When he gets to the crease of your thigh, Joel sits up and spreads your legs wide. “Look at that,” he whispers. Tommy’s pulling off his worn t-shirt and working on his jeans but pauses long enough to appreciate the sight of your pussy, glossy with arousal and what remains of your first release. “She’s so fuckin’ pretty, ain’t she?”

“Yeah, she is,” Tommy agrees. “Taste’s real pretty, too.” He leans over and presses his mouth to yours, a messy, needy sort of kiss. You whimper as Tommy asks, “What d’you think, princess? Think Joel should get a taste? Hm?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “I want it so bad, Tommy, please.”

“Want it, huh?” Joel slots himself between your thighs, his mouth an inch from where that ache resides. “Maybe we should make her wait a little longer, Tommy. Make her wait ‘til she needs it.”

“No, no, please,” you cry. You buck your hips, trying to find reprieve, but Joel’s hands on your waist hold firm. “I do, I do, I need it, Joel, please, please.”

He looks to his brother to make the decision. Tommy’s got a wicked grin on his face as he watches you writhe on Joel’s sheets. “Think you’ve been real good today. But don’t go forgettin’ your manners, princess. When Joel licks that pretty pussy of yours, you better say thank you.”

The moment he slides his tongue through your slit, your spine bends, arching off the mattress. Your shoulders slump and your breath comes fast. “Oh my god,” you moan. “Thank you, Joel, fuck.”

He tries to give you the same tentative treatment you’ve given him; tracing every inch of you with the flat of his tongue, memorizing the sweet taste, sucking your clit into his mouth. He can feel it pulse with need, and Joel understands the fever.

Your thighs clamp down around his head but Joel doesn’t mind. He just presses his mouth against you harder and flicks his tongue a little faster.

“Tommy,” you whimper. Joel looks up to see your chest heave with each shaking breath. You reach out for his brother with trembling fingers.

“I’m comin', baby,” Tommy says softly. “Don’t you worry.” The mattress dips beneath his weight as he kneels beside you. He cradles your head in his hand, supporting your neck while he eases his cock into your mouth. 

It’s the hottest thing Joel Miller has ever seen in his fucking life.

You grind yourself against his face and he supplies the friction you seek. Arousal coats his facial hair, enveloping his senses in nothing but you. Your moans, your taste, your scent—you, you you. He thinks he’ll never want it any other way but this.

Tommy guides your mouth with a hand wrapped in the tangled strands of your hair. He fucks your face and you whimper around his cock like there’s nothing else in the world that could ever compare. He smiles down at you and says, “You’re gonna make her cum, Joel. Can you feel it? Get’s real sloppy when she’s right there, right on the edge.”

Joel groans against you and focuses his mouth on your clit, giving him just enough room to slip a finger inside you to massage that sweet spot.

You stretch your arms above you and fist your hands in the sheets. When you reach the summit, Joel can feel it on his tongue, can feel your pussy tighten around his finger, can feel your thighs shake around his head.

Tommy pulls your head back, giving you a moment to breathe as another orgasm surges through you. Your moans echo in Joel’s room, the prettiest-sounding symphony he’s ever heard. “Good fuckin’ girl,” Tommy praises, just as breathless as you. “Bein’ such a good girl for us, baby.”

Joel doesn’t relent, doesn’t stop licking your clit until you’re giggling and twisting in his hands at the overstimulation. You sound so satisfied, so happy. It pleases him to see the elation on your face. When he finally pulls away, Joel snakes his arms beneath you and pulls you up to your knees. “So good,” Joel agrees. “But she’s gonna give us another one, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

All you can do is nod and it makes both brothers laugh.

“She’s usually got so much to say,” Tommy teases. “Think we’ve got her fucked dumb, brother.”

“That’s alright,” Joel whispers. “We’ll do all the thinkin’ for her, hm? Take such good care of this sweet little pussy. Turn around, baby. On your hands and knees.”

You do as he says blissfully, ass arched beautifully on display for him. Tommy maneuvers himself in front of you and you take him in your mouth on instinct. Second nature, habitual.

Joel positions himself behind you and slides the head of his cock through your slit. “This what you want, sweet girl? This what you dream of?”

Leaning back, you stroke Tommy with your hand and look up at him as you answer Joel’s question. “Yes,” you say. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I saw you. Knew I needed you, Joel. Knew I needed you both.”

“Three’s a crowd, princess,” Tommy says. “But I think I like this one.”

Joel’s inclined to agree. He pushes into you slowly, sighing in contentment at the gratifying tightness. You’re so wet, so warm. “Goddamn, baby,” he groans, gripping the supple flesh of your ass to keep himself tethered to earth, to keep himself grounded. 

Tommy holds your face in his hands, smoothing his cock over your lips. “Oh, she likes it, Joel,” he says. “Should see her face. Can I take a picture, baby? So Joel can see how happy you look with his dick all up in your guts? Hm?”

The words are crude but Joel can feel you tighten around him as Tommy speaks. “Mmhm,” is all you can say, sticking your tongue out to lick the underside of Tommy’s cock.

He reaches over to the nightstand where his cell phone sits. Tommy angles his phone just right, and the shutter echoes in the room as he takes his photos.

Joel pushes into you real slow. And when he’s buried to the hilt you let out a gasp and hold onto Tommy’s thigh for support, balance wavering. “It feels so fucking good,” you say.

Tommy takes a couple more photos, tries a couple of different angles. But Joel thinks no image will ever beat the one in front of him.

He watches your pussy stretch to make room for him, watches you soak his cock, desperate for it. Tilting his hips forward, Joel sets a steady pace, easily finding a rhythm that has you moaning out his name. 

Satisfied with his work, Tommy sets his phone back on the nightstand in favor of the filthy exhibit before him. He guides his cock back to your mouth, groaning at the feel of your tongue. 

Joel thrusts into you and feels that coil begin to form around the base of his spine again.

You’re moaning around Tommy’s cock and he’s smiling like there’s no place else he’d rather be. Joel understands that, too—because he thinks you’re the most perfect girl that could have ever stumbled into their lives. “S’this what you needed, princess? Needed us both, hm? Dirty little girl.”

“Our girl,” Joel muses, captivated by the way you squeeze him as he says it. He fits so perfectly inside you, like you were made for him, made for this. “Stretchin’ her out so easy, brother. Sweet little pussy’s just cryin’ for it.”

Tommy’s head falls back and his hips stutter. “Just like that, princess,” he praises gently. “Yeah, shit—gonna swallow it all like a good little girl, ain’t you?” 

You make a sound of approval at the back of your throat. Joel can see you look up at his brother, cock-drunk and starry-eyed, and he feels his chest pull tight with a strange sense of pride.

Joel slows his pace just a little, long enough for Tommy to take what he needs from you, for you to focus on just him. And then he’s breathing hard as he holds your head still, nose pressed against his navel. His shoulders draw tight and then gradually relax as he spills his release at the back of your throat. 

When Tommy pulls out of you, his cock is covered in spit and cum but you do as he says, dutifully swallowing it all up like the perfect girl you are. And you even clean any remaining mess with your tongue, licking it up with sweet reverence.

He’s close—so close it aches, but he wants you to give him another before this is other. Wants to make it worth your while, wants to know how it feels to make you cum while he’s buried deep inside you. 

You arch your back and press your cheek against the mattress, looking back at Joel from over your shoulder.

Tommy moves to your side, smoothing your hair out of your face with one hand, and then he slips the other beneath you and circles your clit with skilled, deft fingers.

The response is instantaneous. Joel can feel your pussy pulse around him, sees the strain on your face as you fight the pleasure. You say his brother's name like a prayer shrouded in ecstasy.

But Tommy just shakes his head. “Nah, princess. Ain’t up to me this time. You gotta ask Joel permission.”

He doesn’t understand at first, this almost silent communication between the two of you. But then you say, “Joel, please. Please please, I need to cum so bad, it feels too good.”

You sound so fucking pretty, begging for him like that. “Been so good…I think you’ve earned it,” he says gently. “Go ‘head, sweetheart.”

Tommy continues to circle your clit as you clench around Joel’s cock, uttering quiet praises in your ear. 

You tighten around him and Joel’s right there, right there—and then you say, “Cum with me, Joel, please. Cum with me, I wanna feel it.”

And it sends him over the edge. His name in your mouth, begging him to fill you up. He buries himself so deep inside you that there’s no telling where he ends and you begin, and it’s the best orgasm he’s ever had in his fucking life. 

You shudder beneath him and Joel leans forward, pressing his forehead to your spine. He thrusts into you until the last drop, giving you all of it, giving you everything he has to offer.

As you come down, Tommy pulls his hand from beneath you and combs his fingers through your hair. He’s got that stupid grin on his face, but Joel’s not sure he’s ever seen his brother this happy before. 

The three of you just lay there for a moment, saying nothing, unmoving, basking in the afterglow. Joel’s not quite sure how he’s meant to navigate this, not sure what he’s supposed to say or how he’s supposed to feel about the fact that the best sex he’s ever had was with his brother’s little girlfriend. 

But he does know how to take care of a woman. So, he does. Joel eases himself out of you and disappears for only long enough to find a washcloth, wet it with cool water from the bathroom sink, and grab an icy bottle of water from the fridge. 

When he returns to his bedroom, Tommy holds you in his arms while you speak to him in a hushed tone. It worries him a little, truthfully.

So when Joel sits on the side of his bed to clean the light sheen of sweat off your forehead and the mess between your legs, he asks, “Everythin’ okay?”

“Everything’s good. So, so good,” you answer easily, giving him one of those honeyed smiles.

Tommy takes the bottle of water from Joel’s hand and breaks the seal. “Drink,” he says, passing it to you. And you do, listening so obediently.

But the moment your hands are free again you say, “Joel? Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he says. And he means it. Whatever it is you need, whatever it is you want, Joel wants to give to you. He’s come to understand his brother in this, too.

“Do you think you’d want to…I don’t know. Maybe we could do it again?”

He laughs. Genuinely, truly laughs, because Tommy’s been right this whole time. You’re insatiable.

But you quickly amend your words. Saying, “I mean, not…not now. But maybe…maybe I could stay? For the weekend?”

Joel finds the thought of you leaving at the end of the night an unbearable one. And he knows he’ll likely feel the same once Sunday evening rolls around, and he’s not quite sure what that means for him or you or Tommy…but maybe it’s not something he has to worry about today. 

He kisses your forehead and says, “‘Course you can, sweetheart.”

And then you’re reaching for him again, urging him beneath the sheets. You lay your head on Joel’s chest and drape your leg over Tommy’s hip, and you look so at ease, so peaceful that his heart constricts at the sight. You’re so good, so sweet, and Joel thinks he’d do anything to keep you happy.

Later, as your soft snores and shallow breaths fill the silence, Tommy playfully kicks Joel in the shin and says, “Ain’t no use tryin’ to talk yourself off the ledge, brother. Easier to just enjoy the freefall. Take it day by day.”

Joel thinks his brother might be right. Thinks that this might get complicated and messy and dangerous…but for now, for today…he’ll savor the sugary sweetness while it lasts.

[1800jjbarnes]

◇ 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟑 : 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐱 - 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 ◇

A Moment To Last Forever

【Synopsis】 : When Bucky comes from a long and stressful day, he only wants one thing. You bent over

『W.C』 : 440 

-> Genre: Smut. Flufffff.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

[Warnings] : Unprotected Sex (Whoops). This is kinda written in a poetic way, idk. Making out. Fingering. Slight breeding kink. This is just full of love and devotion. I'm a sap.

Masterlist | Navigation | Kinktober List

A long tiresome mission can always end in one of the best ways if Bucky had anything to say about it. Water rinsing the grime of the exhausting morning, washing away the slowness of the mid-day training or draining the frustrating of a mission gone wrong in the evening. Dunking your head under the shower, feeling Bucky's hands massage your shoulders, as his lips kiss along your back. Your head would dip back to lean against his wet chest. Your hazy eyes would look up at him, seeing a calm, soft smile on his beautiful features.

The steam around you would cloud your judgment as you both kept close together. He would spin you around, kissing you sensually, making every second count. His fingers glided along your wet skin before reaching your core. As if it couldn’t get any hotter in the bathroom, the feeling of his fingers sliding through your folds sends a moan to break through your sealed lips. You would just stand there for a moment, arms wrapped around Bucky as he rests his forehead against your shoulder. His fingers dipping into your dripping pussy, fucking you at a comfortable pace.

His cock ached for attention but he would push it aside for the moment as all he wanted was to see you come at least once...or twice. He was a greedy man after all and if he could, he would have you coming over and over again until you screamed at him to stop. But he knew you would never say stop, taking whatever he gave you like a good girl. Like his good girl. Just like how you’d bend over so obediently, leaning your hands against the cold tiles, shaking your ass slightly as Buck slips his cock deep inside you.

The stretch stung in the best way as he fucks your bluntly and harshly. He lost himself in the idea of coming inside you, filling you up just the way you like it. The water hitting your back, pooling down your legs was gorgeous in his eyes. Watching how your body reacts to his thrusts and then shiver at the water. If he could memorise this event and replay it on his lonely nights, he would. Your moans were music to his ears, the way your pussy would clench around his cock felt like heaven. And as you both came together it was like time had stopped and it was you and him left in the world.

He was so in love with you; intimate nights like these made his heart sing. More than anything else in existence. You are his everything.

[leucisticpuffin]

It's a warm summer's day and Elwing steals a moment from her duties to watch her boys play. As she worries about their future, Elrond's only concern is which of them will end up in the pool first...

