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thelastofhyde · 5 months

Text

you cut your hair, and take some space (2)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 2 of 3! (part 1)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation ( please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries ), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of. “huh?” “this. us. it could be casual, y’know?”

Golden boy, you dropped the ball I am Annie fucking Hall

The year moves too fast.

It’s like you blink, and suddenly it’s Thanksgiving.

Leaves turn brown. Pumpkins are carved only to rot upon front porches. A gathering of friends, young adults getting their first taste at hosting a thanksgiving meal.

You’re put on dessert duty, which culminates in stressful tears and your mother’s hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, reassuring you that it’s okay, everyone burns their first pie.

No one at the party needs to know the pumpkin pie you brought was a product of your mother’s gentle care.

Then there is actual Thanksgiving, which you celebrate, as always, at your aunt's.

The highlight is, and forever has been, the road-trip out of state, your father making it his mission to deafen you and your mother with his horrific singing.

As they drop you back at your apartment, your father has no qualms leaning out the car window and calling after you.

“I expect to see you cheering me on at the Thanksgiving Touchdown event!”

Which brings you here, to said event, sweater sleeves tugged over cold fingers and a wandering pair of eyes who refuse to comply with your wants.

You want to focus on the ongoing football match- Fire Department vs Police.

Your eyes prefer to follow him, striding up the field, his hair soaked in sweat and his t-shirt long removed.

You’ve no valid reason to roll your eyes at the other women who seem to prefer spectating the sport of Javier Peña. You’re no better than them.

Yet, as one of them let’s out a joyous shriek as he takes a pass at the ball, your eyes roll.

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

At least you have company. An older gentleman, who you caught struggling to pick his wallet up from the floor. He’d smiled as you returned it, and conversation had flowed easily from there.

As the whistle blew, commencing the final match of the local community services’ football league- or, Thanksgiving Touchdown, as your father so aptly named it-, he’d patted the empty seat next to him.

“Hmm?”

He points, and you follow the direction, realising he’s speaking about Javi.

“Him,” he says it with a teasing tone to his voice. It’s like he’s mocking the agent. “Think’s he’s God’s gift, takin’ his top off like that.”

The more you sit with the older gentleman, the more you enjoy his company.

On the field, your dad bellows something at Javi. He replies with a curt salute, and shoots off down the length of it.

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

A force to be reckoned with, keeping pace with rookies half his age.

The vision of him, gun strapped to his leg and a tact vest on his chest, speeding down streets in the columbian heat conjures in your mind.

You wonder how it felt to know him then, if worry kept his companions awake.

It had certainly kept you awake in recent months, and that was with him safe, in Laredo, cooped up in some bachelor pad.

“Surprised he’s not thrown his top to the crowd of screaming ladies!” The gentleman continues his mocking, and it rouses laughter out of both of you.

A whistle is blown, your eyes return to the field and, though he’s quick to look away, you catch the tail end of Javier’s eyes on you.

Fifteen minutes pass, in which you do your best to not stare at him.

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

Eventually, the man next to you coaxes you into getting him a lemonade from the food truck.

You oblige, of course, and deny his attempts to hand you cash, insist it’s on you.

He’s kept you smiling on a rather gloomy day.

You tell him you’ll be right back, smile, and realise you don’t know his name.

“Chucho,” he tells you, and waves you off.

You join the queue, keep your head down, ignore the gossiping women three spots ahead of you, claiming to have each shared an encounter with Javi.

You don’t need to know what he’s been up to.

You don’t want to know who he’s been up to it with.

It happens when you’re finally being served.

There’s no longer a queue, just you, smiling as sweetly as possible. The service industry is rough enough, nevermind on holidays.

You order successfully, both Chucho’s lemonade and a hot chocolate for yourself.

The guy working the truck- young enough, a bit too traditionally good-looking, with coiffed hair and a shaven face- he’s talkative.

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

Even more so after a something that means nothing yet everything ends out of the blue and you’re left reeling over whether or not some part of you is to blame.

So you let him shoot you his dashing smile, and throw in unnecessary pet-names that just feel forced into every sentence he speaks to you, and write his number on the paper cup of your hot chocolate.

“Here you go, pumpkin,” he winks. The pet-name feels a little too on the nose for the season. Couldn’t he have called you sweetheart instead? “A sweet treat for that sweet smile.”

You wonder if he’s allowed to gift the free donut he slides your way.

Your stomach growls and begs for sugary release before you can fully bring yourself to care.

An awkward thanks. Hands reach up to grab the to-go cups, three fingers curling up the bagged donut.

He helps you get a grip on the beverages, placing them in your hands.

His touch lingers, more than necessary, fingertips brushing over your knuckles as if trapped in slow-motion.

“So, a pretty girl like you got a boyfriend, or are you gonna let me take you out to-”

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

Your father screams one name, loud and clear, down the pitch.

“Peña, get your head out your fucking ass and pick up the ball!”

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

Javier, frozen in place, face an unreadable maze of emotions, eyes staring right at you.

They follow you all the way back to your seat, even as the game picks up again.

Even as you congratulate your dad on another victory for the police department, now the four-time consecutive champions of the Thanksgiving Touchdown.

Even as you head off to your father’s car.

Even when you’re home, curled under a blanket and watching a televised copy of Annie Hall, you feel his eyes on you.

The look of betrayal on Javier Peña haunts you even once you fall asleep.

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

Everything has it’s place, from the books that line your bedside table to the memories inside your mind.

You compartmentalise.

Tucked deep into the right side of your brain, there’s a box.

It’s contents, memories you’ve yet to process.

Moments you know that, if you wish to move on, you’ll have to relive.

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

And, scribbled in bold red marker, April ‘99.

A late night.

You, wide awake, laying on your back and mapping out stars in his ceiling.

Javier fell asleep hours ago and now snores softly against your neck, muscled arm curled around your waist as his legs entangle your own.

The agent is a fiend for cuddling, and so often wraps himself around you like a vine.

You find yourself nestling your hand in his hair, and take note of the sharp breath he intakes.

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

Relax when you feel him snore and press himself even deeper against your naked skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

He hadn’t told you that, but he didn’t need to.

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

In the way he let you take the lead, resting back against the couch to watch how your hips wound down on him.

In the way he got even clingier than usual, dragging you into the shower with him just to have you near, holding you from behind as you washed up the plates he’d used to serve you dinner (a trade-off he’d reluctantly agreed to months ago: he cooks, you clean), laying his head on your lap as you curled up to watch some cheesy horror movie- one you’re bound to fall asleep during and he’s counting on it, glancing up till he spots you slumped over and eyes closed, granting him the perfect excuse to carry you to his bed and nestle himself in beside you.

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

It’s like you’ve forgotten something, misplaced something, and can’t even figure out what it is.

You just know its absence is wrong.

Javi mumbles something, dreaming away, and you feel the subtle press of his lips against your skin.

Fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your (his) shirt.

He can’t get you close enough, it seems.

Playing against his wants, you pull back, slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

There’s a pinch between his brows, furrowed in worry.

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

It’s a selfish act, born purely from your own desire, but you find yourself pressing a kiss against his forehead.

His grip loosens, though slightly.

It gives you enough time to feel a stir between your thighs, a calling coming from your bladder.

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

It’s a struggle that leaves you topless and feeling a pinch of cruelty, standing over the bed as you watch his hand grabbing at the vacant spot you once occupied, your scent and shirt the only traces you leave behind.

You don’t bother turning on a light, make your way to his bathroom with practiced ease.

Pad your way across the cold linoleum floor, sink down onto the porcelain seat- he’d stopped leaving it up when your overnight visits became more frequent. You hadn’t asked- didn’t need to ask-, he’d simply done it.

Closing the door over, yet not enough for the hinges to squeak and the handle to lock, you pray the wood muffles noise of the flushing toilet.

When it stops, you wait a few seconds, until you’re sure there’s no rustling coming from his bedroom.

Then, you open the tap.

The water is barely a trickle, yet you tell yourself its enough.

Lather your hands in soap, sit them under the constant drip of cold water till you feel the suds wash down the drain.

It’s hard to stop yourself from sneaking a glance at the mirror, just as it’s hard to recognise the version of yourself you see.

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

Yhen come the thoughts of Javier, and how he sees you.

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

He’s not said anything. Or done anything, to make you notice a change.

But, then, Maybe it’s been subtle, slow, dragged out long enough it’s not drastic enough for either of you to take note of.

You eye the spare toothbrush he keeps in his bathroom, and try to remember when it became yours.

You don’t remember.

One moment, his toothbrush sat alone. And, the next, you were standing side by side, laughing as you raced to see who could make a foamier mess of the toothpaste.

Corazón, you look like a rabid animal, he’d called you once, laughing through tears as he wiped away the white suds dripping off your chin. You’re lucky that you’re just so cute.

You can recall, even now, how quickly his mouth had found yours that night, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in the minty taste of one another.

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

Only, sweat lines your forehead and your face seems drained of colour.

You make it only two steps back before you’re hurtling across the bathroom floor.

Your knees crash down first, harsh and unforgiving against the tiles.

The first wretch burns, has you coughing over your own gag.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what exactly comes out of you, but you know where it came from.

Your stomach.

Another wave of nausea hits, this one harder, and you’re gripping at the sides of the bowl, spewing into the water below.

A splash meets your cheek, but you’re too out of it to care, wave after wave of nausea leaving you a coughing, gagging, crying mess.

You feel lightheaded, only managing a moment to catch your breath before another wave hits.

It feels like you’re suffocating.

It’s in your throat, in your mouth, in your nose, in your hair.

It feels like it’s never stopping and you’re doomed to spend the rest of your days submitting to the horrors of throwing-

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” warmth, against your naked back.

It’s a nice warmth, not like the one that has you covered in a cold sweat.

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

You try to follow it, match your breathing to the tactile comfort.

“That’s it, baby,” cool air meets your neck, the hairs that stuck to your skin now pulled up and pushed back. “I’m right here, I got you.”

Eventually, all that’s left is the burning of bile at the back of your throat and the dull ache of eyes gone raw with tears.

You’re pulled into a solid mass, naked chest pressed to naked chest as you go slack upon the bathroom floor.

You’re exhausted, and covered in your own sweat, tears and vomit.

Javier doesn’t care, pulling you tighter against him and whispering sweet words you don’t quite pay attention to.

“Woke up and you weren’t there, corazón. Don’t do that again,” even in his attempts to chastise, he’s gentle, brushing the remaining strands of sweat-slicked hair off your face. You must be an awful sight, yet his expressions don’t give way. “You wake up, you wake me up too. ‘Specially if you’re gonna hurl, okay?”

You glance at him, swallow back a lump and deal with the realisation that dawned upon you ten minutes earlier, as you sat hunched over the toilet’s bowl.

“Javi,” he smiles at the way you call his name.

You feel sick all over again at the thought of that changing, everything changing, as you build the courage to speak.

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

You imagine he’ll stand up, pace the floor.

Run his hands through his hair, rant over every thought he has.

Ways to get rid of it, the dangers of your dad finding out.

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

He’ll ask why you weren’t safer, why you forgot to take that morning-after pill, why you played so fast-and-loose with your body.

None of it arrives.

He stands, yes, but only to pull you up with him, tired limbs leaning into his strong build as he drags you both under the heat of a warm shower.

You watch the remnants of your own vomit wash down the drain, and question how he can stand there, not disgusted with you.

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

He’s rougher with himself, scarcely drying properly before he’s carrying you back to his bed, a replay of hours earlier as he lays you down, crawls in behind you and tucks you both under the soft comfort of his worn-out sheets.

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

He so easily nestles himself behind you, dragging you back against him and committing himself to the role of big-spoon.

His hands have always felt large, their touch always electrifying, but nothing compares to the feeling of him splaying one across your lower stomach, a subtle press into where part of him could be growing within you.

“Javi,” you whine, fighting off the sleep your overwhelmed body so badly needs. “I’m sorry.”

You say it because you feel obligated, like it’s your place to be apologetic.

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

“No seas boba (Don’t be silly),” there’s a fresh set of tears already sliding down your cheeks by the time he replies. “Don’t need to be sorry, baby.”

“But I-”

“But, nothing,” his tone feels final, one that tells you you’ll get nowhere arguing against him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, corazón.”

You fall asleep, eventually, soothed by his gentle breathing and the repeated motion of his thumb stroking over your belly.

Yhe next time you awake, there’s a crack of sunlight creeping through his blinds.

Javi’s still in bed, only he’s propped up on his elbow and staring down at you.

His smile stretches a little wider when he spots your open eyes.

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

“I gotta go, corazón,” is met with a protest from you, rolling over to curl into his solid chest.

Expecting it, he wraps you up tighter in his arms, presses an array of chaste kisses to your head.

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

You don’t want him out, in the real world, where the hours you’ve spent cooped up together become more scandalous than the peaceful nature of them.

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna go either, baby,” you wonder if you spoke your thoughts aloud, or if Javi simply knows you so well.

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

Help him tie it, the comforter pooled around your naked waist as you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce and Javi’s at the side of the bed, legs bent at the knee.

He thanks you with a kiss, then asks you to pass him his cologne.

It’s on the other side of the bed- his side of the bed- and you lean over to grab it.

You don’t bother handing him it, spraying it directly onto your own wrist and dabbing it into the skin of his tanned neck.

He lets you, a gentle smile on his face and eyes that pull you in for a hug, burrowing himself between your naked breasts.

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

“You’re gonna smell like me all day, cariño (darling),” he tells you.

“Good,” you reply.

Another hum, this time of approval, and a squeeze to your hip.

When he pulls back, he looks even more reluctant to leave.

Reality rears it’s ugly head, but he pushes it out your mind with the pressing of his hand against your stomach, the same spot he’d held onto all night.

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

Your hands instinctually curl in his hair, and you like to think you leave it a little messy, enough to ward off any of the women he works along side, hopeful eyes hoping to get a taste of the handsome, unmarried cop.

“Stay,” he mumbles against your skin, as if you’re the one who’s about to leave. “Don’t go, ok? I’ll call around lunch.”

He keeps his word.

Calls you, a few minutes past two, interrupting whatever daytime TV you were pretending to watch.

Answering leaves you feeling lightheaded, like you're trapped in a daydream.

Listening to him croon down the line while your finger anxiously tangles in the phone’s wire as you stand in his apartment, it feels domestic, like you’re waiting for him to come back home, a place you share together.

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

“How bout you, corazón?” He knows how to make you melt, picturing him smiling at his desk. “Have you ate yet?”

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

“You need to eat, baby,” you don’t like the fact he uses that pet-name, not right now. “There’s plenty in the fridge. Could make yourself a sandwich, or some toast. Might even have some of that pasta left over. You know, that one you said you liked? Oh, wait, maybe don’t eat that, don’t think uncooked salmon is good for pregn-”

You don’t want him to say the P word, so you cut him off.

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

He says ok, then you hear him take a bite of whatever his lunch is.

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

He tells you a quick story, something about one of the younger guys accidentally stapling his tie to an arrest warrant.

That rouses a laugh out of you, makes you forget all about the massive P word he almost said.

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

A place he’d begged you to stay this morning, safe and tucked away.

“Was thinking we could drive out to the clinic, find out for sure if we’re pr-” he cuts himself off this time, like he knows you’re not ready to hear that word. “Then we’ll take things from there, okay? Whatever you decide you wanna do, corazón, you call the shots.”

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

He walks through the door and welcomes the way you coil yourself around him, humming in delight as he peppers a few kisses over your face.

“Still smell like me,” he says it with approval, takes a purposeful whiff at you as he pulls you tighter against him.

You still smell his cologne on him too, buried beneath a few layers of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Near clinging to one another, it’s a miracle you two make it out his apartment and down the elevator.

An arm around your waist, he guides you over to his car.

Pulls the door open for you, stops you from bumping your head on the way in.

He practically runs round the car’s hood, jumping into the driver’s seat and thrumming the engine to life with the turn of a key.

“You remember to eat?” He asks as he pulls out onto the street.

You nod, then audibly reply.

Tell him you did in fact eat toast, leave out the part where you spewed your guts again twenty minutes later.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just relaxed, with the radio playing gently and his window rolled down enough to let in some air.

At some point, his hand slides over the console and rests against your thigh.

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

As you watch out the window how he drives past the turning for the local hospital, he must catch your questioning gaze.

“They, uh,” he clears his throat, rings his hand over the steering wheel. A small stain of sweat marks it. “Know your dad pretty well in there. And me. Figure you’d rather he not find out about us like that.”

He’s right.

So you relax back into your seat, accept the fact you’re both driving out of town together.

At some point, the beginning notes of your favourite song play through the stereo.

You instantly perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat and tap your foot a little to the beat.

Javi says nothing, simply peels his hand off you to turn the volume dial up.

Seconds later, he turns his head and throws you a look just asking if he’s done good.

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

A soft squeeze before he pulls them up to his lips, eyes back on the road.

The clinic is bright.

And squeaky, each step you take making you a little more nervous than the last.

Javier, by all accounts, is solid as a rock, signing you both in, picking up a few pamphlets, buying you a can of soda, all while you curl up in some plastic chair and just focus on not spewing your guts out.

You only relax once he’s sat beside you, helping you get a sip of the sugary drink and wrapping a protective arm around you.

You don’t mean to but you fall victim to sleep, the past 24 hours getting the best of you.

You come-to likely not much later, but to the sound of a childish giggle.

Cracking one eye open, just slightly, you notice you’re slumped into Javier, head on his shoulder.

There’s a giggling little girl in front of you both, in purple overalls and with two pigtails to hold her curly hair.

One of her hands is on Javi’s knees, using him to keep herself standing.

“First time?” You snap your eyes shut as a stranger’s voice fills the quiet bustle of the clinic.

A confused sound leaves Javier.

“Yeah, could tell from the look on your lady’s face,” the man continues. “Same one my own wife had during our first visit.”

You want to pay attention to Javi’s response, but you’re a bit busy dealing with the fact he’s not correcting the man, telling him you’re not his lady nor his wife.

His thumb soothes over your hip, and you wonder at what rate you’ll melt away into a pile of nothing thanks to his soft touches.

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

You tell yourself to try harder, to actually pay attention.

You succeed, catch as Javi replies, “a girl.”

“Yeah?” the stranger seems genuinely invested, it almost makes you want to open your eyes, see him for yourself.

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“Wanted a boy, myself,” that same little girl giggles again and you can’t fight the temptation to peek once more, catch as she crawls into her faceless-father’s lap. “Doc told us it was gonna be a boy, too. Then this one came along and, wouldn’t ya know, not a boy.”

“Surprise!” the little girl squeals, and you feel Javi’s shoulder shake under your head.

God, you want to look at him, see if he’s looking at her with the same adoration that’s festering in your heart.

“Yeah, baby, you’re my little Sarah-Surprise,” the man coos and, despite his rough accent, it suits him. Like he was only ever meant to speak with gentle words and a soft heart, all for his precious daughter. “It’ll get easier, on your lady, just so ya know. Less scary, more exciting. ‘Bout to welcome our second one, and I’ve never seen my wife so happy.”

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

A chair squeaks as pressure is taken off it, the stranger standing.

You peak your eye open in time to see him picking his daughter up, her little legs dangling off his hip.

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

“What,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if it’s of emotion. “What are you hoping for this time?”

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You’d pretended to wake up to Javier’s coaxing.

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

A smiley nurse handed you a cup, talked you through what you needed to do for your tests.

Took your blood pressure, complimented your earrings, and stepped out the room to give you privacy.

A short while and a reunion with Javi later, you sat in a doctor’s office, both a nervous wreck as you clasped each other’s hand.

“Mrs. peña,” again, Javier does not correct the doctor. And you realise it’s because he filled out the forms, he signed you in. He wrote you down as Peña. “You and your husband are not pregnant.”

What should have followed was a sigh of relief, from both of you.

But all you felt was led drop in your stomach and Javier’s grip tighten on your hand.

“You are, however, displaying symptoms of acute food poisoning, likely salmonella.”

The doctor continues on, detailing a prescription you’re being given.

But it falls on deaf ears, the world around you gone blank as you wrestle with conflicting emotions.

You’re not pregnant.

You should be elated. Jumping, and cheering, and dancing all over the place. Instead, you’re silent, letting yourself be guided back into the car by Javi.

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

He doesn’t explain that he’s taking you back to his place.

Getting you back in his bed, switching off the lights, he curls himself in behind you and splays his hand over your stomach.

Over your empty womb.

For some reason, you find yourself sobbing into your pillow, unaware of the tears from him that stain your neck as he tries to hush you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” the irony of him repeating those very same words last night is not lost on you.

It’s hard to move on, when every month there’s a stabbing pain in your abdomen and a trickle of blood staining your underwear to remind you of April.

And so you keep it locked in it’s box, slapping another caution tape over it’s lid as you groan and roll out your own bed, trudging your way into your bathroom to check if the wetness between your thighs is your monthly visitor.

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

It’s not because he’s done anything to warrant your rejection, but, rather, it’s the forthcoming actions he’ll be guilty of.

See, you know why he’s calling.

Your mom let it slip, over brunch and a few too many glasses of wine.

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

Or, at least, that’s what you were until the last poker night he’d hosted, way back in March.

He slips away, phoned by your tipsy mother and obligated to drive three towns over to go pick her up because she misses him.

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

It was less a suggestion, more of a pleading, his hands already scraping the seat back and awaiting you to plop yourself down.

He leaves you with his hand, his winnings so-far, and a kiss to the top of your head.

“Watch out for Peña,” he whispered, as if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on the agent all evening, clouded by his own cigarette smoke and sitting looser each sip of his whiskey, no ice. “His poker face is dangerous.”

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

Rounds end and rounds start, and you father’s pile of winnings grow more and more.

It’s an ego boost, taking money from these cocky men who look at you as though surely you have no clue what cards you’re holding.

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

Flinging down cards, muttering curses, shoving his cash across the table.

All whilst glaring, at you, eyes black with ire.

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

Nearly an hour’s past since your father left, someone else leaves the table.

Says he needs the toilet, you point him in the direction of it.

You all call for a break, and then you graciously offer a refill on drinks.

It’s what your dad would’ve done, kept them all drinking and lowering their inhibitions, their focus disappearing alongside it.

“I’ll help!” One of the officers exclaims.

He’s on the younger side.

Practically a rookie, it’s only the second poker night he’s attended.

He’s sweet, with his large-framed glasses and his nervous smile.

You both make your way out of the basement- refurbished to be your dad’s man-cave- and head towards the kitchen.

You open the fridge, grab however many bottles of beer you need.

He heads to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle bourbon.

You beat him at grabbing the whiskey, an unvoiced need to be the one who refills Javi’s glass.

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

Conversation flows naturally between you, in spite of him being a near stranger.

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

You both agree on the fact he’s a pain in the ass.

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

You tell him where to go to get the best club sandwich.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

nNeither of you can tell who causes it, but one of you mispronounces a word and you both wind up in a pile of giggles, falling over yourselves and banging into counters.

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

Through wheezes, he repeats the phrase that left you both in this state.

You laugh harder, louder, warn him to stop before you lose control of your bladder.

Something thuds in the hallway, your eyes shoot up to the kitchen entry and you swear you see Javi’s retreating figure.

Blink a few times, realise there’s no one there.

You both gather some decorum.

He grabs as many of the beer bottles he can manage, and looks at your empty hands in question.

You tell him to head back without you, that you just need to go to the toilet.

Parting ways, you find the both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms occupied.

Sigh in frustration, only to remember your parents en suite.

It’s empty, because of course it is. No one would feel comfortable enough invading the privacy of your parents' bedroom.

You do your business, wash your hands, fix yourself in the mirror.

Decide your lipstick needs a little touch-up, your clothes need straightening out.

And, when you’re done and ready to head back down to the poker table, you hear a thud.

Pull open the bathroom door, expect to find your father struggling to put a tipsy, giggly, clumsy version of your mother into bed.

Instead, there is only a brooding look and disapproving grunt.

A firm grip, on your arm, dragging you right back into the bathroom.

The door slams shut, a little harsher than you’d like, the sound of it surely reaching the ears of those regrouping for the next dealing of the cards.

He doesn’t pounce, like he so usually does when he’s wearing that look of frustration.

He’s simmering in it, teetering on the edge of boiling anger as he smooths a hand over his chin, visibly clenching his jaw, swallowing back whatever it is he wants to say to you.

He takes one step forward, and you go one back.

Then two steps, which you also match.

Your hip smacks into the sink’s counter on your fifth step backwards and it’s enough to finally put his hands on you.

He tugs you right into his chest, one hand soothing over where you’d banged your hip.

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

When he speaks, you nearly melt into a puddle, the heat of him invading your space, face inching close to your own, enough to have you questioning the sanctity of your parents en suite.

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

“Could ask you the same thing, officer,” you make the fatal mistake of giggling, but you’ll blame it on the fruity cider you’d helped yourself to.

He clearly finds no humour, not even as you fiddle with the top button of his shirt and shoot him your best look of innocence.

“Think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” His hand, warm and imposing, grips a hold of your face.

It’s almost painful, but you like it, squirming a little at the blunt stab of his nails and the way he smooshes your cheeks, forcing a pout onto your lips.

You try shake your head, his grip won’t let you.

“Sitting in a room full of men, making yourself the centre of attention,” he huffs a breath out of his nose, and you can’t help but compare him to an angry dragon.

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

“What’s the matter, Javi? Jealous you’re not the centre of all those men’s attention?” You’re poking the dragon, teasing him, and it’s an act that may leave you burned and scarred.

Or, as you’re hoping, it’ll win you the ride of a lifetime.

He doesn’t even grace you with a verbal response.

No, he scoffs, as though he’s in physical disbelief at the words you’re saying.

Spins you around, pins you to the sink’s counter, tugs your hair till you’re forced to stare at your reflection.

He’s right behind you, seething in anger, fire in his eyes.

His head dips between you neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your pulse point.

“Not all of us are attention whores like you,” it’s fleeting, and he’ll deny it if you dare mention it, but he smiles.

Just a second, but you feel it, see it even though he tries so hard to turn his face into your neck.

It’s what lets you know he’s playing, teasing, egging you on to push him over the edge.

