#ch: william

[warwickroyals]

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[TRANSCRIPT]

New Westminster - New Westminster is the westernmost province of Sunderland. Flanked by the Pacific Ocean and the Rocky Mountains. The province has a diverse geography, characterized by dense forests, rugged coastlines, and arid farmland. New Westminister is bordered to the south by the province of Alexandria, Cheyenne to the east, and the Canadian province of British Columbia to the north. It is Sunderland's third-most populous province.

Cascadia - Cascadia is a major city in Western Sunderland and the most populous city in New Westminster.

[etenniettes]

[millersfinest]

untethered³ | e.w

00s!ellie williams & 00s!miller!reader

wc: 8.1k

series: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three (you’re here!), chapter four , chapter five

blurb: it’s been awhile since you’ve been back home; in upstate new york where you’ve spent most of your life waking up early and tending to the animals that moo’d and meh’d. after graduation high school, and then college, the city life has stolen most of your attention. enabling you to visit only a handful of times through the years. when your lovely adoptive parents (tommy and maria miller) invite you back for a thanksgiving dinner—a troubled old flame from your childhood manages to get your attention, despite its explosive ending.

cw: +18, lmao flip phones, r and ellie NOT beating the cheating allegations, more use of y/n then i would prefer, she/her pronouns, afab anatomy mentioned, some vulgar language, fuckgirl!ellie (kind of), the millers, r is a writer (she doesn’t write much in this ch wink wink), dina being a bitch, more horndog ellie, r being a little self-deprecating, elements of longing, ellie is #1 lesbian yearner in the world, jealous ellie, some early 2000s references, thanksgiving, r is still very jealous of cat, hella angst, rich!abby (one of r’s evil exes), emotional cheating (from ellie), r using abby for sex, repressed emotions, crazy mature chapter (wasn’t intentional lmao)

note: lmao guys, i just wanna say as i proceed with this series… i do not agree w cheating on your partners DONT DO IT. don’t be like ellie (or the reader), it hurts people’s feelings and it’s just not worth it. i hope i tagged everyone who wanted to to be. bisous little lesbians/sapphics in my phone <3 please, enjoy this dramatic ass chapter x

Normally, you wouldn’t be so pliant with Abigail—letting her hands drift toward the small of your back. Clearly, expressing her attraction, because she lost that privilege a while ago. But, you were weakened. And with the burning dark irises of an old friend into the back of your frame, you couldn’t help but let her. It was like she was some sort of cloak of invisibility. Some made up thing in your head ease your spirits.

You met Abby about a year ago, 2004, at some high profile event your agent made you go to. Isa introduced you as an aspiring author to anyone that she could, getting your name out there—which was a good thing, but horribly embarrassing at the time.

Abby was there with her dad, a well-known general surgeon in the city; when she was still in medical school. Wanting someone to talk to, you offered her a drink; a flute of expensive champagne. You didn’t hide your attraction to her, but you approached her with an open mind. Fortunately for you, the night consisted of flirting and great conversation. She was smart, and you loved smart women.

Give or take a few months, you withstand her busy schedule—dating each other, giving only a sliver of intention to one another. You weren’t sure what you wanted, but what you did know is that you couldn’t stand flakiness. Abby began to flake on you a lot; whether it was for her friends or work or school. For work and school you understood, but even then there were days you spent laying around each other completing your priorities. Somehow in the midst of your temporary romance, she began to cast you aside. Maybe it was because you weren’t drowning in money like she was. Or, she just didn’t like you—both were awful options.

Taking the lead, because you’d rather dump than be dumped, you broke up with her—she then hit you with: we weren’t in a relationship. Which was rough on the ears and heart. That was the first time you actually tried with someone in a long time, and she fucked it up. You learned your lesson, though.

The two of you didn’t speak for a few months, but then you called her on a very lonely night, begging for warmth. And, ever since then, it’s been off and on—you playing hard to get and her playing wanting to have.

In the bar, with your hand clutching your cold, cheap cocktail, you walked with her in the direction of Ellie. Abby had her eyes set on her friend group, so she didn’t realize you were slowing down. “I’ll catch up with you…”

“Oh—“ She looked down, seeing the table of three practically gawking at her. Abby made a face that was unreadable. “Don’t make me have to come and find you.” She purred in your ear, slipping her arm from around your shoulders. Abby was such a show off when she wanted to be, which was more often than not.

An uncomfortable smile rested on your lips, hand waving, shortly, to the three sat at the rocky table. Ellie looked completely taken aback, leaning forward on her elbows. “Who the fuck was that?” Ellie whispered as you slipped into the seat she saved for you. Her jacket was placed on the back of your seat, holding it for you.

“Hey, y/n!” Jesse spoke, grinning ear to ear, leaning back in his wooden chair.

“y/n,” Dina said, plastering a fake smile on her glossy lips.

Jesse snickered, taking a sip of his beer. “Is that all you? Goddamn.”

“She’s just a friend from New York…” You waved a hand, dismissively.

“We just watched her feel you up and buy you a drink. Some friend she is.” Ellie countered, glancing over her shoulder at the tall, muscular blonde sitting with her friends. And, weirdly enough, Abby had her eyes on her, too.

You scoffed, holding up a hand. “Okay, she didn’t feel me up. Just forget it.” Shaking your head, you replaced that stern look on your face with a smile. “Anyway, how are you guys? It’s been a long time.” You wrap your lips around the straw sticking out of your drink. The sweet tangy flavor of the alcohol mixed with cranberry juice spreading over your tongue—easing your worries.

He glanced at Ellie, briefly. So fast, you almost missed it. Almost. “I’m doing good. Just moved into my new place in Boston. How about you, Dina?” Jesse raised an eyebrow, nudging her arm.

She stirred the ice in her water with her straw, raising a thick eyebrow. “I’m great.” Dina responded, simply.

“Great.” You say, sipping your drink, awkwardly.

There was silence between the four of you that could only be classified as awkward, uncomfortable and tense. Ellie boring her big eyes into the side of your face as you, purposely, ignored her. Dina no longer having a reason to speak because of your sudden appearance. And, Jesse, well… He was normal. If anything he was trying to fight the demon that was the awkward silence.

Ellie shook her head, a scoff falling from her lips. Abruptly, she stood up, walking over to the bar. Even though her beer was barely touched. “What’s wrong with her?” You mutter, watching her get up. She motioned for the bartender, and you watched them fill up a shot glass. Her slender frame leaned over the bar top, on her toes. Pale skin exposed between the belt holding up her jeans and the hem of her shirt. You couldn’t help but let your eyes linger there—places you’ve touched with the pads of your fingers…

“I don’t know… But, I’m curious. Be right back.” Jesse stood to his feet, taking his beer with him. Leaving, none other than, you and Dina left alone.

Chewing your lip, you slide your drink forward, looking her in the eye. Perhaps, it was the liquid courage settling in your muscles. “Things shouldn’t be weird between us… Ellie wanted me here.” You felt the need to defend your place. Ever since that day, she always seen you as some predatory figure—now, that you think of it… She had even before that day. Just did a better job at hiding it. You were the predatory animal chasing over your gullible and prancing prey—Ellie

“Yeah, and sometimes she doesn’t know what’s good for her. So… I’m sure she did.”

Ouch.

You physically coiled at her words. A dry, pissed scoff fell from your lips. “Fuck you, Dina.” You cursed, leaning back in your chair. Ellie could never do wrong in her eyes—it was obnoxious. Did she have a crush on her or something?

She dryly laughed, shaking her head. “Fuck me?” Dina raised an eyebrow. “Look at her!” She jutted her brown eyes in her direction. “Every time you’re around, she ends up looking that. A wilted fucking flower.” She scolded you, causing you to follow her eyes. Jesse spoke to her with intent eyes. Ellie ran her hands through her hair, eyes shifting side to side. You didn’t know what they were talking about, but it seemed serious. “Just face it, y/n… You’re the common denominator here.”

The common denominator. What an interesting choice of words.

“She’d probably have a better night if you just leave. Go home. Let blondie over there take you home… Or a taxi. I don’t care.” Dina turned her face from you, like you were nothing.

Your hands began to shake and tremble from her words. The muscles in your face twitched and heated up like a furnace—eyes welling up with pained tears. You sniffled, standing up from your chair. Trying every which way not to make a fuss—saving face. She was always such a bitch! So, instead, you rushed to the bathroom with the stiffest posture. Heels stalking by Ellie and Jesse with eyes set on the women’s restroom to unleash your fury.

It was like a gust of wind passing her, Ellie’s words trailed as she unloaded onto Jesse about where her minds been. He was, probably, the only person she could even share it with. Dina didn’t like you very much, she was too emotionally involved. Jesse wasn’t bias and could give her proper advice—it was just up to Ellie if she wanted to follow it or not.

Ellie confessed that the feelings she had for you hadn’t gone away. Something he already knew. But she explained it like an act of a possession—as if the softness of your skin, the beauty of your features, the smell that exuded from you was a spooky presence that just won’t leave her alone. A poltergeist. It was becoming a carnal need the more she saw you.

But what about Cat?

What about her?

Then, on cue, you passed her. Ellie only caught a glimpse of your face. Jaw trembling, the sound of your emotional hiccups. Immediately, her olive eyes shifted to the young woman left at the table. She clenched her jaw, shaking her in disapproval. “Jesse, can you get a fucking handle on her?”

“Easy, Ellie. Don’t talk about her like that. She’s just looking out for you— or trying to.” He told, shifting on his feet. “…And she’s pregnant.”

Her eyes widened. “What?!” Jesse motioned for her to whisper.

“Shh! I wasn’t supposed to say anything. Dina’ll kill me.”

“You guys aren’t even together—“ Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. “Congratulations.” She intoned, running her hand through her hand. “If you don’t mind, I’m gonna go check on—“

“Yeah, go ahead. I’ll talk to Dina.”

Meanwhile, you paced around the single person bathroom. Purse thrown to the ground, makeup smudged down your cheeks. Fists clenched at your sides, and every few minutes pounding a spot on your thigh that inflicted enough pain to briefly distract you from the pain inflicted on your heart. Dina doesn’t understand! You’re not a bad person for what happened that day. When will Ellie get the heat for what happened? Why does it always have to be you? It was always your fault.

So much time has passed, meaning you’ve thought about the altercation for a long time. Hell, it was all you thought about at times. You should’ve never put your hands on Ellie that way—you knew that. But, she shouldn’t have pushed you to do it either. That was her mistake. Pushing and prodding at someone she claimed to love. Ellie was aware of that, too. She wrote about it in that letter she hand delivered on her eighteenth birthday.

Wringing your hands out, you heaved. Emotions still weighing heavy on your heart. Her words cut you like a knife—triggering you. Before you met Tommy and Maria Miller, life was so much harder. Everything was your fault and your birth parents—and the numerous foster parents that you had—made sure that you knew that. It wasn’t fair then, and it wasn’t fair now.

What stopped your progressing thoughts was the gentle call of your name, and a soft knock. It was Ellie.

“Go away!” You sniffled, leaning over the sticky sink to get a look at your appearance. It was a tragedy.