For Day 1 of @elrondweek: Childhood and Peace. (Please click to enlarge so you can see all the details properly! I went a bit overboard with the plants and the tiles xD)

Some notes:

Sirion is quite far south in Beleriand, so I imagined it might have a warmer climate and gave them a Mediterranean-ish courtyard garden. The stone swans are Falmari influence.

The little wooden boat was made by Earendil during one of his voyages, and is Elros' favourite toy. While he loves playing make-believe (and splashing other people) Elrond just likes the feeling of the water and the way it ripples when he moves his hand through it.

Elrond's toy seal is made of felt and weighted with a pouch of sand in its belly. He carries it everywhere and can't sleep without it.

[kaylopolis]

Alastor's Shadow (18+) Chapter Four

Alastor x F!Reader, Alias: Thestral

Synopsis: There’s a new Overlord in town and it isn’t the Radio Demon. Six years after you fell into Hell, you have finally earned your seat at the table as Pentagram City’s newest and baddest and with the Extermination coming six months sooner than planned, it is now time to implement your ultimate endgame. Afterall, who doesn’t love a bit of power and chaos? Your plans brings you to the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel as Charlie’s newest Redeemer, but who you find waiting for you will not only turn your entire plan upside down, but also challenge your grab for power… 

Tags: Slow burn, rivals to lovers, eventual smut 

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

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Author note: Dear Hoteliers, This chapter needed to happen to expand the plot. Don't worry, smut is coming soon - like next chapter soon! BTW this was written after episode 7 of Helluva Boss, Full Moon events have not yet happened.

<3 Stay smutty

Chapter Four - The Meeting

Content Warning: none, but let me know if I missed any!

Husk said he didn’t think you liked surprises and boy was he right. 

Charlie screamed the second you entered the kitchen, thrusting a present box into your arms. You were pissed, having not slept, tossing and turning in the silence of the night. 

You really needed to find a radio - it’s music had lulled you to sleep in the past - but now you were hesitant. The radio was Alastor’s domain, and you didn’t know what kind of power the device would have now that he was back in Hell. 

It’s the same reason why you never got a cell phone - you didn’t want Vox tracking your whereabouts or having access to your video camera. It would be a lot easier to figure out who you were if you did. 

You used the new collection of syrups and powders to make real creations for the staff to enjoy. You had to admit, it was fun, and finally gave you a chance to make a jasmine latte to your liking - something you hadn’t had since your early days working at the cafe. 

Alastor was nowhere to be found. So he didn’t see the tension in your body as you ate breakfast. He didn’t see you slip out after Angel and Husk got into it over the news of the Porn Star’s employer - now officially revealed to be Valentino. He didn’t see you tiptoe to your room, lock the door, pull your leather armor and cloak from the Void and clean them before today’s meeting. 

You checked for his shadow of course, to see if he was watching, but for whatever reason, the darkness was still. 

Doning your black garb, you double checked the silver stitching around the hood of your cloak, ensuring the magic seal was still intact. A few loose strands caught your attention but nothing serious enough to disrupt the enchantment. 

Okay. You were going out. In broad daylight. To attend a meeting with the most powerful Overlords in Hell. 

What could go wrong? 

____________________________________________

“Ope! Ope! Ope! Ope!” 

You landed on the sidewalk in a pile of… eggs? 

They stopped their incessant noise making before turning to you, confused but intrigued by the smoke pooling at your feet. 

“Are you on fire?” 

“Why can’t we see your face?”

“You smell like jasmine.” 

“Can I touch your cloak?” 

Sir Pentious’ eggs. What were they doing here? 

You took the elevator to the penthouse - which was really weird. Normally you’d just fly to the top and take the terrace entrance in, but Carmilla Carmine was hosting and she had earned your respect. Not simply because she had invited you, but for the many things before. 

“...I’m sure you’ve all been wondering!” Alastor’s voice hits you at the same time as the static finds your skin. 

Fuck.

“Not really, but welcome back in any case.” You tried hard to hold back your snort as you rounded the corner, appearing at the entrance of the conference room. 

“Ah, you’ve made it,” Carmine gestures to you. 

All eyes flit to you, cementing you to the tile floor where you stood. You did your best to keep your eyes locked with Carmilla’s not wanting to send the wrong message with a wondering gaze. You weren’t here to challenge anyone, certainly not on your first day, you were here as a guest of Carmilla’s and to stake a claim to the seat which has been offered. 

They room falls silent before Zestial finally speaks up. “Tis this the infamous Shadow thou spoke of, Carmilla?” 

You bow your head to the Overlord - and you mean “The” Overlord for he was the first. You had never met him in person before, but you’ve heard of him. 

God, he was even more glorious in person. You could taste the power wafting off him from where you stood. 

“What the heck! What is he doing here?” Zeeze began to protest. 

The colors of her fur were wild enough to make you sick. 

“I invited him,” Carmilla answered dismissively as if it was obvious. Zeezee and a few of the other Overlords protested save for Rosie and Alastor. You didn’t dare turn to them, however, you couldn’t risk anyone in this room catching any hint of your relationship with the Queen of the Cannibals nor could you risk Alastor suspecting any familiarity. 

Fucking Alastor. You blocked out his gaze the most from your mind.  

“The Shadow has risen to power faster second to none other than Alastor himself.” She gestures to the Radio Demon whose eyes haven’t left your form. “He now holds enough souls to rival even your own count, Zeezee. He’s earned a spot at this table.” 

Ha. Fuck you. 

“This is the Shadow…” Rosie chimes in. “Ha! I thought he’d be taller.” She laughs from Alastor’s side. 

“Well then!” The Radio Demon’s smile reappeared, catching you off guard. It’s a really good thing they couldn’t see your hands shaking beneath the cloak. “Please, do take a seat!” He motioned with his microphone to a chair at the end of the table. A shadowed hand wrapped around the leg and pulled it out, inviting you to sit. Once the others saw Rosie and Alastor cave, they felt a bit more relaxed - not enough to drop their guard, however.  

Rosie’s eyes caught yours at the other end of the table. She gave you an imperceptibly small smile, fleeting so as not to attract too much attention. 

At least you had one ally in this room. 

“This year's Extermination was brutal, far more even than years past. We have assessed that about 16% of the population was lost,” a slide projector turns on behind her. “With the angelic legions now returning twice as quickly, I think it prudent we…” The door slams inwards, a loud-mouthed Velvette barging into the meeting. 

God, it was good that you needed to keep yourself composed here, otherwise you’d rip her head off and burn it to ashes. Every interaction you had with her just pushed the line more and more. 

She hangs up the phone, turning to grab the back of your chair and… “What in the Hell is this!?” Velvette motions to you sitting in the chair. “What is this piece of trash doing, sitting in my seat!?”

Smoke began pooling at your feet, angrily twisting about itself in waves. 

“Nice of you to join us, Velvette. Will your… colleagues be joining us?” Carmilla ignored her. 

“What? No, they have better shit to do than to listen to an old windbag who thinks she's tough shit. I'm here to represent or I would be if this wanker would get out of my seat.” 

You didn’t move an inch. Moving would be yielding power to Velvette and you couldn’t let that happen. 

“Velvette, let me introduce you to the Shadow,” Carmilla motioned to you. 

Her red sclera flit between you and the weapons-dealing Overlord. “Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of name is ‘Shadow’ anyway?” She snorted. “This is so going on my Sinstagram. I can’t… Oh!” The purple phone explodes in her hand. 

You didn’t do that… 

Alastor laughs from his chair, “Oh my, what a mess you’ve made.” Her phone lay in a heap on the ground, electrical sparks flying every which way. 

Her tan skin turned a beat red, “Listen here you cock-sucking…” Her hand phases through your cloak as she attempts to grab you. She stands stunned, staring at her hand as if she couldn’t believe it herself. 

It was a cheap trick, but oh-so satisfying when it happened. No one could take the cloak off of you. Not unless you were dead or they knew who you were. 

You loved old magic. 

Velvette stood shell-shocked and speechless. 

No one stood up for you. No one intervened. They were all just as curious to see what you would do next. 

With a snap of your fingers, you pulled a chair from the Void, surrounding the materialization process with blue flame - just for flare. It was a dingy chair, metal and worn - nothing compared to the grand plush ones set aside for the other guests. That, however, was intentional. Summoning the chair wasn’t giving in to her tantrum, it was an insult in and of itself.

“Thank you, Shadow,” Carmilla nodded to you. “So, as I was saying, we need to discuss…”

Velvette uses the chair as a stepping stool, shooting daggers with her eyes at your face. She steps before you, her feet on the table, blocking your view of the room. 

Bitch. 

“On the subject of discussion…” She throws the severed head of an Exorcist across the table.

Oh, here we go! A dead Exorcist - if that didn’t speed up your plans you didn’t know what would! 

You watched as Velvette launched herself into a - obviously rehearsed - speech regarding an assault plan on Heaven. 

Ha! Vox and Valentino sure had big balls if they think they can take the fight to them. On the other hand, you would love to see that happen. They’d be squished before they even made it to the gates, turned into a pile of recycled electronics and whatever the fuck moths had - feathers? 

You’d find some way to take Velvette down personally. Take her out in the chaos with an angelic blade and blame it on the Exorcists of Heaven. You wouldn’t have the credit for the kill of course but did you really need that to begin with? 

The only reason you were sitting here, showing the world a face, assigning a name to your killings was because of Rosie. She was the one to convince you to take hold of the power you so rightfully earned when you were adamant about staying in the shadows. 

You couldn’t lie to yourself, though; the power you had in sitting here, seeing Velvette’s face turn red, was worth it. 

“We know not how this perished. Mayhaps t'was not by a demon's hand at all. If we rush to war without knowing mightn't, they purge all of Hell for daring an uprising?” Zestial chimed in. 

You chuckled deep and low, earning a glare from Alastor. 

“Oh, I get it. So Grandpa is too pussy to fight, so I guess there's no point, right?” She jumps into the Overlord’s face. “Oh, what's the matter, Fossil? Too senile to make a real power grab for…”

“You better show some respect!” Carmilla interrupts Velvette. 

Ugh, Sinners were always so dramatic. This was like dealing with the Crimson Mafia but worse - they didn’t have some Gen Z spoiled brat to deal with. 

You took advantage of the distraction, using the time to study each of the Overlord’s without them knowing. Zeezee was a big… uh… Hell hound? Which didn’t make any sense since Hell hounds were Native born, but that was a mystery for a different day. 

The Von Eldritch representative was absent, but you’d never interacted with him before either. The unnamed Overlord sat to Zeezi’s right, silent and emotionless. Carmilla and her daughters you had already known for years. Zestial was… God, he was a dream. 

The Overlord dripped with power. You wondered, just out of curiosity and not actuality, what he would be like to fight. He seemed so elegant and refined, sitting there sipping his tea. Is his fighting style much of the same? Would he seduce you with his lethality? You had heard that lesser demons flee just upon the sight of him. What has he done to earn such respect? You wanted to know, you wanted to…

Static crawled its way up your spine, freezing your muscles and silencing your thoughts. You felt the air shift beneath your smoke - no, the shadows shift beneath your smoke. They were cold, like how a summer day’s temperature drops in the shade. You could feel them as they shifted beneath you, slithering against your robes.

Alastor. 

You looked up to find the Overlord peering down at you, both hands crossed, his chin resting in his palms. His eyes were half-lidded as they raked over your cloaked form, like he was analyzing you, like he could see straight through the smoke and shadows to you underneath. It made you feel vulnerable. It made you feel weak. 

You met his gaze, not letting his intimidation show. You sensed curiosity from the Overlord. Sniffing, you tried again to smell his emotion, but the room was filled with the iritation wafting off of Velvette and Carmilla - cinnamon. Ugh, you hated cinnamon. 

Your eyes narrowed at the red demon, hoping he moves his gaze, but when he doesn’t relent you decide to repay his stare with a wandering set of eyes of your own. 

He was lean, yet built - his broad chest forming an upside down triangle disappearing into a slim waist line. Donning one of his well-pressed suits and matching slacks. His sense of style was impeccable you had to give him that - but of course, Rosie dressed him and you loved everything she made. Even if she forced you into a dress. He wore gloves - he always wore gloves - but his hands though…

Images of his claws scraping across your cheek and down your skin come flooding back. A shiver runs through your core at the memory of his touch on your neck, the way he licked his lips at the sight of the blood pumping through your veins. Alastor turned ravenous at the thought of tasting you. Fucking cannibals. 

But the way you moaned? God, how embarrassing. You had never made a sound like that in your life. Where had it come from? Why had it happened? 

And why did you like it?

Why did you want him to squeeze harder, to drag your lips to his…

Stop! 

Your face heated at the thought. Alarmed, you pulled your gaze back into your lap, earning a small chuckle from the Radio Demon. 

Where the fuck did that come from!? Get your shit together! You’re supposed to be a badass Overlord in a very important meeting right now. There was no space for thoughts of Alastor and… NO. NOPE. NOT GOING THERE.  

Of course such a devious man would be so enticing! It’s probably how he claimed his victims up top. Get them to like him and smile at them. Maybe he flirted and twirled their hair, before taking their hand and luring them into the dark forest with promises of… NO! STOP IT!

Jesus Christ, it was a really good thing no one could see your face right now. 

Velvette suddenly appeared, her nose mere inches from yours, “This isn’t fucking over!” She jumped to the ground, kicking the chair you pulled from the Void into the wall. “Safe travels back to the nursing home, fuckers! Kiss my ass!” She flipped you all off on her way out. 

It was silent for a beat before Alastor chimed, “That was a productive meeting!” 

What part of that was productive? 

The Overlords all got up from their chairs and headed for the exit, you follow suit, a little saddened at the fact that this meeting went nowhere. You had such high hopes the moment Velvette pulled out the severed head. Ugh, guess you were going to have to continue with Plan A. 