“I’ve been with real whores, corazón,” he confesses a sin you already know, eaves-dropping one too many times on your dad fishing stories of Colombia out of him. “Fucked them so often they started doing their nails in colours they knew I wanted to see wrapped around my cock.”

Involuntarily, your back arches, brushing your ass against him and providing him the perfect access to wind his hand up between your heaving breasts, all the way up till his fingers curl round the base of your throat.

In the mirror, the image is one of ownership, of Javi seizing your bodily autonomy. A whore and her gentleman caller.

It’s arousing to think about, Javi and his whores.

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

“And not one of them took half the money you’ve taken from me tonight.”

Oh.

So that’s what this is, his pretty ego, bruised at the hands of you?

Poor Mr. Javier Peña, humiliated in front of all his peers round after round, hundred bill after hundred bill.

You almost taunt him for giving into the temptations of the fragile male ego, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

By him, hands squeezing at you a little tighter as he grinds the unmistakable outline of his hardened cock against you.

That single action changes the game, entirely.

Because this isn’t about you stealing his money and his ego.

No, this is something far filthier, that has your panties growing wetter beneath the skirt of your dress.

“I’m worth every dime though, aren’t I, officer?.”

The grip tightens.

He shoves you harder into the counter, so hard a tub of your mother’s moisturiser topples off.

The hard outline of him is still there, ever-present.

“‘S that what you like, huh, taking my money? Wanna be Javi’s personal little whore?”

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

Certainly not you, reflection mimicking the way you eagerly nod, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hold back a grin.

Javi notices- of course he notices- and takes his victory, hips rocking even deeper into you.

There’s too many layers between you, a feat on which you both agree, yet neither of you do anything about.

You just savour the friction, instead, pushing and pulling one another to the axis of pleasure.

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

“What’s it gonna cost me to get you bent over and stuffed full of my cum, corazón?” One hand leaves your body. The mirror snitches on him, exposing how he’s reaching into his back pocket. “This?”

He smacks something down, into the bowl of the sink.

It’s his wallet, and you watch the worn leather of it shine with the residue of water on the linoleum.

The hand at your throat pulses a squeeze, his knee nudges you from behind.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

His mouth, right by your ear, lips tickling you with the subtlest of brushes against it.

His hand guides your own, down into the sink, flipping the wallet open and putting it’s belongings on display.

Bills, some placed neatly, others stuffed in forcefully, edges spilling out the pockets. There’s less in there than when he arrived, courtesy of you.

There’s a few miscellaneous cards. A library card, an ID slip you’re sure he uses for something in the sheriff's station, a loyalty card to some record store.

The picture of his mother sits centre stage, radiant smile and loving eyes grabbing the attention of any who dare open it.

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

And then you notice something else, peeking out from behind his mother’s picture.

You dive into temptation, dart your nosy fingers over to tug at the object, till you realise it’s another picture.

A picture of Javi, and you.

Taken on a polaroid you found under a box of his belongings, you remember the day clear as ever.

The two of you had messed around, captured your sins on film with the promise of destroying it after. It would be too risky a thing, to allow image evidence of the intimate ways in which you knew each other’s bodies.

Javi’s fingers on your skin, your nipple in his mouth, his cock’s outline bulging within your lower abdomen.

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

Fully dressed, eyes fixed on his television, your head lays in his laps while his fingers card through your hair.

It’s captured from above, as if Javi’s own eyes had made a permanent record of his view.

The sweetness of this living on, of Javi taking something sacred for himself to keep hidden in his wallet distracts you for a moment.

He does good to bring you back into the room.

“Take how much you think you’re worth, corazón,” whispered into your ear, as he rips a few of the notes out his wallet.

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

With each bill you count, your internal price shooting up within your head, you try picture his reaction.

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

You, your face, looking at your expressions in a way that reminds you it’s his job to read people.

You decide to be bold, dig into his wallet and, even though your insides twist in anxious turmoil, hold up your hand to present him with your answer.

Resting neatly, between your fore and middle finger, a shiny credit card.

The gleam in Javi’s eyes just about match it, blackened and blown out with lust.

The card is plucked out your hand.

The hand on your neck leaves, in search of your waist.

The fabric of your dress bunches, wrinkling and creasing as his fabric-straining grip inches it’s hem higher and higher.

You feel sexy like this, face heated and breathing heavy.

It’s an effect he has on you, has had on you, forcing you to look at yourself in new lights, in new angles, admiring every out-of-line trace of you for what you are.

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

And every other word under the sun that Javi whispers into your skin with innocence as his body commits sins within you.

At the bottom of the mirror, you watch as the white cotton of your panties comes into view.

Wet, as you both expected, the thin fabric now turned almost sheer, exposing the delectable view of your cunt hugged cutely by the cotton’s tight seams.

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

There’s a strain to his voice, one that would have you worried he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way you’re watching as his face contorts with lust.

His eyes are dark and you study them like he studies his card, contemplating something.

A few seconds pass.

Tension is puffed out his chest with one exhale, through the nose.

You feel the air tickle your skin.

He nods curtly, to himself, and flickers his gaze back to meet your own in the mirror.

It’s unwavering, even as he brings the black plastic down and smacks it against your mound.

You squeal, he hushes, and you both know he doesn’t mean it at all.

He likes when you gift him noise, a private aria only he has tickets to.

Just as easily as the first time, he snaps the card against you again, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight through your clit.

Just as loudly as the first time, you squeal, a jolt back into his warm, steady, hard embrace.

“What’re you running from, hmm?” His face turns, burrowing itself in the tresses of your hair.

A shallow sniff, and you wonder if he notices the smell of his shampoo on you.

There’s a pressing of lips, against your scalp, and it’s far too gentle of a juxtapose to the imagery of his fingers pulling your panties to the side, exposing your pussy to the bathroom’s cold air and the two pairs of hungry eyes in the mirror.

“You say that this is what you’re worth, and then you don’t want to take it?”

The third spank of the card against your bundle of nerves is harder, louder, echos in the confined space. A moan, minuscule and muffled, slips past tightly shut lips, a look of fear flashing through wide eyes.

Javi’s quick with his reassurance, gentle with his comfort, a hand stroking over your collarbone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hear you. You just be as loud as you need, hermosa, they’re too busy encouraging that boy-cop to ask you to dinner.”

There’s a tint of jealousy to the way he says boy, and you’re reminded of the image of him in the kitchen doorway.

Smack!

The card strikes down, once more, this time eliciting an open-mouthed gasp.

He doesn’t let up, repeating the action twice more.

It hurts, in a way that makes your core throb and your toes curl, squirming aimlessly in a grasp he knows you don’t truly want to escape.

But he mocks you, with a hushing noise in your ear and gentle it’s okay, corazón, Javi’s got yous against your neck. His thumb swipes through your folds, coating it in your wetness and dragging itself up to your clit, soaking it in soothing rubs.

His gentle nature lasts mere seconds, his wrist flicking back only to smack the credit card down again. This time, it’s a pattern of three, repeatedly crashing down on your sensitive nerves one after the other.

In the mirror, you watch him observe as he twiddles the card between deft fingers, contemplation on his mind.

The room’s quiet, apart from your shortened breaths and his deep inhales.

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

It must have been a loud cheer, for you to hear them all the way up here.

And, suddenly, the stakes feel higher than when you were sat at the poker table, counting Javi’s coins with every passing round.

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

This doesn’t seem to cross Javier’s mind, who merely twists your head away from the bathroom door and back to the mirror, to where his hungry eyes await.

All contemplation is gone, he’s decided in what he’s going to do, and so you watch as he takes the card and swipes it through your cunt.

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

In fact, it’s rather uncomfortable, the solid plastic hard on your delicate skin.

It’s the arousal of him doing it that gets you weak in the knees, to have him perform such a mundane act- the swiping of his credit card- in such a crass, dirty, wrong way.

Like he’s paying for you, committing a physical transaction in exchange for your body.

It doesn’t matter that he could have you for free, has had you for free.

He wants to pay, wants to reward you in a way that aligns with the capitalistic world.

“Javi…” You whimper, softly, head lulling back against his shoulder as he swipes the card again.

Your eyes, slowly slipping shut, shoot right back open as you feel the rounded corner of the card prod at your opening, as if trying to notch itself within you.

“Think she could take it, corazón?” Javi bites at your ear, teeth clamping down and pulling at it’s lobe. The card sinks in, not even an inch. You nudge back into, your cry circling the room around you both. “I know, baby, I know. It’d be a wide stretch, but ain’t that all pretty whores like you are good for, hmm?”

It’s automatic, the way you bend to his every whim, head nodding without direct orders from your brain, every part of you, conscious or not, ready and willing to prove you could fit his card inside of you.

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

Surprisingly, the hand between your thighs retracts and you watch as he brings the card up to your mouth, glistening with your arousal.

“Open,” the directions are unnecessary, your mouth already dropping open for him in an act of muscle memory.

He hums approvingly, yet his eyes are still fury filled as he slots the card between your lips, lathering your tongue in your own taste.

“You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, corazón?”

The statement rings true, both ways: as much as you’ll take anything, he’ll give anything.

You don’t tell him that, though, finding it much easier to rest your palms on the countertop, backing your sopping core into him, enticing him with the wiggle of your hips and whines from your lips to take you already.

“Shh, shh, don’t you worry that pretty head. Javi’s gonna feed this greedy little cunt, ok?”

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

Something smashes, in the basement, and it’s enough to have you flinching.

Javi’s touch soothes you, a hand running over the curve of your shoulder as he presses yet another kiss into your neck.

“S’okay, probably just a beer bottle.”

He doesn’t move another inch, not till he sees you nod, melting back into him.

You hear, more than you see, the way he tugs his trousers down, just enough to free his hardened cock from its jean-clad confine. The risky business of a quickie in your parents’ en suite calls for clothing moved aside, and not removed.

Much to your annoyance, his all-encompassing warmth drifts away as he moves back, hands clamping down on your hips.

He tilts them to the angle he wants, the angle he knows gets him brushing all your sweet-spots.

He tugs the skirt of your dress up, and then readjusts your soiled underwear.

You hear him draw a deep breath and watch his eyes in the mirror, glued to that spot between your legs, entranced.

The drag of his cock over your folds is familiar, the way he smacks the head of it against your clit is welcomed.

He spears you no gentle coaxing, no stretching around his fingers first, coming undone just for him to fill you right back up, this time with his cock.

No, this is a vengeful touch, the kind that’s meant to display his irritation, his fury, for reasons you’ve yet to confirm yet you’re more than willing to accept.

A man like him, so unfairly selfless, taking something in this world for himself, how he wants to and how he likes to.

You’ll be his vice, so long as he grants you his virtues.

Javi fills you with a single thrust, grunting low into your ear as you feel the way the air is physically knocked out both for your lungs.

He’s still, head buried in the crook of your neck as he works on steadying his breathing, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch.

You whine out some version of his name, feel yourself pulse around him.

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

He’s making you wait for it, you think, torturing you with an impending paradise.

He’s savouring the feel of you, he thinks, taking advantage of the few moments alone he wins with you.

"Javi,” he barely lets you part from him to speak, chasing a trail of kisses down your jaw. “This isn’t the time to develop patience.”

The snide remark earns you a bite, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. You squeal, try remind yourself to be quiet, only to squeal louder when his hands tickle at your waist.

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

His hips roll back, slowly, but it’s better than nothing, better than when he wasn’t moving at all.

Still, he makes you squirm a little longer, moan his name a little louder.

Only then does his fake resolve snap and he’s fucking into you at a brain melting pace in the blink of an eye.

Javier does his best to keep quiet, at first, biting down on his lip and your neck just to contain all those melodies he usually makes.

You can’t say the same for yourself as, despite your efforts, broken moan after broken moan tumbles out your mouth and into the sink, filling and filling and filling it in sync with how Javi your cunt.

You wonder how long till it all spills over the edge.

“Joder (Fuck),” he groans as you unconsciously squeeze him tighter, pulling him deeper into your walls. serves him right, for the teasing and the torturing. “Tienes el coño más lindo en todo el mundo. (You have the prettiest cunt in the whole world.)”

You feel lightheaded.

Warm, sweaty, covered in the fingerprints of a lover you shouldn’t be with.

The bathroom fills with an array of sounds. The slapping of skin against skin, the broken cries of an agent’s name, the mindless rambling of a man drunk on pleasure.

“So good to me, baby. Always so fucking good to me.”

“Gonna stay here forever, fuck. That sound good to you, corazón, hmm? Full of my cock always?”

“Look at yourself… Pura belleza (Pure beauty).”

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

There’s no worrying about the happenings around the poker table, no listening out for your father’s car pulling in the driveway, no worrying about your tousled hair or sweating skin.

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

“Please, please, Javi-“ The words all melt together, pleads becoming his name, his name becoming pleads.

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

It’s okay though, Javi always knows what you need.

“I know, amor (love), I know,” he murmurs into your skin, butterfly kisses so gentle you wonder how they come from the same man that’s pistoning his hips into you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. “Let go, c’mon. Show me how much you love this cock, how much you love-”

He’s cut off by his own groan, you cunt fluttering around him as you inch closer and closer to the edge of euphoria.

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs.

It brings a welcomed cushioning, shielding you from repeatedly bumping against the marble of the countertop.

Your legs part further, eagerly, an easy pathway for his yearning fingers to seek out the wonders of the female body as they brush over your clit.

The gentle tactile that he strokes over your bundle of nerves, partnered with the repeated brushing of his cock against that spot that makes you weak in the knees, drool out your mouth, it’s becoming too much.

Eyes glancing in the mirror, you wonder if yours is the same image of the whores who’d warmed his Colombian nights: sweat soaked skin, hooded eyes, messed up hair, wrinkled clothing.

He tilts your hips, a deeper angle to fuck into you that has you perching up onto the tips of your toes, fighting with the chance of losing balance.

He’d catch you, if you fell.

Wrap you up in an embrace that’s more familiar than your own.

“I’m gonna- Fuck! Corazón, need you to cum. Now, please. Please. Need to feel you-”

He’s babbling, losing composure and revealing the side of him you pray he never showed those other women: the side that needs, the side that longs, the side that begs to see you cum before he allows himself to, before he’s able to.

“Javi,” it’s a struggle to speak, but you endure, fighting off your orgasm and holding back tears. There’s something you need from him too. “Cum with me. Wanna be full of you, all of you-”

“¿Sí? (Yeah?)” He pleads back, thrusts already getting a little sloppier, hands a little shakier in the way they touch you. Much like his poker face, you know how to read the face he wears moments before he falls apart. “¿Eso es lo que quiere mi corazón? (Is that what my sweetheart wants?) Want me to cum in you, hm?”

“Yes, oh god yes! So bad, Javi, I want it so bad!”

“Ay, bebesita, no llores. (Aw, baby girl, don't cry.)” He coos, a condescending lilt to his words that has you falling into a bigger mess. “Shh, don’t worry, baby. Gonna fill you right up, so my cum’s dripping down your thighs when that poor kid asks you for your number. Thinks he’s got a shot with you cause he made you laugh, poor boy wouldn’t know how to deal with all the noises I get out of you.”

Javi divulges into a spine-tingling rant of burning hot jealousy, the kind that leaves your cheeks burning and your heart scorching, lit under a flame of your desire for more of him. To have him, equal parts physical and emotional.

You try warn him of the bubble that’s about to burst, the feeling in your loins building and building till it’s seconds way from toppling over.

“That’s it, baby, squeeze my cock. Lemme feel it,” He urges, heart pounding out his chest against your back, hands tightening their grip on your hips. “Need to feel you cum, ‘s all I want.”

You both crash and burn, together.

You fall first, a chaos of unfinished words, crying out for Javi.

He follows close behind, body pressed against your own like he’s willing you to fuse together, to become to entangled in one another that all possibilities of separation become void.

“Take it, cora-” He’s in your ears, in your head, in your heart. Inside of you, consuming you, as eagerly as he’s willing to be consumed by you, fingerprints on hips and teeth-marks in necks. “Take it, take it, take it.”

Arms envelop you from behind, crossing over your chest to pin you back against him.

He’s nearly stagnant, nothing but the twitch of his cock and the shallow thrusts he fucks you deeper with, filling you with another, another, another pump of his cum.

“So good,” Javi’s voice persists, teeth gritting as he bites back the need to be loud, to be heard, to lay a claim on you so blatant no one could deny hearing it. Your relationship with your father is the only thing that holds him back. “Good to me, baby. Always… Good… Díos. (God.)”

Craning your neck to the side, you manage to pull him in for a kiss.

It’s something he accepts easily, lips parting and melting into a dance against your own.

One of his hands falls over your jaw, twisting your face even closer to him.

The kiss dies slowly, with each of you refusing to truly part, pecks being splattered messily against the other’s mouth.

“Was I,” Javi interrupts you with another kiss, his free hand smoothing up and down your side, his hips still slowly rocking into yours, a delicious sting of overstimulation biting at your core. “Am I worth it?”

He pulls back, tired gaze warm as it takes in your messed features.

With the smile that stretches over his lips, however, one would think you were the prettiest creature in all the world.

He calls your name, calmly, slowly, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it on his tongue. “You’re worth everything I could give, and more.”

There’s something behind the ways he says it that makes you believe him.

With little will to do so, you peel apart from each other, his hands moving quick to adjust your underwear as his cum starts to leak out onto your folds.

He exits the bathroom first, a final kiss placed on your cheek before your left alone, forced to confront the wrecked version of you that will never see your parent’s en suite in the same light.

Your dad arrives back just in time to see you slipping back down to sit at the poker table, no seat left for him to take but the one between his sweet daughter and his loyal best friend.

If only he knew he was placing you both where you most wanted to be when he suggested Javi give you a ride home, waving you both off through the car window with no idea Javi's cum sat dripping out your cunt, staining the car seat.

Your phone buzzes to life in your hand, slipping you out of your memories.

Your father’s contact name reads clearly on the screen.

Hitting decline one more time, you roll over and try ignore the gathering slick between your thighs.

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

Mr, I don’t want a label You made me a little miss unstable (And it)

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

Pick out a tree, synthetic, and lump the box up the countless stairs to your apartment.

Try not to think of how he would’ve insisted on helping, refused to let you carry it.

Even if it culminated in him doubled over in pain, clutching his lower back.

Lights, baubles, action.

The tree’s smaller than you expect, barely reaching your hip, but it’s green, tree-shaped and festive. It’s enough.

Your decorations are minimal, a few inconsequential things you picked out your parents’ stash. There’s a Santa hat, frayed with time. A few cracked baubles, with string so thin you suspect they’ll snap off. A gingerbread man ornament, a glass snow-flake. A crooked star, missing one of its points, tops the tree.

A homemade snowman, one you’d gifted your parents after a busy day in nursery. Neither of them had the heart to tell you you’d made its nose a rather phallic shape.

And then there's the red phone-box, nestled somewhere in the middle, an etching of LONDON brandishing it as a reminder of your trip.

You’d picked it up in a tiny bookstore, right next door to The Distillery Club.

The winter season has never felt so lonesome, tucked away in your grown-up apartment.

There’s no fireplace to warm your hands, no hot cocoa boiling on the stove. No cheesy hallmark movies to laugh at with your mother, no racing past your father to grab the last slice of dessert.

It’s just you, alone, with only your wandering mind as company.

Sometimes, more often than not, it wanders to him. To if he’s alone.

To if he’s filling his heart as easily as he fills his bed.

To if he’s finally bought a second seat for his dingy balcony.

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

He hums, brows furrowing, lips pouting, smoke dragging into his lungs.

The cigarette sits perched between two fingers of the hand resting on your knee, his other curled around your waist.

“Some what?”

“Tactic,” you repeat. Watch him blow a puff a smoke, taste his ash at the back of your throat. “Only having one chair, so pretty girls have no choice but to sit in your lap.”

He lets his gaze wander away from the streets below and up to you, sitting pretty in his lap. Like a cat, draped over his thighs.

Nothing but his own rumpled, inside-out shirt to cover your skin.

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

Fingerprint bruises littering your hips, bitemarks etched into your collarbone.

“I gave you a choice,” he speaks with a reservation he didn’t have before, when he’d offered you a ride home from the bar. There’s an etching of something that’s diluting his expressions, sinking him deeper and deeper into his own pensive mind. “You were the one who insisted on sitting on me.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nails pinch at your thigh, causing a squeal out of you.

A few birds fly off a nearby wire, a head or two turn in the street below.

They don’t see you, or Javi, or the lack of clothing that sits between you.

“Neither were you. In fact, you were a little busy fucking my fac-”

“Stop!” Your sudden modesty feels unearned, yet that does nothing to stop you from placing your hand over his mouth.

He licks at it, you grimace, he licks again.

Then takes another breath of nicotine, as you wipe the remnants of his spit onto his naked thigh.

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

The whiff of Javi’s post-sex smell- muted cologne, matted sweat, burnt ash- steals your senses, reminds you you’ve already done enough to disappoint your father, a cigarette can’t do much damage.

So you let him hold it up to your mouth and inhale it’s poison.

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

But that was supposed to stay in Vermont, tucked between snowy slopes and wooden cabins. Existing in a timeline separate from your reality, where you are your father’s precious daughter and Javi is his trustworthy colleague and friend, that is where it should have stayed.

And it had, for two weeks. Sixteen days, specifically.

You’d returned to classes, to sharing lunch breaks with your father in his office, to slowly moving more of your things out the family home and into your new apartment.

And Javi, from what you heard, had returned to keeping civilians safe, to sharing a drink or two with your father at the end of the work week, to flirting with every secretary within a mile radius.

Neither of your crossed paths and, when you nearly did, the other made the effort to turn a corner, shut a door, hide behind a wall.

Until tonight.

Until you ditched your mediocre date, some lame excuse of having a last-minute paper due.

Until you’d gone to console yourself over your failing love life, unknowingly sliding into a bar stool right next to the most desired cop in town.

Until he’d turned to you, tilted his head, and asked “d’you wanna get out of here?”

He’d offered to take you home.

The drive was quiet, tense, until his hand drifted over the gearstick and you dragged it down onto your thigh.

He squeezed.

You inched it further up, till the tips of his fingers brushed at the edge of your dress.

He took the invitation, took a turning towards his own place.

Brought you into his apartment, drowned you in his fountain of kisses, begged you to sit upon his face. He’d made you see stars beneath a roofed sky, eyes rolling so far back they threatened to get stuck there.

With barely a moments recovery from a third blinding orgasm, he dragged you down the expanse of his body, sat you down on his cock and refused to help your overstimulated, puddle-brained self ride him, grinning cunningly with his back pressed against the mattress as you struggled through shaky legs.

Eventually, he tired and launched himself, arms tangling behind your back, feet planted flat behind you, hips fucking up into your battered cunt until you both came to a haltering crescendo.

He’d layed you down to rest, cleaned you of any mess, and then wandered out to his balcony, inviting you to join him when the feeling returned to your legs.

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of.

“Huh?”

“This. Us. It could be casual, y’know?” Another puff of smoke slips right through his lips. “If that’s what you’re worrying about… your dad, and all that other stuff. I don’t need a label, not if it means I get to have… We could keep it casual, if that’s what you want.”

It takes a few moments for you to fully register his words, and then a few more to formulate a response.

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

Because what else could Javier Peña, notorious womaniser, want with you if not a casual, no-strings-attached permit to sleep with you, as many times as he sees fit, without the risk of losing his job or, worse, his best friend?

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

Within a half’s hour, he’s got your hands white knuckling as they grip the metal bannister of his balcony, his own hands busy pulling your hips back to meet each of his desperate thrusts, not even the cool air of the night enough to soothe the flaming desire that burns between you.

Your stomach twists, your mouth dries, your eyes water at the thought of him out on that balcony now.

Somebody else, some new body sat in your spot, upon his lap as they exchange smoke rings and warm mouths.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think i’m alright

The Laredo sheriff’s department is known best for three things: its lack of parking, its swoon-worthy ex-DEA agent, and its office holiday parties.

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

A Christmas wreath, mistletoe hanging from every doorway, egg-nog and mulled wine.

It’s not just Christmas.

It’s menorahs, and ficus trees, and a statues of different gods.

Each piece of culture, tradition, holiday that makes up the people that inhabit the station, day in and day out, behind desks and in cop cars, filing paperwork and fetching coffees, represented in some way, celebrated.

Each member of staff is encouraged to bring their friends, their family.

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

Then there’s the gift exchange, a Secret Santa system, optional for each member of staff.

It’s the part you look forward to most.

Crowding your dad the minute he gets home on the first of December, poking and prodding till he lets it spill who he’s got.

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

Drawing up a list, made of details and anecdotes your father remembers of his target.

Dragging your shop-avoidant father down to the mall, for a day of gift hunting and sweet-tooth indulging.

Getting to watch your father’s coworker open their gift, eyes lighting up as you once again knock the ball out the park and gift them something perfectly tailored to them, winning your dad the spot of top gift-giver year after year.

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

No trying to crack just what exactly your dad should gift his person.

No waiting with baited breath to watch them open it, heart racing with that little fear of them not liking it, of you failing.

No, the moment that name fell from your father’s mouth, you knew what he needed to get.

Hinted at it, slightly.

Claimed you’d smelt it on a friend, thought it would be a good idea.

Sipping on some wine and picking at the buffet, you watch him pick up his gift.

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

Look down at the box, confused, then tear into the wrapping paper.

The whole room stops.

Not really, but it feels like it does, as somewhere across the room Javier Peña holds up a bottle of that damn cologne.

And, when his eyes instinctively find yours, it feels like everything else fades away.

Fades to grey.

It’s just him, and you. The only two within the room, holding a secret too heavy on the tongue to ever speak it aloud.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Knows you’d watched him spray it on his skin, day in, and day out.

Knows you’d worn it on your own, sunk it deep into your pores after intertwining your souls upon wrinkled sheets.

Knows you’d watch its contents decrease over time, time you’d spent with him.

That bottle of cologne reminiscent of a timer on you both, that morning before the hospital trip becoming the last few sprays he got out of it.

Colour returns to the world that surrounds you as your dad steps into view.

He’s hugging Javi, pathetically tipsy and ignorant to the lipstick stain on his cheek, no doubt ingrained to his skin with how hell-bent he is on having your mother kiss him beneath each mistletoe.