“Please, just let me in. I don’t know what Dina said… But, I’m sure it was fucked up— look, she has her reasons.”

“She has her reasons—?!” You exclaim, looking at the door through the reflection.

“But that doesn’t make it right. I know.” You heard her lean against the door. “Please, y/n.”

Wiping your face, you sighed. Sniffling, you walked over to unlock the door, gulping. “It’s unlocked…” You spoke, weakly. Positioning yourself with your back against the sink, you crossed your arms. Watching her push inside the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Ellie pressed her back against the door, observing you with the softest pair of green eyes you’ve ever seen. It was charming. Through her thick eyelashes, pelvis leaning forward—like she was a child in trouble.

“I’m so sorry about Dina. I should’ve never invited you… I just thought things would be different.” She frowned, fiddling with her fingers in front of her body. Her fingernails had chipped black nail polish on them; focusing on that was easier than focusing on her.

“Well…” You dryly chuckled. “You thought wrong.” Slowly, you drag your eyes from her hands, to her face—avoiding her eyes, though. “Apparently, you’d be better off if I left… Or died; if it were Dina’s way.” Your voice trembled, tears falling from the corners of your eyes. Dina didn’t tell you to die, but that’s what her tone told you. All you were doing was existing. If that’s what stressed Ellie out then… Fuck. Maybe you should just croak, huh?

Ellie ran her hands over her face, taking quick steps towards you. “Fuck— I don’t know why she said that.” Her hand ran through her straight hair, frustrated at herself and Dina. “I—… I do want you here. She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about.” She reaches a hand out for you, but you flinch. There was a slight height difference to the pair of you—your heels caused you to look down at her. But, you weren’t looking down on her.

She was close enough for you to notice the orange-brown flecks in her irises. The ones you missed… So much, and desired wholly. However, you pushed yourself into the ceramic sink, fighting temptation. “Don’t tell me you actually believe what she said?” Her doe eyes looked up at you, demanding a response.

“I don’t know… It’s more than that, Ellie.” You analyze her features as inconspicuously as you could—which wasn’t possible. She noticed everything because she was doing the same thing.

Your bodies drew to each other like the opposite sides of conjoined magnets. Eyes intertwining and overcoming like they always did. Tensions were high, and you were in an enclosed space—your stomach rumbled with anticipation. “Tell me what it is, then.” The feeling of her fingers sliding up the curve of your elbow caused you huff, moving to the toilet to sit down. Cold air replacing where her fingers attempted to tether to you.

Ellie sighed, bunching her hand into a fist at her side. She knew what she was doing—after all, she was a pusher. It was hard to identify when to stop.

You dropped your head into your hands, forcing even breath from your lips. “It’s just… Old shit, okay? Dina struck a nerve.” You glanced at her through your hands, lips quivering.

Ellie took your previous spot, pondering. She knew about your life before your parents—how awful those people treated you; and she couldn’t understand why. You were a scorned person, like most of the kids you grew up with, but underneath it all you were soft. She’s witnessed that softness. And she will regret it for the rest of her life that she was the one to pull you from that that—all for dumb proof of trauma.

She realized too late that she was never alone in that traumatic suffering of the adoption system. After that day, she never wanted to see you hurt like that again. Or at all. Ellie wanted to make everything up to you.

Seeing those tears staining your cheeks; she wanted to kiss it better.

“I’ll talk to her.” The words fled from her mouth. Her old converse squeaked toward you, squatting before your sat figure on the filthy toilet. You turned your head, shutting your eyes and shivering at the thought of her. “Hey,” Her fingers grazed your jaw, pulling your eyes into her line of sight. “I will. She crossed the line— this isn’t my favorite version of you.” Her eyebrows deepened, pressing her lips into a firm line. She wanted to be level with you—not above or below.

Those words were music to your ears. Supple in its raspiness. The warm touch of her fingers on your face, you leaned into her hand. She had a favorite version of you? You reached up, gently gripping her wrist to pull it from you. Ellie shouldn’t have been touching you like this. But, even so, your bodies somehow gravitated toward one another. Eyes staring at each others parted lips, wanting. Needing. Her hand bracing on your thigh, pulling herself closer until your lips met.

Soft and forbidden. You gasped against her mouth, pulling away for a brief moment. Her olive eyes were pleading, and you just couldn’t say no. Being a victim of your flesh, your hand found its way to the back of her neck to pull her lips flush to yours. Mixed whines coming from the both of you; lips merging and meshing together. Creating something beautiful.

Every time you were physical with someone they were missing something. This was it! The passion, the history—the things that matter. The fucking chemistry; it was all there with Ellie. And, deep down, you knew that it was the only place you were going to find it.

She pushed into you, being guided by her carnal desire. Whining and growling into your mouth. Hands gripping at your hips, and the side of your backside. Ellie was hooked under a spell you concocted—some aphrodisiac that exuded from you. And she wanted to breathe more of you in until she couldn’t anymore. She was gluttonous.

Breaking her trance was a rough knock on the bathroom door. The two of you basically jumped apart; you falling into the toilet, nearly touching the water, her falling on the floor. Some of the glitter on your lips had rubbed off onto hers—it looked nice on her, but that was besides the point.

“Some people need to piss! Get out of the fucking bathroom!” Some heavy handed woman exclaimed from the other side.

A smile spread on her lips, hazy eyes watching as you pulled yourself up. “Fuck, Ellie. Why are you smiling?” You walk to the mirror, taking a look at yourself. You and Ellie had just kissed. The same Ellie who’s girlfriend is waiting for her back at the guesthouse. The pressure was already hitting you like a ton of bricks—Ellie was right, you had a terrible poker face. How could you forget about this? “Can you hand me that?” You pointed to the purse beside her.

She chuckled, standing up from the floor. Your purse was in her hand as she walked up behind you, handing it over. Her other snaking around your hips—clearly, still overcome. Taking the purse, you smack her hand away. “Enough!” You scold, deepening your eyebrows. She pouted, crossing her arms. Leaning her back against the wall, shutting her eyes. But it was soon replaced with a smirk.

Your fingers rummaged through your purse for your lipgloss. “This didn’t happen… This never happened…” You muttered to yourself. Once you found the sparkling tube, you began to apply it like a nervous tick. “I still don’t know what you keep finding so funny— nobody can find out about this, Ellie.” You turn to her, dropping your lipgloss back into your purse. “What just happened isn’t fucking funny—“

You were a homewrecker, a thief of girlfriends—watch out New York!

“You’re spiraling.”

“Yeah, and I have every reason to. This isn’t me. I’m not this person. You have a girlfriend!”

Ellie watched you ramble with a look of in awe in her eyes—you were fucked, and so was she. “I remember…” She couldn’t compel herself to care about the repercussions of hr actions; Ellie just wanted you. Even more now than before. She was given an inch, and she was ready to take a mile. Perhaps, longer if that was possible. Your ethics only made her want you more.

The glitter on her lips distracted you, causing you to reach your thumbs near her lips to wipe away the signs of you. Her wide eyes looked up at you, hands wrapping around your wrists. Where did she learn this type of behavior from? VHS porn?“Ellie, will you quit it?!” You stomped your foot, squeezing your eyes. “Fuck me.” You whisper to yourself, adjusting your purse.

“I’ll see you at home…” You mutter, placing your hand on the door handle.

“Am I not driving you?”

“No. You’re gonna stay here, mingle—fuck, I don’t care.” You shook your head. “Abby’s gonna take me home.” The words rushed from your lips because you were thinking and speaking at the same time. You needed an alibi and that’s what Abby was going to be.

The auburn-haired woman rolled her eyes, scoffing under her breath. Jealousy peaking inside of her like it did earlier. “Abby. Abby… The buff blonde you walked into the bar with— the one who was feelin’ you up.” She popped the p sound, nodding her head with searching eyes.

“She wasn’t feeling me up. I don’t think you know what feeling up looks like.”

“Show me, then.”

Your jaw almost dropped from its hinges, gasping at the woman before you. She was shameless, and you were the complete opposite—it was a recipe for disaster. “Like I said… I’ll see you at home.” You opened the door, slipping through to allow her some privacy. The people must’ve opted for the men’s restroom. Fucking freak. You thought, fighting the amused smile off your lips.

Adjusting your top, you approached Abby’s booth. She was surrounded by familiar faces—you knew them-ish. “Abs, can I talk to you for a second?” She looked up at you, blinking with slight confusion at your state.

“Oh, hi, y/n!” A short-haired woman grinned, wiggling her fingers at you.

You smiled at her, while Abby shimmied out of the booth. Taking her hand, you led her away from her friends, keeping her large hand in yours as you began to speak. “I know it’s early, but could you take me home? Like, now?”

She deepened her eyebrows, a hand dropping to your face, wiping at the mascara stains that had run down your cheeks. “Are these tears?” She bunched her eyebrows, gripping your chin and moving your head side to side. “I saw you run to the bathroom—“

“It’s not important, all right?” Your eyes peer up at the blonde woman, pressing your lips into a line. Pleading and batting your eyes at her—you really wanted to go home. And you weren’t necessarily doing it for Dina, it was more so because of her. As well as the fact that you had just made out with a woman who was spoken for. Whose girlfriend who is only ten minutes away, and who also offered to get champagne for Thanksgiving after you mentioned its absence. It was currently, probably, chilling in the fridge as all of this unfolded.

While you semi-sensually begged the woman to drive you home in her Jaguar, Ellie had gotten herself together in the bathroom. After you left, she released a joyful laugh once the door shut behind you. As if she had finished with making out with the hottest girl in school—very teenage-like. Her cheeks were flushed, blushing a warm mahogany through her freckles. You wanted her just as much as she wanted you; the kid proved that much.

But, then, a pang of guilt settled in the pit of her stomach. A fragment. Very small and minuscule.

It wasn’t right away; Ellie was certain that you thought of her to be cold based on how she was handling the situation. She had a girlfriend and found the situation amusing? You’re right—nothing was funny about what happened before you fell into the toilet and before she fell onto the floor. The both of you had managed to dig yourselves into a hole that she didn’t want to get out of. And she was sure you felt the same—she hoped you felt the same. Holes were fun, right?

Ellie wanted to keep digging deeper, and deeper, and deeper. She wanted to envelop herself with you, just like she used to. However, this time, she wasn’t planning on letting you go.

Cat was just something—someone she had to deal with in the meantime. She’s gonna fix it… Ellie just doesn’t know how, right now. She can’t think straight. Pun intended.

Leaving the bathroom, she checked her cell. Noticing the few messages her girlfriend had left her during the short period of time she had you to herself. Her avoidant nature caused her to skim them, then slap her phone shut.

“Everything good?” Jesse questioned, watching as she approached the table.

Ellie shoved her phone into her front pocket. “Yeah… Everything’s fine.” Her olive eyes averted to Dina. “Dude…?” She squinted her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Els. I went too far, I know.”

“I’m glad you know.” She sat in her chair, glancing over at you talking to the buff blonde. “What you said was fucked up, and I should be more mad at you, right now…”

She sighed, pouting her lips. “Well, thank you for your mercy, sire.” A smile creeped onto her lips.

“Dina,” Ellie narrowed her eyes, shaking her head.