“Shadow,” Carmilla called. Her and her daughters hadn’t yet moved from their spots. “May I call on you later?” Zestial stood next to her, finishing his tea. 

You nodded before…

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.” Alastor stepped into your path, his hand outstretched. “Alastor, pleasure to meet you.”

Your palm was far, far smaller in his grip than you had expected. If his hands were this big then did that mean his…

You stifle a cough, hoping he doesn’t notice. “Charmed.”

His eyes narrow. 

Oh, he noticed. 

“May I interest you in a drink? I see it impertinent to get to know someone such as yourself as we may be able to… benefit one another.” The edges of his smile curled. It made your stomach bubble with anxiety - not the same feelings as butterflies, you should point out. 

Your eyes drifted back to the room, finding Rosie absent. You knew Alastor was going to pay an interest in the Shadow once he was made aware of your presence. You had risen to power just as fast as he had - how could he not pay attention to you? You just didn’t expect it right off the bat. 

“Alastor is a respectable man,” Carmilla jumps in. “He can be trusted” Her eyes weighed heavily on you. She was throwing you a bone, trying to tell you what to do in this situation. 

Alastor respected only those who respected him. Insult him and he will show you no kindness -  Vox being the prime example. You weren’t prepared to take him on just yet, and if he ever found out who you really were, it would completely derail your plans. Besides, if you shut the door now, there was no telling if or when it was going to open again. Remember what you had decided last night at the bar: get to know the Radio Demon, throw him off the scent. 

Pulling the obsidian calling card from your breast pocket, you held it out to him. “A drop of scarlet beneath night’s mistress.” 

A drop of scarlet: blood. The night’s mistress: darkness. Anyone in possession of an obsidian calling card merely had to drip a single drop of their blood atop the card. That drop of blood was the tie in you needed to begin a deal with whomever summoned you. 

Only certain people carried those cards, those who you had bestowed the gift upon. Only once had a card fallen into the wrong hands - and ONLY once. You would never let that happen again. Which was why, from here on out, you needed to be picky with whom you entrusted these to. You didn’t know if you could trust the Radio Demon, but again you couldn’t let this door close. 

“Oh! How ominous.” He slipped the card into his jacket pocket as you exited the conference room, doing your best to ignore the pinpoint glare on the back of your head and the demon who held it. 

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SLAM! Velvette kicks the door open, stomping her way into Vox’s office. “That cock-sucking bastard! Who the fuck does he think he is!?” 

Vox rolled his eyes, continuing to click away on the computer monitor, “No, please Velvette come right in.” 

The brat demon slumped into a chair, her boots kicking up on the desk’s top. The female Vee reclined in the chair, a look of pure anger on her face. “He sat in my seat. My seat! And insulted me right in front of the Overlords of Hell!” 

“Uh-huh,” Vox feigned interest, continuing to click away. 

“And the Old-ass Hag let him! They all just sat there and let him! Where was the fucking respect!?” The Vee jumped to her feet, a thumb jabbed into her chest. “I’m Velvette - the Velvette. I’m a fucking Overlord! He’s just a glorified bed sheet with an attitude!” 

“Yeah,” Vox switched to a different browser - still not listening.

“He’s dead.” Velvette declared, climbing onto the desk. “He’s fucking dead the next time I see him.”

“That sounds nice,” Vox mindlessly added. 

“That sounds nice? What… What the fuck are you doin’?” The female Vee reached down and spun the monitor around. 

A thousand tabs were open, each containing different social media page profiles, image searches, or links to various surveillance cameras around town. 

Velvette shot the media demon a dumb look. “This is why you had to skip the meeting!? You’re still lookin’ for that girl, aren’t you?” 

“What?” Vox pretended to look offended. “No! I’m not… I mean… Why would I…?” His words trailed off at the sight of Velvette’s irritated face. “Maybe.”

Velvette rolled her eyes. “Give me your phone,” she held out her hand. 

“Use your own phone!” The media demon snapped.

Velvette’s glare turned lethal. “You do not want to mess with me today, princess. Give me the goddamn phone!” 

Vox knew better than to argue with the female Vee when she was in a mood. 

Handing over the device, he watched as she clicked across various different media sites before she paused on one in particular. All in all she took about three minutes total of searching before she turned the device around.

And there you were. Hidden amongst a million photos of bugs and random blurry pictures of red ceilings and floors was you in Angel’s arms. 

“How the Hell…” Vox reached for his phone, staring dumbfounded at the photo.

Velvette smirked, a wicked gleam in her eye, “Guess where your mysterious Alley Girl is staying…” 

Vox read the page name, his one eye blinking red with rage, “Alastor…”

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“The Vees are going to be a problem,” Carmilla pondered, one hand wrapped around her chin. 

“I agree,” you growled from your place atop the terrace. The night was colder than expected - perhaps an ominous omen of what was to come. 

“What do you suggest, Mother?” Odette chimed from the chair. Her sister silent and still as always. 

“I suggest we do nothing,” she shrugged, “but wait and watch. If the Vees want to take up arms against the Angels they will not do so alone. We need to ensure that they stay alone.” At that, she eyed you. 

You knew what that meant - a lot of fucking nights at the V Tower listening to a whole lot of nothing. She needed you to play spy. Carmilla would do her part, of course, watching and learning using her own set of spies - she wasn’t one of the most powerful Overlords in Hell for her weapons business alone. 

You stood there and waited for her to name her price. Watching the Vees was in her best interest - not yours. She didn’t know that, but she knew you disliked them so and she knew your services weren’t free. They were never free. Finally, she laid down a number. You weren’t happy with it, but you also owed Carmilla for your seat at the table. Thus, you wouldn’t complain. 

Turning, you headed for the edge of the balcony, preparing to jump before she stopped you again. “I feel the need to explain myself.”

You had another place to be tonight and, of course, you were already late. 

You don’t turn back to her, expecting this to be brief. 

“My girls and I have known you from the beginning,” Carmilla began. From the corner of your eye, you watch Odette and Clara’s eyes grow big. “And although you don’t trust me anymore, know this. I do not do the things I do for you because of who you are, but because of who you have made yourself into.” 

Images of Clara’s blood and Carmilla’s screams fill your vision. You shake the memory away. 

“The last thing I wish to see is you harmed.” Her voice breaks. “I. Am. Sorry.”

Your eyes flit to Clara, yet the girl didn’t meet your gaze, guilt held in her tight-lipped mouth. 

You knew how sorry she was. You knew. 

You take off into the night. 

____________________________________________

From the shadows of the I.M.P office rose a figure clad in red. 

The imp working the desk jumped in shock, spewing coffee over the papers on his desk. “Holy shit! Mr. Radio… The Radio… Over… Demon Lord…”

“Alastor, is fine. Pleasure,” the demon smiled, his teeth and eyes practically glowing in the night. 

“Moxie! Millie! Fuck! Get in here!” He screamed at the door, sprinting to the otherside of the desk to pull out a chair. The wooden seat shoke in his arms, clacking against the floorboards. Even the Natives were afraid of him, it seemed. 

Two smaller imps burst through, but jumped back at the sight of the Overlord seated in front of Blitz’s desk. 

“The… The… Radio… De… Demon…” Moxie tried to speak from behind the cover of his darling wife, but words would not agree with him.

“Yes, yes,” Alastor waved. “I believe we’ve covered that part already, haven’t we?”

Blitz pulled out about fifty pens, only one making it into his hand and the other fourty nine spewing onto the floor. He ripped a few pieces of paper before finally pulling one free and set about writing notes. “What can we do ya’ for, your Overlordness?” He gave an awkward laugh, his elbow tipping the cup of coffee over on his desk. “Shit. Fuck. Shit. Moxie get me a towel!”

The lesser imp and his wife disappeared from the room. 

“I need you to find someone for me,” Alastor purred, his hands resting atop his microphone. 

“Find someone… We don’t really do…” As Blitz talked, the green glare of Alastor’s aura began to fill the room. 

Blitz swallowed dryly, trying to think. “Yeah, Oh… Okay we can find someone for you. What’s their name?”

“I don’t know,” Alastor’s smile strained. He didn’t like not having the upper hand in any situation. Part of the reason why he was here, he needed more information. He needed leverage, just in case. 

“You don’t know…” Blitz rose an eyebrow. 

“What’s a hound got to do to get some sleep around…” A female Hellhound turned the corner, coming eye to eye with Alastor before slinking away, whining as she went. 

“No, I do not know, for they are already dead and do not go by their Christian name,” Alastor continued. 

“Already dead… What the fuck are you here for? We kill alive people.” Blitz was now thoroughly confused, but Alastor was having none of that. 

“I want information on who and what they did when they were alive,” His smile was strained against his teeth. His patience was being tested. 

“Why?” The imp asked. 

Wrong thing to say. 

“Oooooh, shit,” Blitz jumped behind his desk to shield himself from the growing mass that was Alastor’s demon form. “Okay! Okay!” The imp caved. “We’ll do whatever you want! We just need a name! Shit. Somewhere to start, at least!?” 

The Radio Demon shrank back, finally happy to hear some progress. It was getting harder and harder to contain his anger lately. 

“She goes by Thestral.”

-> Link to Chapter Five

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

[ja3hwa]

♡ 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟑 : 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐱 - 𝐂.𝐉𝐇 ♡

Just One Moment

【sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs】 : When Jongho comes from a long and stressful day, he only wants one thing. You bent over

『ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ』 : 440 

-> ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Idol Au. Smut. Flufffff.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Idol!Jongho x F.Reader

[ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs] : Unprotected Sex (Whoops). This is kinda written in a poetic way, idk. Making out. Fingering. Slight breeding kink. This is just full of love and devotion. I'm a sap.

Note: I was in a weird mood when i wrote this, so if it's bad, I'm sorry. ♡

Masterlist | Navigation | Kinktober List

A long tiresome day can always end in one of the best ways if Jongho had anything to say about it. Water rinsing the grime of the exhausting morning, washing away the slowness of the mid-day or draining the frustrating evening. Dunking your head under the shower head, feeling Jongho’s hands massage your shoulders, as his lips kiss along your back. Your head would dip back to lean against his wet chest. Your hazy eyes would look up at him, seeing a calm, soft smile on his beautiful features.

The steam around you would cloud your judgment as you both kept close together. He would spin you around, kissing you sensually, making every second count. His fingers glided along your wet skin before reaching your core. As if it couldn’t get any hotter in the bathroom, the feeling of his fingers sliding through your folds sends a moan to break through your sealed lips. You would just stand there for a moment, arms wrapped around Jongho as he rests his forehead against your shoulder. His fingers dipping into your dripping pussy, fucking you at a comfortable pace.

His cock ached for attention but he would push it aside for the moment as all he wanted was to see you come at least once or twice. He was a greedy man after all and if he could, he would have you coming over and over again until you screamed at him to stop. But he knew you would never say stop, taking whatever he gave you like a good girl. Like his good girl. Just like how you’d bent over so obediently, leaning your hands against the cold tiles, shaking your ass slightly as Jong slips his cock deep inside you.

The stretch stung in the best way as he fucks your bluntly and harshly. He lost himself in the idea of coming inside you, filling you up just the way you like it. The water hitting your back, pooling down your legs was gorgeous in his eyes. Watching how your body reacts to his thrusts and then shiver at the water. If he could memories this event and replay it on his lonely nights he would. Your moans were music to his ears, the way your pussy would clench around his cock felt like heaven. And as you both came together it was like time had stopped and it was you and him left in the world.

He was so in love with you; intimate nights like these made his heart sing. More than anything else in existence. You are his everything.

-♥︎

[artemistorm]

Skyward Sword Skyloft Aesthetic

I love the aesthetic of Skyloft so let's analyze it and see what makes it tick. This will be a long post with lots and lots of photos.

First of all, In Skyloft there are two very different styles of architecture:

Ancient architecture, which are the stately grey stone structures like the light tower in the plaza and around the Statue of the Goddess (as well as various locations on the surface)

And the Skyloftian architecture, which is much more round, colorful and whimsical than the ancient architecture. I will be focusing on the Skyloftian architecture.

Skyloftian houses are built underground with one exposed side facing out. The roofs are flat and often have paths or grass growing on them in order to maximize surface area and places to walk. Each house is unique and is personalized to the occupant.

Non-house buildings like the bazaar, knight academy, and the Lumpy Pumpkin are built above-ground and have varying kinds of roofs, from wood to bamboo, to tented rugs.

Interior walls generally follow this pattern: the walls are painted (or possibly frescoed) with a primary color--it's not a solid color, but with a dappled 'paintbrush-stroke' pattern. Decorative stones or tiles of a contrasting color are placed in a horizontal wavy line in the bottom half of the wall and in another line near the ceiling.

At the base, is a layer of stones of a different color. Structurally, this is likely a foundational base on which the walls are constructed to protect them from groundwater damage, like in cob (a certain kind of mud-cement) house construction.

Buildings and rooms tend to be curvy or round and often have whimsical features built in, like the oven in the kitchen and the bird faucet and tiled round bathing pool in the bathroom of the Knight Academy. In houses, sinks and counters are sometimes built into the wall. This is another feature you see frequently in cob house construction.

In fact, the Skyloftian style of architecture seems to have taken heavy inspiration from cob house construction. Cob is a building material that is made of local mud with additives to turn it into cement with hay or grass mixed in. The cob is mounded up into the shape of the walls and sealed with sealant and plaster. It is very quick to construct cob buildings and they are highly customizable. Building made of cob tend to be whimsical--look up images and see for yourself.

Furniture is made with wood and often has decorative tiling, painting, or carvings in them.

In terms of decorations, the most common motifs are geometric designs, floral and plant designs, and bird-themed designs. Bright colors are preferred, and almost everything in the whole game, but especially in Skyloft, has a pink or purple tinge/undertone to it.