They’re exchanging words you don’t hear, slapping one another on the back.

You turn on your heel, insides twisting as nausea overcomes you at the scene.

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

You’re trying to leave, tempted to take the good old Irish exit and just slip out a back door.

But your parents- ne, your father- are so busy show-ponying you around the room, that you fail to take a single step that goes unnoticed.

“There she is!” Your father calls out, somewhere behind you, as you slip your hand into the arm of your coat. This act sparks outrage, a frown birthing onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too.”

You say you’re tired.

He boos, loudly, like he’s not the chief of police and a whole grown adult.

Grabs at you, lovingly, trying to pry the coat out of your hands.

The effort is minimum, and you know he’s only messing around.

You can leave, if you want to, even if he’d rather you stay.

“It’s not even midnight and you two buzzkills are leaving!” He wails, all the while he’s reaching around and helping you slip your other arm into the coat.

That’s when Javi’s face comes into view, over the arch of your dad’s shoulder, sporting a smile and a pair of keys dangling off one finger.

You try your best to counter his smile with your own, though your throat feels dry and your cheeks feel tight.

“I can’t believe I’m being betrayed like this by two of my favourite people!” The smile slips before you can catch it, eyes widening at your father’s words.

Words you’d spent months agonising over the thought of hearing. Picturing the circumstances in which he’d find out. Imagining the horrendous fallout, a red slash over Javier’s reputation. Swearing you’d quit it, quit him, and then winding up tangled in his sheets again, head pressed to his chest, eyes closed in the soundest of sleeps.

Javi plays it cool.

Nudges your dad’s shoulder, shakes his head and tells him to “quit the dramatics, viejo (old man).”

“I gotta head out to my pop’s first thing in the morning, he’s wanting me to help him rewire some of the fences.” Comes out as his excuse, one your dad can’t really argue against.

He knows better than anyone that Javi drops everything for his dad.

Well, better than anyone but you.

Your excuse, however, falls a little short, a consequence of the last minute conjuring of the lie.

“I’ve, uh, got an early class. Don’t wanna flunk out in my last year, right?”

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

And that’s how you know you’re screwed.

“Class? I thought you were on winter break.”

Javi takes the momentary distraction to shrug his coat on, over those broad shoulders.

Shoulders that twist with the rest of him, as he makes space for you in the doorway, nodding you over. Here, he’s saying without really speaking, escape with me.

So you do, tiptoeing past your parents as though, the slower and quieter you move, the less they’ll notice your approach to the exit.

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

“The library, it’s still open for the graduate students,” Javi swoops in effortlessly, dragging the spotlight off you.

He takes hold of your jacket, too, slipping the zip into place and dragging it up the length of your torso, over your chest, till it rests snuggly at your sternum.

A little too snug, making each new inhale deeper, harder, practically heaving the air into your lungs.

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

You don’t get to dwell on it too long, fortunately, for your mother lets out a gasp.

She points, eyes a little widened by excitement, at the both of you and nudges at your father.

“Look!” She tells him, and you watch in confusion as he displays her same reaction, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Then comes the laughter, straight out the depths of your dad’s belly and right to your weak heart, a melody that reminds you so much of easy Sundays and curling up next to him on the sofa, watching kids’ shows that seemed to entertain him more than you.

“Oh that’s just,” he takes a laugh break, doubling over slightly, his own finger joined in pointing at you two, beneath the doorway. “Too perfect!”

Before you can inquire on either of your parents bizarre reactions, Javi’s eyes are staring into your own and pointing upwards.

Wrapped with a red bow and barely hanging onto the door frame with a single strip of tape, a mistletoe stares down at you, two white berries like mini eyes.

When you glance at the agent once more, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.

His shoulders are tense, his lips are pursed, his brows are furrowed. But, his eyes.

His eyes burn you with an unspoken intensity, a look he should never possess in front of your parents.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You mom, camera in hand, urges you both, a wide grin cast upon her face.

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too.

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

#javier peña smut #pedro pascal smut #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña oneshot

221 notes · View notes

archermind · 11 months

Note

seen your post abt suggestions for a spencer reid fic, this has been marinating in my brain so pls bare with me. <3

spencer reid x aarons daughter! reader

maybe he forgets his lunch, and his daughter brings it in? or something along the lines of needing a tutor? ill take ANYTHING. bonus points if its fluffy and smutty

feel free to change anything!!!

-🃏

Arousal Theory

Spencer Reid x Aarons daughter!reader

Description: You are Aaron Hotchner’s only daughter. It is safe to say he is a little over protective of you. You have never been able to bring a guy friend home without your dad profiling them and scaring them away. The one guy he never thought to profile was his own co-worker, Spencer Reid.

Word count: 2,500 approx.

Content Warning: fluff and light smut, light choking, hair pulling, fingering, small age gap.

y/n/n = your nickname

Author note: omgomg! I'm so glad someone sent this request in! Don't worry anonymous, I too have had this scenario brewing in my head. I loved your suggestion, thank you for submitting it! I hope i have done your idea justice <3

You hated your dads job. Mainly because he was too good at it. Every boy you were ever remotely friends with, you weren't anymore. All because of Aaron Hotchner. Each time you invited a guy to your house, your dad kicked into his professional shoes and took it upon himself to profile the poor boy. No guy was ever good enough for you or some of their characteristics unnerved Hotch.

This was the reason why at 22 years old, you still had never had any romantic relationship. The most romance you received lately was with a $20 lovehoney sex toy you bought in a valentines sale. Now that is romance. Your days were spent scrolling through tumblr, ao3 and erotic ebooks - yet every time after finishing the romance novel that piqued your current interest, you felt like sleeping on the highway. You couldn't help but think… ‘If this is my life at 22, I'm going to be the lonely old cat lady by the age of 25’.

It was a casual Saturday, you stood within the kitchen as your cat purred lapping in and out of your legs as you prepared her food. You weren’t really a sociable person. You mainly spent your days studying, preparing late dinners for your dad and caring for your cat - cookie. It was the main reason you didn't stay in dorms for college, you couldn't stand others. Other people your age were out drinking or hooking up. You just simply didn’t have the energy to go out to a party every week.

Your feet padded along the tiled floor as you made your way to the fridge. Opening the door, you let out a gasp. Your dad had forgotten his lunch. The BAU day can get pretty long and you know your dad often gets so caught up in a case he forgets to eat. You grabbed the tub, a basic lunch packed inside of it. You lightly stifled a laugh, seeing your fathers poor excuse of a ‘nutritious’ lunch. Opening the tub you pulled out an apple, some crackers and cheese, along with a small sandwich. Enough to fill a five year old… not a hardworking, criminal catching 43 year old man.

Luckily, you had cooked too much cheesy spinach pasta for lunch. You packed Hotch a generous amount. Before putting it into a lunch bag, grabbing your keys and heading out of the door. After two tries of twisting the ignition key for your car, it suddenly kicked into motion. With winter approaching, your old beat up car was struggling. The drive wasn’t too long fortunately. Getting a space in the small Quantico parking lot was your greatest problem.

You made your way through the reception area of the building, confidently walking towards the elevator. However, you were abruptly stopped in your tracks after seeing the ‘out of order’ sign. You sighed making your way over to the stairwell. You saw someone entering through the stairwell door and realized the doors to the stairs were key card accessed.

“HOLD THE DOOR PLEASE!” you yelled, running towards the boy who held the door.

“Sorry, but you have to have an access card to be allowed through” the boy spoke, gesturing to his key card.

You squint your eyes to read his name before responding with a coy smile.

“Well actually… spencer.” you smiled at him, “i have to just quickly drop off my dads lunch, so could you be a sweetheart and just let me through?”

He shifted anxiously as you battered your eyelashes at him, trying your hardest to persuade the older boy.

“I guess so..” he responded, looking your impatient demeanor up and down “what floor are you heading to?”

“Floor four” you stated quickly as you rushed toward the steps, spencer hot on your trail

“That's good because I actually am too!” Spencer gleefully responded as you hummed in surprise.

You were slightly short of breath by the time you reached the fourth floor. Spencer however was still just as energetic as before. All throughout the walk up the stairs, he rambled about which tourist attraction has the most steps in the U.S after you made a single complaint about the elevator being out of order.

“Here we are,” spencer opened the door “who is your da-”

“Y/N/N?” Hotch exclaimed, coming up to you with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Hey dad, I came here to bring you lunch… you forgot yours” you pointed out with a laugh

“Oh? I didn't realize” he gratefully took the tub from your grasp, “i see you have met Dr. Spencer Reid”

You and Spencer both looked toward each other. You gave him a polite smile and then nodded sweetly to your dad.

“I was just talking to Spencer this morning about how you could use his extensive knowledge to support you in your studies” he spoke confidently, yet.. You found yourself on the verge of protesting. As you opened your mouth, Hotch began again…

“He already said yes.”

Great.

You anxiously bit your nails and paced just behind the front door, awaiting the moment Spencer would knock. From the moment you both met, you thought he was handsome. The way his brown soft looking curls were all laid messy. The way his honey brown eyes stared focused on every point of your face, as you spoke. It made you want to know him more. Everything about Dr Spencer Reid intrigued you.

A knock broke your train of thought- or more like your fantasy imagination about your dads Co-worker. It sent a shock through you. You shook your arms attempting to get rid of your nerves. It is just a 26 year old man coming to help you study. Nothing else… nothing more. You gave yourself one last look in the mirror to check if you looked good - to study of course

You death gripped the handle of the front door and pulled it open to see Spencer stood there. He wore a hat, gloves and scarf to help protect him from the cold brittle air. It made you feel terrible for leaving him that extra few minutes in the cold. You smiled at him, motioning him to come into your home.

“Hotch told me you were studying psychology” he questioned, walking into the dining room.

“Uh… yea i am” you followed him through to the dining room, “would you like a hot chocolate?” you questioned him.

“I actually don't like hot chocolate” Spencer stated, giving a soft smile to lessen the harsh deny of your polite gesture.

“Neither do i…” you bit your bottom lip as you looked at him blushing. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Spencer smiled.

As you added the sugars into the coffees, you heard cookie meowing from the dining room. You grasped the coffees, making your way back to spencer. To your surprise Cookie had jumped onto Spencer's knee and began kneading his leg, purring. You placed the coffees down and laughed at her kitten-like attitude for Spencer, a random stranger. Until you saw how uncomfortable Reid was. You quickly shoo’d her off of him.

Time passed, the studying was long and quite boring . Spencer helped you create numerous flash cards to help you study and you both went through them. While studying, small talk was going on - you enjoyed getting to know Spencer. He was such an interesting person that you wished to know him more and more, deeper and deeper.

“I have an idea, for each question on these cards i guess right you get to ask me a question?” spencer suggested

You smirked in response, it was a good trade. He got to tutor me and I got to question him.

“Okay” you grinned

The questions were basic. ‘What is your favorite part of your job?’, ‘Who is your favorite co-worker?’, ‘what is your favorite book?’. You were actually making an effort in answering these silly little cards. However, you were never asking the questions you really wanted to ask… more about his personal life.

“What is the arousal theory?” Reid asked

“to be the physiological state of being aware, alert, awake or attentive” you spoke confidently

“Correct!” he shouted

“Okay…” you spoke slowly and playfully

you thought long and hard about what you wanted to know about Spencer, your mind immediately going to the one and only thing you were desperate to know. Although it was wildly inappropriate to ask your dad’s co-worker, you just couldn't help yourself.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” you spoke mumbled and shy.

“No.” he answered sharply, “do you- uh… have a boyfriend?” he blushed.

It was new year's eve and you were currently dressed in a silver satin dress. You felt confident but nervous as you stood beside your dad, hugging a tub of home baked cookies on the doorstep of Rossi’s house. He had invited hotch and you over to his annual new year party. You knew Spencer was going to be there hence why you dressed at your best.

Little to your fathers knowledge, you and Spence had grown closer and closer. Although you both were nothing serious. You could feel the tension between you both with every brush of your hands, sip of coffee and longing stare. You couldn't be more grateful for your weekly study sessions, you were gaining more marks on each essay and exam - all thanks to spencer.

Walking into the party, you were engulfed in hugs from Hotch’s co-workers. Everyone was so kind. You listened to the group of friends laugh and joke. Yet, you couldn’t help but notice Spencer was missing from the large tight-knit group. You glanced around the room, in search of the man you were obsessed with. You couldn’t help but worry that he wasn't here at all.

“I'm going to go grab a drink” you informed hotch before rushing off into the crowd. You were in search of a beverage and a smartass man who took up every inch of your thoughts. You pushed past small crowds making your way to the drinks table. Your eyes scanned the room, still no sign of Reid.

“You look beautiful Y/N” a voice whispered in your ear.

You jumped slightly at the hot breath on your neck sending shivers down your spine. You smiled instantly knowing exactly who it was behind you. You quickly spun around and threw your arms around his neck, giving him the tightest hug. He smelled good and you found yourself sinking further into his arms for longer.

“Should we get away from the crowds” you asked him, looking up at him, remembering a discussion you had about his hate for big crowds during a study session.

He nodded and swiftly guided you through Rossi’s home and up the stairs to a bathroom. You giggled as he closed and locked the door. You loved sneaking around to have some privacy for whatever it was going on between you both. It made you feel special and giddy for the tall boy who you had grown so close to. Spencer now towered over you as he stepped closer, placing his hands on your waist and lifting you onto the giant bathroom counter.

The room was silent but the tension was thick. You licked your lips as they went dry from anticipation for anything to happen. You stared up at him as Spencer tucked a stray strand of hair that fell in front of your face behind your ear. You have never wanted a man more and it was a lot for you to admit. You felt vulnerable under his touch and gaze. You and Spencer searched in eachothers eyes, looking for any indication in each other's stare if you both felt the same way.

You found yourself leaning into the temptation and to him. Spencer was quick to close the gap. You both kissed passionately and slowly, enjoying the moment that had been a long time coming. You smiled as he pulled away.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long Y/N” he blushed at his confession

“I wish you didn’t wait so long Spence”

You kissed him again and felt his hand go to your neck, applying light pressure. You moaned at the contact. Slowly Spencer began to pepper kisses along your jawline. You hummed at his actions. You felt yourself grow with more need for him. Both of your breathing became heavy as your lust and want for each other grew stronger. You felt Spencer's hand trail up your thigh as his tongue played with yours in a heated make out. You pulled away and looked down as his hand grazed your clothed pussy. You were soaked for him and ready for his touch but so hesitant. You didn’t want this to be a one time thing, no matter how much you wanted this.

“Is this okay Y/N?” Spencer questioned you concerned for the worried look you held in your expression.

“Yes Spencer p-please” you whined needy, pushing the negative thoughts away.

Quickly Spencer pushed your panties aside, you gasped at the sudden touch of his cold fingers against your heat. He began stroking small circles on your clit causing your head to fall back from the pleasure. He bit back a smirk at the reaction you had for his touch. You whined as you felt a finger brush near your entrance.

“You have to be quiet baby” he spoke gently, shushing you before plunging his fingers into you.

You moaned in response and then Spencer clasped his spare hand over your mouth to try and muffle the reaction coming from you, not wanting your father and his boss to know what you both were getting up to in his co-workers bathroom. He kept the pumping of his fingers at a steady rhythm as his thumb massaged circles on your clit. Spencer's hot mouth went to your neck biting and sucking at the skin. It seemed your entire body was sensitive for him. Every touch, kiss, and word from him caused an elicit reaction.

You began to ride his hand and fingers faster as you grew closer to your finish. While he sped up the thrusts of his fingers, you could hear the countdown to new year about to start. Spencer knew you were about to cum and instantly knew what he wanted from you.

“You only cum when i want you to” spencer growled his order into your ear

your legs and body began to shake from the overwhelming knot of pleasure in your stomach. Your body writhed and wriggled against the counter as his thumb applied pressure to your sensitive overstimulated clit. You were a mess, dripping with arousal.

10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3…

“Hold it Y/N!” Spencer grunted

2..

“Look at you such a good girl Y/N” he praised, stroking your hair out of your face but grabbing a fistful and pulling your head back to look at him….

1…

“Cum for me!” Spencer begged as he watched you come undone from his touch.

You whined from your climax. Trying your hardest to gain the full ability of your mind as it was going wild from your overstimulation. Spencer kissed your forehead as your chest heaved up and down. You smiled letting out a light laugh.

“Happy new year Spence” you smiled into his kiss

“What a way to come into the new year Y/N”

422 notes · View notes

luminetti · 11 months

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Dressed to Kill

༘⋆ Summary: In which, you, a professional cosplayer, mistake Bakugou’s hero outfit for a really good Halloween costume. ༘⋆ Pairing: bakugou katsuki x fem!reader ༘⋆Warnings: n/a, reader is just the biggest dumbass (lovingly) also, i cannot stress this enough. they are NOT CHILDREN in this. they’re both at least the age of college seniors ༘⋆Notes: huge thanks to one of my biggest inspirations for writing in general: @andypantsx3 ! this fic is lightly inspired by—and lowkey a lovechild of—her pieces, baby are you playing tricks and unconventional, so if you somehow haven’t read those yet, i strongly recommend doing so! also now that i actually have more than one piece of writing, id love for some writer/fandom moots! im very new to tumblr and would love friends :’) ao3 release

Halloween was by far your favorite holiday.

As a child, you were always drawn to Halloween, not just for the candy, but for the extravagant costumes and house decorations. Nearly every year, you stayed up late with your father, hand-sewing various details onto your costume. Finally, for your eighteenth birthday, you were gifted your very own sewing machine which officially kickstarted your interest in cosplay.

Throughout your first couple years of college, you worked on your Twitter account, posting quick mirror selfies of your various cosplay projects. Only during senior year did you finally feel comfortable enough to go out in public for your first official photoshoot.

‘Comfortable’ was a bit of a stretch. Very seldom does one feel truly comfortable when posing in front of a grandiose fountain in the middle of a public garden, fully clad in foam armor. What made it significantly worse was when the aforementioned armor looked more like a metal bikini than an actual chest plate worn into battle.

Poor character design choices aside, you loved Halloween for that very reason. With everyone dressed up–or down, for some–there was no reason to feel self-conscious during your monthly photoshoots. Sure, there was the occasional snide remark, but the number of supportive comments from passersby was enough to quiet your uncertainty.

This year you had stayed up late for the past month putting the final touches on your purple staff, even attempting an LED system that allowed parts of it to glow. It had taken two weeks to get the prototype of the dress situated since you weren’t used to sewing such a large amount of detail into your fabrics. Unfortunately, this also meant it took significantly longer to finish the outfit than expected, leaving almost no time to do your wig. But, in true cosplayer fashion, you managed to whip something together with an older purple wig, just in time for tonight.

You did, however, only realize the character also had a sword occasionally, but there was no way you were going to make that in time so the staff would have to suffice.

The night had already been proving to be one of the best so far. Starting around eight in the evening, you and some of your closest friends had gotten together for a costume party, a series of shitty horror movies, and a plethora of even shittier cheap cocktails. Despite not being much of a drinker yourself, you always participated in the annual spooky-themed cocktail charcuterie. This year you weren’t holding back. Your pride and joy charcuterie consisted of nine drinks including, but not limited to ghost-themed Aperol Spiritz–nicknamed Spirit Spiritz, Bloody Marys, and your personal favorite, Bonejitos. They even had little skeleton dudes sitting on the rim of the glass.

Unfortunately, your friends weren’t very amused by your festive drinks, even going as far to say your ingenious Bonejitos were a stretch. So, clearly they didn’t see the vision. Eventually, the party events died down as the guests began to go home, allowing the night to evolve into just drinking.

“Did you get a photo of your costume yet?” Himari, your friend from freshman year, questioned.

You shook your head, absently watching as the rest of your friends downed your masterly made Bonejitos. Liars, all of them. “‘A stretch’ my ass,” you scoffed.

Himari dug around in her bag, retrieving her camera. “Halloween photoshoot? Your fit is cute and I’m getting bored here.”

You did like the idea of photography-major level photos with none of the price involved. “I love you, Mari.”

She stuffed your spear under her arm and with that, the two of you stepped out into the cold and crisp autumn air, the breeze running over your bare shoulders and thighs. You shivered lightly, pulling up your thigh-highs and hugging the excess fabric close to your body.

Himari glanced at you in concern. “Does the Raiden Shogun not wear a jacket?”

“Unfortunately, she doesn’t.” You chuckled, rubbing your arms. “You can’t be sexy and wear a jacket,” you joked.

She hummed in sympathy, looking around for a good place to set up. The park was a particularly popular spot during Halloween, specifically known for its comforting lighting and ambience.

“What about there?” Himari pointed to a small gazebo surrounded by violets, lit up by a string of fairy lights. There were a couple groups nearby, but otherwise it was pretty much empty.

You nodded, excited. “Good eye as always, Mari.”

She handed over your spear and offered an arm,helping you step up onto the platform and underneath the gazebo. While she adjusted the lights to her liking, you took a moment to adjust your skirt and sleeves.

“Do you think it’s too short?” you asked, tugging on the cloth. Thankfully the character wore a pair of shorts underneath, but the dress was barely miniskirt length.

Himari looked over briefly before turning back to the lights. “No, not really. Why? Are you uncomfortable?”

Before you could answer, a group of college-aged girls passed by the gazebo, clearly a bit drunk. As they left, one of the girls that was hanging onto her friend’s arm looked over. “Don’t be, girlie! You look hot as fuck!” she shouted out, words slightly slurred.

You flustered, blabbering out a quick thanks in surprise. There’s nothing like a friendly drunk girl to get your confidence up.

From behind the camera, Himari gave you a thumbs up. “Give me one of these.” She mimed leaning against the wooden banister. “Yeah like that, but with your leg more out.”

The shutter clicked several times as you did your best to recreate her gestures.

Himari proceeded to guide you through a series of poses, occasionally having you incorporate your staff or the gazebo. Eventually you got used to the flashing camera and allowed yourself to melt into the character, embodying her essence as best as you could.

Time flew and before you knew it, Himari was calling you down from the gazebo to look over the photos. You hovered over her shoulder as she flipped through each one, pausing at her favorites.

“I’ll import these onto my laptop and send them back edited sometime this week,” she told you, removing her glasses and wiping them off with her sleeve.

You nodded. “Thanks for doing this, you really didn’t have to.” You rummaged through your bag, hoping to find at least a little money for her efforts. Feeling a couple bills between your fingers, you held them out to her.

Himari’s eyes squinted and you realized she was staring over your shoulder. “I think that guy in costume was looking at you,” she said, still cleaning off the lenses.

You turned to see a tall man across the park, large grenade shaped gauntlets resting on both his arms. He quickly looked away once he saw your head turn. Looking closer, you realized he was dressed in a dark black sleeveless jumpsuit with orange and green straps along his body.

He was clearly a Dynamight cosplayer. And by the looks of it, a really talented one at that.

You were almost convinced that he had real hero equipment on. His armor pieces were strikingly accurate, and you made a mental note to look for more realistic prop materials.

“He probably spent a lot of time on that,” you mused to Himari, who had already gone back to inspecting the photos.

“You should go ask him about it.” she suggested, collecting the rest of her things and zipping her bag. “I’ve gotta catch an Uber soon.”

Maybe it was the lingering confidence gifted by the girl from earlier, but you managed to muster up enough self-assurance to wave goodbye to Himari and stride right up to the cosplayer.

As you got closer, you realized just how much work must have gone into all the details. The gauntlets–a very convincing metal–had several dents and scratches, giving it a worn down look, as if it had been used frequently.

His hair looked far too real to be a wig, likely just being his natural hair with lots of product in it. The most impressive detail by far was his physique. Had he trained specifically for this? The closer you got the more you noticed. If you were lucky, maybe he’d give you the name of his supplier.

“I love your outfit!” You smiled cheerily at him.

He turned to look at you, slightly taken aback. “Thanks?” he replied, folding his arms as he looked you over, eyes lingering on your cosplay.

You felt a twinge of anxiety as he inspected your outfit. He probably just didn’t recognize the character, you convinced yourself.

“I’m a cosplayer too,” you clarified, gesturing to your dress. “But clearly not as dedicated as you.”

You watched as his chest puffed lightly at the compliment, though he titled his head, a bit puzzled.

Clearing your throat awkwardly, you tried a different method. “How long did it take to make?”

He blinked at you and shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe a couple of months? I just told them what I wanted.”

Oh, you got it now. He’s just a model. It wasn’t uncommon for people to collaborate on cosplays, especially ones where one person either commissions or buys a cosplay from an artist, and then models it themself. Either way, he was still one of the best you’ve seen.

You nodded in understanding. “Do you have social media? I’d love to see what else you’ve done.” Pulling out your phone, you loaded up your Twitter, preparing to enter his tag.

“Dynamight Official. All one word,” he replied hesitantly, looking you up and down as if he was scanning for signs of sickness.

You chuckled faintly. He was really dedicated to his role. “Well, what's your name? I follow a lot of cosplayers already. Maybe I’ve seen you?” You pulled up your profile and turned the screen around to show him in case he recognized your tag.

His arms unfolded and his face slowly morphed from confused to exceptionally amused. “Bakugou Katsuki. I am Dynamight.”

Waving him off absently, you nodded as you scrolled through your followed accounts. You swear you’ve seen him online before. “Sorry, I’m not really good at roleplay. But you’re pretty convincing.”

He leaned against the cold metal lamppost, watching you sift through various Twitter accounts. You sneaked a glance to check his facial features again, but he was already staring straight back at you.

In such close capacity, his striking crimson eyes stood out to you. Even his contacts were high quality… Fighting back the warmth that threatened your cheeks and ears, you averted your gaze downwards.

Your eyes flicked to his waist. You hadn’t noticed it before, but a thick black bomber jacket was tied tightly around his torso, unlike the real hero’s costume. Well, you stand corrected. You certainly can be sexy with a jacket.

Speaking of jackets, you had been so caught up in conversation you hadn’t realized how cold it had gotten. The soft breeze from earlier had picked up into chilly wind, rustling the fabric of your dress as it blew by.

Bakufaux–haha–seemed to notice your interest in his jacket, untying it and tossing it over your shoulders. “Bit cold for you, Princess?” he drawled. “D’nno how you’ve managed in that outfit.” He gestured to your short dress and tall socks.