Jesse side-eyed her, pressing his lips into an unimpressed line. She looked over at him, lips parting. “Just tryin’ to lighten up the mood. Excuse me.” Dina deepened her eyebrows, sliding down in her chair.

Ellie chortled, shaking her head once more, making sure to swing it far to get a glance at you. She watched you follow Abby back to her booth, telling them that you were leaving. Her hand guiding you, rubbing circles on the back of your hand. Fuck, that should’ve been Ellie. She hated watching you lean into her like that—shrinking yourself. That wasn’t you.

You were bold, opinionated, and despite your strict upbringing, you never shrunk. If anything, Maria and Tommy’s parenting gave you confidence. That used to intimidate Ellie, but it didn’t anymore. It influenced her.

As you walked out with Abby, Ellie gave an awkward wave, but you snapped your head in the other direction. You needed to clean your pallet, and that’s exactly what you were planning to do in that shiny black Jaguar.

When the door opened, the brisk, autumn air hit you, cooling your body down. But your mind was still set on using Abby as a cleanser—a handkerchief to wipe you of your mistakes.

You feigned a straightforward destination, giving her the address of your childhood home. But, halfway, you told her to pull over onto a dark dirt path. She made a joke, asking: Is this where you kill me and steal my car?

And you respond, full of need: I don’t want your stupid fucking car. I want you. Launching yourself over the center console, wrapping your arms around her face. You swing one of your legs over to straddle her in the driver’s seat. Hips grinding against her, shoving your tongue down her throat like she was going to leave you. Although, she wasn’t going anywhere—not with you on her lap, anyway.

Abby groaned into your mouth, gripping your ass over your jeans, pushing you harder against her. Messily, you begin to trail your lips down her jaw, toward the softness of her neck. Urgently nibbling at her skin. “Fuck, you’re eager…” Abby muttered through her heavy breathing. “I like this version of you.”

This isn’t my favorite version of you. Ellie’s voice echoed in your head. It frustrated you.

Warmth built up under the crotch of your jeans; the thick seam doing very little for the pleasure you wanted. “Please, Abby…” You breathed into her ear, tugging at the silver ring through her cartilage. “Touch me.” Reaching for her hand, you place between your legs, cupping her hand as she groped you. Meeting her eyes, you taunted her, chewing on your bottom lip.

The blonde didn’t hesitate, unbuttoning your jeans and shoving her hand inside. She was always quick to give rather than receive—listening to any command you spoke. As the pads of her fingers contact with where you needed her the most, you sighed. “You’re so wet for me already…”

It was debatable whether it was for her or not. With your eyes squeezed shut, you imagined the earthy, olive eyes of your past lover. The softness of the her lips. The desperation in which she put her all into pleasing you—it was experienced before. But, at that point, you were amateurs. So much has changed since then. You were curious how much, though. “All for you.” You whined, rocking your hips against her hand. Lying through your teeth.

She pressed two fingers into you, pushing a moan from your throat. Hands gripping her shoulders, bracing your weight. You imagined them to be her fingers curling deep inside of you—pulling sounds from you like a puppeteer.

You were worser than you thought.

Abby was supposed to be a pallet cleanser, but instead she was just a vessel for your horny fantasies.

The palm of her hand rubbed against your clit, pushing you closer to an edge you wanted to fall off of. A tightness built in the pit of your stomach—burning like a prosperous flame; standing by to erupt. “Ah… Fuck, yes!” You lewdly affirmed, fingers gripping the roots of her hair, back arching into her. The smell of lavender shampoo wafting into your nose from how close you were.

Ellie would never wash her hair with lavender shampoo. She stuck to sweeter, muskier smells. The one’s you liked.

Your legs trembled around her hips, jolting with every stroke and thrust. Her ministrations intensifying causing the sounds from your lips to get louder, laced with desire. “Abby,” You trembled with a warning tone. “I’m g—gonna… Fuck, I’m comi—“ Your choppy words are cut off with the snapping of a band in your stomach—spreading over you like a brisk gust of wind. Shocking your body into a brief state of paralysis against her strong frame.

She coax’s you through your orgasm, with that same come hither motion that got you there to begin with. Although, she was so quiet. That’s when clarity hit you, as you shakily rocked against her hand. Reaching down, you grip her wrist, kissing the pressure point under her ear. “Can you check the time f’me?” You sweetly ask, still subtly, rutting against her.

Abby checked the watch on her wrist. “Eleven-something.” She hummed into your neck.

“Eleven-somethin’, huh?” You tease, lifting off her, trying to settle back into the passenger seat. “I should probably get home…” You zipped and buttoned your pants. Normally, you’d be eager to return the favor, but your plan didn’t work—and, frankly, that irritated you. That nerdy, auburn-haired, freckled woman, that you knew so well, had burrowed herself under your skin already. It was a recipe for disaster.

There was a twitch in Abby’s brow at your sudden departure from her. She felt that bite of coldness; it was something she wasn’t used to. Nonetheless, she drove you home. With you leaning on the window, watching dark, shedding trees pass you by. All the way until you felt that familiar shift from side to side as you cruised over the gravel that led to your childhood home.

“How long are you gonna be here for?” You asked as she pulled to a stop, where Ellie’s car was previously parked. It was out of courtesy to wonder; these parts of town wasn’t really for people like her.

“Until the end of the week, then back to work.” She turned toward you, pushing her hair behind her ear. “When am I gonna see you again?” Record scratch. Abby Anderson has never asked you that. She was always aloof and carefree. I’m too busy. Let me check my schedule.

You couldn’t help the laugh that fell from your lips. “I’m really tying to spend some time with my family, but— uhm… I’ll call you, okay?” Leaning over the console, you place a lush smooch on her lips—riding on the confidence from her lack thereof.

Getting out of her expensive car, you adjust your clothing before walking into your house. Thankfully, the lights were off, meaning your parents were asleep. Thank, God. You looked awful, and you preferred not to be questioned on your state, Ellie’s whereabouts, and who took you home.

Gently, you shut the door behind you, keys jiggling in your hand. Slipping out of your heels, you tiptoed toward the fridge just to prove something to yourself. The white light from the fridge illuminated your deadpanned expression as two tall bottles of champagne sat on the second shelf. Nobody likes champagne that much. You rolled your eyes, scoffing under your breath.

Cat didn’t deserve any of what happened tonight, and you hated that.

When you got to your bedroom, you wasted no time to peel the clothes from your body. Falling atop of your mattress like a starfish. Before you slipped under the covers, you pulled your laptop onto your stomach to log into your MySpace. There was a red notification on your activity icon. When you click on it, StarlightWilliams had added you back—you were mutuals now. The pads of your fingers touched your lips, remembering the softness of hers from that moment in the bathroom. The pressure of her slender fingers gripping your sides—wistfully you sighed, slumping your head against the fluffy pillows and stuffed animals against your headboard.

Suddenly, your computer makes a sound—a ping. You sit up, squinting at the incoming notification.

kit_cat79 wants to be your friend!

What a coincidence. The website exposes whether you were online or not—you couldn’t hide from her. So, you decided to add her back. Cat’s picture was of her with her tongue out, dark bangs styled to the side. You didn’t realize that she had a tongue piercing—could she get any cooler? Maybe you should get a tongue piercing.

Her mood hadn’t been recently updated, but it was: Optimistic.

Her bio didn’t over explain much, but said more than her freckled counterpart: my name is cat and i do tattoo’s !! message me for inquiries (or ur a loser). Your eyes and cursor skimmed her account, not paying attention to the smaller details. Quickly, you navigated to the pictures and videos. There were some pieces of her work, candids of Ellie, pictures of her at band shows—

kit_cat79: hey… i know it’s late, but that was you who just got back, right?

The messages appeared at the bottom left corner of the screen, blinking green.

BugsWritersRoom: Hey, yeah. That was me…

Duh.

kit_cat79: i thought you went with ellie in her truck. also… where is she? she’s not answering my texts.

Was she worried about her? Or was her questioning coming from a place of distrust? Or, a secret third option... you had a bad case of paranoia.

BugsWritersRoom: She’s still at TB. I’m sure she’s just distracted catching up with Jesse and Dina.

kit_cat79: oh…

kit_cat79: that was some car you pulled up in...

She was wanting to start conversation, but you were too tired. You didn’t want to think about, or talk to another person about Abby. Let alone, talk about her with Cat. No offense. Sleep is the only time when your mind was going to finally rest, and you can resume thinking tomorrow.

Leaving her message on seen, you shut your laptop, pushing it to the side. You took Cat’s message as a sign to shut it down, reaching to click your lamp off.

You allowed sleep to take over, cuddling into your pillows as if it were a body. Hitching your leg over it, tugging it to your chest. Could you have been more evident in your loneliness? In your restless dreams, your brain scoured for something to show you. Something relevant, of course.

Olive eyes, freckles, prominent beauty mark—it was obvious what images it was looking for. Ellie.

By the time the sun lingered on the horizon, a tragic alarming song sang in unison to wake you—the sound of your ancient alarm, and the sound of the rooster sat atop of the chicken coop. Groaning into the pillow you held, squinting your eyes open. It had pulled you from a dream that was… Certainly, a dream. It was untoward, lewd; just straight up nasty.

There was a wetness between your legs that was the first to get your attention. Out of shameful curiosity, you reached your hand under your shorts; hoping it wasn’t your period suprising you. Pulling your fingers out, there was an absence of the dark hue that was a symbol of your menstrual cycle. It was fairly clear, shiny, and slick. You were a victim of a wet dream. How juvenile.

The sight of it only made your hornier. So, while you still had time, you jumped for one of the bags you brought. You were expected for morning chores, but there was always time to rub one out.

Taking the battery-powered silver bullet from you bag, you attempt to switch it on but it doesn’t respond. You even switch the batteries around, blowing into the port. “Come on…” You complain, but it still it doesn’t adhere to you.

You groan, falling back into your pillows. There was nothing wrong with going old school, but you were a creature of habit.

Sliding your hand down your body, you slip under your shorts and underwear. It didn’t take long for you to completely rouse yourself, blinking your eyes shut to fall into your imagination. Usually, the best material was your most recent hookup—or some celebrity crush that you couldn’t get over.

The movement of your finger mirrored a strong blonde who always aimed to please you. You could imagine yourself gripping her long, silky hair, pushing her into your pussy—devouring you. Feeling her hands gripping your thighs, anchoring them to the mattress.

You relished in the feeling that was slowly washing over you. So much so that when the image of blonde hair began to fade and be replaced by short auburn strands, you barely noticed. Subconsciously, replicating the dream that kept you snug as a bug all through the night.

Your ministrations quickened as you neared finality. Bottom lip slipping between your teeth. Soft, repressed moans sneaking through them as your hand clutched your breast, thumbing your sensitive nipple. The serotonin levels increasing with every swipe and slide. Fuck, El—

Downstairs, the artist peeled dried paint from her fingers, waiting for you. Staying out late knowing she had to get up for chores was a huge mistake. There were many mistakes that happened last night. Another being, ignoring Cat’s messages. Ellie pulled into the driveway not too much later than you—it was nearing one o’clock.