One thing Skyloftians love are ornate rugs. Every room and every house has a rug, usually multiple rugs. Each rug is unique, brightly colored, and usually geometric in design.

There is even an entire (unmanned) shop in the bazaar full of rugs and other textiles.

Other decorations you might find in homes and buildings are pots, vases, bottles, and plates with colorful designs

Lace, stuffed animals, decorative pillows

Turkish lamps, wall hangings, table placemats or a table runner

Mobiles and decorative ceiling hangings

Remlit tree

And some rooms/houses are themed, for example, Fledge's room has a tropical island theme.

Outdoors, the village is decorated with multi-colored banners, buntings, pinwheels, flags, and flowers.

Together all these things construct the aesthetic and style of Skyloft: rounded and curvy buildings, cob-style construction, geometric, floral and bird designs, bright colors, ornate rugs, pots, Turkish lamps, stained glass, wood carvings, and lots and lots of whimsy.

[eldritcmor]

Hello! :3

I was wondering if I could request Taskforce141 with the new recruit and there's something Wrong™ with them.

Like the recruit has tapetum lucidum, so when someone walks into the pitch black kitchen all they see is two glowing eyes and when they flick the lights on it's just the new recruit dead staring them with a jug of juice in their hand 😂

Sometimes they'll just stare at nothing for minutes to hours and there's pressure in the air until they snap out of it, how long where they staring for? 141 doesn't know but the clock only started moving again.

Like I just love the wrongness and how 141 try to comprehend what's going on.

If this is okay!

Cats and dreams

Warning for mentions of blood, death, corpses, and a serious amount of cats. It possibly makes little sense but /shrug.

Kyle jerked awake, the haunted yowls of those poor cats still filling his ears. He scrambled out of bed, headed towards the bathroom of the hotel room that the 141 was currently splitting. He splashed some cold water to maybe calm himself down, before taking a breathe. Trying to put the images of kittens and cold stormy sea fronts out of his head. He swears, he could still feel the salty water creeping into his lungs.

“Garrick?” Shit, he had forgotten that he was sharing a room. “Garrick? You good?” Kyle poked his head around the door frame, and froze. All he could see was a pair of deep golden pools hovering in midair around the area where he could remember the other bed being and nothing else. He took a slow step, reaching for anything he could use as a defensive weapon. Only The eyes were suddenly bearing down on him. He flinched, a shout caught in his throat as he fell back.

“Fuck! Garrick, you good man?” Kyle landed on cold tile with a solid thump. He blinked and found you leaning over him, offering a hand up. He took a deep breath. “Yeah, yeah I’m good.” He reached out and you solidly yanked him to his feet. “Just had a nightmare is all.”

—

“The thirteen tied by their tongues.” Johnny raised an eyebrow as you muttered that phrase aloud. Lately, you seemed antsy. Most days he found you in the kitchen, way too early in the morning hunched over the sink looking like it had personally insulted your mother and you were helpless to do shit about it. Other days, he found you in the unused halls of base, staring at a corner like if you so much as breathed, something would lunge for your throat. It would take him minutes to get your attention and just a bit longer to pull you away from your spot in the hall. It was frankly concerning, but he had his own issues to deal with. 

He was no stranger to nightmares but recently his dreams had been more concerning. It always starts with a whisper. “White cat crosses the black path. His tail in mouth. His ears in his hands. He’s slowly collecting his face.The thirteen all tied by their tongues. They call him “king.” The god of claws. The strays all gather. Extend their paws. He takes a knife. He cuts the whiskers first. Then the tail. The eyes he scoops out with-” Always interrupted by a cat's yowl and a sharp crunch after that. Usually the dream ends there. Not tonight. Tonight it continues.

A repeating mantra of a soft voice whispering. “Thirteen tied by their tongues,” seems to circle around him. He finds himself kneeling in hard gravel before what looks to be a crypt. The last name of your family carved into the weathered stone before a sealed off doorway of wood and iron. Thirteen pairs of golden eyes stare down at him from the roof of that mausoleum as the sound of nail scratching at stone fills his ears. He looks down to see a crowd of cats, scratching. Scratching at the base of mausoleum. He leans forward to see exactly what the cats are digging up only for a feeling of intense dread prickled down his back. He slapped a hand over his eyes. Something telling him that whatever the cats were digging up, it was not meant for his eyes.

He blinks and finds light peeking between his fingers. He slowly moves his hand to reveal a stone room light by warm candlelight, softened by heavy curtains draped over aging masonry, and you! You sitting on a stone coffin slowly flipping through a leather bound book. Your golden eyes scanning over the pages in heavy concentration. It takes him a second to recognize the book. It’s his journal! The one he keeps his most private thoughts, ideas, and experiences in. There’s a sharp tug in his gut and he looks down to see a golden eyed cat, clawing open his belly before he is suddenly staring at the wall of his bedroom.

—

Simon breathed out as he pulled the trigger on his sniper rifle. He watched your head sharply jerk back from the force of the bullet. Bright red splattering the wall behind your falling corpse. Something whispered in his head that this was wrong. But it wasn't, right? He was just following orders. Just. Following. Orders.

Simon blinked as he methodically disassembled and cleaned his rifle in his bunk. Wait, his bunk? That's not right. He has an actual bedroom. And! And? an Office. He doesn't have a bunk. Where the fuck is he? Simon glanced around before, There! A tiny cat figurine sat just on the edge of his bed. He was dreaming. That was good. Still something prickled at his spine. Like he had done something, nigh unforgivable but he couldn't remember what. He sighed as he scooped up the little cat statue and tucked it into his pocket.

Simon blinked and found himself in a familiar temple of sun warmed red sandstone and Smokey sweet incense. He felt something press into his hip and looked down to see a rather large panther peering up at home with sharp golden eyes. The giant cat peeled away from him as he reached out to pet it. Guess it had something to show him for once.

Simon followed the large cat at a slow sedate pace. Watching as the temple warped around him. Sandstone and incense faded to thick oak trees and the acrid smell of a forest fire. A forest fire to long spans of a wheat field. A wheat field to a cave. The cave stank of copper and decay and still Simon followed the cat. Rocky stone gave way to slick cobble. The copper scent growing stronger. Simon watched as the cat approached something and sniffed it before looking expectantly back at Simon. Simon slowly edged forward, the now familiar scent copper cementing in his mind as blood sticking to his boots. He sucked in a deep breath and slowly crouched by the cat before looking at the cat’s prize.

It was you. Splayed in a pool of blood, with a perfect hole between your shocked unseeing eyes.

Simon jerked awake as a sharp pain exploded behind his eyes. He ground a palm into his eye as he turned to check on you. You were fine, breathing deeply in your sleep.

—

Price chewed on his cigar in irritation. He was fucking here, again. Each night the same damn thing.

A massive circle of stones. A ritual site he wish he could forget. Sure, the stones gave him you, but the price still lingered on the back of mind like a bitter taste.

He hated it. Hated it! Watching you, twitching into being from the corpse of a dead god. Over and over. Sometimes, he wishes he had never taken that mission in Innsmouth. Now he gets to watch what his actions lead to nearly every night. The death of a god and the spawning of another. Each night, he had to fight. And each night he won. But tonight. Tonight, he finally lost.

He watched with cold eyes as you clawed your way out of the living god’s stomach. Yowling in all your beastial fury as golden ichor matted your fur and stained your claws. It was a gorey sight as you tore your way free and brought the god down with a screaming yowl. He knew you were an inevitable thing. A creature born of the desire of anonymity. Given form by his failure all those years ago. He knew of mamas words whispered by all gods born to this cursed circle. First always, sacrifices must be made. Parts picked and grabbed. Then reality torn and split at the seams. Samhain was a cursed night for him, even if he hadn’t known at the time. Finally, the night ended with a death and a birth. The desire given form must be killed to give a god form. Gods, what a fool he had been.

He gasped awake just he watched you turn to him. He squinted at the early morning sun as he lazily raised his arm to block it out. He turned in bed only to see your golden eyes peeking over the edge of the bed. He sighed as he reached out to scratch you just behind the ears. A god separated in two. One half, a human who served under his watchful eye. The other, a lazy house cat currently butting into his hands for pets.

[appleciders]

oh hi could i ask for the prompt thing

avatrice + this line i read in a poem today that goes: “we fell in love in midair.”

hope you are having a good day!

Every morning, Beatrice has a routine. She wakes in the pre-dawn light and goes down to the ocean pool by her apartment, where the concrete walls are hewn into the eroded tidepools, and she does twenty laps. Sometimes there are fish, in the pool. Sometimes she scares them away. She likes when she doesn't; when they stay, flitting and silver-specked beneath her, and she gets to watch them. On those days, slicing her arms with each stroke doesn't feel violent. She needs to be violent, sometimes, but not here. Not with them. She's buoyant, in the salt water.

After her swim, she goes back to her apartment and showers. Some days, she would like to watch the sun rise properly, cresting and shifting over the waves. Mary tells her she should. But then she would be late. So she she lets the sun rise behind the shorefront buildings, casting shadows on the tarmac, as she walks to her apartment, showers the salt from her skin, changes into her clothes, and goes to work.

One night, a serious storm system moves in. She leaves the hospital where she works late - skeletal hands of lightning beat at the dark sky as she takes the train home. When she rises to rain still hammering on the windows, she knows before she checks that the tide will be high, the sea too churned. While she still puts on her swimmers, she grabs an umbrella and heads in the opposite direction of the beach.

Beatrice prefers ocean pools, but Beatrice is practical: she has a backup indoor pool that she visits when her beach routine is untenable, like when the surf is rough, the pool gets crowded by once-in-a-whilers, or a juvenile crested hornshark slips in and can't figure out how to slip out.

She checks in at the front desk and leaves her bag in the locker room. The main room of the pool, echoey and muggy and tiled, fills Beatrice's nose with chlorine. There are less usuals than she expects to see; most must have seen the sheets of rain and decided to roll over for another forty minutes of sleep.

She steps into the pool. She starts her laps.

About halfway through, she's aware of a presence in the lane next to her. Small body; good technique; swimming slowly, with a snorkel. She has on a bright red one-piece that catches Beatrice's eye. Beatrice doesn't need to take a break - shouldn't take a break - she has twelve more laps to get through and then she has to get out and return home and shower and go to the hospital and change into her scrubs and do her rounds and -

Beatrices pauses, at the end of her lane. She watches the young woman in the red swimmers.

The palms of her hands lift, gently cupping the air before they glide back into the water. Her pointed toes kick at the water, sending up droplets. When she gets to the end of the lane, instead of flip turning like Beatrice does, she stops. She lifts up her goggled mask, letting out the drips that broke the seal, and lets the mouthpiece of the snorkel fall inelegantly from her mouth. Her hair, slick and dark, tucks behind her ears.

She notices Beatrice watching. She looks behind her, checking for someone behind her. When she sees nobody, her mouth tips up on one side, into a grin. She waves. She has goggle marks around her mouth and the bridge of her nose, framing bright eyes.

Hesitantly, Beatrice waves back.

The young woman's smile widens.

Something hot and thick burns through her body, catching her unawares. She sinks into the cool water again. Contain yourself, she hears, in a familiar voice that's not her own.

Twelve more laps to go. She starts swimming; eleven more laps to go. Ten. Nine.

The girl in the lane beside her, the girl in the bright red, swims backstroke now. Beatrice stares at the bottom of the pool, absent her fish, and sees the snorkel, cast onto the lip of the pool deck.

Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four.

The girl gets out. Beatrice misses her. She feels an unexplainable frustration building inside. She hates the repetition of the stroke, the steady beat that's usually comforting. She slices her hand through the water. It's banal. It's violent.

She doesn't want to finish. She doesn't want to responsibly walk back to her apartment and do her rounds. She wants to poke her head above the water and see where the girl went, to see if the snorkel is all plastic angles against the NO RUNNING sign on the deck.

To see if she smiles at Beatrice again.

Beatrice-

Beatrice-

Beatrice stops. She doesn't pause; she stops. She stops and she pokes her head out of the pool and she looks around.

Next to the lap pool is the open swim pool, which usually stays closed until the family hours open later in the morning. The girl has clearly sweet-talked her way into something, because the attendants pay her no mind even though she has trespassed well into the off-limits space.

The girl sits on the edge of the diving board. Her legs dangle off. She swings her legs, slightly, and has a small smile at the slight bounce that reverberates up and down the board. Her eyes are closed.

Beatrice stays with the water up to her neck, watching her. She doesn't know if she could get out, could feel the gravity of it all pressing down on her, could feel her you're out of the pool now you need to towel off now you need to walk home routines kick in at the abandonment of her in the pool stage of her day, and fight herself well enough to stay.

The girl stands up on the diving board. She lets the board bounce. Once, twice. She catches Beatrice watching her and she beams. Then she winks; then she jumps, not dives, and falls, full pencil, arms pointed above her, into the deep end. There's barely a splash as her head follows her feet into the water.

It's incredibly silly. Beatrice is immediately endeared.

The girl paddles over to the wall. She climbs halfway up the in-cut ladder, hand gripped to the metal bar, then looks at Beatrice. "Hey," she says.

Beatrice can't contain herself. "Hello."

"Okay, be honest. How many points?"

Beatrice frowns.

"Like, I had basically no splash! That's gotta count for something."

"Oh," Beatrice says. She pauses. "Eight," she decides.

"Eight!" The girl grins. "Eight for eigh-va. You're tough to impress. One sec, one sec."

She climbs out of the pool. On her back, Beatrice sees the silvery-white lines of scar tissue, roiling across her tanned skin.