You couldn’t help but notice how his gaze lingered on you for a half second longer than normal. Not that you would’ve said anything. Thanks to his jacket, you were enveloped with warm and musky scents of charcoal and sandalwood. Though, being honest with yourself, you’ve been distracted ever since you walked over.

You snapped out of your trance when he pushed himself off the lamppost and leaned over you. It could’ve been twenty degrees out and you’d still swear you were overheating.

“Ever considered cosplaying in my costume?” He asked, watching your darkening cheeks closely.

Maybe it was the shit eating grin he wore proudly on his face, or the sneaking suspicion in your gut, but you had an inkling of a feeling he knew something you didn’t. In a surge of confidence and curiosity, or perhaps just pure adrenaline, you took a step forward.

“And if I have?”

Something snapped behind his eyes and you could’ve sworn his gaze dropped to your lips. He might’ve actually kissed you if you weren’t interrupted by the sound of glass shattering and the screams of customers inside a late night coffee shop.

You felt your heart rate increase as he swore under his breath, whatever smug expression he previously had was replaced by something far more intense and serious.

‘“I’m not leaving you out here alone, stay close to me,” he urged, taking one last look at you before turning and running towards the sound.

It took you a second to realize you were running behind him as fast as possible.

As the two of you neared the coffee shop, you noticed numerous shards of glass laid out on the concrete. On a second glance, you noticed some of the smaller shards were beginning to melt, turning the ground slightly slick.

You halted to a stop, almost crashing into your new friend. You felt a warm hand snake around your waist, lifting your body off the ground and onto a nearby bench.

“Don’t touch the ground, and stay right here,” he told you sternly, before turning and rushing straight into the cafe.

You watched, frozen in astonishment, only able to hear the horrific sounds of glass and… explosions? Occasionally you caught a glimpse of blonde hair, dropping off a poor customer caught in the crossfire, before dashing straight back inside. In what felt like seconds, he had already retrieved nearly every patron from the cafe, all while the villain was still inside.

Quickening footsteps approached from behind your place on the bench. You barely had a chance to comprehend the noises when a flash of red zipped past you, making a beeline straight for the cafe. Only after several trips in and out of the building did you finally recognize the eccentric costume of Pro-Hero Red Riot as he gathered the remainder of the victims outside.

Through the ringing in your ears you could only vaguely make out shouting between Red Riot and someone else still inside the building. It was all intelligible until he turned to you and the victims. The last words you heard was look away, or at least you assumed.

You weren’t interested in waiting around to find out so you shut your eyes tight and turned away from the scene as best as you could.

At first nothing happened. But after a beat, you felt your eyes burn behind your eyelids as a blistering wave of heat surrounded you. You think you screamed, but you weren’t entirely sure. Every muscle in your body tensed as the bench shook underneath you, threatening to break.

But as quickly as it came, it passed. You couldn’t tell how long you had been trapped in that position, clutching your knees to your chest with your eyes sealed shut. A warm hand shook you out of position, jostling your eyes open.

When your eyes finally adjusted, blocking your vision of the cafe was none other than a tall silhouette, and familiar red eyes.

“Hey, stay with me, Princess. You hurt?”

You felt calloused hands hastily press against your body, examining you for injury. He took a hold of your ankle, easing you into extending. “Anything?”

Shaking your head, you gripped onto him as he lifted you from the bench to your feet, steadying you with strong arms.

“Happy Halloween,” you managed to mutter meekly into his chest.

You felt him shudder beneath your head as he laughed, surprisingly heartily.

“Certainly one you’ll remember.” His low voice resonated in your brain, calming whatever nerves were remaining. “Let’s get you home, m’kay?”

You let him navigate you back to your apartment surprisingly deftly given your shaky directions, until finally you found yourself thanking him at your doorstep and shutting the door behind you.

Now that you were home and given a chance to breathe, you weren’t sure what was real. Everything mixed together in a blur and you couldn’t tell if it was all a dream or not.

As you groggily slumped against your bed, you felt something soft bundle against your back. Sitting up, you reached behind your back to feel the cool fabric of the black jacket you had been holding tightly against yourself. Embroidered on the sleeve were a pair of initials you hadn’t noticed before.

B.K.

With a strange pounding in your chest, you pulled out your phone.

Sure enough, you had one new notification.

@DynamightOfficial followed you back

The device buzzed in your hand with a second notification. A direct message request alongside an image. Swiping to your messages, you opened the text from your new follower.

Front and center was a quick photo of Bakugou’s hero costume, laid out neatly on his bed. Directly underneath the image were two small text bubbles.

u take commissions?

ive got something in mind for ya

#bakugou katsuki #mha #mha bakugou #bnha #bnha x reader #bnha bakugou #dynamight #mha x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #dynamight x reader

469 notes · View notes

floralcyanidee · 1 year

Text

ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴘs, ᴍʏ ʟɪᴘs, ᴀᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘsᴇ - ᴄɪʟʟɪᴀɴ ᴍᴜʀᴘʜʏ

Young!Cillian Murphy x AFAB!Reader (NSFW)

A night over at your best friend, Cillian's, leads to something more than friendship but something less than romance. Will you ever tell him how you feel, or will you always just be friends with benefits?

warnings: smut, nipple play, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, oral sex, cock warming, friends with benefits, friends to lovers, dirty talk, squirting, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, mentions of choking, love confessions

word count: 4409

author’s note: I'm shadowbanned on my main account everyone please clap (not for nsfw, I was flagged for spam yay) so I'll be posting on this shiny new blog, ao3, and wattpad for the time being. (those are both linked on my masterpost) hopefully I'll be unbanned soon because I've had my main tumblr for a decade and it has 2.5k followers on it and I'll fr cry my eyes out if I can't get unbanned!!! anyway please enjoy this!! I wrote a good chunk of this while at work this week. the horny really unleashes in the second part haha. please leave feedback if you enjoy! <3

PLEASE FOLLOW THIS BLOG. BUT ALSO, DO NOT UNFOLLOW MY MAIN BLOG!

main masterlist | cillian murphy masterlist | add yourself to the taglist here

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

Cillian’s lips hover over yours, and you can feel his warm breath hitting your face. His eyelashes almost touch your cheeks, and his nose is beside yours, barely brushing against it.

“I want you so bad,” Cillian whispers, his hands finding your hips.

You have been friends since the 90s when Cillian first arrived in Hollywood, stumbling upon you at a local bar where you worked. Ever since, you’ve both been the best of friends. But tonight, that’s being challenged. The lights in Cillian’s place are dimmed, candles are lit, and wine is flowing through the two of you. Having a bit to drink in a comfortable setting isn’t out of the norm, but for some reason, tensions were high tonight. You could almost cut it with a knife. Everything about him is more mesmerizing tonight- his eyes, his freckles, the way he smiles. You needed him, and apparently, he needed you too.

“Then have me,” you mutter against Cillian’s lips.

He chuckles humorlessly, shaking his head slightly, “I don’t want to ruin us.”

“You won’t,” you look down at his lips- they’re so close to yours that you can feel them move whenever he speaks.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” you breathe, grabbing hold of Cillian’s face as he finally puts his mouth on yours.

The kiss immediately becomes hungry, your teeth nearly clashing together as Cillian slips his tongue around yours. He’s gripping your hips fiercely, and his sideburns press pleasantly into your palms as you hold his head steady. Cillian pulls you onto his lap from your sitting position on the couch next to him, seating you firmly on his thighs. Your fingers find his hair, tugging it slightly as a small whimper vibrates in Cillian’s throat. The sound spurs you on, and you take over the kiss, dominating his tongue with yours. You explore his mouth and suck on his tongue harshly, pulling away from the embrace to catch your breath.

“Fuck,” Cillian curses, leaning his forehead against yours, “You’re good at this.”

You scoff, putting both your hands on his cheeks as you trace your thumb along his sharp cheekbones, “And to think you would’ve never known.”

“Not necessarily,” Cillian looks you in the eyes, “I would’ve gotten you one way or another.”

“Then why have you waited so long, then? Hmm?” you ask.

“I value our friendship,” Cillian admits.

“I do, too, Cill. But god, if I had known you were so good at kissing, I would’ve done it ages ago,” you smirk, running your finger across his bottom lip.

His eyes follow your movements before they flick up to yours, darkening, “I’m not just good at that.”

His words shoot straight to your lower belly, warmth spreading through you, “Is that right?”

“Mhmm,” Cillian pulls you closer to his chest, your core settling right on his.

“Show me.”

Cillian attacks your lips again, this time biting down on your lower lip and rolling it between his teeth. You watch his face as he does it, his icy eyes becoming a darker shade of blue. His hand moves from your hip to your hair, his fingers sliding through your locks before they tighten, pulling your head backward to expose your neck. Cillian leaves hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your neck, licking a stripe up the side before he bites at the skin, leaving a small bruise to form below your jaw. You squirm slightly at the feeling of his teeth pressing into your skin, dangerously close to breaking its surface. Cillian then kisses your collarbones, stopping when he reaches the neck of your shirt, well, his shirt. You always took from his wardrobe, whether it was a beanie, t-shirt, or hoodie that he forgot he had. He slides his hand from your hip to underneath the shirt, pressing his palm to your feverish skin and pushing it up slowly until he reaches your breast.

“No bra?” Cillian asks, surprised.

“I never wear a bra when I’m over here,” you admit, “I’m surprised you’ve never noticed.”

“I’m glad I never noticed, or else I’d be underneath your shirt constantly,” Cillian pulls his hand from your hair to move it under the shirt along with the other.

“Doesn’t sound too bad to me,” you giggle, but it’s cut off by a quiet moan when Cillian grasps your breasts.

Cillian brushes his thumbs over your nipples, circling the buds as they harden under his touch. You hum, letting your head fall back at the sensation. Cillian pushes the shirt up and over your chest, and you help him pull it all the way off, tossing it somewhere in the living room. Immediately, Cillian latches onto one of your nipples, toying with the other one with his fingers. Electricity shoots to your still-clothed core, and you know that Cillian can feel you beginning to throb through your thin shorts. His playing with your breasts could get you off alone; his touch is like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It’s sometimes sensual and soft and rough and firm when needed. Cillian grazes his teeth over the sensitive bud, pulling it toward him as you let out a yelp. You involuntarily bare down on his lap and feel him growing harder underneath you. He lands a slap to your breast, and you gasp, hands going to grip his biceps to ground yourself.

“I can feel you getting excited,” Cillian teases, raising his hips a little to let all your weight sit on him momentarily.

“What are you gonna do about it, then?” you stifle a moan at his bulge pressing into your clit harshly.

Cillian pushes you off his lap and onto the couch, where he spreads your legs and yanks your shorts down your thighs, discarding them wherever the shirt also previously went. He pulls your calves onto his shoulders, laying on his chest between your thighs. His breath hits your dampened underwear, sending goosebumps across your skin. You bite your lip as Cillian plays with the edges of your underwear right against where you need him most. He toys with the fabric, letting his fingers barely touch you underneath.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” Cillian confesses, his intense eyes flickering up to your face.

You feel your cheeks burn, “Me too.”

Cillian smiles his typical beautiful smile, teeth and all, as he pulls your underwear down your legs painfully slow, “I’ve always imagined how wet you’d get just from me teasing you.”

You bite back a whimper as he removes your underwear from your legs, letting them fall to the floor.

“You’d get soaked from me playing with your pussy, rubbing your clit slowly, and eating you out until you cry,” Cillian lets his filthy words fall from his lips as you shiver from them, wanting to close your legs subconsciously.

But they were perched on Cillian’s shoulders, and he was about to go in for the kill. He kneads your thigh before pushing it to the side, letting it drape off the edge of the couch and opening you up further to him. Cillian’s fingers brush against your hardening clit like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, making you tremble as you grunt from the sensual feeling.

“Please,” you sigh, your hips jerking up when Cillian pulls his hand away.

“Please, what?”

“Touch me, Cill. God, I need you to touch me.”

Cillian strokes your entrance with his index finger, gathering your wetness before dragging it up to your clit. He circles the bundle of nerves slowly, making you whine above him.

“So wet already,” Cillian moans, “You’re so beautiful.”

You throw your head back against the arm of the couch when Cillian finally replaces his finger with the tip of his tongue, going around and around the sensitive bud, never coming directly in contact with it. He changes his mind about that and starts to lap at your clit, flicking his tongue over it as his fingers travel back to your now-dripping entrance. Cillian hums in satisfaction at the feeling of your arousal seeping out of you at his expense. He flattens his tongue and licks a fat stripe up your slit before swirling his tongue around your clit, his tongue still flat and giving your entire bundle of nerves attention. Cillian probes you with a single finger, pushing it in as you moan his name. He pumps it in and out of you, curling it against your g spot with every thrust. He adds a second finger, and the sound of your wetness grows louder, mixing with your breathy moans and Cillian’s pants.

“Say my name again,” Cillian bites his lip, watching as his soaked fingers move in and out of you.

“Cillian,” you whine, moving your hips along with his fingers.

“That’s right, fuck yourself on my fingers, darling,” he says, adding a third finger in you.

To say you‘re a mess is an understatement. You need Cillian inside you, as your walls are clenching around his fingers with desperation. You grab his shirt, “Fuck me, please.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Cillian smirks, lifting his shirt off his lean body before standing up to tug his pants and underwear down and off his legs.

Cillian teases your clit with his leaking head before lining himself up with you. He looks at you with an unsure expression, and you nod in response to the unspoken question. He slowly pushes himself into you, your warmth already fluttering around him. Cillian guides himself all the way to his hilt, letting out a throaty groan when he feels his entire length surrounded by your velvety walls. His hands run up and down your abdomen, stopping when he palms over your breasts. They’re still sensitive from the previous activity and your growing arousal, causing you to wriggle when Cillian’s fingers deftly pinch at both your nipples as he slowly pulls himself almost out of you entirely before slamming back into you. You cry out, your hands flying to where his back meets his shoulders, nails digging softly into his flesh. Cillian moans when you clench harshly around him when he tugs at your nipple particularly hard.

“You like these pretty titties to be played with, huh?” Cillian runs his tongue along his bottom lip as he watches your face twist in pleasure when he pulls at the sensitive skin.

You nod, but he lets go of your breasts, running his hands over your body before his hand snakes between the two of you, rubbing tight circles on your clit. You let out a throaty moan, and Cillian curses under his breath as his hips snap against yours at a steady rhythm.

“Fuuuuck,” you drawl, eyes rolling into the back of your head as your body heaves into the couch from the velocity of Cillian’s perfect cock slamming into you without mercy, “You feel so good inside of me.”

You push Cillian up and off you, shoving him onto the couch behind him. You climb on his lap, throwing your legs over his thighs as you line him back up with your aching cunt. Feeling him stretch you out completely while at a different angle makes you moan uncontrollably as you set a pace, riding Cillian as if your life depended on it. Your ass slaps his hips as he guides them up and down, thrusting into you dead-on. Cillian’s tip hits your cervix flawlessly, and you feel that tightness in your belly.

“Cum inside me, Cillian,” you swivel your hips, “Fill me up and make me yours.”

“Gonna cum around my cock first?” Cillian’s lips are swollen from incessantly biting as he watches you fuck yourself on him.

You decide you’ll milk him for all he’s got and lean down to land a bruising kiss on his lips. Both of you pant into each other’s mouths as you near your peak, reaching underneath you to flick your clit. Cillian grips your ass as you feel yourself unravel, your orgasm ripping through you. Your walls cave in on CIllian’s length, causing him to reach his own orgasm before he’s ready. He squirms underneath you as you continue to bounce on his cock, coaxing every drop of cum out of him.

“Fuck,” Cillian exhales as he runs a hand through his sweaty hair, looking just as fucked out as you.

You lay down on his chest, him still inside you. He doesn’t bother moving either; the feeling of you still cloaked around him made him dizzy. Cillian is still trying to wrap his head around how this is real. He also is trying to figure out where to go from here. He’s terrified of telling you his true feelings for you, fearing you won’t want to be friends anymore. Obviously, tonight the dynamic has changed from just friendship between the two of you.

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for that,” you trace shapes into Cillian’s bare chest, peering up at him when he doesn’t answer.

He appears deep in thought.

“Everything okay?” you ask, furrowing your eyebrows at the man underneath you.

Cillian nods, his hand finding your hair before stroking it softly, “Just thinking.”

“About?” you rest your chest on his collarbone.

“How much I’d like to do this again,” Cillian says, and you chuckle.

“That can be arranged,” you leave a kiss on his neck, his eyes meeting yours through his eyelashes.

“I don’t want to ruin our friendship, though,” Cillian says worriedly.

“You haven’t ruined anything. And I’ve had just as much to do with this as you,” you say, putting your finger under Cillian’s chin to look at him directly, “You’re still my best friend.”

“And you’re fine with whatever this is?”

“It’s the best of both worlds,” you shrug with a smile.

Cillian moves to sit up against the couch's armrest still sheathed inside you. And as you start yet another make out session and begin to rock your hips with your walls still hugging his cock, you try not to think. The idea that you must hide your feelings for Cillian even more is hard to wrap your mind around.

But little did you know, he was having the same problem. He tries not to think about it as he thrusts into you sloppily, letting you ride him as you please.

—

“Jesus, shit!”

“God, you’re so fucking drenched. All of this for me?”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, letting out a pornographic moan as one of Cillian’s hands holds your swollen cunt open while the other rubs at it vigorously.

“Just like that-” Cillian moans at the sounds you’re letting out, “Need you to cum on my face, pretty thing.”

You cry out, rocking your hips against Cillian’s merciless hand as it flies across your pussy with no sign of stopping. He pokes out his middle finger to catch your clit with every swipe of his hand. Your orgasm explodes in your stomach, your core gushing cum as Cillian hurries to dip his face down. He latches his mouth onto your cunt, flicking his tongue over your bundle of nerves, causing you to squirt again.

“Fuuuck,” you squeal, your hands gripping Cillian’s hair like a vice.

Cillian can’t get enough. He’s not gonna lie, he thinks he’s absolutely obsessed with making you squirt. He could do it all night and still get off at the sight. Cillian laps at your pussy, spreading his tongue around your folds, stimulating the sensitive area further.

“Cill, I’m gonna cum again,” you warn, but Cillian just keeps his eyes closed as he sneaks two fingers inside you.

His fingertips brush against your g spot and send you over the edge a third time, and Cillian’s nipping at your clit causes you to gush again. You were slightly embarrassed but incredibly turned on by it. And you know Cillian is relishing in it, literally and figuratively. He pulls away from you, a little reluctantly, and wipes his mouth and face with the back of his arm. You grab his face and pull him into you as he collapses on your naked, heaving chest. You stare at Cillian, the light from the side table’s lamp shining into his eyes just right. They’re returning to an arctic blue as his heart rate calms, his pupils going back to normal size. Cillian stares back at you, studying your features just as you are his. Freckles sprinkle Cillian’s cheeks and nose, dotting along his forehead and chin as well. His lips are red and swollen, and he’s sporting a lopsided smile as he looks at you.

“You’re perfect,” you whisper, combing your fingers through his hair, “Literally everything you do, say, and how you look is just flawless. Are you sure you aren’t an angel?” you joke.

A smile spreads upon Cillian’s face as his cheeks tinge pink, the warmth traveling to his ears, “I’m not perfect by any means, and no, I’m not an angel,” he says, his accent thick and raspy from the previous exertion.

“Mmm, I’m not sure about that,” you say as CIllian softly kisses your neck.

God, I love you, you want to say. Because you do; you love him. You always have, but sharing such intimate moments with Cillian has just strengthened the feeling you already had. You’re honestly exhausted but still blissed out from Cillian going absolutely feral on you. You have never squirted before, and if you could, you’d let him make you squirt all night. You’d watch as your arousal covers his pretty face, delighting him much like it did earlier. Cillian looked like a kid in a candy store as you gushed for him.

“I’ve never squirted before, so,” you mutter, covering your face with your hands, “Yeah, I’d consider that angelic.”

“Really?” Cillian asks incredulously, “Never? Not even by yourself?”

“Especially not by myself,” you chuckle, uncovering your face to look at Cillian, “You’re better than any vibrator or dildo I own.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Cillian bites your jaw playfully before reaching down and grabbing the duvet, covering the both of you with it.

He rolls off you, much to your dismay. But he immediately pulls you into his chest, holding you tightly with his arms as if you’ll disappear. Cillian slides a leg between yours, his knee pressed against you softly. He rubs his nose against your ear, “Still wet, pretty?”

“Shut up,” you mutter shyly, burying your face in his arms.

“Only if you make me,” Cillian teases you, nipping at your earlobe.

You groan, “Too tired,” you feel Cillian’s hand travel down your navel to gauge how wet you still are, “I don’t think I can move.”

“Who said you had to move?” Cillian asks, pulling your thigh up until your leg is draped over his hip, spreading you open for perfect access.

Before you can ask him to touch you, Cillian lines his length up with your still-needy cunt. You’re surprised you had any remainder of horniness left in you. But there’s something about Cillian that naturally turns you on. You’ve noticed it’s gotten more intense now that he’s your sexual partner. It’s like you can’t get enough of him, and he can’t get enough of you, either. Cillian nudges his tip into you before letting it glide in without a hitch. The way you’re laying makes the angle at which he’s inside of you feel irresistible. You let Cillian play with your still-sensitive clit as his hips snap into your ass. His hot, heavy breath is in your ear as he fucks you slowly. You toss your arm behind you, grabbing the back of Cillian’s neck for leverage as you turn your head around. His lips meet yours hungrily, and he swallows your guttural moans as you fuck yourself on his cock. Cillian’s other hand snakes from underneath you, his fingers wrapping around your throat. He doesn’t press them into your skin but lets them rest there, almost possessively.

You’ve been exploring each other’s bodies ever since the first night you had sex- trying different angles and positions. But you told Cillian that you didn’t want anything rough. That was reserved for a romantic relationship. Cillian felt a twinge of hurt in his chest when you said that, as if you had meant you weren’t planning on a romantic relationship with him specifically. But he understood and respected your boundaries despite his weird sadness about not being able to do certain things with you. Cillian thought it odd because you were not his, so he had no right to hurt you consensually or mark you as his. So, he shouldn’t be so upset about it. Yet he is because he wants you to trust him with everything you have, and he wants to take care of you after the roughness. Cillian wants you to be taken care of. But he knows his limits and that he can’t break the rules of the friends-with-benefits situation. So Cillian doesn’t choke you during sex, or slap you, or kiss you outside the bedroom- especially in public. He bites his tongue every time you do something that melts his heart. He refrains from saying those three little words every day. Cillian has no idea how much you wished he would break the rules just once or how you wished he’d say he loves you.

Something comes over you, though. You reach a hand up and cover Cillian’s that is on your neck and press his fingers into the sides of your throat. You sigh contently as your head becomes cloudy from the lack of blood flow to your head. Cillian stops rubbing your clit and takes your hand from over his, slipping his fingers between yours and pinning it in front of you.

You whimper in detest, and Cillian nips at the skin behind your ear, “Naughty thing. Don’t break your own rules, sweetheart.”

You sigh in defeat, but before you can pout, a moan rips through your chest. Cillian pushed your clave up into your thigh, thus making it easier for him to ram his cock against your cervix in a way that sends stars floating across your vision. Your hand squeezes his as you feel your release creeping up.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, watching as Cillian’s length moves in and out of you quickly.

It was erotic yet romantic, him being so close to you and inside you. You and Cillian are now one, but you wish things were different.

“Good,” Cillian kisses the back of your neck, his nose drawing circles in your skin delicately.

You breathe deeply, feeling your stomach clench. You cry out Cillian’s name as you unravel, his fingers pressing to your clit. Your body trembles and shakes as he continues his assault on the bundle of nerves, still chasing after his own high as he keeps thrusting into you. Your back arches, toes curling as another wave of pleasure hits you.

“You’re doing so good, angel,” Cillian praises in your ear, “Taking my cock so well. I’m almost there, just hold on.”

The feeling of Cillian exploding inside you sends you over the edge for the third and final time. Stars erupt behind your eyelids, your body convulsing from pleasure. Your pussy clenches around him as he rides out his orgasm, panting in your ear. He almost doesn’t hear you say it. Almost.

“Fuck, I love you,” you whine quietly.

You gasp, immediately realizing what’s slipped from your mouth in a shroud of cloudy pleasure. But you hide your gasp as you catch your breath, inhaling and exhaling sharply. You pray to whatever is out there that Cillian didn’t hear you proclaim your feelings in a vulnerable moment.

Cillian grunts as he pulls out of you, letting your leg go limp and relax back on the bed. He keeps his hand entangled with yours. But you pull your grasp out of his, turning around and facing him. You hurriedly bury your face in his chest so you can’t look at him and see how he’s possibly reacting to your words. Cillian wordlessly wraps his arms around you, pulling you even closer to him. You fight the urge to cry at the silence of the dimly lit room as Cillian tugs the duvet over your sweaty, naked bodies. You try and steady your breath and keep your heart from racing.

“Can you say it again?” Cillian finally asks after several minutes of dead silence.

You lift your head from his chest, looking at him confused, “Say what?”

Cillian looks at you seriously before lifting his hand to touch your face gingerly, “What you said a moment ago.”

“You didn’t hear that, did y-”

“I did. But I want you to say again.”

Tears brim your eyes as you feel heaviness in your chest- will he make fun of you? Did you just ruin everything?

You let out a choked sob, hiding your face in his neck, “I love you. I fucking love you. There, I said it,” you slam your fist against his chest. “Feel free to hate me, but it’s true.”

“I could never hate you, gorgeous,” Cillian pulls away from you, his hands grabbing your cheeks so you’re looking directly at him.

His eyelashes flutter against your cheekbones, much like they did the first time you kissed him weeks ago. You blink away your tears, but Cillian wipes them away with his thumbs.

“I love you too,” Cillian confesses, “I love you so much. You know that?”

Your lips tremble as you nod, but Cillian presses his forehead against yours, and you try to ground yourself. He loves you. Cillian loves you back. Cillian kisses your lips gently as if he’d break you. You grasp his hair, kissing him back passionately.

“I love you,” you say, pulling away from his lips and kissing his eyelids instead.