When she entered the guesthouse, shrugging off her jacket—with a mind busier than New York City herself—Cat was found in the small living room. With her thin eyebrows bunched together and her arms crossed over her chest. Dressed in nothing but a fitted tank top and cheeky underwear.

Ellie had looked at her with a stressed look, “What are you still doing up?” Walking past her to the bedroom to undress and unwind. Cat scoffed, following her to the bedroom. Slippered feet stomping behind the artist.

“What am I doing up?!” She chided, twitching toward her. “I’ve been texting you all night, Ellie. You couldn’t respond to one?”

The freckled woman plopped onto her side of the bed, kicking off her shoes. She pretty much saw the messages as they were coming in; Ellie just didn’t have the nerve to respond. She didn’t feel like it. Not after what happened in the bathroom—she couldn’t come back from that. Hell, she didn’t want to come back from that. The only image replaying in her mind was your lips on hers. Your hands imbedded in her hair. The wanton sounds coming from you that she wanted to hear on again, and again, and again. That feeling of being between your legs...

And, let’s not even get into how it felt to see you leave with Abby. That ruined her whole night. Not even Jesse could cheer her up.

She ran a hand through her hair, looking over her shoulder with a tired expression. “Babe, I’m sorry, okay?” She began, standing to her feet to remove her jeans. “We just got too carried away talkin’ and whatnot.” Walking to the bathroom in the bedroom, she shed her shirt from her body. Ellie found it too easy to lie—she’s always been good at it. And, Cat was pretty gullible. But she had to throw a monkey wrench in there to really calm her down.

“Turns out… Jesse got Dina pregnant.”

“What?”

She turned on the shower, then peaked out of the doorway. “Yeah, how crazy is that?”

The tattooed girl fell onto the edge of the bed, eyes casting toward the ground, full of uncertainty. “Super crazy…”

Noticing the subtle dejection in her features, Ellie sighed. Leaving the doorframe as the shower ran hot in the background. She appeared before her, reaching her hand down to lift her chin. “Kitty Cat,” Her voice was soft and oh, so forgiving. “I should’ve responded to your texts— I’m an asshole. Let me make it up to you…” She sultrily offered, caressing the softness of her chin with her thumb.

And that’s what she did. Ellie made it up to her girlfriend of almost a year. By fucking her in the shower hard enough to make her forget about all of her uncertainties.

She had a long night.

This morning, she got up an hour earlier to get a better start on her sketch—she even started incorporating her oil paints. That’s what was stuck to her hands. The coloring in of her portrait of you in front of that shed. She felt the need to freeze that moment in time; where you embraced each other in the arms of company for the first time in too long. That hazardous kiss you shared in that sticky bathroom at the Tipsy Bison inspired her to color in the lines.

“I normally hear her up and movin’ around… She’s taking longer than I thought she would.” Maria commented, munching on a buttered bagel. “How long were you two out last night?”

Ellie inhaled, lifting her eyebrows in thought. “I got back around one, but y/n came back earlier than I did. She got a ride from a friend.” She shrugged, the ends of her lips curling, mischievously. “I think her name’s… Abby.” Ellie added, glancing between the two parents.

“Hm. What made her leave early—?” Tommy began to ask, but he stopped himself. He frowned, leaning his elbows on the counter, peering at the auburn-haired woman across from him. “How’s Dina doin’?”

She chuckled. “Still pissed, if that’s what you’re getting at?” Ellie went from peeling paint off her fingers, to fiddling with them. “They got into a bit of a…”

“Fight?” The blonde woman questioned, deepening her arched eyebrows. She never liked hearing about you fighting—or seeing it. That was a strictness Maria was never going to get rid of. Tommy used to get into fights a lot, finding himself locked behind iron bars at the county jail. But that was years before he moved to New York. When he still lived in Texas with Joel.

“No.” Ellie bunched her eyebrows in defense, shaking her head. “It was an argument, but it didn’t last long. I handled it.”

Steps sounded from the stairs, silencing the three. Pairs of eyes peered up the stairs, hoping that it was you stalking down the steps—but it wasn’t. When he began clearing his throat and coughing, loudly, they knew it was Joel. “Goddamnit…” Tommy rolled his eyes, slapping his hand against his thighs.

“Good mornin’ to you, too, Tommy.” Joel scoffed.

He huffed, licking his lips. Just like you did when you grew irritated—Tommy’s antics had rubbed off on you. “Is there any signs of life from my kids' room—? Because she should’ve been down here five minutes ago.” He looked to Joel before glancing at his watch. “Maria and I planned for her to teach Ellie how to do our grocery shipments.”

“Grocery shipments?” Ellie cast her earthy eyes toward Maria.

“It’s a lot of information, but I’m sure you’ll catch on just fine, Ellie.” She placed her hand atop of hers, pressing her lips into a smile. “If only your teacher could be timely…” Maria sighed.

The freckled artist stood up straight, pursing her lips. “I can go check and see if she’s up…” She offered, shrugging nonchalantly. “I’m sure she is— maybe she just needs a little nudge. I had rough time this mornin’, too.” To be frank, offering to grab you from the second floor of the house was clouded with selfish intentions. Ellie hadn’t seen your bedroom since she was seventeen. She couldn’t help but wonder if anything had changed.

And, she wanted a useful reason to talk to you.

Your parents are wondering what the hell you’re doing— also, how was our kiss from 1-10?

Hey, you’re supposed to be teaching me about grocery shipments, right now— hypothetically, would you kiss me again… Or?

She was such a loser for you; she always has been. “If you don’t mind. I’m sure she’d appreciate seeing you more than me.” Tommy chuckled, nudging his wife but she barely broke a smile. Staring her husband down with icy, blue eyes.

Ellie’s eyebrows twitched, but she decided not to interact with whatever happened there. Quickly, moving to the stairs to find you.

What she could remember about your room was the pink wallpaper and the posters. You used to be very persistent in upgrading old ones for new ones—saving the old ones in your closet. She found it amusing how you could never get over anything; you liked to collect things. As many things as possible—posters, collectors items, superhero figurines—you were an undercover geek!

The fascination you had with catwoman was insane. But, understandable.

The stairs of your home was guided by many picture frames. Pictures of you lining the walls. The bottom starting with photos of you when you still went heavy on the eyeliner and hairspray; gradually preceding with much happier images of you. The final photo being the whole family together, including Ellie. It was taken after your college graduation, in front of the house. You were sandwiched between your grinning parents while Joel and Ellie were on both ends; her sporting a timid smile, and him grinning just like his brother.

She was so proud of you that day, but didn’t dare to enunciate that how she really wanted to. At the time, the shoulder you gave her was ice cold. Brisker than the harsh weather of the east coast.

When she emerged at the top step, the first door in front of the stairs was cracked open. But that wasn’t your bedroom, that was your parents’ bedroom. Down the hall, to the right, after passing an open floor planned media space, was the guest room. Where Joel was spending his nights. A little further down that hall was your bedroom.

It was the best spot in the house. Your bedroom have the best view of the front of the house, and was far enough from the prying ears of curious parents.

Neither you or Ellie were innocent teenagers—you both couldn’t wait to get some alone time, and you couldn’t keep your hands off each other once you started. It was the perfect place for late night shenanigans.

Again, some things never change, huh?

Strolling toward your door, Ellie raises her hand to give a soft knock. But she pauses at the faint sounds coming from under your door. Breathy whines, the light rocking of your old, rickety bed frame. Could she hear just how wet you were from outside your door?

She leaned closer to the brown door, her bottom lip slotting between her teeth. Ellie wanted to be sure she was hearing correctly, of course. She heard you cursing and swearing, but nothing shocked her more than when she heard you squeak her name. “Fuck, Ellie…”

Apparently, Ellie wasn’t the only one who was overcome. Wanton sounds filled her ears like a mantra before she decided to interfere. Knock, knock! She heard you gasp.

“It’s Ellie... Your parents are gonna throw bitch-fits in T-minus five minutes if you’re not downstairs soon.” Ellie kept herself composed, using her hand to hold her weight against the wall. She heard you shuffling behind your door, cursing under your breath.

“I’ll be down in, like, five minutes!” You shout, the sound of quick maneuvering being heard from Ellie’s side of the door.

She wanted you to open the door, just to get a glimpse of that blissed out look on your face—Ellie anticipated that flustered look. Forgetting about her own blushing cheeks after hearing you say her name while touching yourself. She felt like a fucking king.

Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she walked to the media space. Lifting up CDs, VHS tapes, and eyeing thick books that haven’t been touched in years to pass the time. Fuck, Ellie—still played in her mind like a record. There wasn’t any scratching, only smooth playing; no interruptions.

When you appeared from your room, dressed in your working cowboy boots, a long-sleeve Abercrombie shirt and bootcut jeans—there was a shit-eating grin that just wouldn’t leave her face. Ellie turned around to lay her eyes on you, unable to help but ogle. “Do you have a condition that you’re not mentioning? Perhaps, a tumor—? Since you can’t help yourself when it comes to laughing…” You grumble, placing your hands on your hips.

Your words only made her smile more. The more time the two of you spent together, the more snarky you were becoming—she missed that. “Turns out, under some circumstances… I can be a morning person. Some circumstances.” She muttered, mainly to herself but she didn't mind if you heard. Ellie deliberated with herself on whether she was going to expose what she heard you say… Or, if she was going to hold onto it. Similar to how victorians put the hair of their lover’s into lockets.

“Whatever, Els.” You rolled your eyes, loosely calling her by that nickname, again. Ignoring the harshness of her eyes, you passed her to descend the wooden stairs. There was still a mindless sleepiness to you. It was charming to your past lover, as she followed behind you—floating on air. Thinking about how great of an idea it was to come back this year.

And, still, Ellie was barely harbored with guilt. Even more so when she inspected your features, intently. When her thoughts wandered into the gutters of her creative mind—spreading you wide in all of your glory.

taglist: @autisticintr0vert , @liasxeatt , @hopingforgoodblogs , @lia-winther , @macaroni676 , @tobiotruther , @anewkindofloove , @fatbootymuncher (i love your user lmao) , @maiaska

[theoneryderlynn]

Well yeah, it'll be one of the biggest days of my life, so a lil bit of stress seems quite natural. Great! Are you guys still together? I can relate because I'll be also married to my best friend, and I couldn't be happier.

Well if your friend wants to talk about why he's freaking out about his own wedding, then consider this friend to be open for conversation. I was married once, and it was the most beautiful time of my life since I got to marry my best friend.

[tonythmfb]

I used to think how insane it was that Salem called an entire staff meeting about Sydney, who is doing his job fine and just could maybe use some emotional support, while there is an entire counselor, by the name of Soren Baltimore, that is actively trying to kill all the campers and staff.

Then I remembered all the times I’ve worked jobs where my coworkers have all turned a blind eye to someone who poses a legitimate safety concern in favor of ceaselessly complaining about someone who does their job fine but is maybe mildly annoying.

[spuffygifs]

William Pratt in his suit (requested) BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER | S7E17: Lies My Parents Told Me

[brw]

What is Simon Williams if not Hank McCoy's personal jungle gym.