"I'm not, like, super supposed to do this," the girl - Ava, presumably - says, with a touch of sheepishness, as though Beatrice asked, but Beatrice also hasn't moved, hasn't resumed her laps, hasn't left. Ava walks out onto the edge of the diving board again. It's a low diving board, meant for young kids, but Beatrice still has to tip her chin to see her. Light from the skylight reflects on the water, rippling back up across her face. "It's fun, though. You ready?"

To watch? Beatrice has watched, and repented for watching, her whole life. For something else? Water drips from Ava's ankles, to the board. Beatrice has no idea what she'll be agreeing to, if she says yes. She swallows. "Out of ten?" she asks.

"That's the classic."

"Alright," Beatrice agrees. Her words feel round, heavy, next to Ava's slant. "I'll prepare myself."

Ava laughs. It's a joke, and not just by Beatrice's dry tone; Beatrice has prepared herself for everything possible since she was fourteen years old, maybe even before that, but suddenly she doesn't think she can possibly prepare herself for this.

Ava leaps from the diving board. Her knees come up. They tuck to her chest, clasped with her spread hands. Her grin spreads so wide, her nose scrunching, and she closes her eyes in mid-air, whooping. The sound echoes off the tiles, reverberates through Beatrice's chest. Beatrice stares at her; at her freedom, at her joy. She dangles in the air above the pool.

Beatrice has a moment of imagining so visceral, so subconscious, that she feels it sear through her untranslatable.

Ava smashes to the water. Concentric ripples grow, smack noisily against the sides. In the bullseye of her impact, she surfaces, the back of her head to Beatrice. She scrubs water out of her eyes. Then she casts around, spinning on her treading legs to find Beatrice.

"So?"

Beatrice blinks. Right. Out of ten. She swallows. "Nine."

"Nine? Jeez, what's a girl gotta do?"

"Only God is perfect." Beatrice says it deadpan, with the calibrated weight of seventeen years of Catholic education. "To regard anyone else as such would be to do a disservice to His name."

Ava's eyes widen fractionally. Her limbs still. She starts to sink.

The corner of Beatrice's mouth crooks.

"Oh, that was- I was raised by nuns, you can't get a girl like that!"

"You thought your cannonball was divine, then?"

"Uh, yeah!" Ava kicks herself over to the wall. She loops her arm around the ladder handle and points at herself with the other. "Made in God's image to fuck shit up."

Beatrice looks down, amused.

"So, I haven't seen you here before." Ava gets out, walks between the pools. She plops down beside Beatrice, her legs hanging into the water of the lane she'd been in before.

Beatrice's eyes are at the height of her thighs, where they press into the lip of the pool. Her toenails are painted, sloppily, ten different colors. She can't keep looking there, so she flicks her eyes up to Ava's face. "I swim at the beach," she says, clearing her throat. "In the ocean pool."

"Mm. No diving board at the ocean pool."

"No, there isn't."

"So...wanna give it a try here?"

Beatrice hesitates. She looks to the attendants through the window. She looks at the board, stilled again. She opens her mouth.

"No diving," Ava clarifies. "Huge risk of spinal injury, if you don't know what you're doing. But just…jumping, you know?"

Beatrice does know what she's doing; Beatrice has dived from ten foot platforms and off the back of boats in full scuba gear. She doesn't say so.

Ava gives her hopeful, uncertain eyes.

Beatrice should go to work. Beatrice is late for work. Beatrice needs to contain herself, be practical, get her feet back on the ground-

Beatrice nods, smiling slightly. "I'll do my best," she says.

"Fuck yeah," Ava says, surprise and delight washing together. She has freckles on her shoulders, and a tiny scar on her left cheek.

She offers Beatrice a hand, and Beatrice takes it, warm and wet and small. She presses her other palm to the ledge of the pool and pushes her body up onto the deck. She looks into Ava's brown eyes before she lets go.

The warm air chills against Beatrice's skin as she walks over to the diving board. She steps onto the rough, treaded rungs. She feels the board bend under her weight as she walks out. Looking down at the other pool, she finds Ava watching her.

She smiles at her, small. Ava grins.

Tomorrow, Beatrice thinks, she'd like to stay at the beach to watch the sunrise. She wants to show this girl the sunrise.

She jumps.

[overwatchfics]

My Sweet Sacrifice

A/N: You open a portal for Moira, the queen of hell, into your plane of existence.

Blood, the whole lot of it, painted in a complex demonic sigil across the floor. You were picked as a sacrifice for the lady of Hell herself, Moira and you were given away without so much as a goodbye from your parents. When you reached your eighteenth birthday, traded for money, shacked in chains and dragged to a hidden cellar in the desert that lie outside of your little town. Your blood was especially craved as you were a scholar, as knowledgeable intellects were revered by the queen of hell. Now you wait on your knees, many other sacrifices blind folded and tied also on their knees. Some prayed for a savior, other wept, and few screamed at the robed figures sharpening their ritual dirks.

You just wanted to go home, but you knew death was the only way out. No tears, no screaming, just waiting for the end seemed to be your only option. To say you were upset was an understatement, you craved knowledge, but death would seal that away from you, and now you were some meaningless sacrifices. oh, what you'd give to see these robed figures on their knees and bleeding from their pores, to silence the voices gnawing at the edges of your mind, to wield the power to remake the world in the chaos of a bloodied rebirth. You shook your head this wasn't you, so what is it?

Hello Dear~

A voice, clear as day and crisp as a chapels bell rung in your ears. All the noise in the room seemed muted as the voice continued to speak.

That's right, listen to me, I'm the only voice you need to hear pretty one. You're about to die to fools who think spilling a scholar blood would appease me, how wrong they are. The others I sense do not want to hear me, too drowned in fear, but you... I sense a deep wrath in you, I think I might like you.

Deep down you know this voice, it's almost shifted in place like a lost lover, a power that would bring you to your knees willingly and leak years of ancient intellect into your jaded mind. The name slipped into your mind, and it all shifted together.

Moira

Correct dear, I can save you if you wish and promise the knowledge you seek, as the queen of hell, I absolutely have the power to do so, but you must bind yourself and your bloodline to me for all eternity, you must serve me. All you have to do is give relent your soul to me, or not. Your choice mortal, time is running short. Call me by name if you wish to see the world reborn at my side.

If on cue one of the robed figures, kneeled and slit the throat of the scholar a couple bodies away. The next scholar's screaming was cut off by a choked gurgle and you could hear the splatter of blood against the stone tiles beneath you. You were scared, should you die with faith or live damned for eternity, enacting Moira's penance on the world. Faith be damned, that was the whole reason your parents gave you away, all this suffering all this suffering maybe it could end by the Queen's hand. The scholar next to you fell wetly to the floor, the blood pooling and soaking into your frayed linen robes. The cold steel of the dirk pressed against your next, and you met the gaze of the cultist, who hesitated to see the burning resolve in your eyes. With all the rage you could muster, you screamed into the air and called the queen by her name, drawing the "A" out as the cellar's walls began to shake dust sifting onto the floor. The cultist holding the blade against your neck fell onto her back with a shriek.

Excellent choice dearest, you won't regret this.

Your body didn't feel it was yours anymore and it started to move on its own accord. Power flowed through your veins akin to rivers of lava, your veins glowed a vibrant red. You had visions behind your eyes of the queen's own suffering being cast out of the heavens. You felt her vengeance, her rage, her pain, and all you could think about was painting this room the same shade of redthat pooled around your feet as you stood. You could only watch as the Queen took control of your body. She acted through you, and your hand reached out towards the cellar opening, a force magically sealing it shut, the cultists huddled into a corner with bloodied prayer beads and skin bound tomes. The leader, still on her back looked up with fear in her eyes, your hand reach down and picked up the downed cultist lifting them by the neck. The queen spoke angerly through you-

Did you REALLY think meaningless sacrifices would please me, to spill the blood of humanities evolution would humble yourselves to your queen, I will ensure you will rot in my hell for your insolence.

As thought about earlier, with a squeeze of your possessed hand, the cultist's blood was drawn from their very pores, tearing their body to pieces as your absorbed it into your own vitality. The huddled cultists were bloodied and sucked dry one by one. After the last cultist's body thudded lifelessly to the ground, your body stumbled over the sigil and drew an alchemical combination across the floor before channeling the leeched blood into the runes decorating the floor beneath you. A portal burning brightly with hellfire opened and the presence of another mind in your own left you, your will was your own again, but stepping through the portal was a figure pale as the moon, her black armor shone like polished obsidian, and her glowing orange ringed eyes blazed mischievously. Panting with exhaustion, you fall to your hands and knees and bow to the queen, your face lowered enough to touch the blood on the ground. The queen stalked towards you and kneeled, her hand cradling your jaw and tilting your head towards her. Her lips hot as they brushed against your ear.

You show great promise mortal, maybe I shall make you my queen, how would that sound hm? You followed my every beck and call effortlessly and your belief in me was strong it allowed me to take control of you so easily. Come, hold yourself high, we shall remake this world how I see fit, and I'd like you to be at my side for all of it dearest.

A/N: Not a whole lot of romance but to all you moira simps, here's demon queen moira.

[hellishrp]

prev part. ( this is part 4! )

— Alastor loomed over Vox, a shadow of reign casting predominantly over the man on the floor. The studio stiffened with anticipation, asphyxiating pressure pulsing with malevolent energy emanating from the wearer of smiles. Vox could feel the oppressive weight of Alastor's presence bearing down on him, his every breath a struggle against the overwhelming deal that was placed in between the distance of lost friends.

— Creeping steps traveled as his shadows seemed to rip and twist, coiling into a grotesque form that waltz with every movement bestowed. His eyes pierced the fog with an eerie green hue, illuminating the mood like twin beacons. Alastor closed the distance between them, the neon aura concentrating across the flickering lights. His smile revealed rows of razor - sharp teeth. Symbols lingered in the background like ominous omens of man - dooming prophecies as he summoned forth a deal.

— Vox heaved his injured physique with the might he had left, steering his eyes directly head - on to the dealer. His own eyes blazing with rouge with an aflame bitterness within his soul. He branched his claws though not heinous, their fingertips almost nudging. The grin on the victor’s twitched marginally, was it impatience? Relief? Discontentment? Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. His dark influence spread like a contagion that seeped into every corner, drowning the set with hostility. A demon - dealing was to be made.

" Settling for a deal? Good choice! "

— Vox's outstretched hand trembled slightly, for he knew the weight of his impending deception. With a deep breath, he steadied his nerves. A single atom away from sealing the fate, Vox's eye burst open with blinding intensity. Its hypnotic gaze piercing through the pledge, it was the last grip of hope that the media overlord fanged onto.

— Instinctively, Alastor leaped a step back with a ' tch- ' of unexpectedness. His grip tightening onto his staff as he twinged his eyes against the hypnotic influence that threatened to ensnare his conscience. But alas, Alastor was no ordinary sinner, ultimately unswayed by Vox's deceitful tactics. With a primal instinct honed by centuries of bloodthirst, he escaped the hold of the hypnotic allure.

— In a split second, Alastor's reaction was swift and merciless. With a guttural hiss, he mobilized a shadowy reach from the depths of his being, the inky appendage lashing out with a murderous stab towards Vox's exposed eye. The studio erupted into chaos as the umbra limb collided with the screen, a sickening crunch echoing through the halls as the darkness tore through circuits and wires with ruthless efficiency. Vox's agonized scream drilled the silence, his betrayal met with a hasty and brutal retaliation that left him writhing in misery on the tiled floor.

— Blood pooled around him, staining the pristine tiles with a crimson reminder that demons bled red no matter which false hope was invested.

@voxasks @hhactorauofficial go wild!

[ai-luni]

nsfw hcs for merrick? i absolutely l o v e your writing, its so crisp i am literally crushing it up and snorting it like coke rn. also my boy is so underappreciated🥲

HE IS!! YES!! Merrick is so underappreciated. I need edits of him, I need fics of him. Genuinely his voice does things to me, I’m so obsessed with how scratchy his voice is. 

It’s actually embarrassing how much I listen to the ghost’s voice lines. @lylesx got me so addicted to Rorke’s voiceline video and I kid you not, it’s an experience. Now that’s what I snort like coke. 

And I’m so glad somebody asked because this has been plaguing my mind forever. Most childish gambino songs remind me of Rorke. Les, heartbeat, me and your mama, the redbone x bonfire mashup.

Thomas Merrick NSFW Headcanons

Now, let’s begin. 

Save a ghost, ride a cowboy. This man can be damn rowdy if you want him to be. 

He’s hot headed, loves a good bar, a good game of pool, like a true yeehaw blooded american. So if you get him to wear a cowboy hat, you’re really in for it. 

Merrick is steadily approaching his older years now and having been around the block a couple times now, I think he’d definitely prefer a partner who knows what they want. That doesn’t mean you have to be experienced, he's just a little over the shyness of it all now. The man does not beat around the bush, he wouldn’t be a commander today if he wasn’t assertive.

Merrick’s not opposed to one night stands but he’s also started to make jokes that he’s ‘over his prime’. Unless you completely took charge and played all of your cards correctly, I don’t think he’d take home a woman in their 20’s. 

The whole ‘innocent young girl’ act just wouldn’t work on him, period. He would love the idea of having a daughter one day, even if he had to do it as a single father. I’m certain you can find the correlation there yourself. 

(On a different note, Merrick as a father - to a daughter especially - is incredibly protective. He’ll scare off any potential date until they find one he likes, he’ll be proactive if anyone was making fun of them in class and the house has many security systems built in. Not to mention the fact he’s a petty officer, so if his child doesn't do their chores on any given day, they’ll never live it down).

Merrick’s favourite thing to this date is shower sex. Warm water, a hot woman and all the time in the world. What more could he ever ask for?