“I love everything about you,” you brush your lips across his cheeks, then kiss his nose, “Your angel kisses. Your beautiful eyes. Everything about you. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re perfect.”

Cillian laughs, and you melt at his smile.

“You,” Cillian says, “Are everything to me. Everything that brings me joy, everything that makes me happy.”

You wrap your arms around Cillian’s neck, pulling him close to you as you tuck your face into his neck.

“Never let go,” Cillian says, his arms snaking around your waist and holding you close.

“I won’t,” you say, a heaviness lifting from your chest at last, “I never will.”

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justagalwhowrites · 8 months

Text

Yearling - Ch. 27: Found

You try to figure out what you want. Joel and Ellie go on patrol.A continuation of Yearling ch. 1-26 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Angst. CLEARLY. It's me. Homophobia. Smut-adjacent. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ Only

Length: 11.3k (THIS IS GETTING TO BE A PROBLEM I'M SO SORRY)

AO3 | Chapter One | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Late August, 2027

“You’re making this hard on purpose,” Ellie’s nose scrunched as she held her guitar.

You laughed.

“Promise, Kiddo, I’m not.”

“Sometimes I really don’t like you, you know,” she grumbled. You snorted. “I’m serious! Swear you make me do shit the hard way because you fucking enjoy watching me struggle…”

“You learn better when you do it yourself and do it the hard way,” you shrugged, leaning back against a post of your porch. You stretched a leg out onto the step below and picked a little at your guitar. “You’ll never learn if I just give you all the answers.”

“Yeah yeah,” she muttered, leaning to the side to add more of her disorganized scrawl to her notebook. “Swear you didn’t have to work this hard at shit…”

“I started a lot younger than you,” you replied, picking up the pace on your guitar and adding slaps and pops, no real rhyme or reason to it, just what your fingers felt like doing. “Everything is easier when you start young. And hey, you’ve got a leg up on any asshole who tries to learn when they’re my age.”

“Because you’re a dinosaur?” She looked up at you from her notebook, a small smirk on her face.

“Nah,” you replied. “They’d been dead like three years when I was born, I’m not THAT old.”

She laughed and went back to her notes as you kept playing, looking out down the path from your yard to the road beyond.

It was sweltering hot and you’d never been more thankful for a breeze or the fact that it was your day off from the stables. The hair that had pulled loose from your braids stuck to your skin and you’d been sweating all day, waking up with your sheets balled up at the foot of your bed and your tank top damp even with the ceiling fan on. You hadn’t even put on jeans that day, throwing on one of the few dresses that had made their way into your closet in the almost two years you’d been in Jackson. The first you’d taken when Maria mentioned seeing one she thought would fit you, not long before things fell apart with Joel. You’d intended to wear it to the Tipsy Bison on a night there was dancing once it was warmer, opening the door to Joel when you were dressed like what your mother would call “a proper lady.” You’d pictured dancing with him, his hand sliding up the inside of your thigh when you sat down to have a drink until you couldn’t take it anymore and you practically dragged him home, riding him with the skirt bunched up around your waist the second you were in the door.

That had never happened. That dress stayed tucked safely away at the back of your closet, not able to bring yourself to part with it and the image of that night with him.

The other dress was perfect for days like today, long and loose and thin cotton that made the oppressive heat of late summer tolerable. Even if Ellie had looked at you like you had two heads when she saw you in the damn thing.

You didn’t mind, though. You were just glad that you had gotten to the point that you liked spending time with Ellie again. That you’d started feeling much of anything at all.

The first month you got back was hazy. You didn’t really leave your house at first, not able to contribute much at the stable and not seeing a reason to move otherwise.

You weren’t entirely sure how many days passed before there was the first knock at your door.

It wasn’t an Ellie knock. The sound didn’t carry her chaotic energy or almost audacious nature. Instead, it was hesitant but sturdy and firm without being forceful or insistent. You stayed flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling of the closet for a minute to see if the knock would come again. It didn’t. You stared at the ceiling a while longer but, eventually, you had to pee. You forced yourself to move and, on your way back from the bathroom, passed your front door. You hesitated for a moment before you went and opened it, to see if whoever knocked had left a note.

On your porch was a box filled with crackers and jerky and fruit and carrots and celery. All things you could eat without needing to cook or, really, do anything at all. You knew it was from Joel, even though it hadn’t sounded like his knock, either. There was no one else who would have brought it because no one else knew why you were locked inside your home. But he was no where to be seen. He didn’t leave a note.

A few days later, you forced yourself to go to the stable to check on the horses. The fillies and the colt weren’t making much progress without you - you’d have to probably start nearly from scratch with them once your arm healed - but you were able to feel somewhat useful, brushing horses down, checking on their hooves to see when they’d need to be shoed, just giving them some love and attention. That helped you feel a little more like yourself.

Ellie started coming by again a few days after that. She showed up one afternoon with a CD and a sandwich from the mess hall, marching into your living room like nothing had happened, complaining about another kid in town and how Joel wasn’t going to let her patrol with anyone but him for a while.

“I could get partnered with Dina but no,” she drew the last word out, sprawled on your couch, rolling her eyes as she did. “The old man is convinced I’m going to drop dead if he’s not looking out for me for five minutes…”

“I’m sure he’ll ease up once he sees how capable you are,” you said, sitting on the loveseat and picking up the CD case she’d brought with her. The Clash this time. “Mick Jones and Joe Strummer, nice choice. Why do you want to go out with Dina, anyway? I thought not everything was about girls…”

“Shut up.”

“Nah.”

You were’t sure if you were really doing better or if you’d just found a way to push the hurt down inside yourself again. You weren’t sure there was a way to recover from this, from the idea that you’d probably never see your child again. Clinging to the possibility felt so necessary but so foolish. You weren’t sure if it was reason or denial but it didn’t really matter. You weren’t sure you could live without that possibility dulling the jagged edges of your grief and pain.

The boxes of food made regular appearances on your porch. You never saw Joel.

When you were close to getting your cast off, Ellie came by your house but didn’t shove her way inside the way she usually did. Instead, she hovered on your porch.

“OK don’t be mad,” she said, a serious look on her face.

“Off to a great start,” you replied.

She glared at you for a second before pressing on.

“Joel sent me with a message,” she said. “He wanted me to tell you that the movie tonight was something called Ever After and that he thought you would like it and that he wasn’t going to be there so you should go. And to not be mad. I think you shouldn’t be mad, too, by the way.”

“Not mad,” you smiled a little. “I just… I don’t know…”

“Come on, Bambi,” Ellie said, dropping some of her pretense now. “Dina’s going with Jesse and I’ve never seen it and I really don’t want to be stuck sitting by them while they suck face.”

You sighed, looking back over your shoulder in the direction of Joel’s house. You found yourself looking that way a lot.

“Alright,” you said after a moment, looking back at Ellie. “I’ll go. But only to save you from your crush…”

“I’m going to ignore that last part and just be happy you’re going,” she said, a little smug. “Even though you’re annoying about it.”

“So annoying,” you agreed, stepping into your boots, turning on the lamp and following her out the door.

It was strangely easy to adjust to being around the people of Jackson again. Ellie gave you something to focus on, busy trying to distract her from the Dina and Jesse acting exactly like you remembered some of your friends in high school acted with their boyfriends.

“What’s this movie about, anyway?” Ellie asked as the two of you settled in toward the back of the room.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it,” you said. “But I think it was like Cinderella.”

Ellie looked at you and made a face.

“Like the fairy tale.”

“Yup,” you replied. She stared at you and you laughed a little. “What?”

“I’m just trying to picture you liking a fucking fairy tale.”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms as best you could with one in a cast.

“What?” She teased. “Don’t tell me you like some stupid story where love solves everyone’s problems…”

“What’s wrong with that?” Julie, the woman you’d seen a few times at the Tipsy Bison and when she went out on patrol, appeared alongside Ellie, a large bowl of popcorn in her hands.

“It’s bullshit,” Ellie said. “There’s a reason they’re stories for little kids.”

“Maybe you just haven’t loved that way yet,” she smiled a little before nodding to the chair on the other side of you. “Seat taken?”

You hoped you didn’t just stare at her for too long. People didn’t just talk to you in Jackson, not without a reason, let alone try to sit by you. You weren’t entirely sure what to do with it.

“All yours,” you said, tugging your legs in close so she could pass you and sit down. She settled in beside you and smiled, holding out the bowl.

“Thanks,” she said. “Popcorn?”

“Sure,” you said after a moment, taking some with your good hand. “Thank you.”

“Course,” she smiled a little bigger in a lopsided, almost cocky way. “What’s the point of popcorn if you don’t share it?”

The movie was good. You’d only seen it once or twice before the outbreak but you’d liked it then, too. Cinderella was smart and capable, the prince was handsome and kind and you liked to imagine the way life was in that period of time.

“OK so that wasn’t terrible,” Ellie said as you headed out with her and Julie.

“Told you,” you teased a little.

“No one told me that sometimes the girls in fairy tales got to be badasses,” she replied. “I might have liked the stories more then!”

“The girls are always badasses,” Julie said. “They just try to hide it, scares the men otherwise.”

Ellie snorted.

“Sounds right.”

You reached Joel’s. There was a light on in his living room and you felt the familiar tug in you to go inside and join him. Just let yourself in the front door and settle in like it was yours.

“I’m gonna go tell the old man that his taste in movies isn’t totally awful,” Ellie said, heading up the front walk. “Still want help tomorrow at the stable?”

“Stalls ain’t gonna muck themselves,” you replied and held up your still healing arm. “And this isn’t much help.”

“Ugh,” she groaned good naturedly. “Night!”

You watched until she made it to the front door - not that the precaution was really necessary here but it made you feel better - and you turned to Julie, your good hand stuffed in your pocket.

“I’m that way and to the left,” you said. “So…”

“Mind if I join you?” She asked. “Nice night, figure I’ll take the scenic route.”

You looked at her for a moment.

“Sure,” you shrugged. “Not much to see though.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” she smiled one of those lopsided smiles and fell into step beside you, walking a little slower than you and you slowed down to match her pace. You looked ahead. “So, how’ve you been doing? Don’t see you at the Bison much anymore.”

“Fine,” you shrugged. “Just haven’t felt like going out.” You looked over at her and had the passing thought that she was pretty. Young, with long, dark hair and bright eyes and full lips.“How about you?”

“Oh you know,” she waved you off. “Same old, same old. The berries are coming into season though, have you been to check out the orchards and stuff?”

“I’ve ridden past them,” you said. “Haven’t exactly spent time there, though.”

“You should!” She brightened at that, even more than she already was. The two of you came to a stop at your front walk. “Think you’d like it. You should come with me sometime, it’d be fun.”

“Yeah, maybe,” you smiled a little tightly. “This is me, so…”

“Nice place,” she smiled back, looking more genuine than yours felt. “Well, whenever you want to check it out, let me know. Hope to see you around.”

“You too,” you said, standing there awkwardly for a moment before turning and heading up the walk and into your house.

You went to the mess hall the next morning for breakfast. Dinner, too. And soon, your cast was off and you were going there for most meals, even if it was just to grab something to bring home or go to the stables. The food boxes stopped showing up on your porch.

Instead, you’d come back from the stables and find new guitar strings waiting for you there or a CD that you didn’t have or a copy of Titanic on VHS, the one that took two tapes and you had to get up halfway through to change it.

You’d told Joel he should move on. You weren’t sure if you really wanted him to - you doubted you’d be able to stomach seeing him with someone else - but you didn’t want him to be alone, either. You didn’t want to drag him down with you just because you couldn’t separate his past from your own.

“OK so I think I have it,” Ellie said, pulling you out of your head and making your fingers still. “Can you look?”

She shoved the notebook your way and you leaned over your guitar to look at it, fingering the chords but not playing them.

“Yeah,” you said after a minute. “I think that’s probably closer to what you’re looking for, give it a go.”

You pushed the notebook back towards her and she set her guitar on her lap, adjusting it for a second before playing it. You nodded along, watching as she scrunched her face, getting more and more frustrated before she groaned.

“That’s not right either,” she leaned her head back on the post at her back. “Song writing shouldn’t be this hard. This is bullshit.”

“The shit that’s worth doing is hard, kid,” you shrugged. “Why don’t you try thinking about it again for a minute. Do you want it to feel urgent or slow and confident? Both are strong but they’re going to have different vibes.”

She sighed and closed her eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“Well,” you shrugged, settling back with your guitar. “Figure out how you’re feeling and what you want the song to say about it. It’ll come to you.”

You went back to playing as Ellie picked her notebook back up, gnawing on the end of her pen.

“I didn’t know you played!”

You stopped and your head shot up from its place on the post to see Julie standing at the end of your walk, her hands in the pockets of her shorts, her thick hair piled on top of her head, her arms looking sculpted and strong in her tank top.

“Sorry,” she laughed. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Can I come up?”

“Um…”

“Sure!” Ellie said before you had a chance to really think about it. Julie reached over the short fence and unlatched the gate before opening it and coming up to your porch, sitting on the bottom step so she was looking up at you and Ellie.

“Didn’t know there was a guitar club in town,” she said, folding one leg into her chest and looping her arms around her shin. “Don’t stop on my account! What song was that?”

“Oh, that wasn’t anything,” you said, running your fingers up and down the neck of the guitar. “Just… fidgeting, really.”

“Yeah, Bambi is fucking awesome,” Ellie said. “Best guitar player in town, easy.”

“Ellie,” you gave her a look but she ignored you.

“Seriously, you name it and she can probably play it,” she said. “She knows so much about music it’s insane.”

“Not really,” you cut her off. “I just like music so I learned about what I liked, that’s all…”

“Oh bullshit,” Ellie rolled her eyes. “She’s a human juke box, try her.”

“Do you mind?” Julie asked, looking at you with her brows raised. Her eyes were bright green and almost sharp.

“As long as you’re prepared to be disappointed,” you shrugged. “I can try.”

Ellie scoffed and Julie ignored her.

“I remember this song from when I was a kid, just before the outbreak,” she said. “It actually took me a while to track down the name of it after and you might think it’s silly but… I’m With You? Know that one?”

You smiled a little.

“I know that one,” you said, settling the guitar on your lap. “Haven’t tried to play it before, though. Avril’s not really my wheelhouse, so… go easy on me.”

You couldn’t remember exactly how the song started but you remembered the chorus and you remembered a verse from there. The music just trailed off at the end, not really remembering how the song ended either, and you awkwardly drummed your fingers on the body of the guitar when you stopped playing, Ellie and Julie both watching you.

“Right, well,” you said. “Like I said, not really my wheelhouse and…”

“That was fantastic!” Julie cut you off, her broad smile making the freckles on her cheeks rise.

“Told you,” Ellie said. “She’s the best.”

“Well I figured that much,” Julie rolled her eyes a little dramatically but smiled that cocky smile as she did before looking back to you again. “Thanks for letting me put you on the spot.”

“Any time,” you said before you really had a chance to think about it. She smiled a little bigger.

“Hey, so, I hadn’t meant to break up the jam session,” she said. “I was actually coming by to see if you wanted to come with me tomorrow afternoon, I was going to head out to the orchards for a bit. You’re welcome to join, get outside for a bit. It’s nice, promise.”

“Um,” you said for what felt like the millionth time that day, trying to picture the stable schedule. “I think that would work, I have some patrols leaving that morning but should be able to step away for a bit in the afternoon…”

“Perfect,” she said, getting up. “I need to get down to the Bison but I’ll meet you at the stables tomorrow?”

“That’s where I’ll be,” you smiled in a way you hoped was genuine. “Looking forward to it.”

“It’ll be fun,” she said. “I’ll see you then. Bye, Ellie!”

“Bye Julie,” she dragged her name out and gave you a look. You seriously considered kicking her. Julie laughed and started down your walk, only making it halfway to the gate before turning around and walking backwards, looking back at you with her hands in her back pockets.

“Nice dress, by the way,” she said. “It works for you. See you tomorrow!”

You went back to messing with your guitar as you tried to not watch her walk up the lane. Ellie was far less delicate, craning her neck until Julie turned the corner.

She spun to face you and swatted your leg.

“Oh my GOD,” she half whispered, half yelled at you.

“What?” You asked, fingers stilling on the strings.

“That!” She said. “All that fucking flirting!”

“Ellie…”

“Oh come ON,” she cut you off. “You may as well have fucked right on your porch, Jesus Christ…”

“OK I will say this again,” you said, setting your guitar down beside you. “Who is and isn’t between my legs? Not your business.”

“Well that’s just not true,” she rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who fucked Joel and made it my business.” You sighed and went to reply but she held up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather you two work your shit out and get back together. But if you’re not going to figure it out then you shouldn’t just be miserable and lonely forever and Julie is hot as fuck.”

“Ellie!” You hissed.

“What!” She replied, her brows raised. “She is!”

“Jesus…”

“Just saying!” She said, her hands up in mock surrender. “Julie’s cool. And hot. I think you’d have fun. And you should at least try to have some fun sometimes instead of just being miserable all the time.”

“What if I like being miserable.”

“Just don’t chicken out,” Ellie said, ignoring you and picking up her guitar before getting to her feet. “But I’m getting hungry. Think I’ll go see what the old man is doing for dinner. You’re welcome to come along if you’d rather not be miserable with us…”

“Ellie.”

“Right, right,” she rolled her eyes. “I mean it, fucking go tomorrow. You big chicken.”

“Go home, you little brat,” you replied. She cheerfully flipped you off before heading back toward Joel’s.

You sat on your porch for a while longer, absently playing and watching as the color of the sky slowly shifted from blue to pink to deep, inky black. The darkness seemed to swallow everything, like there wasn’t anything beyond what was right in front of you. But you knew that if you walked far enough, followed the light of the north star, you’d find things beyond what consumed here and now.

It was late when you finally went inside, scrounging in your kitchen for the last of some of what Joel had brought you even though you weren’t particularly hungry. You turned on the stereo and just let whatever CD you’d put in last play, not really paying attention

You found yourself thinking about Julie. About what Ellie said about Julie.

It had been a long time since you’d had a woman flirt with you. You’d been with your fair share of women since the outbreak but flirting hadn’t really been part of it. Marisa was the first woman you’d slept with and, after Savvy came along, you stopped seeking out that kind of connection with men and kept it to strictly women. It just seemed safer. After Marisa, it had always been casual - you didn’t think you could bear another heartbreak like that - and it had always been fairly blunt. You could generally tell if they were interested in letting off some physical steam and, if they were, you had fun for a few days before they moved on.

But things with Julie reminded you of one of your first crushes, a girl who did trick riding on the same circuit as you when you were a girl. You’d first noticed Courtney when you were both 13. She was so beautiful you couldn’t help but stare at her. At first, you’d almost resented her. She was good, damn good, and she was full of charismatic smiles and she dusted glitter across her collarbones that peeked out from the top of her costume. She was exactly who your mother wished you were and, as much as you loved bronc and bull and roping, part of you wanted to be who your mother wanted you to be. You wanted to be satisfied with what she wanted for you and you wanted to be happy being who Courtney was so effortlessly. Life would be simpler and happier if you were content with that and Courtney was proof that life existed. And you wanted it.

You settled for beating her, for a while. Narrowing your eyes at her when you passed her between rounds at competitions, looking her way when you saw your scores narrowly eclipse hers on the board. You loved it. The only thing you wanted more than beating her was her.

Hell if you knew what to do with that.

In hindsight, you weren’t sure she knew, either.

The first time she’d said more than two words to you was when you’d smirked at her as you held the first place trophy. You went to the locker room after the awards ceremony and you had the place almost to yourself, most of the other girls already cleaned out. The third place winner - a girl who’s name you didn’t remember - left and it was just a few seconds later that you heard the door slam into the wall. You looked up to see Courtney stalking over to you. You could see the glitter on her collarbones and her cheeks, her eyes hot and her lips full.

“Want to tell me what the hell your problem is?” She demanded, getting so close to you that you could smell her body spray. It was almost sickly sweet and floral but on her it smelled good. “What did I ever do to you? Why do you hate me so much!”

“I don’t hate you…” you said.

“Could’ve fooled me!” She cut you off.

“Why do you care?” You snapped. “We compete, we’re not friends, who cares if I hate you?”

“I care!” She snapped back.

“Why!”

“Because I like you!” She yelled, breathless. You just blinked at her for a moment as she caught her breath, her eyes drifting to your lips. “I like you and sometimes…”

She didn’t get a chance to finish. Instead, you kissed her.

It was clumsy and deeply uncertain. You’d never kissed anyone before and you had no idea what you were doing, your hands locked tight at your sides as though touching her anywhere at all was against the rules but you were risking it, anyway. Her mouth was warm and soft and it seemed oddly wet even though that made sense when you thought about it.

After a moment you pulled back from her slightly, your eyes wide, not really believing what you’d just done.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your turn to be breathless now. “I… I don’t know…”

“Shut up,” she kissed you that time, pressing you back against the lockers, stretching up to better reach your lips, her body hot on your own. You kissed her back, trying to focus and take in everything. How she tasted, how she smelled, how her costume hugged the slight curve of her waist.

“Courtney!” Her mother’s shrill voice from the hall made her jump away from you and wipe her mouth on the back of her hand. “You about ready honey?”

“One minute!” She called back before turning to you. “Do you have a some paper?”

You just nodded and fumbled in your bag for a notebook. She turned to a random page that happened to have some history notes on it and wrote her name and number at the top. Her handwriting was soft and curved and feminine and you envied that, too. She drew a little heart next to it.

“Call me,” she said, pressing the notebook into your chest. “OK?”

“Yeah,” you said, staring at her. You couldn’t help but stare at her. “Yeah, I will.”

“Good,” she smiled. “See you next time, superstar. Maybe I’ll finish on top then.”

“Courtney!”

“Coming!” She grabbed her bag out of a nearby locker and gave you an almost sly smile before she ran out to meet her mother.

From then on, most of your time with her was flirting. In between rounds at competitions or on the phone when you were far apart, carefully crafting your words so you’d have plausible deniability with your parents but know what the other meant. You wrote each other letters when you were apart, counted the days until you got to see each other again. When you found an empty spot when you were in the same place, you ended up tangled up together, kissing and fumbling against each other, figuring out what seemed to stoke the fires deep inside yourselves in the small moments you could find for just the two of you.

That continued for just over a year when Courtney came to a tournament with a somber expression on her face. You frowned but she gave you a subtle shake of her head as she passed you and you kept quiet. It took a few hours before you were able to get her alone and she told you the truth of it. That her mom had found your letters to her - thankfully not signed so she had no idea who had written them but still obviously from another girl - and had told her daughter that she, unequivocally, would end it.

“But…” you protested, trying not to cry.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice thick. “But… she threatened to send me to one of those camps if I don’t and… I can’t go to that, OK? I can’t, I don’t think I could make it and…”

You held onto her as she cried, her tears making little rivers in the glitter on her skin.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really… I think I…”

You kissed her before she said it.

“Me too,” you said quietly when you pulled away.

She sniffed and smiled a small smile.

“Maybe in another life, right?”

“Right,” you smiled a little back.

She dried her eyes as best she could and you watched from the stands as she gave the best performance you’d ever seen. You did the opposite. Your routine ended with a full Stroud Layout but your top foot slipped when you were getting into position and you fell off your horse, tumbling over and over yourself in the sand of the arena, the feel of it gritty in your mouth as your head spun when your body finally came to a stop.

You didn’t make the podium and your mother didn’t push you to compete again for a while. You never saw Courtney again.

You weren’t sure how to navigate things with Julie. You weren’t sure what you wanted to navigate with Julie. She was beautiful, yes. And she seemed kind and funny and smart. She seemed like someone you could have fun with and could care about.

But she wasn’t Joel. You weren’t sure you could feel like you felt for him for anyone else. It seemed silly to even try. And if you couldn’t feel like that, what was the point?

You tried to sleep but gave up eventually. After a while, you found the moose carving you’d started when you were out with Joel, looking for Savvy. It was getting closer to being done, though it was still a rough hewn thing. You weren’t sure anyone who didn’t know what it was supposed to be would realize what it was without help. But still, it felt good to make something. You let yourself be absorbed by carving it for a bit, until it felt like you’d shut your mind down enough to sleep. You set the moose down on the nightstand, arranging him so it was like he was watching you sleep, the red splotch from your blood still staining his chest.

You brought him with you to the stables the next day for something to work on when you needed the distraction. Just sitting there with your thoughts when you had downtime seemed like a bad idea.

“You’re gonna tell me all about it, right?” Ellie asked as you gave Shimmer and Ares a final once over that morning.

“I don’t need to tell you every time I hang out with someone,” you replied.

“Whatever,” she said. “Just don’t chicken out. Actually go, you need a social life…”

“What, getting sick of keeping me company all the time?” You teased, handing her the reins.

“Yeah, you’re pretty fucking boring,” she smirked a little. You snorted. “I’m serious though. Promise you’ll go.”

“I’m going,” you said, giving her a gentle shove toward the door. “Get out of here. Be safe on patrol, see you back tonight.”

“Not if you’re at Julie’s you won’t,” she waggled her eyebrows at you and you rolled your eyes as you watched her lead her and Joel’s horses out of the stables.

Time dragged until that afternoon and you found yourself feeling oddly nervous, waiting for Julie to come by. You weren’t sure what time she was supposed to get there and, you realized, you didn’t know what to actually expect with any of this.

Yeah, it had felt like flirting. And Ellie seemed sure that it was. But Ellie was a kid and your recent experience in that department was so limited you really knew fuck all about it. What if you’d read the situation completely wrong? What if Julie was just a nice woman who wanted to be friends?

“Hey you,” Julie’s voice surprised you enough that it made you jump, water sloshing over the side of the bucket you were carrying to top off one of the horses. “Shit, I’m sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you…”

“You’re fine,” you said quickly, refilling a waterer and setting the bucket down.

“Now still good?” She asked. “Because I’m not in a rush, today is my day off…”

“Now’s good,” you said quickly, trying not to think too hard about what she was wearing. Her long, lush hair was softly braided and hung over her shoulder, loose strands framing her face. Her shorts were short and her legs were long and sculpted and she wore a few long necklaces that settled into the curve between her breasts. She smiled.

“Great!” She held up a bag you hadn’t noticed before. “Brought snacks. Not that we’ll need much, it’s peak berry season out there. We could eat ourselves sick and not make a dent.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you smiled a little.