[nurturercelia]

Naturally, the idea of hours of manual labor in the hot sun did not seem thrilling to many, but the Greenhouse was Celia's escape. It was a place that required immense care, a calming respite where Celia knew exactly how to fix the problems the plants possessed.

While she visited the Greenhouse Saturday morning, never once did she think all of the wards would be under its roof in a few short days. She very rarely seemed to find any of them accompanied her on her visits. She supposed, like many labors of youth, the plants were left unattended, forced to shrivel and harden with age. It was difficult to bear the thought of something so important to Richard falling to neglect. That was as good a motivation for her as any to start the day.

She entered the Greenhouse with her morning tea in hand, expecting to find it as she always did. The sight of another made her mind wonder to who could share in her adoration. At first she assumed Angus--he probably had a laundry list of tasks to prepare and duties to assign before the others arrived.

She found herself, against her will, both perplexed and delighted to find it was in fact William who called to her. The skipping of heart beats so familiar to her more than fifteen years ago fell in her chest. William did not present as the type who yearned to get a lead on the day's work, but he was the type to know where she wanted to be. Turns out he was more than right.

There was a hair she just desperately needed to smooth and tuck behind her ear. "I didn't pin you as someone who wanted to get a head start this morning," she replied in leiu of a greeting. She grinned at him, impossibly recounting the last time she had ever done so. It felt like no time had passed. Like eighteen years of growing up hadn't happened. Like Celia's wedding hadn't happened.

She ignored his comment, shaking it off with a scoff. "His name is Michael," she corrected, feeling her stomach drop. "You know that." Or you would if you read my letters. The subject made her tense, an unfamiliar and unwelcomed feeling. She approached him, meandering close, but choosing to follow his gaze to the pile of dried limbs that lay before them. "Could you not sleep? Or did you just want to show Angus and Natalia you're a go-getter?"

for: @nurturercelia 

Date: Day 2, six am.

location: the greenhouse

The greenhouse lay away from the magnificent face of Woodrow, green sweeps of turf marking William's solitary amble to its doors. His personal feelings of inadequacy had roused him from sleep and brought him here --- he could not live to see his private sentiments of uselessness in mourning become a sated fact. William had spent little time in the greenhouse during his youth, but nostalgia had become a wonderful stimulus to his nerves --- while death set to rotting the foundation of Woodrow, William would clear away root and twig, attempting to conjure memories that would sting his eyes. William did not find beauty when he stepped inside, tugging a pair of gloves onto his fingers; his aim now had become to rescue a piece of greenery for safe-keeping. He took in flowers growing in bunches, their tangled limbs embalming the pots beneath them --- the evidence of skilled hands present in pots bearing labels, chicken wire to aid in growth. William's ambivalent survey found pleasant interruption; he looked up at the approaching figure, their frame passing through the door he'd left open. "So, you don't trust me alone in here either?" The wards had long been eased of responsibility whenever Celia appeared, a saintly chivalry in her hands as she carried their burdens --- but as William turned upon her now, he knew her heart laboured painfully. He could never look upon Celia and not endeavour to make his countenance a kingly place; there was a primitive, instinctive devotedness in his manner towards her. "Unless of course, you just wanted to see me; I could naturally understand that. That Geoffrey, Lionel, whoever you married -- I can't imagine he offers you stimulating interactions, the way I can."

[papabigtoes]

the other helf freem yeesteerdeey (im calling both halfs Hamburger Time with a side eh Korn)

[artofdisneyfairies]

Tinker Bell (Book) - Illustration by William Fenholt

- ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴏᴠᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛ -

[kylorengarbagedump]

Terribly Eligible (NSFW)

Read on AO3.

Summary: It was unlike anything you’d heard before or since.

A sound that was fully, unmistakably male. A sound that, in its maleness, bid you to know—to understand—what could possibly draw such a noise from any man’s lips.

You really shouldn’t have looked.

Words: 7500

Warnings: extreme innocence kink, face-fucking, William Tavington is Not Nice

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Thank you to my fellow William Tavington's Big Fat Ass Appreciators for your assistance in the development of this oneshot. I'd like to say this was a deeply thoughtful artistic work, as I would with anything I write - but genuinely I'm just extremely horny and can't not think about this man touching his cock.

Thank you to @bastillia for betaing and horny-crying with me.

And thank YOU for reading! I truly hope you enjoyed me taking yet another break from my regular porn to write MORE porn. Love y'all so much. <3

The day was spoiled from the moment it started.

When you rolled out of bed and adjusted your nightgown, you stumbled across the floor, nearly tripping into the chair that held your robe. Wrapping yourself in said robe became an affair that involved turning both sleeves right-side out, and there was absolutely no scent of breakfast being prepared, nor tea left at your door.

Just as you drew a breath to shout for your parents, you were pulled to your window by voices outside, spotting a group of mounted British soldiers at the steps of the house. Your heart leapt—perhaps there’d be an officer willing to sit on your porch and enjoy your company. You’d have pop on your newest bodice and petticoats, of course, but that would require no great effort.

These officers, however, appeared to be greeting your parents with guns drawn just as the sun was grazing the grass. Your father’s hands were raised at his sides. Your mother was shrinking underneath the horses’ shadows. Your stomach dropped. These soldiers, unfortunately, were not here to court you.

You paused. Even if not here to court you, there was no reason to assume bad intentions. Not when your entire family had pledged allegiance to the crown and always treated every British soldier they encountered with respect. You drew closer to the window, their hushed voices giving no indication of what was happening.

One officer leapt from his horse. As he did, your mother’s face whipped toward your window, her eyes bulged in terror. Your heart joined your stomach. She mouthed a single word to you in the silence of the soldier’s approach.

Go.

So you did what you’d always practiced, what you’d discussed with your parents since before the war reached your home. What were you, a young unmarried girl, meant to do when danger appeared at the door?

You ran.

Running was, at best, an undignified activity. The shudder of your breath repulsed you, the sweat beading at your nape made you cringe. Every stride made your legs chafe together, made your breasts bounce painfully. But the indignity did not last long.

Perhaps it was the shimmer of silk as your nightgown fluttered beneath your robe, or your slippers crunching the dirt, but within moments of you fleeing the back porch, one of the men spotted you.

It was seconds until the thundering of hooves overtook the heaving of your chest. And before you even reached the tree line, a leather glove snarled in your hair and ripped you back against a solid flank. Your scream rang hollow, your struggle like one of a rat in an owl’s talons.

“Spare the world your theatrics,” said your captor, curling his fist and jerking your head to meet his eyes. They were bluer than the sky, paler than first light. They were devoid of anything you might call mercy. “Return to join your mother and father. You may walk or you may be dragged behind my horse. It matters little to me.”

“Ugh!” You grabbed at his hand, scratching at the leather to no avail. He yanked your scalp in retribution. “Ow! Unhand me, you brute!”

“No.”

“You’ve no idea who my parents are! They’ll be—you’ll be sorry when they catch word of this! I’ll report you to your superiors! They’ll report you!” You squirmed, and he held you fast, studying you, glancing between your lips and the rage in your gaze. “I’ll make you regret ever laying a hand on me!”

A tiny smirk curled his lips. “Terrifying,” he replied. “Do you prefer to be dragged, then?”

You scoffed. “How dare you.” Despite this, you stilled, waiting for him to release you. He tugged your head again and you winced. “You—I’ll walk.”

“Capable of intelligent choices, then, I see.”

With that, he unlaced his fist from your hair. You seared him with a glare before rounding the house to meet your parents’ horrified faces.

The soldiers walked the three of you to their camp, your father bearing your mother’s grief and his own like boulders on his back. You, however, were far too bewildered to grieve, or to feel anything but the flitter of your heart against your breastbone with every step of your journey.

When you arrived at camp, your parents were ushered toward a man wielding chains. Breathless, your mother turned and shouted for you, but was swiftly spun until she stumbled, collapsing forward to follow your father, whose eyes remained trained on you. One of the younger soldiers turned to your captor, still perched on his mount.

“Colonel Tavington,” said the soldier, grabbing your arm and pulling you against him. “What of the girl?”

The man—Tavington—glimpsed you from atop his horse like a spider might glimpse a struggling fly. “Are you married, girl?”

Your cheeks burned. “I repeat myself, sir, how dare you.”

His gaze skimmed your figure. “I thought not.” He clucked his tongue. “No point in interrogation, then.” A pause, his attention flicking between you and the soldier gripping you. “Do whatever you wish with her.”

With that, Tavington turned his horse away. You huffed, preparing to shout at him, but the hold on your arm tightened.

“Don’t fight,” said the soldier. “I won’t allow harm to come to you.”

“Sir,” you said, meeting his eyes, “I know you’ve not all of the information, but my family—we are very wealthy, and honorable Loyalists. And I’m sure we could make it worth your—

“I’m sure that’s true,” he said calmly, moving you into the sea of white tents. “I’ll keep you near me. I’ll protect you.” A pause, and he held you closer. “My name is Charles.”

Your heart curled in on itself. You had no clue why this man kept speaking of harm and protection, but it was beginning to grate your patience, since all you had interest in doing was getting out of the blasted camp. In all of your interactions with soldiers, they had always presented as civilized and clean. Half of these men appeared to have been born of the swamp, with the stench to match. You double-checked every step before you made it, nose wrinkling.

“Listen!” you said, trying to pull yourself from him. “I demand you take me to my parents. I—”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Charles replied. “Your parents are meant to be moved to Charleston once the cavalry departs. That’s no place for someone like you.”

“No place?” you said. “This is no place for someone like me!”

“I understand—”

“You do no such thing!”

“Enough!” Charles growled, grip pinching you now. “Silence, or I’ll lose my patience with you.”

Nothing in your mouth would move the way you urged it to. You should have argued, should have insisted you be sent with your parents wherever they went—that the three of you were a unit, propriety be damned—but instead you were silent, an observer to your own body as this Charles brought you to a tent and sat you near what you assumed was his messy bedroll. The sight of it made your nostrils curl. Clearly not an officer, from the sight of things.

“I must leave you here,” he said, “and I won’t chain you. But running will get you caught by men far less charitable than myself.” The threat in his voice was so thinly veiled it was obscene.

“What do you mean charitable?” you asked, gazing around what very little existed of his paltry tent. “Are you not meant to return me to my home?”

“Simply wait until I return, all right?” When you didn’t reply, only stared, he sighed. “What’s your name?”

You frowned. Paused. Turned up your chin and gave it to him. “If you must call upon me.”

“All right then,” he said, repeating it like a prayer, “I’ll return this evening.” A final look in your eyes, and he left.

From the sound, it seemed an entire unit left the camp for hours. Noon passed, and the sun followed, descending into evening. You had initially decided to obey Charles’ advice, hoping that your good behavior would earn you some sort of special treatment, perhaps even a release to your home per his apparent charitability.

But as darkness approached and men returned—loud, rowdy, insistent men, shouting at each other beyond Charles’ tent—you found yourself sitting alone, abandoned next to a putrid bedroll splayed across the dirt.

Your back ached, your ankles throbbed, your backside had begun to numb from its place on the ground. The odor of the blankets had settled in your nose. And men drew closer to Charles’ tent, their shadows grazing your knees as they passed, apparently oblivious to your presence within.