Seriously though, he’s been a SEAL since he was 17. The man has spent his entire life tossed between aircrafts, navy carriers, land bases and raid sites. The most luxurious thing to him is a long, hot shower. 

When he’s home alone, he’ll get himself off in the shower (also because it feels more private to him and it’s an easy clean up overall). Water running down his spine, palmed braised on the tiled wall. He’ll let his head hang forward, eyelids clamped. If an incredibly undignified noise wants to leave his mouth, then is the only time he’ll let it slip. 

However, he’ll have you in any position imaginable that could fit in that shower. His absolute favourite is having a shower with a glass door facing the mirror above the vanity. He’ll press your chest up to the glass and watch as you struggle to find a comfortable way to rest your head. Eventually he’ll give in and yank your wet hair back to your chin and sit against the glass, leaving your throat on complete display just for him. Then there's your ass slapping against him, your curved spine shiny and wet. It’s not the best position to get the most of him in you and you’ll likely cramp up quicker, but if you can handle it, it’s the quickest position to get Merrick to finish. 

Circling back to the daughter thing: man has a breeding kink. He’ll take any chance he can to ask if he can make you a mummy. 

There was one time you were riding him, holding his hands out by his head. The sight of you alone taking what you need from him was enough to keep him hard long after release but then you started to talk to him. Tease him the best way you know how. 

“You wanna be a father hmm? I’m gonna make you a father” He’ll groan like he was in pain and you’ll feel it, his dick deep inside you just as restless as his hands were. “What will your kids call you? Dad, daddy, papa?” 

When he’s out on a mission, if he’s not thinking about the view of you in the shower, it’s your voice in his ear getting him off. And when you’re with him, then wrap your arms around his neck, let your hands roam his chest and whisper in his ear for only him to hear about how good of a father he’s going to be. He will follow you around like a lost puppy. 

You did it to him around the ghosts once and they kicked up a storm. What nasty, dirty thing could you have possibly said to make him completely melt in your hand like that. 

If it’s not a “mummy” kind of day, he’ll say “yes ma’am.” In or outside the bedroom, he’ll say “yes ma’am” and absolutely loves it when you run the show. He’s also an avid user of “that’s my woman” when you are doing something helpful or badass.

I don’t know about you but I am absolutely whipped for this man’s voice. He would be absolutely smitten if he found out what his voice did to you. Also another thing that should be talked about more here is that Merrick can speak spanish. 

So if you’re being cruel and teasing him, he’ll send it back ten fold (He’s a massive tease and would love a witty woman). He’ll whisper right back into your ear, telling you what he wants to do to you, how hot you look in that outfit and sprinkle in anything in Spanish, until you're a shameless, moaning mess in public. 

Merrick isn’t opposed to public sex depending on the situation. Mission are an absolute no and it’d be very unlikely he’d let go all the way when hiding out in a safe house. 

(If you were with the ghosts hiding at a safehouse, he’d honestly see it as a game of ‘who can last the longest’. Both of you so so stubborn that the game has only ever ended the lot of you going back into combat or with Rorke or even Elias saying they’ll clear the room just so he can fuck you already. The both of you get so tense and strict just because you’re holding out on each other and the others find it very. very. annoying). 

If you were at a bar or restaurant or cinema or even another ghost’s house, however, it’s fair game (granted you can actually find a spot you won’t get caught).

It all started in a movie once, only two other seats were filled out and both were on the other side of the room. You grabbed his hand, stuck it between your legs and started to grind against it. He may have given you the most unamused look but even when you finished, he wouldn’t let go of your pussy until the film was done. 

He can be quite loud in the bedroom. Most of the time, however, he’ll only grunt and groan. He’s gonna be really worked up or angry to get a yell out.

He finds the maintenance of his beard quite an intimate thing and as much as a middle aged man can, he gets quite giddy when you trim it for him. 

Having you sit on his lap in the bathroom with a comfortable silence. His hands instinctively roaming your back as you giggle. His smile makes it harder for you to be precise that eventually you hold his head still by the jaw. He wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off you as concentrated on getting this right for him. He didn’t seem to care as much as you did and just brought you into a kiss. 

Usually if things escalate like that, you’d have to finish trimming his beard later in the night. 

Like mentioned before, Merrick’s been a SEAL for all of his adult life. He’s been a ghost since his early 20’s and has become most of his identity. Seeing you in his ghost mask could then draw two responses out of him depending on how he’s feeling.

On some days, he’d hate to see you wear the mask, see you be associated with any of the violence that that mask has seen.

On other days and more commonly however, seeing you wear his mask does something to him. Seeing you let this mask that has become a symbol of him wrap your face, so willing to be one with him. He wouldn’t make love to you in it but it would definitely instigate the evening. 

Besides he’s always thought the mask looked cool and you looking hot in it only confirms it. And then if the mask continued to smell like your perfume, even for a few days afterwards, he would be the happiest man alive. 

[glossyybabie]

bargaining

part 15 || part 16 || part 17

Summary: You refuse to accept the inevitable. Not yet.

Warnings: Kidnapping. Blood. Some gnarly wounds, and some equally gnarly methods of healing them.

Word count: 1194

Notes: Count on me to clean forget about this until the middle of summer break. Definitely slayed that one.

It was a strange feeling, such soft sheets pooled around your waist, caressing your bruised and beaten skin with each tiny breath you took. Your hand — littered with marks and slender from your strange and unlikely unsafe diet — came to rest on top of the silk comforter. It felt wrong, touching something so pure and gentle after so long.

This must've been Missy's room, or at the very least one of the nicest rooms aboard the TARDIS. You spent most of your time sleeping in the most randomest of places — usually between sofas, rugs, chairs, and hospital beds. You hadn't known what true sleep was until you'd accidentally fallen asleep here during an unsupervised wander. It put any other sleeping place to shame.

Missy had yet to return. This was good, you convinced yourself earnestly. Escape would be all too easy if she really put that much faith in you.

But in that case, why were you still here?

Suddenly disgusted by the bed, your tranquil slumber feeling undeserved, you pushed the sheets far from your body and stood up. The biting chill of the floor felt like adequate punishment. You were losing yourself a little more with each passing moment. That was one thing you couldn't afford.

Your bare feet moved noisily beneath you as you padded into the adjoining bathroom. It was all shiny and cream with majestic gold embellishments — luxurious to the point of tacky. Wasn't that the kind of humorous remark you would've made a long time ago? Maybe a digging comment about the tiles on the walls, or the dusty state of the mirror?

Your eyes moved away from your reflection the moment you caught eye of it. It was a hideous sight. You wouldn't indulge yourself in that ghastly state you had been crumbled into.

The cupboards took your fancy. Each was crystal white with a glistening gold handle, encrusted with some kind of sapphire stones. Once again, Missy's choice of decor felt slightly excessive, but it honestly came as no surprise to you.

Your hands roamed the shelf blindly, eventually settling on a narrow tube. A green cross was plastered on it beside various symbols. That was a universal sign, right?

You sat back on the floor and unscrewed the cap. Collecting a small amount of the blue cream on your fingertips, you delicately applied to one of many small cuts on your arms.

The pain was unimaginable. It felt as though your skin was moving on its own accord, like something was writhing and crawling beneath the surface. Your teeth sank into your knuckles in a desperate bid to silence yourself.

But the sensation came to a halt as quickly as it had come on. Your gaze slowly lowered to your arm, where your once broken skin had completely sealed itself over.

You continued on every other mark that was visible to you, ending on the broken remains of the stab wound that had been callously created through your right thigh. Missy didn't care enough to heal you to any proper or safe standard, after all.

You lifted your head. Too preoccupied with your attempts at stifling your agony every time it threatened to escape your lips in the form of a scream or cry, you'd scarcely even noticed Missy enter in the first place. She gave you little to no acknowledgement at all. Surely she knew you were here, crumpled on the floor directly behind her, right?

You eyed her blouse warily. What covered it must've been blood, judging by the consistency and the way it had splattered across her alone, but the colour was nothing you'd seen before. Broad smears of dark pink, like a vibrant viscous paint.

Missy glanced over her shoulder in approximately your direction and then back at the mirror. "I mean," She gestured to the state she was in, "would you look at that? How rude."

You watched her closely as she cocked her head to the side and eyed you beneath her thick lashes. She approached you within two strides, and you cowered away, prepared to be met with some kind of blistering pain that simply never came.

Hesitantly, you opened one eye, and then the other. Missy wasn't in front of you anymore. It was as if she hadn't moved in the first place.

"Aren't you glad I didn't close you up using this?" Missy juggled the tube between her hands while she swiftly removed her dirtied blouse and the corset beneath it. "It's not for humans, poppet."

You wanted to look away — at the very least out of decency while she removed any clothing that covered the top half of her body �� but you couldn't help but stare at the wound that connected from one side of her stomach to the other. Something quite wide had impaled her, and yet she showed no indication of being in pain at all. It almost made you feel lousy in comparison.

Shades of pink and red combined as she began to apply liberal amounts of the cream to either side of her torso. Only now did she give any indication of discomfort, but only in the form of a soft wince that vanished less than a second later.

"Oh," Missy clicked her tongue, "look how much you've used–"

Missy was in front of you in seconds. Her hands haphazardly swiped at your own wound, scraping away the smallest traces of excess that lined it. You yelped, but she shushed you carelessly, as if just the sound of your voice agitated her.

As she moved back to the mirror, you continued to watch her as she used that small amount of product she'd collected from you on herself instead. The edges of her gash were starting to close. The blood that pooled around her feet was starting to spill towards you.

"I want to leave."

You'd said those words with such finality that they'd come as a surprise to yourself. And to Missy too, if her tauntingly fond smile at you through the mirror was anything to go by.

"Aren't you precious?" she sighed, a blood-coated hand clasping over her chest where one of her hearts would be.

"What would it take?" you pressed. "For me to leave? I'll do anything."

Missy turned on her heel. Her hands stained the sides of the white basin behind her as she leaned back and regarded you with her burning gaze.

"Are you sure you want to play this game with me, poppet?" Missy asked you, and somehow it felt like a courtesy, as if she was genuinely giving you a chance to retreat without repercussions.

But the look in that woman's eyes, the look a predator would give their prey, incited a definite nod of your head.

"It's not a game to me," you said.

Missy's smile nearly reached her eyes. She knelt down beside you. Another small amount of cream was smeared into your thigh. Your hisses of pain were ignored as she took your face in her cold, blood-dampened hands and planted a delicate kiss on the crown of your head.

"Anything it is, dearest," Missy promised you. "Anything for you."

[imakemywings]

Extinguished

           Nerdanel reached Formenos just after Fëanor, and cursed herself for not being faster. Maedhros had gone to Taniquetil, and Maglor and Caranthir had run to her, and she had known not to bother wasting time trying to get to the home of the Valar—Fëanor would not be there by the time she arrived. But she had hoped to beat him to Formenos.

           (“Finwë, dead?” she had breathed to her shaking sons. “Fuck.”)

           As she drew up to the front doors of house in Formenos, Fëanor’s howl rang through the open doors and she knew she had come too late. She raced down the tile entry hall to the base of the main stairway, where Fëanor was sunk on his knees, rocking back and forth, cradling the mutilated body of his father against his chest. Blood and black hair and viscera dripped through his fingers from the back of Finwë’s shattered skull, spattering and pooling on the tiles beneath them both.

           Nerdanel came to a dead halt, panting; her heart beat so loudly in her ears it almost drowned out Fëanor’s horrible wailing, like an animal on the spear. It was dark as pitch outside, not the gentle slide into evening they were accustomed to, but a jarring shift like blowing out a candle. An Elf, murdered, in Valinor! And they could hardly have picked a worse one, Nerdanel thought with an acrid taste on her tongue. Míriel’s death had rippled out through Fëanor’s entire life and he had never, never gotten over his grief of it. His anguish over her loss had fueled a double portion of love for his father—the same one who was now growing cold in his arms.

           In the midst of his senseless keening came gurgling repetitions: Atya, Atya, Atya.

           She hesitated, holding her breath. Nerdanel knew him—she knew there was nothing she could say or do, nor anyone in Arda, nor Iluvatar himself, to soothe this wound. But at least in the past, she might have known Fëanor would appreciate the effort. Now she knew not even that. They had barely spoken since his exile, since her refusal to go with him, since their children’s choice to follow him. But at that moment, all their quarreling, all Fëanor’s secretive and paranoid and anti-social behavior of late fell away, and all she saw was her beloved, and he was in pain.

           “Fëanáro,” she said, her voice cracking in the nearly empty hall. “Fëanáro, come away from there,” she said more firmly, her hand twitching towards him. Fëanor, falling silent at last, lifted his head for the first time to look at her and that look she would remember until her death or the end of the world, whichever came last, for in the years after, she would know that at that moment Fëanor’s fate was sealed and everything that came after had been decided in that moment when he looked at her with his father’s blood smeared over his mouth, with eyes that burned like some fell fire unquenchable, with wild, wounded rage unbound from the tethers of reason.

(In the distance, the thunder of hooves—Finwë’s other children, doubtless coming now with the news of his death.)

“Fëanáro,” Nerdanel whispered, her fingers trembling. His grip on the corpse of her father-in-law tightened. In this face was only the warped reflection of the Elf who had been her partner, now twisted in the madness of grief and the whispering of Melkor; Fëanor, with all his bright light now turned to wrath and ruin; and it was only later she would know he had already been beyond her grasp at that moment; that there was no way for her to save him then, for he was already gone.

AO3 | Pillowfort

[separatist-apologist]

Dressing For Revenge

I don't start shit but I can tell you how it ends. Don't get sad-get even.