“Oh, I intend to,” she smiled back.

Julie led the way out of town, smiling and chatting with the guards at the gate for a moment before heading toward the orchards just east of town.

“So why are you heading out here on your day off?” You asked, looking over at her.

“Well as I think you know, one of my main contributions to the good people of Jackson is tending bar at the Bison,” she smiled. “But that’s because I just really like drinks. I found this old cocktail book when I was a teenager and I just kind of became obsessed, I guess? There was that and these books and magazines that showed what it was like before and I wanted to do that. Have the experience of going to a bar when life was different, you know? And yeah, we make some pretty decent booze here in town - or I think we do, anyway, didn’t really get to try any before - but that’s not all it takes to make a good cocktail. I can’t make a Coke or anything but I can make the syrups and infusions and things. I like to experiment in my spare time so I come out here, pick the supplies I need, and give things a try at home before I bring my ideas into the Bison.”

“Do I get to know what you’re working on?” You asked, brows raised.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” she smirked. “But I will need a guinea pig before too long if you’re game…”

“Far be it from me to turn down a free drink,” you replied and she smiled bigger.

The orchards were, indeed, beautiful. You followed her to a particularly dense spot and she pulled a blanket out of the bag, spreading it on the ground in the shade of an apple tree.

“I won’t lie,” she said, sitting back on her hands and closing her eyes, taking a deep breath. “This is probably my favorite spot.”

“I can see why,” you nodded, drawing your knees into your chest and looking around. “It’s gorgeous here.”

“It’s quiet here,” she laughed a little. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Jackson. Way better than the QZ we were in when I was a kid. It’s a good place with good people. I love the people, truly, I do. But everyone knows everyone and knows everything about everyone and it’s so hard to have anything for yourself, you know?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “It’s a great place but… it’s definitely a lot.”

You talked a little about your pasts. You told her - vaguely, lightly - about your time before Mitchum. She told you about her time in the Denver QZ and you almost fainted when she said she was only 31 years old.

“How old were you when the world ended?” You gaped at her. “Do you even remember?”

“I was seven,” she laughed. “I remember a bit. How old were you?”

“Older than that,” you replied. “Jesus…”

“Not that old, clearly,” she said, picking a blackberry off a bush and holding it out to you. “This is a good one, you should have it.”

“Old enough,” you replied. “And if it’s good, you should have it.”

“I have them all the time,” she said, stepping close to you. You were suddenly acutely aware of the fact that you were wearing the same clothes you’d been wearing when working with the horses all day and you hoped you didn’t smell. She pressed the berry to your lips. “Try it.”

You obeyed, taking the fruit into your mouth and biting into it, the juice bursting on your tongue.

“See?” She smiled. “Told you.”

The two of you ended up back on the blanket and you stretched out on it, looking up at the clouds drifting lazily past overhead, arms bare - too hot to wear anything more than a tank top - but not feeling overly exposed. Julie lay next to you, her arm brushing your own.

“Is it weird that I sometimes don’t feel like I missed out?” She asked. You felt her adjust next to you and you glanced her way to see her lying on her side, facing you. “I mean I know there was a lot before that we don’t have now but… I dunno, I guess I still wanted to be a ballerina when the world ended. It doesn’t feel like I really gave up all that much, you know?”

“Think that has as much to do with Jackson as anything else,” you replied, adjusting so that you were facing her. “But I get that, in a way. If I’d found Jackson when I was younger, I think I’d feel the same. Shit, what I’m doing now is exactly what I grew up wanting to do. If it wasn’t for all the time in between, the end of the world would have just turned into me getting just what I wanted. Besides all the death anyway.”

“Think you’re right about the Jackson thing,” she smiled a little. “It’s a special place with good people. Like a few better than the others, though.”

“Yeah?”

She reached out and brushed some of the hair that had fallen from your braid back from your face and trailed her fingers down your cheek and your chin.

“Yup.”

She leaned in then, moving slow and holding your gaze, giving you all the time in the world to stop her if you wanted.

You didn’t.

Her kiss was soft and gentle, her lips smooth on yours. She tasted and smelled sweet and her hand went to your hip, tugging you against her.

Julie’s body was softer than you expected as she pressed against you and, in so many ways, she felt safe and comfortable there. But she felt foreign, too. You’d become accustomed to a different form on yours, one that was larger and broader and firmer.

You tried not to think about him as her kiss deepened, as your hand went to her waist and trailed over her side but stopped short of cupping her breast.

She nudged you onto your back and she settled on top of you, her chest pressed tight to yours, her hips starting to rock gently against you. You ran your hands over her back to the top of her ass but didn’t go lower, not able to shake the subtle wrongness of kissing someone and feeling someone who wasn’t Joel.

After a minute, she pulled away from you.

“I get the feeling you’re not as into this as I am,” she said, panting a little. You opened your mouth to argue but she silenced you with a look. “If I misread things, I’m really sorry. But you should know that you don’t have to fuck me just because I’m trying to fuck you.”

“You didn’t misread anything,” you said quickly.

“Good,” she smiled a little. “But… It doesn’t seem like you’re feeling this.”

You winced.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling,” you said. “But… I don’t think I’m feeling what you are.”

“Well shit,” she laughed a little and rolled off you, lying flat on her back beside you. “I really am sorry if I came on too strong or did something you didn’t want…”

You laughed a little.

“Definitely not that,” you said. “Just have… other things on my mind. And you deserve someone’s full attention.”

She turned her head to look at you and you turned yours, too.

“It’s Joel, isn’t it?” She asked. You winced a little. “Sorry, I’m not trying to dig into anything that’s not my business, it just… seemed like you guys split up a while ago so I thought it would be OK. I’m sorry.”

“No, it probably should be,” you said. “It’s got nothing to do with you, trust me.”

“Well,” she said. “At the risk of this being the most awkward hang out ever… want to help me get some raspberries?”

“Sure,” you laughed a little. “I’d like that.”

She smiled.

“Good. Me too.”

It was awkward for a bit, but by the time the two of you started back to Jackson, it was lighter. Easier. Like you’d never kissed at all.

Julie walked with you back to the stables, not too long before you were expecting patrols that weren’t out overnight to return.

“Even with everything today, I hope we can be friends,” she said. “I do actually like you. Not just because I’d like to fuck you.”

You laughed a little.

“Yeah, I’d like that, too,” you said. “I’m sorry I’m not… in the same place on the fucking front…”

“I’d rather pretend we never found that out,” she laughed a little. “Maintain some of the mystery. But, you know. If anything changes, it’s a small town. You know where to find me.”

“That I do,” you said.

She turned to leave but seemed to think better of it and turned back.

“If he’s it for you?” She said. “I think you should figure out a way to make it work. No point in wanting something and acting like you can’t have it when it’s right there, you know? And yeah, it’s not really my business and yeah, I don’t know you all that well but… something tells me you’re not going to be feeling any different anytime soon. And I don’t think he is either. Just… my two cents.”

She smiled and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Thanks, Julie,” you said quietly. She gave your arm a squeeze.

“See you around, Bambi.”

You watched the door she left through for a few minutes after she was gone before you went back to work.

The patrols all made it back without incident, Ellie returning her and Joel’s horses. She asked how things went but you just waved her off and she deflated a bit.

“I keep trying to get some excitement around here,” she said. “You are no fucking help, you know that?”

“I am so sorry my romantic life isn’t more entertaining,” you said wryly. “I’ll work on that. Entirely for your benefit, of course.”

“Well you’re clearly not going to do it for your own.”

You just rolled your eyes as she headed back home. You stayed late at the stables. Not for any real reason, you just didn’t want to be at home alone and going to the mess hall didn’t sound like what you wanted, either. You worked on the moose carving, pleasantly surprised at the progress you’d made on him.

You ended up working on him until, almost suddenly, you realized he was done. Fully formed - or as close to it as you could get him - with four legs and jagged shapes for the antlers. But he looked like a moose, broad and steady and strong. You turned him over in your hand a few times, running your finger over the arch of his back and the curve of his neck.

“What am I going to do with you?” You said quietly, holding it up in front of you, looking where his eyes would be if he had them. The bloodstain was still crimson on his chest.

After a few minutes, you got up off the floor of the stable and did your final check for the evening before locking up behind you and heading home.

You took the long way.

It was dark but not so late that the Tipsy Bison had closed for the night, a warm glow coming from the windows. With the sun down, you were a little cold with bare arms but you didn’t mind. You walked slowly, watching the stars as you went.

You stopped at the end of Joel’s walk. The lights were out. You thought he probably went to bed early - he got tired after a patrol - but he could be at the Bison, too. Either way…

You all but crept up his walk, holding the moose tightly in your fingers. You stopped at the base of his stairs and held the rough-hewn animal in front of your face again.

“Keep an eye on him for me?” You said quietly to the wood. It didn’t say anything back. You stepped as lightly as you could up the stairs but the same step as always squeaked below you. You set the moose on Joel’s doormat before turning to go, making the step squeak again. You made it almost all the way back up the walk when the lights inside turned on and you picked up the pace.

It didn’t matter. You heard the front door open just as you turned onto the street and your eyes darted over toward him before you could help it.

“Bambi?” He called, not too loud. He was in his blue cotton plaid sleep pants and a black t-shirt that hugged his body just right, tight across his shoulders and upper arms, highlighting the soft curve of his stomach. You stopped for a moment and just gave him a tight smile before continuing on home.

When you went to bed, you found yourself looking at the spot on your nightstand where the moose had been before, part of you wishing he was still beside you.

***

“Hey. Hey Joel.”

Joel smiled a little to himself. He recognized Ellie’s tone.

“What’s up, kiddo?”

“Wanna hear a joke about pizza?”

He sighed, trying to sound annoyed. He wasn’t sure if it worked.

“Get the feeling you’re gonna tell me either way.”

“Eh, never mind,” Ellie said, sounding a little put out. Joel looked back at her, frowning slightly. And then she smirked. “It’s too cheesy.”

Joel groaned.

“That one’s bad, baby girl.”

“No it’s not!” She rode up alongside him even though the trail wasn’t really wide enough for that. “That was a good one!”

“Nope,” he shook his head. “It was terrible, three out of 10.”

“Bullshit!”

“What would you give it?” He asked, brows raised. “Because I’m questioning your judgement here…”

“At least a six.”

“No.”

“Yes!” She laughed. “You’ve just got shitty taste, old man.”

“Uh huh,” he laughed. “And what’s that say about you then, hm?”

“Broken clock is right twice a day,” she replied. “You were bound to accidentally do OK every now and then. Will Livingston, however, is right every time.”

“You got that entire book memorized?” He teased lightly. “If not, you gotta be close…”

“I’m getting there,” she said. “Saving the best for last.”

Joel just shook his head a little.

He loved patrolling with Ellie. Even more than he thought he would. It was so much like when he’d first come to know her and care for her. It was a time, he realized now, that made him understand that he could still love. That he had it within himself to care for another person, that he could cope with the fear of loss that came with attachment because Ellie was worth it. He liked spending the time just the two of them and getting to know her better as the young woman she was becoming instead of the little girl he’d come to know years earlier. She’d grown so much, come into her own in a way that was only possible in a place like Jackson. She had friends and hobbies and had become part of the community there. Every day with her was reassurance that he’d done the right thing. That every life he’d taken that day in the hospital was a worthy price to pay.

Joel had left Jackson with Ellie plenty before patrolling with her, back when she was still speaking to him. Before she found out the truth of everything. He’d loved it then, too. But this was different. She was still his baby girl but they were out here as partners, working together to protect the community they both loved. It was a glimpse of the future they had, one where their lives moved along side by side and he got to watch her find her place and fall in love and have a family of her own and just be happy as herself.

They were only a day out from Jackson now, heading in from a three day long patrol. It was Ellie’s first overnight patrol and she’d been so excited for it, even as she tried to pretend like she wasn’t. The days before they left town, Ellie was over at his house every night, going over the list of what she should bring and looking over the map. She’d lit up when he said they could bring a guitar, something else that made Joel smile.

It had been more than a month since she’d gotten him back into playing, showing up at his house with a guitar and saying she wanted his opinion on something. She played American Girl, one of his favorites, and set the guitar down when she was done.

“That was amazing, baby girl,” he’d said, more than a little in awe of her. “Where did you learn that?”

“Bambi,” she replied. “But do you think it’d sound better with two? I feel like it would. But you’re the musician so…”

It was an obvious ploy but it made him smile a little. The idea that Ellie would do that much to make him play again. That you’d help her.

“It might,” he said, getting up to get his instrument. “Let’s give it a try.”

Joel tried to not think of you too much. He usually failed. But he was getting better at not drowning in the memories of you, of not letting the loss of you consume him.

It helped that he’d found a way to care for you while respecting the distance you wanted. He couldn’t bring himself to just abandon you, not when he had a sense of how much you were hurting. So he brought you food. Selfishly, it served two purposes. It meant you were, hopefully, eating something. But it also meant he knew that you were still alive. That he could leave a box on your porch, walk by a few hours later, and see that it was gone. He could check on you without forcing you to talk to him and that eased the steady drumbeat of worry inside him.

When he heard you were back at the stables, he shifted from things you needed to things you would want. He brought you the things he found that made him think of you, things he’d have given you when he came home to you in another life.

It also helped that he knew you thought of him, too. At least occasionally, enough that you’d left the carving you’d made on his porch a few weeks before. He thought he was hearing things when the first squeak woke him up from his place on the couch, but then the step squeaked a second time and he was sure he heard it. He’d thought it might be Ellie, needing something but not necessarily wanting to say it. He hadn’t expected to see you heading down the street, the first glimpse of you he’d had in so long. Your arm was out of the cast and you looked good. A bit thinner than you’d been the last time he’d seen you but still good. Still beautiful, still soft with sharp edges. Still what he wanted to sink into and wrap himself up in every chance he got. He picked the moose up and brought it inside, tracing the outline of its frame for a moment. You’d finished it. It was rough, you were clearly a beginner, but you’d finished it and given it to him. His thumb brushed the wound on its heart, where you’d bled. Before he really thought better of it, he brought the figure to his lips and kissed it gently before setting it on the side table and turning out the lights.

The two of you were set to leave Jackson again in just a week, another gap in the patrol schedule that you could leverage to search for Savvy now that you were healed. He hoped this search led somewhere. He couldn’t imagine what it was like, living like that, not knowing what happened to your child. The closest he’d come was the torturous time that Ellie was with the monsters who’d taken her in Silver Lake. He was so frantic, so terrified of what he’d find but even more terrified of never finding it to begin with. He needed to save her, protect her. But if he couldn’t do that, he needed to know what happened to her. He needed to know who to destroy before he destroyed himself for letting it happen. Living in that for years would be unbearable.

“Hey Joel?”

He could hear the frown in her voice.

“Yeah Baby Girl?” He looked over his shoulder, Ellie and Shimmer falling behind him again now that the trail had narrowed further. She stopped and so did he.

“That’s something we should be watching for, right?” She nodded toward something off the trail, a small frown on her face. Joel followed where she was looking and he froze in his saddle.

It took an eagle eye to spot it, just brush amongst brush, but it shocked him when he saw it. The gentle arch of a sapling, stretching down toward the ground, held there with rope.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is. Stay with the horses.”

“But…”

“Just one second,” he said, dismounting and going for the trap, trying desperately not to get his hopes up but his heart was racing. It was a common set up for a trap. It could be anyone’s.

This trap was far fresher than the one he’d found with you, the dirt where the pin and been put in the ground still disturbed. The trap itself was still baited and the pins were smooth, almost artistically carved. It hadn’t been here long. He looked around quickly, looking for some indication of where the person who set this trap might have gone. It took some doing - whoever it was covered their tracks well - but he found it, the edge of a boot print.

He went back to his horse and mounted up.

“Ellie,” he said, voice serious. “Need you to listen to me, OK?”

“OK,” she frowned. “Joel, you’re acting weird…”

“We’re gonna track someone,” he said. “But when we find them, need you to not shoot them until we talk to them, OK? And… and if its a teenaged girl, need you to not shoot them even if she pulls a gun on me, OK?”

“A teenaged… Joel, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Just trust me,” he said. “Please.”

He started with the boot print and found little hints of someone moving through the brush from there. Disturbed leaves, a splotch of dirt that looked misplaced, a small branch that had snagged on another when something about human height passed below it.

“Joel,” Ellie said after they’d been tracking for about 20 minutes.

“Still looking,” he said gently. “It’s OK…”

He heard something rustle down low up ahead and he adjusted Ares’ path to check on it. He didn’t need to go far, the source of the sound only about 100 feet away and next to a large rock. Standing there, beside to a large horse and a large dog, was a girl. She was a little taller than Ellie, with gangly arms and legs, a rifle held high in her hands.

“Stop right there!” She said, her voice sharp with a familiar southern twang. The dog moved in front of her, getting down low and bearing its teeth. “Don’t wanna shoot you but I will. You can move right along, this spot’s taken.”

Joel lifted his hands and caught a glimpse of Ellie raising a gun next to him.

“Ellie!” He said sharply. She looked at him, eyes wide. “Gun down. Now.”

“But…”

“Now.”

She huffed but lowered the gun slowly, her eyes back on the girl in front of her.

“Won’t shoot you in the back,” the girl said. “Just turn around and go.”

Joel fought to focus. The girl in front of him… she looked like Sarah, so so much like Sarah. The same shock of curly hair, same brown skin, same bright eyes. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they were sisters. He fought to stay here, in the forest with Ellie, not getting swallowed by his own memories. He’d found her. He was all but certain of that now, he’d found her and he was going to bring her back to you.

“You out here on your own?” He asked gently, his hands said up.

“Don’t see how that’s any business of yours,” she said sharply. “All that matters to you is that I will kill you, don’t try me.”

“I understand,” he said. “Not going to hurt you…”

“Bullshit.”

“We’re not,” Ellie snapped.

“Ellie.”

“What!” She said. “Joel, I swear, if she shoots you…”

“Remember what I said,” he replied.

“But…”

“I mean it,” he cut her off. “Don’t, OK?”

He turned back to the girl.

“Not going to hurt you,” he said again. “Just… just hear me out for just a second, OK? We’re from a settlement, about a day’s ride from here…”

“Good for you,” she said. “Better head that way then.”

“It’s a good place,” he said, ignoring her. “With good people. Including… including your mama, I think.”

Her eyes went a little wide and she lowered the gun ever so slightly. He caught a glimpse of Ellie’s head whipping around to look at him but he kept his eyes on the girl.

“Your name’s Savannah, right?” He pressed on. “Your mom, she calls you Savvy, right?”

She raised the gun again.

“How’d you know that,” snapped. “You one of the assholes that took her? That it? What, you kill her? Get her to tell you about me first? That what happened?”

“No honey,” Joel said, his throat tight. He’d found her, he’d found your daughter. “No, she… she escaped them, few years back. She got hurt real bad doin’ it, we brought her in, got her fixed up and she stayed. She’s been looking for you but she’s still there…”

“Why should I trust you?” She snapped. “Why should I believe a damn thing you say?”

“Because I know her,” he said. “Been helping her look for you. She’s… I know her. She trains horses, guessin’ she trained the one you’ve got? She trained the one I’m on, too. She runs our stable for us, she…”

“Bambi?” Ellie gaped at him. “Bambi’s her mom? Bambi has…”

“Ellie,” Joel said again, cutting her off and looking back at Savvy.

“She’s there,” he said. “She misses you, she misses you so much. Told me how you liked to read to the horses when you were little. How the dogs liked you better than her. How you’re real good at carving… Recognized your trap, found another one of yours a few months back. She told me how your pins are always smooth and even… Let us take you back with us. Won’t take your guns, just… just come back with us. Please. She misses you so much, she’s been so worried…”

“We’re not people to be afraid of,” Ellie said and Joel glanced her way. She was looking at Savvy now, her face serious. “Well, as long as you’re not an asshole. I know Joel seems scary but he’s not. Promise. He’s safe.”

She lowered the gun slowly, looking between the two of them before looking down at the dog.

“Gattling,” she said. “Heel.”

The dog dropped its defensive stance and went alongside her, looking up and waiting for a command. She looked back at Joel and Ellie.

“You really know my mom?” She asked quietly. “She’s… she’s really alive?”

“She is,” Joel nodded, lowering his hands to the saddle horn. There was a knot in his throat. “And we can take you to her. Please.”

She hesitated for a moment.

“She teaches me stuff about music,” Ellie said quickly. “How to play some stuff on guitar, too, but more about music in general. She’s cool. Really. I’m… I’m sure she wants to see you again. And Jackson’s nice. And so are we. Just come along, OK?”

She took a deep breath, looking down at the dog for a moment, adjusting her grip on the rifle.

“OK.”

***

“She’s in rare fucking form this week,” Olivia said, watching as you steadied Persephone, one of the fillies you were working with.

“She’s just got an independent streak,” you said, the horse’s feet stomping impatiently in the dirt. “That’s OK. I get that. So do the best of us, right?”

She huffed and jerked her large head. You smiled a little.

“You’re sure she’s not gonna throw you?” Olivia asked, sounding a little worried.

“No,” you shrugged. “But I’ve gotten thrown off horses before, nothin’ new. Only way to break her is to break her, no point in stalling. You in a good spot?”

“Think so,” she said, stepping a little further back from the horse as you got ready to mount her.

“Then let’s go,” you said, all but jumping onto Persephone’s back. You barely got your foot in the stirrups before she started really bucking, Olivia moving even further away. You clutched the reins in one hand and let your hips go loose, digging your heels down toward the earth to stay seated. You let your body move with her as she hurled herself through the air, desperate to dislodge you. But you weren’t going anywhere. She gave you a good shake that made you grab the back of the saddle but otherwise, she didn’t get anywhere close to throwing you. After a while, she started to calm, her movements still sharp and harsh but closer to the earth, her hooves staying on the ground more often than not. Eventually, she mostly stilled, just tossing her head and huffing indignantly.

“See?” You said soothingly, reaching forward to pat her neck. “That’s my good girl, you did so well…”

“Bambi,” Olivia said, catching your eye. She nodded toward the gate to the paddock and you frowned a little before you followed her gaze.

Standing there was Joel and Ellie, their reins in their hands. But between them was a girl. She was young, a teenager, with springy curls and brown skin and wide, soft eyes.

You knew those eyes. You knew those eyes and that hair and that skin. For a moment, the world shrank to a small point centered on her and you wondered if, maybe, you’d finally lost your mind. If something had finally broken so thoroughly that you were seeing things.

But you weren’t. She was here. Your daughter was alive and she was here, in Jackson.

“Savvy,” you breathed and Persephone bucked below you. You weren’t paying attention to the horse and you flew off her back and into the dirt, landing with a brain rattling thud. You didn’t care.

You scrambled to your feet, throwing a glance back at Olivia to make sure she had Persephone so Savvy wouldn’t get hurt, and ran for her.

“Mom,” she said, her voice thick as you reached her and pulled her into yourself. You clutched her to your chest until you thought you could feel her heartbeat alongside yours, clinging to her too close to even kiss her or look at her but you needed to feel the life in her first, soak up the vitality of her before someone took it away.

“You’re alive,” you managed, voice thick. You buried your nose and mouth in her hair, breathing her in. “You’re alive, you’re here, you’re OK, you’re…”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said wetly and you pulled back from her just enough to look at her. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she sniffed as you took her face in your hands. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, I thought you were gone, I…”

“I’m so sorry baby,” you kissed her forehead before pulling her against you again and clinging to her. “I’m so sorry I let you go, I’m so sorry I didn’t get to you, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s OK Mom,” she said, her hands holding your elbows. “I’m OK, it’s OK, I promise…”

You just held on to her, trying to memorize everything about her that you could. That she was taller now, that her shape had changed, that it seemed like she hadn’t had a chance to really grow into her limbs yet.

You looked up at Joel who was still there, his eyes wet, watching you hold your daughter.

“You found her,” you said softly.

He just nodded.

“Found her,” he said. “Couldn’t have without you, though. With everything you told me about her, was able to find her.”

You just nodded, running your hand down the back of her head as you held her.

“Thank you, Joel,” you whispered, holding her so tight that you were worried you might hurt her but too afraid that she’d slip away to stop. “Thank you.”

Next Chapter

A/N: AHHHH SAVVY'S HERE!!!!

And Joel found her. I'm so happy that Bambi has her baby back, for real. Things are getting there. I promise.

Thanks so much for reading and sticking with this story! Don't forget that you can get updates on my updates blog here.

Love you!!

Taglist: @ashleymsnodgrass@planet-marz1@kalea-bane @juneswonderlust@ilovepedro @h-annahayy @starstruckmusiciansartghost@beccerjune@mumma-moonchild@netonetoneto@mellymbee@purplelye@n7cje@flugazi@evyiione@randomhoex@aliengirl99@orcasoul@reds-ramblings@pedropascalsbbg @fupoola @tinypotatothing @knopes-waffles @lilmizmoz @ayamenimthiriel@jenispunk@panda-pascal@sarap-77@flugazi@your-slutty-gf@daniegraceg@partyofone3413@cumberpegg@noisynightmarepoetry.@fifia-writes@grumpygrumperton @srmacaroni @txlady37 @bigboiseason123@ashleyfilm

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #yearling #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc

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bibliophilea · 9 months

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So... this isn't the first time I've seen people being incredibly mean to a whole section of the phandom. It's the first time in a while I've seen a post this bad in the main "danny phantom" tag, though. I have Thoughts™ that have been stewing for a while. Thoughts™ that shouldn't be put in the tags of someone else's post.

I'm not going to link anything. These are just my thoughts, raised to the forefront by recent posts in the main tag.

TLDR: I have two main Thoughts™:

No matter what you ship, I welcome you to this phandom. The folks who openly despise real people for shipping fictional things do not represent all of phandom. Y'all deserve better than being called shitty names. Your ships do not make you a bad person, and I personally welcome you.

To y'all who keep trying to draw a line in the sand to define who is "degenerate" or whose work is "degenerate": the moment you draw that line, you create a way for others to shove people behind that line. And the folks who usually get shoved behind that line and called "degenerate" are lgbtqia+ folks, and (c)sa survivors. It's happened before on LiveJournal and FFN, and it's happening now, irl, with book bannings across the USA (and especially in Florida). The only way to protect lgbtqia+ folks and (c)sa survivors from this abuse is to not draw a line in the sand at all. Don't call folks "degenerate" for any reason, unless you're ready to have that finger pointed back at you by a larger and more negative movement.