More, more shadows marched by, more soldiers chanted uproariously with one another. Throughout all of it, Charles did not return.

You frowned, gazing with disgust down at your dirtied robe, your slippers caked in grass and mud. It was becoming apparent to you that wherever the men had gone, Charles would not be returning with them. It was technically an opportunity to escape.

But where would you even go? If your parents had been moved to Charleston, that was at least a few days ride from here—not that you knew exactly where here was—and you had no horse, no proper way to ride one, and you were certain that these army horses weren’t as finely bred and mannered as the ones you were used to riding, anyway. The thought of climbing astride one and getting the grime of these men and their sweaty mounts all over your nightgown made you gag.

There was always the option of sleeping in the woods. That seemed even more affronting than the horses.

You pouted, folding your arms across your chest. It wasn’t possible that all of these men were as boorish as Charles—or Tavington, for that matter. Never had a man touched you as if you weren’t made of porcelain, never had a man looked upon you in any way other than how you imagined God looked upon his creations. Certainly most of the men here would treat you as you deserved.

With a soft huff, you clambered to your hands and knees, grimacing at the way the dirt dusted your sweaty palms, and peeked from the tent. The celebrations centered around the fires strewn through the campsites. For now, you were alone. It couldn’t be that difficult to find a man uninterested in drinking—perhaps a gentleman who would take pity on you, see this was all a massive misunderstanding, and see you back to your home, if not to Charleston.

You wiped your hands on Charles’ blankets—as it seemed unlikely he’d ever need them again—and crept from his tent, casting about for others that seemed occupied but quiet. Most seemed empty. Frowning, you bent your knees, skulking along the perimeter of the camp to see if you could spot any hope.

All you’d need to do was introduce yourself with a gentle curtsy, explain who you were, and you were certain that one of these gentlemen would escort you without issue. That was a man’s duty, after all, to protect women in need, particularly delicate ones, particularly ones with delicate and refined senses. One such as yourself.

Toward the edge of the encampment, you spotted a tent that appeared more generous than the rest. This tent, you were sure, belonged to a man who had earned his rank, with a genteel manner and chivalrous disposition. Most encouraging of all: the linen pulsed with orange light, as if it were occupied. Gathering your wits, you held your breath and tiptoed toward it.

The festivities had become more raucous as the sky darkened, the sounds similar to the gatherings your parents hosted. If, of course, those gatherings had been permitted to descend into some sort of bestial rollicking, which would have never been the case.

Truly, you had expected better from the soldiers of His Majesty’s army. Conducting themselves like wolves rather than men, reveling in filth instead of vying for honor. That Tavington had asked you if you were married. Perhaps in this moment, you were relieved not to be betrothed to any one of these creatures.

The tent now feet away, you held your breath. There was no other occupied canvas within a dozen yards, at least, so any sound you made could be alarming. The last thing you wanted to do was frighten your would-be rescuer, so your steps slowed. Your heart raced. Your ears opened.

And within the glowing heart of the tent, you heard it.

It was unlike anything you’d heard before or since.

You’d heard men groan in the fields, heard gravel churn in their chests as they pushed ploughs through the dirt. You’d heard them choke through their teeth, palms sliced open on the blade of a too-sharp axe. You’d heard them gasp as they doused their skin in cold water while cooking in the sun, and heard the grumble of their muscles melting into the chairs on your porch.

This sound was all of them at once, and none of them at all. A sound that was fully, unmistakably male. A sound that, in its maleness, bid you to know—to understand—what could possibly draw such a noise from any man’s lips.

You really shouldn’t have looked.

A step, a squat, a shift of the linen was all it took. Within the boundaries of this tent was the man who’d captured you—William Tavington—in a state wholly unfamiliar to your eyes.

Tavington loomed over a table, cold eyes shut, brow pinched. Rust-reddened cheeks bloomed above his raw, parted mouth, his stock tie loosened, his jacket and waistcoat splayed open. His shoulders hunched forward, his back curved like a beast’s, his body shook with an unfamiliar tension. One hand clawed at the table, clean nails scraping the wood, while the other—the other—

Your tongue dried. Your sight blurred, then focused between snaps of your eyelids. Heat engulfed you from your knees to your scalp, frizzing your nape with sweat, siphoning your breath with shame. Flames of it licked your skin, peeled it in flakes as you stared, transfixed.

Tavington’s other hand was curled—gripped—around what you knew to be something far too intimate to name. The mere thought of it made you forget to breathe. It was anatomy you'd seen dozens, hundreds of times on animals. But on a man—it was horrifyingly, terrifically different.

As a young, marriageable woman, you should have been disgusted by this revelation, this display of nakedness in so strange a situation. As a young, marriageable woman, you should have noticed your embarrassment and kept your dignity intact by turning and finding another tent. And as a young, marriageable woman, you should have forgotten every inch of what you'd seen and saved your fascination for your future husband.

But then Tavington made that sound again, a moan from the depths of his chest. And you found yourself unable to look away.

His fist tightened around it, drew itself to the tip where his flesh was flushed and shiny, and his thumb traced underneath. A gasp escaped him, his teeth grit, and he resumed stroking it, his hips thrusting forward into his hand, like he was, perhaps…

The word wouldn't even collect itself in your mind, so humiliating was it to consider. Why, in God's name would a man want to do this to himself? When you watched horses or dogs or any other animal in the act, it had been impassive, if not painful. But Tavington seemed utterly…

Enraptured.

“That's it,” he growled, and every muscle beneath your belly tensed with a strange warmth. “Wrap your pretty lips around it—ah—that’s right.”

Your throat thickened. A mouth? How and why would that work? Before you could consider it, Tavington spat onto himself and groaned, slicking himself wet as he pumped into his fist.

The heat below your waist blossomed into a clamoring, like a hungry animal existed between your thighs—a hungry animal with which you were not familiar and had no understanding of how to feed. You tried to shift your position, press your thighs together to silence it, but this only made it more urgent, demanding more pressure, more friction.

“Suck,” Tavington murmured, and spat again onto the thing in his fist, the string of saliva clinging to his lower lip. He exhaled, his hand moving faster. “Yes—you enjoy serving a brute, don’t you?”

Your eyes widened. Your heart stuttered. He was thinking about you. While doing this almost certainly depraved, indecent, completely mesmerising act.

Tavington swirled his thumb around the tip again, a gentle grunt leaving his nose, and his hips pitched forward, driving faster into the hole of his fist. He gasped, head bowing, threads of hair falling from where they’d become unbound from his queue into his face. A smirk curved his half-open mouth.

“What if I keep you here?” he said, his voice strained. “Shall you report me then?”

Saliva pooled beneath your tongue. You swallowed it. The place between your thighs burned, as if it were alive, as if this animal had grown claws and teeth and was fighting to rend its way through your flesh. You pressed your hand there, trying to find a position that relieved any of the heat. You found only a foreign desire to grind against your palm.

“What if,” Tavington continued, tone a ragged reflection of your own hungry animal, “I fuck your sweet little face?”

Air caught in your throat. You choked. Tavington’s eyes snapped open, and he froze.

You didn’t dare move. Tavington surveyed the tent, hands busy tucking himself away before he snatched his pistol off the table. With the raised hackles of a hunting dog, he stepped forward once, twice, waiting to catch another sound.

This was a mistake. You should not have stayed. No, you should have left the moment you’d heard him make that terrible noise. With shaking hands, you rose to your feet, your knees pinching—and being so unfamiliar with pain, you whined.

Perhaps if you had been spying on a man who wasn’t a well-trained, highly efficient officer, events would’ve proceeded differently.

But you had been spying on such a man. And his eyes flicked to the gap in his tent and landed immediately on you.

A flash of fury, like flint striking powder, and before you could register his speed, his hand—wet and sticky and warm—gnarled in your hair and ripped you through the gap in the canvas and onto your knees.

“Explain yourself,” he snarled, pistol pressed to your temple. Silver eyes glinted steel in the candlelight. “Quickly.”

What words could you possibly call upon to summarize your state when you could hardly understand it to start?

“E-explain myself?” Your heart lodged in your throat as you attempted to stop your gaze from darting to the straining bulge at your sightline. You failed spectacularly. “Explain yourself, sir!” you stammered. “How is it possible an officer of the British army could be discovered in such a… a position!”

His brow fell. “Such a position,” he repeated, as if you’d just said the most witless succession of words imaginable.

“So uncouth.” Your teeth clacked in the silence. “I—why I never—to be…” You glanced at it again, and shut your eyes. “And so… truly, how crude, how, oh…” The animal between your thighs was wild with need. “Just, utterly obscene, and—and debauched—”

A snort from above you. The pistol eased off your temple half an inch. “Tell me,” Tavington said, hand uncoiling from your hair, “what position I was in.”

A knot swelled in your throat. The ground was cold at your knees, the chill seeping into your skin and rushing it with goosebumps. The only question you wanted to answer was twinging hotly at the crux of your legs. And you had little idea how to respond to him anyway. You kept your eyes closed.

“Look at me,” he muttered, the barrel of the gun tapping you under the chin.

You obeyed.

“You’ve no intimation,” Tavington said, examining your face. “Do you?”

“I—”

You turned your head, but the pistol guided you back. No, you had never seen any behavior like his, and why would you have, anyway, since you were a very good and proper girl and it was clearly wrong. You pinned your knees together, squirming. For reasons you didn’t understand, Tavington registered your struggle with a recognition of delight.

“How—how dare you,” you mumbled.

He tutted. “Oh, you poor creature,” he said, the gun still fixed on your throat. “You ache between your thighs, don’t you?”

Your face burned. Your gaze shot to his boots. How could he possibly know that?

“Yes, I’m sure you do. Considering how long you must have been staring.” He cocked his head. “Hm?”

Every time words came to your tongue, you remembered the ones he’d breathed as he stroked himself, remembered the exaltation in his brow as he thrust into his wet fist. Remembered that sound, the one that had broken like a starving bear from his chest.

As you met his eyes, pale and sharp, you felt an unmistakable throb where you ached, as if you longed to be filled with something, as if part of you was empty. It was a devastating, painful sensation, and only seemed to grow stronger with every beat of your heart—like a cave yawning open with the quake of the world.

It overwhelmed you, overflowed every river of thought in your mind. There would be nothing else until you could resolve this pressure, until you could bring yourself respite from its domination of your body. And if Tavington knew something of what caused this, or of how to stop it, you needed his aid.

Nodding, you replied, “I do.” And then, with a fear of tearing petals with your tongue, “Please. How do I make it stop?”

A silence fell between you. A realization crested over him, a well of delight in the pits of his pupils. Tavington crouched to eye-level with you, pistol still gripped as his hands rested on his thick thighs. The scent of sandalwood and iron flooded the air.

“You are pitiable, aren't you?” he asked. “Have you never once explored yourself? Taken your own pleasure?”

You blinked at him. Slowly, you shook your head.

Tavington exhaled. Shadow sliced across his cheeks. He smirked.

“I can assist you,” he said, standing. “I may even let you leave.” Gaze focused on you, he placed the pistol on the table behind him. “If you agree to assist me in turn.”