Summary: When the end of the war with Hybern finds Lucien unexpectedly crowned High Lord, he realizes everyone he's ever cared about has been lying to him.

The new High Lord of Day Court vows revenge.

Elain Archeron is determined to see him get it

Evil Elucien AU

Read More: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | AO3

Elain paced the patio until she’d worn the lapis lazuli tiles to near dust. Just behind her, Lucien clicked his teeth with exasperation. 

“Just read the godsdamned letter, Elain,” Lucien ordered, his patience running thin. She didn’t turn to look at him, unappreciative of his tone. She knew what she’d find, besides. Lucien without a shirt, lounging in that white cloth draped around his hips with nothing beneath. She was so dangerously close to seeing his cock before they were married, which she was trying to avoid. Despite all his innuendo, Lucien had done nothing outside of kissing her in that pool of blood.

And making her sit in his lap each morning. His little trophy of war, though he’d never said it. He didn’t need to say so—Elain understood why he kept her spread out the way he did. Let everyone see how virile, how masculine and dominant he was. She was merely a pawn. Lady of Day, sure, but a pawn, too. Her beauty was a decoration he could put on display whenever he liked. 

Elain peeled the black wax seal from the letter with a long nail. She ignored the silver dusted mountain insignia, well aware this came from Feyre. Azriel would have returned, shadowless and injured, with the news she was being held by Lucien.

Willing. She could almost taste how Azriel would whisper that word. Elain swallowed the rising amusement that felt too cruel to acknowledge even to herself. The horror Feyre would have felt, the shock and surprise on the High Lord’s face. 

Elain? 

Surely not. 

Surely. 

Elain didn’t want to know what her sisters made of it. Turning, she let her eyes rake over the broad, muscular chest attached to Lucien’s beautiful, smug face. He held out one of his large hands and she gave him the letter.

“Cowardly,” he taunted her, unfolding the letter with open amusement. He cleared his throat, and then with a voice pitched comically high, began to read the letter.

“Elain,

I cannot begin to the describe the horror of the last few days. From learning you were gone to finding out you helped trap Azriel in the Day Palace, I am just beside myself with hurt and anger. Neither of you had any right to attack a member of our court, let alone what you’ve actually done to him.

And to flaunt it so brazenly with your sham wedding, well…I thought you were better than that. I would like an audience with your High Lord. After everything I’ve done for him, he owes me. I didn’t write him directly given how he refuses to be mature about our disagreements, but he has officially taken matters too far.

I expect a response before the end of the week. Given I doubt the sincerity of your wedding, it shouldn’t be much trouble.

Feyre.”

Lucien chortled as Elain ripped the paper from his hand, unable to believe the tone of Ferye’s letter. 

“There is no way,” Elain breathed, scanning the words.

“I’m impressed it wasn’t written in crayon,” Lucien replied. “I wonder if Rhys taught her some new words for this. Brazen seems a little advanced for Feyre.”

Elain ignored Lucien’s digs, outraged by Feyre’s demands. “She thinks we should drop everything and what? Apologize? He had no right to be here—”

“Ah, but that's where you’re wrong,” Lucien murmured, rising from his chair. “Rhysand believes his presence in the other six territories should go unquestioned. Our treaty is very clear on what happens to traitors and spies. I wouldn’t expect Feyre to know, of course, given I doubt she can do simple multiplication. She ought to be grateful Azriel returned with his head.”

“I wish you would have taken his wings,” she said. Lucien’s calloused hands skimmed over the sides of her arms.

“In time, Elain,” he offered, sliding his nose through her hair. Elain pushed away, frustrated Lucien had chosen that moment to make his arousal known. She was right across the hall from him—all he had to do was walk ten paces and he could have her. 

“I’m not meeting with her.”

“She has no right to demand it of you,” Lucien agreed with a  shrug of his broad, naked shoulders. “Would you like me to correct her grammar and send the letter back?”

Elain paused, eyes lighting on his face. “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

Lucien laughed. “Just because Rhys wanted an illiterate wife to rule his territory doesn’t mean I have to respect his decision. I like to think she’s learning something—every time she sends a new letter, her penmanship is a little better, at least.”

It was so deliciously cruel. Elain knew it should abhor her to know how petty Lucien could be. Perhaps there was no length Rhys could stoop to that Lucien wouldn’t meet. Elain took a step towards him, pressing her hand to his chest. 

“That’s so cruel, Lucien,” she murmured. He reached for that hand, bringing her palm to his mouth. 

“I can smell your arousal, Elain.”

He pulled her closer, until her body was flush against his own. Eyes made of flesh and metal searched her face, waiting to see what she’d do. Would she rebuff him? Rebuke the male he was and retreat? Elain didn’t think Lucien would let her go even if she asked.

Not that she would. The threat between them hummed with approval, pulled taut from their shared need. 

“They made me apologize to Feyre for those years when we were mortal,” Elain whispered, thinking of that first meal with Rhysand. Afterwards, Nesta had quietly cried in the room just beside Elain’s. Humiliated by creatures far older than them, that seemed to enjoy watching them squirm and suffer. Cassian had never given Nesta a moment’s reprieve. He’d decided he’d have her—but not as she was.

As he wanted her. 

“How did that make you feel, Elain?” he asked, cupping her face. Lucien forced her to meet his gaze, his thumb rubbing over her lips.

“Feyre hunted. No one asked her to do that…and no one asked how all that meat was cooked. Who cleaned her clothes, her sheets, their cabin. Who chopped wood, Lucien? Who sewed the patches in the clothes she wore? Who made soap, or fetched the water for bathing? She’s invented this reality where the only thing that mattered was the carcasses she dumped on the table, that what she provided was the only worthy contribution, and Nesta and I need to apologize that she was forced to do it at all.”

Elain’s chest heaved, not from desire, but her long pent-up anger. “She didn’t even notice us. Feyre never cared that Nesta sewed up her clothes every time there was a tear—without being asked, without demanding praise. She never commented on how we always had soap and where or how we got those supplies. Just complained how we spent her money. Poor, long-suffering Feyre. She made herself a martyr without ever consulting the rest of us, and then demanded we atone for it.”

Lucien stroked her cheek. “That’s certainly not the story I was told.”

“Of course it wasn’t!” Elain shrieked, furious with Feyre and her manipulative family history. “Because she didn’t value anything we did. It was all just a given! Like Nesta and I were supposed to be her mother, were supposed to read her mind! We fell into poverty at eleven, tell me why Feyre never learned to read! We had a governess from the time we were toddling about, but Feyre couldn’t be bothered. She was somehow both above us—better than us—-while also victimized by us. It’s unfair that only her pain counts. Nesta and I suffered, too. I always thought, before Rhysand came, that we were in that cabin together. That we didn’t have much, but we had each other.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Lucien reassured her softly. “He poisoned her mind long before she came to see you again.”

“I think she was always like this,” Elain whispered, pressing her cheek against his chest. “I want Nesta back. She was mine first.”

“We could try,” he offered, kissing the top of her head. “But if she accepted her bond…”

Elain’s own unaccepted bond threatened to drive her mad some days. She couldn’t leave him and she knew it. Call it a cruel trick of fate, but Elain wanted Lucien beyond reason. She could excuse anything he might do—had already enjoyed what she’d seen thus far. 

Nesta, too, would be lost under that same spell. Cassian would never betray Rhys, and Nesta would never betray Cassian. It was unfair. Nesta had been her sister first. It was Feyre who was the interloper, the intruder—even their mother had noticed.

“We have to focus on us—our court,” Lucien finished, peeling her off his body. “Which means letting your sisters go. Can you do that, Elain?”

She didn’t know. Still, Elain nodded yes all the same, if only so he wouldn’t threaten to send her back. 

“Good girl,” he praised, kissing her cheek. “Do you want me to respond to Feyre on your behalf?”

It was cowardly to agree to that, and yet Elain nodded again. What would she even say? When Feyre could ignore every wrongdoing or worse, twist it until she believed she was in the right? How did Elain begin to argue that? Azriel would have his shadows had he not intruded in their palace. Surely Rhysand must have known. 

Lucien, seemingly reading her mind, caught her by the wrist before she could scamper off. “If we had truly done something wrong, we would have the might of the Illyrian Army bearing down on our doorstep. Feyre is merely playing on what she perceives to be your weakness.”

“Which is what, exactly?” 

“Your goodness,” Lucien breathed, lowering his mouth. “Which she assumes is all there is to you.”

“She doesn’t know anything about me,” Elain replied, wishing he’d kiss her. It was hardly the right moment for it, and still she wanted to taste him, if only a little. 

“Nobody does,” Lucien agreed. She wasn’t given a chance to tell him he didn’t, either. His mouth slanted over her own, effectively silencing what would have been an argument between them.

Lucien assumed he knew everything because they were mates. That his wants were her wants. His feelings were her feelings.He wasn’t wrong, at least at that moment. He wanted to kiss her and she wanted that, too. Elain slid her hands up the broad, muscular planes of his chest, tangling her fingers in his long, auburn hair. Lucien moaned softly, gripping her tight against him. It was Lucien who deepened the kiss—his tongue slid over the seam of her lips, demanding entrance. Elain opened for him, losing herself to the onslaught of sensation. His lips were soft, but firm. When his tongue stroked over her own, she swore she could feel it between her legs. 

She didn’t mean to bite his bottom lip. Standing on her tiptoes so she could reach him made the kiss a balancing act, and when the sole of her sandal slipped, her teeth sliced into his bottom lips.

Lucien growled as blood flooded the kiss, gripping her hair tightly. He liked it, she realized. Like that tinge of violence. 

“Go,” he panted, grinding his cock into her hip all the same. “Before I fuck you here and now.”

“Lucien—”

“Go,” he ordered, magic lacing his words. She had to obey, had to pull herself off him when all she wanted was to please him. Heat flooded between her legs, her arousal so potent she could scent it, too. 

She did as she was told, ignoring the urge to tell him that maybe she wanted that. No one spoke to her that way, and hearing Lucien so dismissively objectify her was almost thrilling. Offensive.

But thrilling, all the same. She was a real person to him and not some fragile object best housed behind glass for display. Beautiful to look at, but never to touch. 

Elain had the sense he would not be gentle. That he would bruise her skin, would leave imprints of his teeth, would fill her mouth with blood and stain the sheets of her bed so irrevocably the only thing to do in the aftermath would be to burn them.

Elain wanted Lucien to so thoroughly debauch and defile her that the very thought of letting her walk back into the prudish Night Court made everyone sick to their stomach. That when they averted their eyes, cast down to the floor, it was not because they found her too lovely, but too terrifying. 

Their separation was odious. Elain could barely stand it and when it came time to meet him in the throne room, she all but tripped over the hem of her white dress, pulling the deep slit between her breasts wide open for everyone to see. The gown itself was merely one carefully folded piece of cloth, tied together with a rather lovely gold belt. Easy to remove if Lucien wanted to.

He reclined on his throne, legs spread suggestively. Head resting against his hand, the other beckoning lazily as he ignored the salty musk of arousal in the air.

These little parties always devolved into raucous orgies she was not allowed to participate in. Only watch from the safety of his lap while his rigid cock nestled against the small of her back.

Tonight would be different.

“What are you thinking, pretty wife?” Lucien asked when she reached him. He slid his hand over her waist, fingers brushing the bottom of her breasts. “You look like you’re plotting.”

“I’m not your wife,” Elain replied primly. She regretted the upcoming, drawn-out affair. Elain could see the wisdom in Feyre and Nesta’s quick ceremonies, even if she appreciated Lucien giving her something she’d always coveted as a human.

An actual, honest-to-goodness wedding. 

“You are my wife,” Lucien replied, lips against her neck. One of his fingers idled over her knee, teasing towards her thigh. “You have been since you fell out of that cursed Cauldron.”

“I always knew you were crazy,” she replied, reclining against the solid musculature of his chest. A laugh rumbled through him. 

“And yet here you are. In my lap. Reeking of arousal.”

“Untouched, still,” Elain dared to remind him. A growl slipped from Lucien’s throat, his fingers slipping beneath one of the pleats of her dress to rub against her bare skin. 

“Are you asking me to touch you?” he asked. She’d forgotten his court was still in the early throes of partying—everyone was still dressed, still touching politely.

Or, as politely as anyone ever was in Day Court. 

Elain slid her hand behind her, running it over his bare thigh. Her fingers met the cloth draped around his waist, and instead of pushing it to the side, she merely gripped him over the fabric. With one teasing stroke, Elain offered up a bored gaze to the courtiers beneath the dais she was perched on.

And shrugged. 

She had no road map for teasing a man—and certainly not a male. What she knew came from the near-pornographic books she’d found in the library and what she’d seen in Rhysand’s Court of Nightmares. Elain was hoping unchecked confidence would take her most of the way, and Lucien would pick up the rest. She stroked again, the angle awkward. Lucien shifted, spreading his legs further until she was practically straddling one of his nearly naked thighs. She knew he could feel she was wearing nothing beneath the dress, and when he rubbed, her own wet arousal stamped over his skin. 

His teeth tugged against her ear. “You’re making a mess of me, Elain.”

Could he tell how nervous she was? Whatever remained of her humanity was mortified, was screaming with shame—close your fucking legs. Elain could have snapped her knees together and sat primly, could have pretended she’d never touched the thick length of him—that she didn’t know how big he was. 

Elain arched her neck, looking upwards at the vaulted gold of the ceiling. Lucien’s fingers passed higher and higher over her thigh, stroking her just as absently as she was touching him. Elain knew he was hardly unaffected. His heart pounded violently against his chest, drowning out the sensual music playing around them. 