If you desire fuller context, it's below the cut.

First: no matter what you ship, I welcome you to this phandom.

The views of hatred and disgust that pop up in this phandom don't represent all of phandom. No fandom is perfect, and we'll always see some form of the "logic of disgust" from some folks in any fandom. But no matter what you ship, and whether or not I personally ship it, I welcome you. You will find no disgust from me as I am now.

If you dig backwards into my blog, you might find some anti sentiment. My introduction to fandom was first FFN, and then tumblr, back when I was more of a black-and-white thinker. I'm pretty sure I experienced some form of shock when I really started digging in to the Wild West that is fandom. I don't know if I ever expressed this shock online. But none of you deserve to be called "degenerates" over liking whatever fictional content you like. Y'all are a part of phandom, too, and any attempts to erase you or deride you are wrong.

We shouldn't be drawing lines in the sand and throwing people behind those lines. That's dangerous.

Second: to y'all who keep drawing lines in the sand, please consider the broader context around you.

The moment you draw a line in the sand to delineate between you and your group of people, and "them" and their group of "degenerates", people find ways to shove other folks, including you and your folks, behind that line. Historically, both in fandom and outside of fandom, the folks who get shoved ALWAYS include lgbtqia+ folks, and (c)sa survivors. We saw this with the purging of LiveJournal. We saw this with the multiple purges of FanFiction.Net. We haven't seen this with ao3, as far as I know; but their stance seems to be very anti-censorship for fandom-historical reasons.

Outside of fandom, we are seeing this now. I'm doing my senior capstone project on book bans. According to PEN America's data, over the past school year alone, 154 counties in 34 states have banned 1557 books 3362 times overall. Over 40% of those bans come from Florida counties. And much of the "reasoning" behind these bans is the same logic of disgust that fandom applies to "problematic ships": They call it pornographic and pedophilia. They call it harmful and age-inappropriate. They largely target books about lgbtqia+ people and people of color. And this year, they've also targeted "books on physical abuse, health and well-being, and themes of grief and death" - expanding their censorship to "protect the children".

Censorship doesn't protect anyone. Instead, it prevents people from holding genuine conversations with real people about the censored material.

And if you're not ready to have that conversation, that's fine! You do you! But don't create an environment where other people can't have that conversation. That only breeds the sort of black-and-white thinking that leads to 1406 book bannings in the state of Florida.

This is just speculation on my part: but I reckon every single person who supports those bans would love to ban the same content you want censored. And they'd call for you and the content you love to be lumped in with them.

We all deserve better than that. So please stop drawing lines in the sand.

#danny phantom #phandom #fandom #ship and let ship #censorship #book banning #the views of disgust and hate that pop up in phandom don't reflect all of phandom #bib write #bib speaks #bib work #in queue time is now

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newpathwrites · 5 months

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I Love it All (Din x f!reader)

“My body is just so…” you closed your eyes, disgusted with yourself. “It’s so… soft… and saggy… literally everywhere…”

He huffed in response, clearly expressing his disagreement. “You mean you’re middle aged…”

Summary: You’re unhappy with your body, and Din is having none of that.

Notes: I don’t know if this is any good - I got this idea and wrote it in a rush instead of working on my WIPs 🤫. It was supposed to be a chaste thing, but for some reason I couldn’t stop it from heading the sexy route. I’m still not very comfortable writing smut, so this is very vague and nondescriptive, and I may have rushed a bit through those parts. This is absolutely not my best work, but I’m trying to follow the advice of all those reassuring Tumblr posts and put it up here, anyway.

Warnings: Non-descriptive sexual content, negative thoughts about one’s body.

Word Count: 1.1k

Read on AO3

Main Masterlist

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“Why are you so focused on my worst features?”

Din froze, hand halting its gentle exploration over the skin of your stomach, eyes searching your face.

“What does that mean?” he asked in an unexpectedly dark tone.

Did you really think any of your features were anything less than perfect? Or did you think he believed so? That idea was downright offensive.

“It’s just…” you started hesitantly. “Your hands always seem to gravitate toward the ugliest parts of me…”

“You have no ‘ugly’ parts, Cyar’ika,” he replied quickly.

“We both know I do…”

He looked at you with a mixture of concern and confusion. “I do not… I think every inch of you is perfect.”

“Well, maybe you only think that because it’s me…”

“Yeah. Is that not the same thing?”

Stars. He could be so sweet sometimes without even trying, but he was missing the point.

“You know what I mean, Din,” you sighed, pulling the robe tightly around your body, clearly trying to hide yourself.

“I really don’t, actually.” His hand snaked around your shoulder to rub your back over the fabric. “Explain it to me.”

“My body is just so…” you closed your eyes, disgusted with yourself. “It’s so… soft… and saggy… literally everywhere…”

He huffed in response, clearly expressing his disagreement. “You mean you’re middle aged…”

You opened your eyes to look at him. “It’s not attractive. Don’t try to tell me it is.”

“Alright, look,” he began, pulling your hands away from the fastenings of your robe and exposing your upper half. “I appreciate the softness…a lot...” He squeezed once before running his fingers over your breast, thumb passing over your nipple and eliciting a small gasp. “Sure, you look a little different now than fifteen years ago, but… I like that we’ve aged… it means we managed to survive this long together…”

You craned your neck up to kiss him once in agreement. “That is true, but…”

He cut you off abruptly with his mouth once again on yours. “Let me finish, Cyare. I’ve got your whole body to cover here.”

He didn’t wait for a response before adjusting your bodies so that you lay flat on your back below him. He peeled off your robe entirely and ran his mouth down your neck and chest while gently groping your breasts.

And then he moved on, kissing down your abdomen until he reached the soft rolls of your stomach. “It makes me happy to see that you’re not skin and bones like you were when we met. We’ve done well for ourselves - we’ve never gone hungry since, and we should be proud of it.” He ran his hand softly over your stomach. “This is evidence that you’re healthy and nourished, and it’s beautiful on you. I’d like to remind you that I have plenty of this, too.”

He smirked as he laid his lips there, and you allowed a small giggle to escape. It was true - and you loved that little bit of fat he’d accumulated there.

His mouth continued down until he reached the band of your underwear, eyes looking up at you for permission.

You nodded, and he peeled them down your legs. “You worry about this, too… don’t you?” he questioned as he ran his fingers through the soft curls of hair there.

You looked mildly but genuinely pained as you responded with mock despair, placing a dramatic hand over your eyes. “Even my vulva is sagging, Din!”

He laughed. At least your mood had improved. “It’s just aging, Cyar’ika. A similar part of me is sagging, too.”

Your eyes sparkled with amusement. “It’s not the same. Those sag at baseline…”

He laughed again as he lowered himself to the floor at the foot of the bed, kneeling as he pulled your body closer to the edge of the mattress..

“I love all of it exactly as it is. Okay?”

You nodded. He’d made his point.

But he was not done. His fingers had continued to caress the sensitive skin there, heightening your slowly building arousal.

He placed light kisses on your thighs, purposely focusing on the parts he knew you disliked, hoping to prove to you that he really did care for every part of you, wrinkles and sags and all.

Meanwhile, his thumb found the most sensitive part of you as he reluctantly pulled his mouth away to move back up to the head of bed.

You immediately reached for his face, kissing him deeply through whimpers of pleasure. “I like your sagging parts, too…”

His chuckle was soon replaced by a low groan as your own hands clumsily reached down into his sleep pants to return the favor.

Your efforts were uncoordinated as you fought his clothing, but as the waves of your orgasm abated, he took it upon himself to kick off the offending items, readying himself over you.

“Slow,” you told him emphatically as he filled you. “I want to tell you everything I love about you, too.”

“If you say so…” he huffed with strained humor.

You reached up to run your hands through his curls as you spoke against his mouth, delighting in his slow and gentle movements. “You’re self-conscious about the gray… and the creases on your forehead… and the patches in your beard, but it all looks so good on you, Din. You’ve only gotten more handsome with age.”

He could only groan against your lips. He wasn’t sure he believed that, but stars did he appreciate that you thought so.

“And your scars - they tell your story, and I’ll never tire of tracing them to remember that you came out on the other side to me.” Your fingers found the well-healed gash on his neck. He hated that one in particular, but you loved it because he survived.

You were becoming a bit breathless now, too, the pleasure building again as he kept to your instruction to go slow. It was a wonderful kind of torture.

“And that little roll of fat on your stomach… I’m the only one privileged to even know it exists… and I love that…” you said between small gasps.

He was really straining with effort now, your words having their intended effect. His forehead pressed against yours as his thrusts became a bit more forceful even at this languid pace. “I don’t think I can hold back anymore, Cyar’ika…”

“Then don’t, love.”

This was one of your favorite parts of him - the one that allowed himself to lose control with you.

No more words were spoken as you moved together at a more steady rhythm, and the release was that much more incredible because every bit of self-consciousness about your aging bodies had melted away in the process.

“Do you really like my scars?” he whispered against your neck when he finally went slack against you. Ah, so he was insecure, too.

You pulled back to look at this face, smiling adoringly.

“I love your scars.”

____________________

Thank you for reading!

#soft din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #body positivity #newpathwrites

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aziraphales-library · 3 months

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Lost Fic #188

1. hello! i would like to ask for help finding a fic of aziraphale having a cottage (on a cliff, i think?) where he spends time living as a human shepherd? i found it a few days ago but i think it's a pre-s2 fic but now it's lost to me bc i didn't open it on my history 💀 thank you!!! - @cuntbrow

2. So, I remember reading a fic some time ago, but I just can't find it again Beware, it's explicit So, basically, Aziraphale's semen is holy and it burns Crowley, but Crowley is into it? I remember possibly a bj scene? Overall, I think Crowley was hiding the fact that it hurts him, so that Aziraphale wouldn't put and end to them having sex. - anon

3. Hi! I’m looking for a fic ;-; It’s Aziraphale whump in which Crowley & Aziraphale are walking together, reach a church and Aziraphale ends up in his true form (which is painful and probably destroys a few things). He ends up in heaven somehow, and (I think?) Crowley rescues him. Was rated G/T/No rating and found on AO3. A oneshot, I believe Thank you so much <3 this blog is a godsend - @the-pinnacle-of-perishing

4. Hello! I recently found a fanfic on tumblr that’s actually on archive of our own but I can’t remember the name of it. It was post season two where Aziraphale is in heaven and Lucifer demands Crowley to find Aziraphale and kill him even though he is in love with Aziraphale? Thanks! - @nowheregirl1965

5. Hello, first of all,I love your blog,I think I read my way through most of it, thanks a lot for the service you provide . I’m looking for a fic about the arrangement through the ages and in one of the chapters, Aziraphale and Crowley are at a ball, Aziraphale gets jealous for some reasons and they end up sparring with swords, musketeers style, and at the end Crowley assures Aziraphale that “he doesn’t have any other arrangements”. This is probably a bit specific but I reallyhope you can help me, - @doodlingbreak

If you know any of these fics please include the number in your reply! Thank you :)

- Mod D

#good omens #lost fic #ineffable husbands #mod d

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modern-day-bard · 8 months

Text

Masterlist

Other Duties As Assigned: A Joel Miller Fanfiction

Summary:

Guinevere Russell is the sole heir to the multimedia conglomerate, Russell Corp. After obtaining her MBA and moving home to New York City, she’s been forced to return to a tumultuous relationship with her father and the rest of the board. Gwen would prefer to run off with her friends and see just how far she can take a distraction, and she’s perfectly happy doing so. That is, until her father hires a bodyguard to keep a watchful eye on her. She just can’t figure out if he was hired for her safety, or to uncover the secrets no one else knows she possesses…

Joel Miller is a personal security officer on leave from his last assignment, where he worked abroad for a U.S. embassy. He has avoided private security detail for years after a life-changing accident, but when he gets this call, the money is too good to pass up. But Joel has never met a client with such an aversion to being protected. Regardless of the paycheck, Joel will soon realize this is his biggest challenge yet, but not for the reason he thinks…

When their secrets, both past and present, collide in a mixture of tension and new-found feelings, the results can be catastrophic. Now, Gwen’s safety is put at risk more than ever before, and the two of them have to get to the bottom of the mystery, and what they mean to each other, before it’s too late.

Content Warning: 18+ This story includes mature themes such as drinking, stalking, violence, and explicit smut. Minors, do not interact.

a/n: This is a WIP! I’m writing more chapters while editing before I post. I hope to post on a consistent basis. I’m also posting this story on ao3 and Wattpad. Tumblr tends to take me the longest to post from, but I’m determined to make it happen!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Worth The Feeling: A Javi Gutierrez Fanfiction

Summary: Ava Cohen is a 26-year-old production assistant working tirelessly to achieve her dream of one day becoming a film director. As hiatus from her last project comes to a close, she returns to set with Norwick Productions, whom she has worked with for the past four years. After a major fo paux on the first day of work, Ava is worried she has offended the star of this next production: Javi Gutierrez. She will soon come to realize, this couldn’t be further from the truth. When the cast and crew travel to Italy to film on location, the seriousness of what Ava is feeling becomes all too real, just as a new career opportunity lands in her lap. As tensions run high, watchful eyes set in, and her career is put at stake, can all of this be worth it in the end?

Content Warning: 18+

This story includes explicit smut, intimidation, and an age gap relationship (MC is 26, Javi is in his 40s). Minors, do not interact.

a/n: The full story is available on AO3 and on Wattpad as well for anyone who is interested. Thank you to anyone who reads my story! 🤍

Total word count: 93,547

Pairing: javi gutierrez x f!reader. No physical descriptors of the MC, except for her being shorter than Javi.

Pairing Disclaimer: the original pairing was Pedro x reader but after everything was released I felt very uncomfortable with that. If I was a celebrity, I wouldn’t want people to write that about me. I was creating a character as I wrote this story that was separate to Pedro, and after posting, I regretted my choice. I have edited all chapters to reflect this, as Javi’s love of movies and cheerful disposition makes sense for the character I created. Reblogged posts may still have the original pairing, as I’m unable to update them. Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

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necrotic-nephilim · 25 days

Note

what are your favourite batcest ships and why?

AAA i love this question so much. i'm going to limit myself to a top five, because otherwise, i'd just end up listing all of them. the true joy of batcest is they're all so good for such different reasons and there are so many unique dynamics you can explore.

JayTim - it's funny bc, before i started this blog, i don't know if i would've put these two losers as my number one. but because i've done so much deep diving into their dynamic and i write them the most, i think it'd be a disservice for them to be anything *but* number one. their canon dynamic is just. so fun to play with. i truly love all of their interactions, particularly pre-Flashpoint. the concepts of Tim holding such contempt for Jason while Jason is weirdly obsessed with Tim. i'm a fan of Hannibal and Killing Eve and well. if this isn't a Hannigram-coded ship idk *what* is. i like ships where love and hate co-exist and there's no real "happily ever after", just fucked up co-existing, where they crawl back to each other like a bad habit and really, this ship is that so perfectly. the themes of jealousy in the Robin mantle. Tim wearing Jason's Red Robin suit to punish himself. i will likely never shut up about them. even in the New-52, there's such a substance to them, though the dynamic is wildly different. they will always be so weirdly dependent on each other's existence. i love them.

BruDick - you can't outdo the doer, i fear. i think i like BruDick mostly for the history of it, yk. there's genuinely *so much* queer history seeped into the homoeroticism of Batman and Robin, these two have been a symbol for queer people for decades. but the ship itself has so many dynamics i love. problematic age gap, "are we family or lovers", "i can't be in a room alone with you without getting into a screaming match but if you called i drop everything for you". all of it. i especially favor 80s/90s BruDick when they were in their divorce era just because it's so messy. Dick has canonically said he would die for Bruce, even during their arguments. no matter what, these two will always be single-mindedly devoted to each other. there will be other Robins, but none of them will compare to Dick Grayson, for Bruce. it's a unique and complicated bond that has endless layers to peel back. they always crawl back to each other bc no one else will match their level of intensity.

DamiTim - years and years ago, when i was a teen trying to people-please with how i existed in fandom, i used to insist i didn't like batcest and found it icky and gross. but there was one DamiTim fic that was my exception. that fic was my fucking roman empire. i reread it like once a year even though it's not completed and likely never will be i do not care. so now that i've killed the morality police in my head and i let myself ship what i actually want to ship, this ship holds a top place in my heart just bc of that fic alone. but in general i do fucking love their dynamic. similar to JayTim there's just so much mutual hatred in these two that has endless potential. Damian's insistence to not see Tim as a Wayne and as a legitimate brother/heir to Bruce is something you can play a lot if you give Damian an angry, fucked up crush on Tim he doesn't want to admit to. they have so many reasons to dislike each other, so to try to get them to slowly fall in love is a fun challenge. they either have a long complicated forgiveness arc and end up a happy married couple or they are the couple that tries to kill each other once a week. no in-between.

JeanTim - there's like. one person here on tumblr who goes as hard for this ship as i do and truly god bless them bc they feed me. Jean-Paul is too underrated in the batcest scene. once i reread Knightfall, i will have to help popular this tag on ao3. i enjoy both a very fucked up version of this ship during the peak of the Knightfall arc, where Jean-Paul is deep in his murder Batman era and Tim is trying to stop him to no real avail, but i *also* think there's so much you can do with the ship afterwards, where Jean-Paul is trying to make up for what he's done and be a better person and better hero. they're the peak Batman/Robin ship, to me. they truly care about each other, but have a very complicated/bloody history and i just. man i love it so dearly. i've been meaning to write a fic where Jean-Paul goes to Tim post the Sword of Azrael (2022) arc to properly discuss and apologize for all his actions in Knightfall for his personal healing and they end up fucking. it could be sweet and cute or kinky fun bc what is the joy of a character with that much Catholic guilt if you don't give them a weird religious kink.

BruCarrie - The Dark Knight Returns got me into comics and i will defend it till the day i die. Carrie Kelley can be pried from my cold dead hands. i just really love these two? Carrie took one look at that cranky old bastard and decided she was his problem. and Bruce is at a stage where he should be very averse to the idea of having a Robin, he knows it's a bad idea. but he just. accepts her anyway. idk how to explain their dynamic other than she plunks herself in his lap and stitches up his wounds while telling him he's an idiot and he lets her even if he's grumbling about it. they have the biggest age gap of any Batman/Robin ship and for that, they should get like. a dead dove gold star no matter how rare the pair is.

also honorable mention goes to BruTim, because *god* do i love the concept of Tim offering himself up to Bruce as Robin in every way, knowing that there are likely sexual/romantic implications to being Robin. it's one of my favorite flavors of batcest to exist. i don't view them as a "happily ever after" ship, because Bruce will always go back home to Dick, but it's a fun lil dead dove moment.

#necrotic answerings #batcest #jaytim #brudick #damitim #jeantim #brucarrie #brutim #can you tell tim is my favorite.#i just think he's neat.#it's probably the projection.#also i checked while writing this and wtf do you mean brucarrie has only 3 fics on ao3.#did i hallucinate the one i thought i read.#i think i fucking did bc i can't find it.#apparently it's not a rarepair ship it's a goddamn pool noodle i'm floating off through the ocean hanging on for dear life #if i write brucarrie on this page can i convince you all to ship it.#i know frank miller's writing is bad just ignore the canon it's fine #tkdr universe isn't *good* per se #but carrie is a darling girl and i will emancipate her from frank miller's grubby hands. she's mine now.#genuinely considering changing my banner on this blog to carrie but it'd ruin my color scheme.#jeantim is also very unpopular and none of you are inspired /lh #you can make that SO dead dove.#i barely remember most of knightfall i rlly need to reread it properly #and the rest of jean-paul's 90s content #i am so serious tho that damitim fic rewired my brain chemistry.#i think about it like once a week.#and i usually dislike no capes aus i can't even remember why i read it at the time #but god did it reset me.

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vladdyissues · 6 days

Note

I don't know how you do it, Dude, I'm afraid to say that I'm attracted to pompous pep since I know it's wrong to ship a minor and an adult, People are cruel to death, Nobody knows what I like, I hide among the anonymous messages of the internet, Sometimes I see people like you who have their account free mind, People talk very badly about accounts like you, even putting them in places in the fandom to talk badly about them, Fear runs through me, I want to draw pompous Pep, Maybe I'm not attracted to the sexual, But I really feel like it's wrong and it hurts me

You've been at this for a while, right? Your account is full of pompous Pep (I secretly love your account), How did you manage to have the courage to show yourself?, People look at you badly, say bad things, that you are a sick pedophile and that...How do you achieve this without fear???, are you so brave or god 😭

1️⃣ I'm from old school fandom—pre-Twitter, pre-AO3, pre-Internet-as-we-now-know-it. I've learned to not give a fuck about what stupid, ignorant, uninformed people say on the Internet.

2️⃣ It's not my job to educate or "convert" people who disagree with me. I'm not a missionary. I'm here to have fun, and no one is going to spoil that for me.

3️⃣ I—and you, and anyone else reading this—don't owe anyone on the Internet an explanation, a reason, or any kind of justification for writing stories or drawing pictures of fictional cartoon characters smooching. (It's all so silly, honestly. I have real things to care about, like bills and pets and laundry. I envy people who have nothing to stress about except ink and paint from a 20-year-old Nickelodeon show.)

4️⃣ The media—specifically, the fictional entertainment—we enjoy is not a reflection of our humanity, morality, or an indication of our personal beliefs. If that were true, the police would be arresting authors like Stephen King and George RR Martin for writing about underage sex and incest and gore, as well as anyone who enjoys their works.

You know who does believe that reading something will "pervert" you, or that enjoying "dark things" like murder and violence and age gap ships means you must secretly be committing those things in real life? Fascists. Conservatives. Right-wing nationalist fundamentalist Christian types. People who want to ban queer books from libraries and call anyone who disagrees with them "pedophiles" and "groomers". Remember that the next time you see one of these fandom cops screeching about how so-and-so is a "pedo" because they ship two cartoons. These are people on the wrong side of history. They're anti-intellectual, anti-education, and pro-censorship. Get away from them as fast as you can.

Anon, if it seems like a lot of your friends (or the people you're around) are hating on something you want to enjoy and making you feel unsafe to talk about the things you like, then you need to find better friends. Leave them. Block them. Add their usernames to your content filters so you never have to see their ugly, hateful opinions ever again. You don't need that kind of negativity in your life, especially here on Tumblr, where we're all trying to find things that make us happy and celebrate others' creative works. Life's too short to hang around shitty people 💩

#asks #fandom #pompous pep #and remember: it's only a small number of people making a big fuss #don't let one or two bad apples ruin the entire bunch

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inahallucination · 1 year

Text

famous au but um dumb

@cowboylexapro

if the poets were on social media and famous this is what they'd be known for

(age somewhere between 19-21)

todd

tumblr blog name: toad.anderson

ao3 name: toad.writes

he's technically anon but not rlly

sexiest tumblr account known to man - he's a fanfic writer and an au poster with some occasional og stuff that floods his inbox with asks begging him to publish his og work too - what fandom does he write for? all of them.

his bf proof reads them all even if he's never been in the fandom

he writes fics for his friends when they get famous

in between his novel worthy fanfics are shitty fics of his friends

his followers get rlly confused

he wrote a neil x reader fic until straight girls started claiming it and he took it down becuz the reader was him

todd on his blog: guyss… im so sorry but im taking the neil x reader fic down… im sorry if i offend anyone but the reader was me ❤️ not you - i don't like you all claiming it

after taking down the x reader, he does a neil x oc but the oc is him but with green eyes

neil, after the oc gets described: todd the only person im seeing is u tho 😦 and u have blue eyes

eventually his relationship with famous tiktoker neil perry gets revealed and ppl realize he's not just an obsessed fan

after neil says the thing blog: toad.anderson: guys my real name is todd anderson everyone: omg we wouldve never guessed

after neil and him go public and ppl dont believe that neil is gay he alternates between seething and writing neil fics and taking joy from neil's confusion

todd points out comments that are obviously thirsting over neil and neil still doesn't realize he's being thirsted over

"neil be the father of my children!" "oh i think they meant that in a godfather type way"

todd, at a breaking point, suggests that neil and him post a kissing video but neil doesnt wanna be one of those shawn camilla couples - respect

what if he posted them kissing but he made a historians will call them bestfriends joke but then ppl did🧍‍♂️

"my bestie and I 🤩 " "NEIL PEOPLE ARE GOING TO THINK UR SERIOUS"

neil

tiktok name: neilliard.at.julliard

accidentally tiktok famous for pretty face, charming personality, acting abilities - the theater kids had a claim over him orignially but he's pretty mainstream now

comment section full of old grandmas trying to set him up with their granddaughters

everyones dream bf until he posted about his own bf

neil: my boyfie has a big tumblr and he writes a lot and he really likes frogs and he is also blond and heres his address

hes kinda oblivious about everything

"you want a close up of my collar bones? why ?"

reading comment "'show your abs?' its nice you think i have abs! only my boyfriend can see those tho 😉 "

the comments go wild

people are stitching it screaming for different reasons

all his fans r screaming into pillows bc HES TAKEN NOOO

people are trying to figure out who this mans boyfie is

"he has a boyfriend??" "he's been straightbaiting us!" "NOO HE'S TAKEN" "IS UR BF AS HOT AS U" "look at the way his eyes lit up when he said bf i love love" "this video shows an aspect of society that-"

"tell us about ur bf" and he makes a week worth of videos but its all random stuff

"my bf looks pretty in blue" "my bf likes to put salt and pepper on his fries" "my bf has hair"

the straightbaiting comments come after him posting about pride and having a pride flag in the background of his videos <- they say things like "he's such a good ally"

people attack others in the comments who ask him if hes queer "NO NEIL ISNT GAY NOT EVERYTHING HAS TO BE GAY HE COULD JUST BE A REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY FRUITY STRAIGHT GUY WHO LIKES GIRLS"