You glanced between his legs again. It was still erect, still straining against his breeches, and the realization inspired another throb, like a desperate clench twisting open your belly. You wanted nothing more than to reach there, shove your fists against it to stop it—but feared being wrung inside-out like a snake swallowing its tail.

“I’ll—I’ll help you,” you replied, that desperation climbing up your throat and behind your eyes. You wobbled to your feet. “Just tell me what—”

“Ah, ah.” Tavington stepped toward you, and you retreated. “Back on your knees.”

Your jaw dropped. “I beg your—”

“The thinner you run my patience, the thinner your chances of relief,” he replied. “On your knees.”

Pinching your lips between your teeth, you obliged him. The ground felt even firmer on your knees than it had just a moment ago. Colder, too, perhaps. You weren’t sure why else you’d be trembling.

Tavington’s gaze raked over you. “Remove your clothing.”

Your eyes widened, your arms clapping across your chest. “I will do no such thing! I—just because you wish to engage in—”

“What needs to be done can’t be done while wearing them.” His jaw shifted with irritation. “I trust you’ll recognize my expertise in the matter.”

There was no denying to you, now, that whatever you were about to engage in was nearly as inappropriate as what you’d intruded upon. You had little inkling of what that could possibly be, but you knew well enough that a woman was to never been seen nude by a man outside of matrimony.

You knew that intercourse happened, of course, but understood so little about the act that a husband and wife in their marriage bed may as well have looked like dragonflies—a single body glued together at the arse and trotting around the room until such a time was reached that they decided to be finished.

You had never imagined it would involve growling men, or burning heat, or a part of your own self widening from an animal into a monster made of teeth and need. But was soothing this monster worth your own dignity?

“I—” Your grip curled in the thin fabric of your nightgown. “I want to help you. But I can’t permit you take my virtue,” you replied. “Please.”

Tavington sighed. A pause, and an expression of reluctant acquiescence fell over his face. “You’ll keep your virtue, girl. But do go on.” He held out a hand. “I’ll take your garments from you.”

You met his eyes, your attention falling over the strong curve of his nose, the strength of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. Candlelight shimmered over his hair in red-gold waves. And below his waist, between the thick corded muscle of his thighs, was that bulge that you longed to see revealed again, if only because your monster demanded it.

As long as your virtue remained intact, your future husband needn’t know of any of this.

“Yes,” you replied, “all right.”

His thin lips curved into a cold grin. “Go on, then.”

Another aching roar from your monster as you shrugged off your robe, exposing your shoulders and arms, goosebumps blanketing them both. Tavington said nothing as you handed it to him—only continued to stare—and you averted your gaze, unsure you could continue looking at him as you gathered the hem of your nightgown into your hands. Blood rushed your face, your chest, and you tried to breathe, finding the air thinning.

Closing your eyes, you pulled it higher, and higher, until it revealed your thighs, the tuft of hair between them, your soft stomach, your heaving breasts. Every inch seemed like prying free your own skin, but not like a flaying—instead like an insect molting and drawing air into its fat, new flesh.

A pulse ricocheted in the depths of your belly, and with shaking hands, you freed yourself of your nightgown.

Tavington’s gaze pressed like a saber at the exposed skin, as if he were testing every curve for a later carving. Another pulse, and you squeezed your thighs together, earning nothing but frustration. Throat tight, you handed over your nightgown. He glanced at it before placing it on the table with your robe.

An exhale as he appraised you. “Yes,” he said softly. “That’s lovely.”

Your lips parted. “Oh,” you breathed.

His mouth tugged in a hint of a smirk. “Listen carefully.” His hands curled in and out of fists. “Place your hands on your thighs. Good, yes. Now, begin by trailing them up your sides.”

You dragged your palms up your skin. A knot stuck in your throat.

Your own hands had made contact with your body every day of your life. But somehow, in this instance, your skin felt as if a storm had started beneath the surface, lightning flinging through the clouds. Each brush of fingertips over your nudity sent a ripple of chills up your spine, and you shivered, a breath shaking free.

“Very good,” Tavington said, his voice deeper than you remembered it from just seconds ago. “Keep going. That’s right. To your breasts.” You obeyed. “What is that like?”

“It…” Even if you wanted to stop, you weren’t sure if you were capable of it any longer. The sensation of your own hands was wine to your parched and needy flesh. “It feels good…”

“Mhm.” His hand hovered in front of his breeches, as if he were considering something. “Take them in your hands. Tell me how you feel.”

Your chin quivered. You briefly met his eyes, and the fascination within them beckoned to your monster. You glided your hands over your breasts, cupping them in your palms, and a soft, quiet sound of delight fluttered from your mouth. Tavington exhaled, and squeezed himself through his trousers, and this excited you—you rolled yourself in your fingers, flicking across your nipples, bringing forth a squeal.

“That’s right.” His tone was a rewarding scratch under your jaw. “What have you to fear of your own body, hm?”

“Nothing,” you said, your breath lost somewhere in the dizzying impact of what you could only identify as pleasure washing over you. “It feels good. I feel good.”

“Yes,” he replied, his hips rocking against his own hand, his fingers stroking at the sides of his bulge. “Soft, aren’t you?”

You nodded, kneading your breasts to be sure. “Yes.”

His jaw tense, he tightened his grip around himself. “Good.”

The sight of it glittered from your toes to the place between your legs—the place now that felt swollen and hot and no matter what you did only seemed to throb worse, to command more and more of your attention. You whinged.

“You’re—you’re torturing me,” you said.

“Torturing you?” Tavington drew a soft breath, fingers loosening. “How so?”

“It’s getting worse,” you replied, nodding toward the heat in your belly. “It—it feels… more.”

He tilted his head, gazing at you like someone would gaze at a child with a broken toy. “Oh, you are suffering.” He huffed. “Where does it ache the most?” he asked. “Show me.”

Pinching your lips between your teeth, you led a hand from your breasts down your stomach to the throbbing hearth where your thighs met.

“Ah.” He smirked. “Your cunt.”

You looked away. The word pierced your ears like a stake to the dirt.

“Say it,” he said, “if you wish for me to help. Tell me what aches.”

You glanced at him, eyes wide. “Say—I can’t say that!”

“Don’t be stupid, girl. You certainly can. And if you truly ache, you will.”

A gust of fire swept over you, and you looked at his boots, taking a deep breath before you dared to speak the words. “My…” A thickness not unlike shame closed on your throat. “My cunt,” you squeaked. “My cunt aches.”

“There we are,” he replied, a salacious gratitude on his tongue. “Touch yourself there.”

You had only ever touched there to wash. But as your fingertips grazed across your folds, your nerves lit up like a valley of fireflies, sparkling with even the gentlest caress. You gasped, your jaw dropping, and you stroked yourself there, the sensitive skin exploding with an unfamiliar pleasure.

“Oh,” you managed to say, your fingers continuing to test the rawness it found. “Oh, my goodness…”

Tavington said nothing, only exhaled as he finally, finally freed himself from his breeches, and you gazed upon—upon it—again. His hand wrapped around it, and he groaned as he pumped the shaft with his fist. The sight of it made your… your cunt clench, a pulsation to your fingertips, and you teased and touched yourself hungrily, groping at the layers to find relief.

“Yes.” He watched you, his chest rising and falling, his throat working. The soft shuffle of his hand harmonized with the wet fumbling of your fingers. “You delight in watching me stroke my cock, don’t you?”

The word cock brought another whimper free. Your hand could only find wetness, your folds tender, puffy lips slipping between your fingers. Something felt out of reach, like an answer you could not find the question to. You wanted to please him. Wanted him to spare you from further torment.

“I do,” you replied honestly, “I like watching you.”

He hummed appreciatively, swirling his thumb around the tip. “All the words.”

“I like…” You whined. “I like watching you stroke your cock.”

Tavington’s head dropped back just an inch, and he grunted, thrusting deep into his hand. At this angle, you could see the patch of dark hair at the base, found yourself curious about what the rest of his body looked like. Found yourself curious about what he was doing at all. If his experience was as frustrating as yours, you could hardly understand why he would continue.

“What is it that you’re doing?” you asked.

He paused, slowing the jerk of his hand, studying you for a moment. “How does it feel when you caress your breasts? Your cunt?”

You swallowed. “Good.”

“That’s how this,” he said, teasing his fingers along the underside of the length, “feels for me.”

“But I’m… It’s stuck,” you said, your lower lip popping out in exasperation. “I can’t… I don’t understand.”

His focus tunneled on your pouting lip, and he squeezed himself with a gentle exhale. “Come closer,” he said, nodding toward the spot in front of him.

You waddled on your knees toward him as if there was an anchor between your thighs and stopped an inch from his cock.

“Do as you’re told,” he said, his free hand slipping to cradle the back of your head. “And I’ll show you.”

Gazing up at him, you replied, “I will.”

“Yes, you will.” His thumb passed over the side of your cheek. “You’re going to make me feel good. Understand?” Darkness had subsumed the blue ink of his gaze. “Open your mouth.”

Despite the tremble of your jaw, you lowered it.

“Good.” His grip guided you forward, until your parted mouth met the warm, silky tip of his cock. “Ah—there we are. Take it in. Mind your teeth.”

You recalled his earlier words—wrap your pretty lips around it—and your face glowed at the implication that he might find you pretty. How strange, you realized, to feel warm at this thought as you kneeled naked at his feet offering a kiss to his most intimate parts.

As he ordered, you took the end of him into your mouth, and he sucked a breath through his teeth, his hold tightening in your hair. You whimpered, your attention pulled between the flickers of bliss on his face and the salt of him on your tongue.

“Perfect,” he said. “Now, suck.”

You sealed your mouth around his cock, and as if it were a piece of rock candy, offered a gentle, firm suck. He hissed again, his nails scraping your scalp. This seemed like the correct response to you, so you continued, pressing your tongue against him, suckling in a slow rhythm. Tavington groaned, his hips twitching, driving into your mouth only an inch before pulling back out, and again, and again. Your heart skipped, your cheeks hollowed, and you placed your hands on his thighs to steady yourself as you reveled in it.

Though you had absolutely no idea what you were doing, knowing that you were making him feel good—as sounds escaping him implied—was enough to spur you on. There was something gratifying about it, some sort of compulsive thrill that fed into itself, and you wanted more, wanted to continue making him feel good, wanted to make yourself feel good while you did it. You sought out his eyes with a whimper.

“Very good,” he exhaled. “I want you to—I want you to put your finger at the top of where your cunt opens.” His other hand curled around the back of your head. “Yes, good. Now slowly slide it down—”

“Mmf!”

Your finger grazed a small, brief point of oblivion, and your eyes shot wide, drool leaking down your chin. Tavington’s cock pulsed between your lips, and your finger hovered over that spot, frantic to touch it again, terrified of how it would feel. It had been perfect—almost too perfect, almost more than anything you’d ever felt before in your life.

“That felt good, hm?” he purred, holding your head in place. “Don’t stop.”