No one looked directly at their High Lord, and yet Elain was certain everyone was watching. Egging them on. While they writhed and touched and tasted, Lucien had remained utterly unmoved. Elain wondered how often he’d descended into the fray before she arrived, losing himself to the pleasure of his court. And, perhaps just as wicked, she wondered what it would be like to climb out of his lap and pick her favorites. To invite them into her bed, to see what the other immortals had experienced without an ounce of guilt. 

“What happens when I become your wife?” Elain asked, thinking of how possessive her own sister's mates were. 

His finger dragged up the soaking-wet center of her without warning. Elain twisted, squeezing the base of his cock without thinking. Lucien inhaled not from pain, but obvious pleasure.

“I’ll start calling you Elain Spell-Cleaver,” he replied rather flippantly, rubbing over her cunt with idle, soft touches. Her thighs fell open of their own accord, stripping her of the last vestiges of her whatever modesty she clung to. Elain’s gaze turned to the corner of the open room, where two females were currently kissing against a large, carved pillar. They wanted to be watched.

So did she. 

“Will you lock me away?” she asked him, releasing her awkward hold on his cock so she could readjust herself into his hand. Head lolling over his shoulder, Elain could look up at him from this angle. Could incline her head and drag her tongue over the hollow of his throat. 

“Lock you away…breed you mercilessly until I double Beron’s record…parade you about only when it suits me…” Each statement was more absurd than the last. Elain bit against his collarbone hard enough to leave an imprint of her teeth and Lucien groaned. 

“I do intend to breed you, but as for the rest…” His fingers threaded through her hair, jerking hard enough that her throat was exposed to his lips. “You’re my wife, not my pet and if you want to play at court, all you have to do is ask.”

Lucien teased at her entrance, circling the sensitive skin without ever penetrating. He knew what she wanted instinctively and Elain wondered if it was because mates were evenly matched. He knew what she wanted because he wanted it, too. She arched upwards, trying so hard to get him to plunge into her, to fuck her with his hands.

Lucien slid up to her clit, back to teasing the nub with the soft, slick pads of his fingers. 

“If I fuck you, I’ll be too tempted to put food in your hands,” he whispered, teeth scraping over her skin. “But cauldron boil me, you’re so wet. I’ll bet you’re tight, too.”

She whimpered. 

“I’ll make you a deal, Elain. I’ll do something for you and you’ll do something for me.”

“Yes,” she agreed, not caring he could have demanded anything. He chuckled, removing his hand from between her legs entirely. Elain watched as he brought them to his lips, sucking them slowly until they were entirely clean.

“Just as I thought. Sweet.”

He slipped his arm beneath her knees, setting her on the throne as he stood. The outline of his straining cock was almost comical. Elain was afraid he was going to make her watch someone service him, that she’d be trapped on that throne while Lucien had his fun, returning only when she was a quivering, miserable mess.

He slid to his knees before her, his back to his court. Golden crown atop his head, Lucien made a mockery of the pageantry of the High Lord. Placing his large hands on her knees, Lucien slowly spread them obscenely, pushing aside the fabric of her dress so she was entirely exposed to him—and anyone else who cared to look. 

“Messy,” he praised, his one russet eye drowning in lust. “Someone has to clean you up.”

Elain moaned when he lowered his mouth against her, his tongue lapping at her arousal like he was some kind of untrained, feral animal. Maybe he was—that first taste certainly seemed to undo him. Lucien’s fingers dug into her thighs, holding her open and keeping himself anchored in place. 

She should have told him no. She certainly shouldn’t have grabbed at his head, threading her fingers through his hair to keep him where he was. Nothing in her entire life could have prepared her for how divine his tongue felt against her sensitive flesh—how softly he’d circle over her clit, drawing maddening shapes until she was writhing against his face. 

Lucien pressed one of his fingers against her, teasing her with the possibility of being fucked, all while licking and sucking. She was desperate, was wiggling in an attempt to force him into her just so she’d have something to grip. Elain wanted—needed—to be filled.

He plunged two of his fingers into her body without warning. She screamed, forgetting where she was or that she had an audience. Elain rolled against him, meeting him thrust for vicious thrust. It wasn’t enough, would never been enough. Release danced up her spine, pooling in her gut and when he pushed that third long finger into her, it was enough to send Elain spiraling over the edge. His lips sucked around her clit, tongue teasing as she came in an explosion of dancing golden light. He didn’t stop when she came down, still pumping, still licking, until she was sobbing and sensitive. It was too much.

Elain pushed at his head, but Lucien didn’t budge, dragging her back up over the edge before letting her freefall over. Pleasure was edged with pain, a bittersweet sort of bliss. One she prayed he freed her from when she came back to herself, boneless and shaking on that throne. 

Lucien lips came off her with a loud, sucking pop. Red lips glistened from her arousal, and when he drew forth sticky fingers coated in her orgasm, it was her mouth he pressed them into, making her taste her own release. 

“Your turn,” Lucien murmured, rising to his feet. She knew it was coming, and still felt nervous at the thought of kneeling between his legs and pleasuring him. He replaced her on that throne, legs spread while Elain shakily arranged herself between his knees.

“Have you done this before?” he asked, noting the way she hesitated.

“No,” she admitted, still hazy from the pleasure he’d pulled from her. A flash of what might have been regret streaked over his features. She didn’t want his pity. Elain pushed aside the bolt of fabric that kept Lucien from exposing himself to the world, freeing the thick, swollen cock she’d felt the last few nights. It was nothing like Graysen’s, which seemed almost polite—cute, even, when compared to the heavy appendage bobbing in her hand. 

“We can take this to my bedroom—”

“How hard can it be?” Elain interrupted, drawing a steadying breath. She understood the mechanics of what he was asking her. Put him in her mouth, suck, and try not to vomit in his lap. If he could get on his knees and eat her out, she could certainly repay the favor. Besides, the bargain between them tugged, demanding she uphold her end. 

Elain licked the underside of his cock, letting herself taste the bead of fluid pooling over the tip of his cock. Lucien shuddered, throwing his head back when he felt her tongue swirl against him. Elain watched him closely, drinking in the way he panted when she took only the head of him in between her lips. There was no way to take him all—she wasn’t practiced enough to even try. 

Not that Lucien seemed to care at all. Elain kept one hand braced on his thigh, delighting in how rigid the muscles were just beneath his skin when she made a fluid, wet pass over his cock. 

It was obscene, pulling her mouth off his so he could watch a rope of saliva connect the pair of them. She held his gaze, moving in near slow motion just to see what he’d do. She braced herself for him to grab her by the back of the head and force her back on him, to punish her with the throbbing cock standing erect between them.

Chest heaving, Lucien gripped the arms of the throne he sat on. He looked wild.

“Elain,” he panted, his knuckles white with the effort it took to keep him rooted in place. “Elain please.”

A thrill shot down her spine. Was the High Lord begging her? She licked the underside of his cock and Lucien whimpered, eyes all but burning a hole through her. She could hear his thoughts.

More, give me more—

She sucked as much of him into her throat as she could, gagging when there was no more give. Lucien’s hips flew off the throne, pushing further and robbing her of any ability to breathe. It was pain all over again, and Elain liked it. No one else would have dared at all. Elain wondered if it had ever occurred to Lucien that he shouldn’t fuck her throat—that he ought to be kind and gentle with her.

He was her mate. He liked to be fucked rough, and just assumed because he liked it, she must too. After all, what kind of cruel goddess would pair him with someone who didn’t?

He was right, though Elain lacked experience to know the finer aspects of it. She knew she liked the careless way he gathered up her hair and held her face still, how his hips pumped into her until tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Fuck me, Elain,” he gasped, thumbs swiping the moisture from her skin. “Look at my pretty mate and her pretty mouth. You suck me so well. Gods, you suck like you were made to do nothing else.”

She couldn’t respond, though she did try and widen her jaw to take more of him. She was rewarded by another loud groan. Lucien’s back arched, his legs bracketing her against his body. He was trembling and she understood why—thrusting viciously, Elain gagged as his salty release poured itself hot and fast straight down her throat. She couldn’t swallow it all, still choking on his cock. His come dribbled over her chin and down her neck, marking her as his. 

Lucien withdrew himself, pulling her back into his lap for a messy, claiming kiss. She knew he could taste his own release on her lips, on her tongue, and was aroused all over again at the realization that he liked it. 

He swept her up, still kissing her like a frantic madman. The noise of the room slipped back into the bubble around them, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of sex. She didn’t care enough to look, was too lost in the kiss, in the jostling of her aching body against his own. 

“After the frenzy, I want you to pick your favorite female to bring to our bed,” Lucien gasped, pushing through the throne room doors.

“What if I want a male?” she challenged.

“Bring him, too,” he said against her lips. His steps were hurried—rushed. She wondered if he’d abandoned his plan to have sex with her. If they’d forget their political plans and give in to instinct instead. Rationally, she knew it was a terrible plan.

And still, when Lucien dropped her atop his bed and shed himself of the last of his clothing, revealing himself in all his naked, bronzed glory, Elain wished he would. She was quick to do the same, laying herself out for his ravenous gaze. 

She realized far too late that what Lucien really wanted was just to touch her. Pulling back the blanket and nestling her against his chest, Lucien ran his fingers up and down her bare spine with unguarded reverence. She didn’t realize how badly she’d needed that until it was just them between those silken sheets, far removed from the world around them. 

She felt the mask he wore slip. Lips against her shoulder, he whispered, “I’ve been thinking about this for years. Since I first saw you.”

“What? Holding me?” she asked, brushing strands of hair off his face. She wondered who had. If anyone had ever touched him outside of sexual gratification. He was so beautiful, so lovely it made her ache.

Maybe she wasn’t the only one treated like a breakable object better left behind glass. Something to admire, too pretty to mar with oil slicked fingers. She inched forward, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. 

“Yes,” he admitted, eyes fluttering shut. “But more than that. Not just being held, but wanting to be. Wanting me.”

There were a million good, reasonable reasons to ally with Lucien. He could give her everything she wanted. Her feelings, outside of her common sense, were impeded by their bond. She couldn’t think straight for wanting him. Giving in had helped clear some of that way, if only for a little while. She knew it would all come rushing back in the morning, that she’d be back to panting over him like an animal in heat. 

He traced her lip with the pad of his thumb. “I’d choose you, too,” he whispered as if he knew she needed to hear it. Elain kissed him again, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck. Lucien’s arms tightened around her body, holding her like she’d evaporate into the air if he didn’t.

“I know,” she said, mouth against his skin. “So would I.”

And at that moment, lost in the glittering dark, nothing she’d said had ever been quite so true. Elain held him, too,

“So would I.”

[zeldaseyebrows]

Chapter One of Sacrilege and Sororities is out!

This is the botw Grad School AU I’ve been talking about forever and finally am publishing. I hope you all enjoy!

Summary: After an assassination attempt, Link and Zelda must live together and navigate the impending Calamity, grad school, strange dreams, and their complete disasters of personal lives. One of those things is more difficult than the others.

Pairing: Link/Zelda, OG Link/Hylia

Rating: E

Excerpt:

“I hate him!”

Zelda narrows her eyes with the vengeful focus that comes after consuming copious amounts of spirits. However, her righteous anger would be more chilling if she wasn’t hunched over a toilet bowl in a sorority house bathroom. The cute sand seal printed shower curtain surrounding the claw foot tub destroys any sort of gravitas Zelda’s tirade could have possessed.

“So I’ve heard,” Urbosa replies.

So I’ve heard for the past hour, Urbosa thinks, shifting to get more comfortable on the cool bathroom tile.

Even though it’s already 2am, it’s still going to be a long night. But she’s a loyal friend, and would never leave Zelda in her darkest hour. Even if it means missing the party she’s hosting or getting puke on her skirt or having to listen to Zelda rant about her poor appointed knight and bodyguard for an egregious amount of time, Urbosa’s in it for the long-haul.

Zelda wipes her mouth with a piece of toilet paper Urbosa passes her then continues her drunken rampage, “He’s just so… short! And everyone thinks he’s such hot stuff, because he can do athletics and kill things and looks like –and I quote verbatim– a ‘sexy little androgynous jock stoner elf.’ But they don’t have to see him at 5 a.m. But you know who does?” Zelda smacks her hand against the toilet bowl in emphasis and raises her voice even more. “Who does have to see him at 5 in the bloody morning when that monstrosity of an alarm goes off so he can do push-ups and pull-ups and sit-ups and all the other ‘-ups’ and make me feel bad about myself?”

Urbosa, demonstrating her infinite wisdom, does not answer the rhetorical question. A crisp spring breeze flutters the lace curtains and sweeps through the bathroom. It brings the sounds of intoxicated women laughing and dancing and cheering. Urbosa wishes for the thousandth time that Zelda could just be a happy drunk like them.

Balling her hands up, Zelda shrieks, “Who does? I do! I do because my awful father made him my bodyguard and my accursed roommate. All because he pulled that dinky little sword out of the stone while he was camping.” Zelda contorts her face and pretends to brandish a sword but ends up bashing her arm against the toilet lid. “Oh, I’m Mr. Sir Link Perfect Arse Chosen Hero and I’m barely clearing 5’3” on a good day, but everyone and their mother still wants me. I’m so quiet and stoic and annoying and I wear a stupid little knit beanie and have a motorcycle and a ponytail because I’m soooo cool. Look at me!”

“His beanie does make him look like one of my ex-girlfriends,” Urbosa mumbles to herself then refocuses.

“He’s such a little weirdo and I think he’s in love with his ratty old crockpot. If he even can feel love, since he’s as empty inside as a kiddie pool after it gets drained because someone’s shat in it. He even named the crockpot. Its name is Brenda. Brenda the crockpot.”

Urbosa draws upon every single ounce of willpower she has in order not to burst out laughing.