Swallowing, you continued to lave at his cock, and ghosted your finger across that spot again. Another moan, and you did it again, again, finding it to be a stiff, swollen nub buried in your folds, eager to be toyed with, more eager to bring currents of delight all the way to your toes. If touching your breasts and nipples and skin had been like rain, this was a waterfall—a torrent of pleasure that you hoped, craved to drown within.

And as you circled your finger around it, it felt better, and better, and the cock in your mouth throbbed harder, and you were moaning onto it, smothering it with your saliva until it was wet and hot and every second another hint of salt graced your tongue.

“Yes,” Tavington murmured, “yes, yes, yes, that’s it.”

Lost in the whirlpool of sensation, his encouragement earned boldness. With a gasp, you pulled off of his cock, and, staring him straight in the lust-hazed eyes, spit onto his shaft before swallowing the tip again.

He choked, head falling back, a sound escaping him that was more guttural, more deviant than the first one you’d heard ever him make.

The monster between your legs was ravenous, now—faster, it demanded, more, more—and you were subject to its whims, your fingers swirling the precious nub, your head bobbing to take more, more of his cock in your mouth. You moaned, gasped onto him, unable to find your breath and at the same time unwilling to catch it. There was a burgeoning, devilish enormity between your thighs, and needed to feed it, needed to stuff it full until it—until it—

A deep, low sound, rumbled in your chest, your jaw hanging open, your muscles locking. The duty to chase this feeling had eclipsed the duty to Tavington’s cock and in response, he snarled, clasped each side of your head, and drove straight to the back of your throat.

You retched, squirming, your hands losing focus for just a moment, and his hips snapped, his cock treating your mouth like his fist—something to thrust into, something to bring him pleasure. Something to be abused.

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” he growled. “You enjoy having your little virgin face fucked.”

Another gag, tears building and spilling down your cheeks, your sight bleary. And yet, despite that, despite the air rattling through your nose, you could do nothing but relish the stretch of your lips around him, the throbbing of his cock on your tongue, the breath grit through his teeth.

In his stare, you met the empty gaze of a predator gloating in the death throes of his prey.

You nodded, humming in assent.

Eyes shutting, your resumed stroking your nub, the angle, the intensity, the heady scent of his musk—you were groaning louder, longer, fingers moving faster, and you were staring down a mountain, or perhaps up at one, uncertain if you were about to ascend it or collapse underneath its cliffside.

“Enough.” Breathless, Tavington tore you free. “How does it feel?”

“Good,” you sputtered, “good, it feels good, I can’t stop—” Your head rolled, mouth lolling open. “I can’t stop!”

With a grunt, he snatched your arm and hoisted you up, tearing you from possession. You wailed, flailing weakly in his grip.

“What are you doing,” you cried, “stop this! Please, don’t—”

“Quiet.”

Without another word, Tavington flung you forward, your stomach colliding with the edge of the table with a whump. He smashed your chest against the top, and before your spiraling mind could even connect the events of the past few seconds, he was kneeling behind you, strong hands parting your thighs.

“I beg yo—oh, God.”

Soft, wet warmth enveloped your cunt. Without looking, you knew it was his tongue, knew he was kissing between your legs like a man might kiss a woman’s mouth. But if your fingers had felt perfect, this was—

It was what you imagined the promise of death would feel to a soul bound for heaven, what you pictured the angels bestowing onto those they guarded. Yet something so exquisite in a context so lascivious could mean too this was instead was the temptation of the devil, a fruit to lure innocent souls to hell.

Whichever it was, frankly, you didn’t care. Tavington’s lips sealed around your nub, his tongue teasing it, and you sobbed, your entire body wracked as it was quartered in limbo.

“Please, please, please,” you whimpered, terrified he would stop. “I—I can’t—something’s happening, please!”

Tavington hummed against you like he was savoring his final meal, and perfection split into one thousand separate shards, each a reflection of the pressure within you, and you breathed, gripped the table, shut your eyes, quaking as euphoria echoed to infinity. You were dying, or you were being born, or your skin was bursting, or you were, you were—

You screamed, rupturing with bliss, your limbs jolting and your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. At the edge of your awareness, Tavington’s tongue fluttered on your nub, his grip stilling your hips as they jerked, his own low moans a resonance against you. It continued, you thought, for ages, waves after waves cascading over you, until his mouth finally released you, and you broke into reality with a sudden gasp.

You laid on the table, sweat pearling underneath you, and as the ringing died in your ears, you heard a panting, a grunting, a slap of skin on skin. Tavington was behind you, one hand pinning your back, the other stroking himself.

“From now on,” he hissed, “you’ll think of me, think of my hand, my mouth—you’ll forever be mine—”

Speechless, you could only watch his hips pitched, his teeth bared, and he gripped his cock, choking as warm, white fluid roped over your arse.

“Christ,” he groaned, milking his length until the fluid dribbled from the tip. His chest fell in an exhale, his hand slowing until he seemed to return to himself. Another breath, and he swallowed, looking at you and buttoning himself away. “You see?” he said, voice stretched thin. “Virtue still intact.”

The cooling spatter across your backside made you suppose differently. But it was clear to you now that losing your virtue involved his cock going inside of you, and that hadn’t happened. Though you were still completely nude and bent over this British officer’s table like a disobedient child.

You made to move, found your muscles limp, your knees shaking at the thought of losing the table’s support. Whatever had happened to you had apparently stripped you of half your strength. With a weak hand, you gathered up your clothing and forced yourself to stand.

“What…” You stared at the ground as you pulled your nightgown over your head, the silk sticking to your back. It made you shiver. “What was that?”

Tavington huffed, crossing to a corner of his tent where a desk laden with parchment was waiting. “The French call it la petite mort,” he drawled, sitting.

You frowned, pulling your robe over your shoulders. “What do the English call it?”

He paused, then looked back at you. “Coming.” His eyes narrowed. “I presume you enjoyed it.”

“Oh.” Folding your arms across your chest, you looked at your feet. “I did.”

“Good,” he said, and turned back to his desk, grabbing a quill and dipping it in an open inkwell. “Don’t permit your future husband to forgo allowing you to experience it.”

You had no idea what to say to that. The air in his tent had fled beneath the canvas. “Um… Colonel. Where do I—”

“Bordon!” Tavington called. He glimpsed you from over his shoulder. “Captain Bordon will see to your needs.”

“But I need to see my parents, and—”

A stout blonde officer flung open the tent. “Sir,” said Bordon, presumably. His eyes landed on you, and he frowned. “Oh.”

“Bordon, what became of the family we visited today?” Tavington asked between scratches of his quill. “Were they indeed sent to Charleston?”

“Ah, no,” Bordon replied. “We interrogated them, sir, but they were cleared. Staunch Loyalists. We sent them home.”

“Mhm.” Tavington tilted his head toward you. “Their daughter. She was creeping about camp. Return her, to them, won’t you?”

Bordon nodded. “Of course,” he replied, and held out his hand. “Come along, miss.”

Moving should have been simple. But your feet were stone, anchoring you from being stolen in another tornado of deviance. You only stared.

A muscle in Tavington’s jaw jumped, and he glared at you. “Go on, girl. We’ve not the entire evening to attend to you.”

Cheeks hot, you forced yourself toward Bordon, cleaning your mind of every lurid memory that you’d made in the perimeter of this tent. As you went to cross the threshold into the evening, Tavington cleared his throat.

“And Bordon?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Do see if any of the officers would be interested in courting her,” he said. “She’s terribly eligible.”

Your face burned. Bordon glanced at you, then back at his colonel.

“Yes, sir,” he said with a hint of resignation, and urged you forward.

The last you saw of Tavington were his eyes, shimmering like a shallow pond in the candlelight. They watched you until the tent flap fell and you walked into the darkness.

[dragonologist-phd]

The Soul of the Rose

huge thank you to @felrija for this classical redraw commission of Piper!!

I'm so in love with this, it's such a gorgeous piece and I'm absolutely over the moon with how it turned out. I've always loved the original and the redraw fits Piper so well- the colors and the atmosphere of it all is just perfect!

[haikyooh]

Ellie's birthday on film. (x)

[levithestripper]

hickeygib be upon ye

[clinquaant]

12 DAYS OF GIFMAS / Day Four: Your OC in Another Universe/Fandom: Angie Williams (née Isobel Moran) from Getaway Car, a MCU Fanfiction in Breaking Bad

ISOBEL MORAN LIVED LIFE IN THE FAST LANE. She was basically forced to after becoming pregnant during her senior year of high school, foregoing college in order to raise the product of said pregnancy, and supporting herself through the only means that she knew how: street racing.

Soon enough, the cash she made from her endeavors wasn’t enough to afford both her and a growing-up Riri’s lifestyles — especially upon learning that Riri was actually some kind of “super genius” and needed to attend a private school that could attend to her intellectual needs — so Isobel looked elsewhere.

Enter: Jesse Pinkman.

Isobel — now solely going by the alias of “Angel,” her parents’ nickname for her — was, for lack of a better term, desperate to make some quick cash. In some sort of odd luck, she stumbled across Jesse, they immediately hit it off, and he roped her into the skante-selling business.

Upon becoming the other two-thirds of a drug-dealing scheme with none other than an ex-chemistry teacher, Angie (affectionately nicknamed by Jesse, himself) is forced into contortionism as she maneuvers the balancing act that is her life: providing for her daughter, attempting to be a present mother, navigating whatever the fuck was going on between her and Jesse, and above all — make sure that the skante-selling ship remained afloat.

+ bonus:

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+ WARNINGS: f!reader | sexual content | anal mention | character mentions murdering you at the end as sex innuendo.

TALON swears it's nothing to him, that you're nothing to him. His life is in service of the Court, of his self-interest, of his preservation. There's no room for you, or someone like you when his duties must be upheld, and sacrifices are to be made. If anyone were to think you meant something to him, you could be the sacrifice. Dealt on the altar of power, you'd be a snow white lamb with your throat cut. There is no room for you with him.

Yet when he looks into your sweet doe eyes, breathes in the scent of your hair, he forgets everything for a moment. One merciful moment is his as he indulges in rich rapture, drinking you in like the God of Wine's most sacred blend. You are an art-form. Truly, in your most vulnerable state, you allow him to bask in it. No one knows what you sound like at climax, no one has seen your bare statuesque form bent and frayed in every position as he unravels you from the inside, no one but him. You give it all to him so trustingly, so naive yet impetuous. He admires it, admires you.

You've grown so distracting to him, he even ponders your recent escapades during his missions. The lonely and long hours of the night are a little more bearable when he visualizes your warm body underneath him, soaking him up as you take his every inch. Briefly, he considers entering you from another hole just to see your eyes light up with intrigue, greeting the new sensation with all the wiles and tenacity of a girl eager to prove herself. You do good for him.

One single claw draws up the blade of his knife at the thought. Uncharacteristically absent-minded, your image runs away with him, a curl tugging at the corner of his mouth when he stifles an anticipatory chuckle. He'll be with you soon. Even if he can't have you completely, that he won't let himself be yours, he'll borrow you as many times as he sees fit.

And if the Court discovers you, he'll be the one to end you. Compared to what the Court will do to you if they find out you've laid with the Talon, it'll be merciful. He'll even let you look into his eyes.