"are you gay neil???" -> "not everything has to be gay ppl can just be allys and btw by assuming every ally is gay, ur actually hurting the movement!!!" -> "i asked becuz he said he wanted to kiss his boy best friend on the lips in highschool" -> "he meant it heterosexual-ly"

someone asks him what his type is and he describes todd to the t and they think he likes a short haired blonde

"he likes girls in sweat pants not skirts" "his type isnt ppl in skirts" -- neil would love todd in a skirt but thats not the point

his type: "he's really shy, gorgeous, short dirty blonde hair, uhhhh, really smart, and So much more :))"

he could say my boyfriend is a man who i am dating because i am gay and they would still try to straight-ify him

a grainy video gets leaked of a short haired blond guy jumping into his arms and ppl say things like "its just a girl with short hair"

todd hate writes a neil x male reader fic

he asks his friends for help and they post todd's face everywhere on his recording set

he makes a video like "meet my toddy"

in the video todd says he's a boy and he's todd and he's neil boyfriend 3485757 times and neil is like "omg babe i love u too <33" becuz he doesnt Understand

some ppl r still in denial or think he's bi w/ a preference for girls

straight girls like him becuz he has a pretty face and a general respect for women

during prom season, he gets dmed a lot of websites for buying prom tickets

"don't worry guys! i know i said my high school time was rough, but i actually did go to prom with my bf!!"

charlie

twitter name: therealalpha

most popular podcast name: daltons intercourse

joke/bait account ppl took seriously

The Alpha that other alpha posters bow to

says stuff like "SIGMA MALES KISS ALPHAS ON THE MOUTH TO ASSURT DOMINANCE"

the twitter alphas buy into him so bad he's making podcasts and doign interviews and he has no clue how tf he got here but he's riding the high

he advocates for being alpha via kissing ur homies

when he gets famous he begs todd to write a fic about him

todd agrees pretty easily tbh

"ARE YOU EVEN AN ALPHA MALE IF PPL AREN'T WRITING GAY FICS ABOUT YOU"

charlie posts things like "no homo" "only the real make out with their homies" over those black and white pics of muscle-y dudes w/ no context after the neil video he posts "he homo" over one of them w/ no context

at first ppl try to attack him but then theyre like wtf is going on here and realize he's trolling the alpha community

when no one realizes neil is actually gay he makes a podcast episode talking about how he thinks neil is gay gay homosexual gay - he's holding a cigar and wearing a tight hawaiian unbuttoned shirt like "lets talk about this gay gay theater gay boykisser man"

made by @cowboylexapro

pitts

youtube name: gerdoesstuff

joint youtube name: idkman

homework help and crafts videos youtuber - relaxed vibes only here to be calm

he gives study and concentration tips and encourages ppl to seek help and companionship and not suffer alone

he paints mugs and looks for bugs

he was on charlie's podcast and they discussed the alpha-ness of making pottery

todd wrote a pitts x reader fic becuz ppl begged him to

pitts printed it out and framed it and put it in his filming set up

he's a regular on meeks podcast too btw and meeks is a regular on his

but when meeks is around things explode so

he has a second channel with meeks where they do silly experiments

theyre posting schedule is non-existent and they also do streams but they never tell you so their viewers just have to hope and find out

knox and him are planning on making a movie review channel but its still not fully thought out so

he makes couple mugs for todd and neil when neil asks for help

he wakes up at 2 am and sends todd prompts

anytime he learns a fun fact he sends it to todd on the off chance todd may need it for a story at some point in his life

anytime he reads anything he's like damn neil will love to act like this character and lets him know about it

he sends charlie alpha podcasters to make fun of

at some point he exposes cam's shitty handwriting for the giggles

knox

instagram name: knoxious.ur.mom.ious

he posted a short on his instagram talking about how he just learned hair grows from the head and not the bottom and blew up for being a dummy - he doesn't know whats going on but he's having a blast

he stirs up drama but on accident

he was on pitts youtube before

out of everyone here he's the only one not making content he's just vibing

eventually he ends up posting background footage of everyone doing dumb shit

when it comes out theyre friends ppl stalk his instagram to find more proof

after that he starts to stir drama but more consciously

hmm what else - idk he's just chilling, getting called out for being dumb and watching his friends do dumb stuff

oh wait when he makes that short about the hair a bunch of commentary channels post about it and he takes it like a badge of honor

cameron

instagram name: cam.studies

pinterest name: cam.studies

one of those aesthetic studying accounts on insta and pinterest - takes nice shots of his homework and his pen collections and his study desk

except its only for the pics his handwriting is atrocious - he has like one page or paragraph of pretty handwriting to post and the rest is scribbled chaos - his pens are never organized by color, theyre just thrown in a box, and his desk is filled with papers and books and never looks clean but its fine he's just here for clout

he ends up sponsoring and reviewing businesses that make those cute study supplies so now he has a hoard - or at least he did until his friends started taking them

he groaned about the cam.studies x {random ass ppl} fics todd wrote but he thinks theyre funny and has them bookmarked

he went on charlie's podcast and the two argued for half of it and then explained how as two alphas they would settle their differences by kissing

his friends help him angle his aesthetic shots at cafes and shit

he got exposed eventually as a fake becuz ppl (cough) posted his real notes which were messy and disorganized

but he played it off as a commentary about how the internet is fake and got more sponsorships

he judges todd and neil but is eating popcorn at the front seat of the drama

meeks

podcast name: chameleon hotel

youtube channel name: idkman

meeks makes a podcast for very stupid intricate crimes. he has a cult following of bisexuals

its stuff like drama over a tree being taken down

"the locals even called their beloved tree 'ole alvin'"

charlie: todd write a meeks x ole alvin fic

he has standards, so he does

he went on charlie's podcast and convinced ppl that being with other men allowed u to suck in their alpha-ness and become the ultimate alpha

but generally he just makes his little silly videos and makes cryptic posts about the neil todd drama

has a joint channel w/ pitts

is up to date with the neil thing and is the one to send neil updates

he tries to convince neil to act out his podcasts (with a lot of success lmao)

he tries to convince todd to write fics based on his podcasts (also with a lot of success)

as payback for the ole alvin x meeks fic he convinces todd (very easily) to write a bunch of dumb charlie fics and todd agrees becuz he has standards

no one actually knows that the poets know each other

they eventually post a group photo

"we need to cancel neil perry for being friends with an alpha podcast guy" "nah thats just charlie"

"yall know hes bi, right?"

"he literally has a podcast about how sucking dick as a man makes u the ultimate alpha male"

it does explain why charlie's alpha podcast go from tiktok actor, tumblr fanfic writer, instagram study blog, fellow podcaster, hw help tiktoker in between his satire of normal alpha tiktokers

half of these things are like copy and pasted from our conversation btw so dont blame me for them

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be-my-ally · 2 years

Text

Empty Promises

(Crossposted from AO3) I think i’m finally getting the hang of tumblr formatting!!!

pairings: afab!reader/Elvis Presley (actual!Elvis in my head, but could be Austin!Elvis.)

summary: You’ve been in a relationship with Elvis for ~6 months & for some reason your sex life has tapered off. So you attempt Operation: Seduce Elvis but for some reason he’s not entirely impressed with your choice of outfit or method of execution. // LOTS of discussion of virginity - Elvis refusing to have p in v intercourse with reader & you attempting to convince him otherwise is a main tenant of the plot.

warnings: 18+, daddy kink, spanking, thigh riding, fingering, discussions of reader being ‘too tight’ and needing to be ‘trained up’, no idea what it’s called when he rubs his dick against your pussy but that happens, spoiler: there’s a proposal at the end

wc: 10.9k

You’ve been together almost six months at this point, and it was mostly going swimmingly. You had, when meeting him, been surprised at the speed at which he moved; he’d picked you up from the diner where you were working to save a little money before college - though you’d graduated well over a year ago now - met your parents, and moved you into his home all in the span of about five weeks. You’d spent two of those weeks shell-shocked that the man sending you pretty gifts, picking you up from work and taking you out to dinner was Elvis Presley. You’d wanted a poster of him in your room since you were in the sixth grade, but your mother had never allowed it. She couldn’t, however, stop you from using your allowance to buy as many of his soundtrack albums you could get your hands on, or demanding you went to see them in the pictures, regardless of their critical response or whether she claimed they were unsuitable watching.

It had been, sitting at the dinner table with your parents, difficult to reconcile the fact that he wasn’t a reflection from your new colour television set, he was actually there. Elvis Presley. In your little dining room, dressed as sharply as ever if not more demurely than you tended to see him - a single glinting ring on his pinky finger was the only concession to his usual image. Elvis Presley. Only in your house to get what he came for, fulfil his promise to you that he was gonna, “Take you home, show off my pretty lil’ thing, play house with you, baby, come on let me take you home.”

You still had no idea how he’d managed to convince your father, other than with his irresistible charm and seeming utter confidence that all would remain proper. You’d warned him that your father could be protective and that he certainly wouldn’t be impressed with the over 10-year age gap between the two of you nor would he fall for empty promises and charm. Yet, you’d been proven wrong - Elvis’ deferential tone and good manners had gotten him further than you’d expected them to into your father’s good graces. He hadn’t had to work hard with your mother. Despite her opposition to his poster, she was predisposed to agree to anything a pretty man said to her regarding her only daughter especially if he was implying he would provide a safe future for her. And he certainly did imply such - even going so far as to suggest you put your plans for college on hold indefinitely; what good was a degree for a woman who didn’t need to work? He’d said it subtly, simply assuring them you wouldn’t need it. But still, your father had been horrified by this - all his work to try and make his only child see she could have a brighter future than a housewife seemingly for nought. Your mother, however, had been pleased as punch when you’d gone along with it. Other than as a matchmaking opportunity she had never seen the point in you going off to study literature. But with a promise that you agreed and that it was just for the moment, not necessarily forever, although Elvis had winked across the table at you as you’d said it, your father had relented. He had completely caved once Elvis had assured him that you would, of course, have your own bedroom in a tone that had implied he was appalled that it was even suggested that would not have been the case and the very next week you’d left for Memphis with him.

More startling to you than even the speed of their agreement was the fact that most of these weren’t empty promises as you’d assumed. You hadn’t really had a strong opinion about college, although you hated to disappoint your father and you had enjoyed your advanced classes in high school, you had believed that he truly was just telling them what they had wanted to hear. Simply using it as a way to emphasise his ability to take care of you. But while he hadn’t actively stopped you, he also hasn’t been particularly encouraging either - making it very clear that under no circumstances would he consider it if it meant leaving him for any length of time. You’d decided that you honestly weren’t bothered enough to push the issue, at least not yet, since it wasn’t as if you could imagine yourself either bored or wanting for anything while you lived at Graceland.

You had been particularly shocked at his not-so-subtle assurances that your virtue was, in fact, completely safe. You obviously knew it was what your parents wanted and needed to hear but had just expected him not to broach the topic, considering not an hour before the conversation you had been necking in the back of his Cadillac - just two blocks away from your house and his hands had definitely not stayed strictly above your waist. You’d had more action in that hour than ever before - the most you’d experienced before that moment was in the tenth grade when Trevor had slipped you the tongue and squeezed a single boob behind the science block. That hadn’t been anything special, you hadn’t understood what the big deal was, but Elvis? He’d lit you on fire.

Some of his promises hadn’t held though - you did have a bedroom but you had never slept in it. He’d kept the alcohol strictly away from you - you were, after all, he joked, not 21 yet; you’d tried to argue that you were in Tennessee now and you only had to be 18 but it hadn’t got you very far. He didn’t, however, seem to have the same qualms with slipping you a pill to help you stay awake every now and again when he was late back. He was still Elvis. He still threw lavish gatherings and after-dinner chats that turned into raucous parties most nights, and he still took you out to places that would cause your father to pass out if he’d known you were hanging out there. There were still people coming and going from the house at all hours of the day and night and his face was still plastered over all the tabloids and newspapers. But you had fun, it was exciting and different and he never made you feel like you were small-minded for being unaware that this kind of life could be a possibility. Instead, he seemed to relish opening your eyes to the new opportunities - closing down diners, taking you on expensive dates, gifting you outrageous presents; you had only been at Graceland a few weeks when he’d left a perfectly wrapped box on your vanity for you to find - a little pendant spelling out EP in perfect, tiny diamonds. You’d never imagined you’d be the kind of girl who could own diamonds, you’d hoped for maybe an engagement ring but never fathomed them in your everyday jewellery.

Some of his promises he’d clearly felt exceedingly strongly about - he would not budge on you going out with being essentially chaperoned, he wouldn’t budge on college, or ensuring you didn’t want for anything. Most frustratingly, while you wouldn’t claim to be entirely virtuous you were, fundamentally, still a virgin. At first, you’d been pleased he wasn’t pushing for it, you had always been certain you would wait until marriage if only because the only girls you knew who didn’t were “trouble”. But he had rocked your core beliefs with how easy he had made it all seem. Before Elvis you had always understood that pain was inevitable; Suzy’s big sister had been vocal about the fact that it almost always hurt. But now you were convinced that everyone had either been exaggerating or simply been with peculiarly inexperienced and unaware partners. Elvis hadn’t done much more than slip you a finger alongside his tongue but he’d certainly made sure each time that you were ready for anything. Even if anything had not yet occurred. He’d fundamentally altered your understanding of sex, and it seemed totally incongruous with his appearance and personality that he would be willing to hold out for any reasonable length of time. But he’d told you not to worry about it and given you an education in everything but. You were no longer scared of the possibility of the awkwardness, or the pain of your first time, instead you were desperate.

Furthermore, despite all the fun you were having you couldn’t help starting to worry that he was surely going to get bored soon; you were itching to be more to him, do more with him. Sure he’d had you on your knees “trainin’ [his] baby up” but wouldn’t that only satisfy him for so long? He was Elvis and sure you had a pretty good opinion of yourself but you weren’t anywhere near his level in your opinion. You weren’t totally innocent, you’d heard from your mother’s gossip and girls in your friendship group discussing how you had to make sure you offered a little bit more, “keep ‘em interested, but not too much”, “don’t seem too eager”, “make sure you keep ahead of him though, you don’t want him to bore of you”. This worried you slightly - he didn’t seem bored, but it was also impossible for you to stay ahead of him. You’d had no idea that the things he’d done with his fingers or tongue were things people did. Or that the way he made you feel was even possible.

You’d been at Graceland almost a full three months when you had started to push for it. Sure that if you didn’t you wouldn’t last past the six-month mark. Begging him to slip “just the tip” or mentioning that you felt like you were grown enough to make your own decision on that matter, after all, you had celebrated your 19th birthday with him now. That had just made him laugh - assuring you that regardless of how grown you may feel you were his, and he made the decisions around here - down to the colour of your nails - not you. It was always said so nonchalantly too; like the very concept of being owned in that way wasn’t strange at all.

You’d tried going at it the other way, catching him while you were in the middle of other acts - promising you were his “good girl, daddy’s good girl, couldn’t you give him a present?” Only to get firmly rebuked and told as he laughed darkly at you “- now baby, how you gonna gift me what’s already mine?” Once, after a brief period where he’d been away, on the night of his return you’d almost managed to get him to give in and had been, after he’d calmed down, informed that even if you were positive you were ready he was certainly not about to risk your reputation with a baby.

You had laughed at this - if this was his main opposition to your proposition there were plenty of ways around it. The first was of course reminding him that you were sure your reputation was already in tatters being pictured with him. And you honestly didn’t even care about your reputation anyway. It wasn’t the dark ages anymore, and while, sure, you hadn’t stood outside of congress with a placard, you still would have said you fundamentally agreed with the arguments of those who did. You weren’t the sort of girl who would proudly proclaim yourself a feminist but that didn’t mean you didn’t believe that what they were asking for was fair. So you’d spent a week researching - originally any mention of ‘The Pill’ had been met with scepticism from you; surely it was too good to be true? And in some ways it was - you weren’t 21, and you were unmarried so it was impossible to get ahold of for you anyway, well would have been if you weren’t sure that Elvis himself certainly could have gotten a hold of it. You had, one day, brought this up - perhaps stupidly - over breakfast. He’d considered you for a second, still chewing on a pancake, sat like he always did with his legs spread wide and lounging back. He was dressed casually, but still smartly - trousers and shirt perfectly pressed, but with his hair still barely combed.

“Ain’t no way I’m letting you mess with yourself like that.” He was firm in his refusal and he sits upright to stare at you.

“But El- everyone’s doin’ it - it’s not any different than your pills!”

You didn’t see the irony in the women’s liberation movement being reduced to you whining to your boyfriend to be allowed the opportunity to utilise it.

“No fucking chance little girl.” He tuts and shakes his head, “I’ve read about the shit that's in that, and there ain’t no way,” his voice raises “-no way at all, I’m letting you fuck around with god-knows-what.” He pauses for dramatic effect, pushing his plate away, “I’m gonna put a baby in you one day and they say it can affect it catching.” He’s getting caught up now starting to recite whatever article it is he’s read that makes it clear it's unsafe. You start to protest, even as part of you glows at the idea he might want to keep you forever.

‘Ok, ok,” You interrupt him as he starts to talk in wildly medical terminology that you understand very little of, “ok but what if, just for the moment, you wore a rubber?” You knew he wouldn’t go for it, the man barely wore underwear, but you were hoping it would make the pill seem like a more attractive prospect. He looked at you, and couldn’t have looked more appalled if you’d stood up and slapped him.

‘No.’ And that was that. You tried again a few minutes later when the silence seemed to stretch on - you knew you were starting to toe the line of what he’d allow but you couldn’t help it. Even though he seemed reluctant to discuss it, this was still the most engagement you’d had on the topic.

‘Ok but E - just wait a second and hear me out,’ He turns to look at you, his eyebrows raising as he waits with a look of patronising patience on his face, like how you wait for a child to tell you a new fact of common knowledge that they’ve learnt, “Really… how is it any different to what else we do, like… with your fingers?” He stands up and you wince inwardly. You’ve pushed it far too far.

“That’s different baby, that’s just … practicing. What you’re asking for - it ain’t right - not for God and not for you or the promises I made your daddy.” He looms over you, forcing you to peer up at him and he’s smirking like he’s already won the argument and you think well if you’re in for a penny;

“Ok well then, what if I say I don’t believe in that shit anymore? What if I wanna go out and be Betty Friedan? It’s not 1945 anymore baby - we don’t have to be married.” His hand comes up to your cheek and you force yourself not to flinch - he would never hit you and you know that but his eyes are flashing and he can be unpredictable in this mood. He grips your chin and cheek in one hand -

“You gonna tell me you’re unsatisfied now honey?” He laughs, “Don’t be so fucking ridiculous. Unsatisfied and a fucking slut? Doesn’t believe in god? No chance.” He forces your head to shake, “I know you Darlin’ and you’re gonna be my good little wife when the time is right and I won’t be goddamn fuckin’ rushed. Understand?” You nod. He’s right you didn’t believe what you were spouting either - he knows you still kneel before bed like a child each night, the habit of a lifetime difficult to break when doing so had given you him. His hand slips down to your neck and pulls out your necklace. You wear his initials around your neck always - that was part of your problem; the end did not seem in sight, you wore him around your neck not your finger. He joked about you being his ‘little wife’ but ultimately no real promises had been made. You sigh, looking up into his clear eyes and expression that had hardened beyond what you believed his soft cheeks could. You nod.

“Good girl.” He drops your chin and stretches starting to leave the room, he pauses in the doorway turning back to you his jaw clenching; “I don’t want this brought up again.” You nod again, for some reason the confrontation leaves you close to tears and unwilling to speak in case you can’t stop the floodgates.

You hadn’t brought it up again, even though the fear you’d felt; that your status as a shiny new toy might soon wear off, remained. It had - for a while after - seemed unfounded, a couple of months had passed and it had not been brought up by either of you again; it seemed he really was satisfied with you as you were. You couldn’t claim to be otherwise - but that didn’t mean that the desire you’d felt had waned.

————

He’d brushed you off again last night after dinner. Well, perhaps not brushed off, but he didn’t play like he usually does - or used to. It’s been almost two weeks and he has, in fact, not touched you at all like he normally does. Usually, you can count on being pulled onto his lap at some point in the evening, if not literally at the dinner table then certainly afterwards on a couch or armchair, and often this would lead to pretty public making out; often his hands would… explore … beyond the boundaries of propriety - you can’t imagine how many times other members of the household or ‘Memphis mafia’ must have caught a glimpse of your panties. Although that is certainly all that is ever offered - a glimpse. His level of possession over you knows no bounds and neither does his fairly traditional opinion of how women should both behave and be treated in non-private settings. You can still count on him either demanding you sleep with him or simply moving you to his bed but any bedroom activities have been strictly reserved for the tiniest bit of touching imaginable, a quick play of a nipple or squeeze of a cheek before simply kissing and falling asleep. He’s been looking tired lately, and he’s had a ton of meetings about a couple of his new films. You feel sympathy but at the same time, you’re getting tired of being ignored.

More importantly, you’re worried that he’s growing tired of you - he could have any number of pretty young things, any number of pretty mature things too and you do worry that the number of actresses and starlets he mingles with on a regular basis must make your shine pale a bit in his eyes. After all, what good is a girl that won’t even have sex with him, or rather from his eyes can’t have sex with him? And really what does he even need you for if not that? It’s not like you run his house, or work, or contribute anything more than your company. He can argue all he likes that he likes you like this. That he loved that all your experience is with him alone, that he’s solely taught you how to give and receive pleasure but you still worry that this last boundary is now making you seem unattractive to him in his new glitzy environments. Prudish and backward in comparison to the knowledgable shiny California girls he’s rubbing shoulders with. But after the last conversation, you’re definitely not going to be the one to bring it up. Still, the fact remains that Elvis has been treating you differently lately. You’ve tried everything you usually would - going up to bed before him, being almost aggressively available, and the opposite, being completely covered up and tucked in or absent entirely until he comes looking. You honestly can’t think of any other way to break the cycle now other than one solution: Complete Seduction.

A task you find difficult for a multitude of reasons - you’re not particularly body shy, especially around him, but you’ve been naked in front of him consistently the past fortnight and it still hasn’t enticed him. You’re certain nothing about you has changed; you’ve stayed the same size and shape - you’ve tried makeup on and makeup off, hair up and down. You’ve tried underwear and nightdresses as well as any manner of short day dresses, and exceedingly tight tops and trousers but still nothing. Ultimately, you think to yourself, it's hard to be seductive in sensible cotton underwear you’ve owned since you were 15 - just as it is impossible to feel so in gingham pyjamas emblazoned with butterflies and frills on the ankles and collar. Hard to feel seductive, and certainly hard to look it.

You’re alone today, he’d left you early in the morning - strangely early for him - for yet another meeting with the promise he’d be back in the early evening; a chaste kiss as he left the bedroom and he was gone before you were even fully awake.

When you awake properly, a few hours later, you roll over - staring at the dark ceiling of his room. You take the time to assess your options for Operation: Seduce Elvis. You could order something, but that could take days. You roll onto your stomach with a huff, the heat that you can already feel pulsing between your legs won’t wait for days. You consider touching yourself, he doesn’t like it…unless he’s watching. But would he even know? You rub yourself against the bed, no. You don’t need to. He’ll be taking care of you tonight. You could ask one of the other girls to pick you up something, which would solve the predicament of having to choose something, but the prospect of explaining the predicament you’re in overwhelmingly embarrasses you. The gossip runs rampant around here, and the boys are just as bad as the girls - you couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t get back around to Elvis nor could you stomach everyone knowing that you don’t know how to please him. Which only leaves one option: going shopping yourself. You push yourself out of bed determined to get this done.

You drag yourself through your getting-ready routine, grab your purse and check there’s an ample amount of cash inside - you have no idea how much this kind of thing costs but you’re willing to bet a fair amount - and start to leave. You consider the keys, debating if taking your own Cadillac would be more or less obvious than taking one of Elvis’. Although you guess, technically they’re all Elvis’. Pausing by the door you consider for a second if you should be going out alone at all - rarely do you venture out without someone accompanying you either for safety or security or just general companionship. It had only happened twice out of sheer necessity since living at Graceland and both times Elvis had been unhappy about it, but on this occasion, you didn’t have a choice. You peer out the window down at the gates and for a rare occasion there’s nobody out there; there is usually at least one or two girls or paparazzi hoping to catch a glimpse, although it doesn’t normally tend to get busy unless someone lets slip a known engagement or leaving time and/or it’s clear there’s a party happening. Well, that makes up your mind; you’re certain that you can do this all yourself. By the time you’re on the road your adrenaline is strangely coursing through you, why do you feel like you’re on the run? You laugh at yourself as you sing along to the radio, Elvis inevitably playing when you’re two miles away and you would have thought it would have made you more nervous, but for some reason, it inspires you with budding confidence. This is going to work, and it’s all going to be ok.

You’re recognised in the boutique, you can tell by the way the assistant’s eyes widen and glances down at your neck. It’s not unexpected, in the past six months you have been photographed together too often for it not to be assumed you were together in at least some capacity even if it hasn’t yet been confirmed by anyone. The ever-present necklace is clearly visible over the top of your pale dress; subtlety is not exactly Elvis’ strong suit, it may not be huge but it does still clearly spell out EP in twinkling diamonds and you are only ten miles from Graceland. You take a deep breath before attempting a confident smile.

“Hi there,” The girl smiles back at you but it's clear she’s nervous, looking you up at down as she stumbles out a greeting. “I need some new things… but I’m hoping we could be as discrete as possible?” You glance around the empty shop, the girl looks slightly offended in response,

“Absolutely, Miss. Of Course.” Your smile softens,

“Well in that case I could do with some help.”

An hour and a half later you’re leaving, satisfied you have everything required to make an impression. You’re not 100% certain exactly how you made it through the ordeal, eventually agreeing to model for the assistant after she mentioned they didn’t have any further appointments booked for the day and she was, therefore, willing to close for you, on the understanding that you would be spending enough to make it worth their while. The experience was… different to say the least, you had never shopped for lingerie before; in fact, the only ‘lingerie’ you truly owned had been bought for you by Elvis. You’d happily modelled the sets he bought you for him but even they were somewhat similar to the underwear you already owned - pastels in cotton and the occasional velvet or satin. And honestly, he mostly bought you clothing, dresses and coordinating sets rather than underwear of any kind. You think it’s probably because he didn’t want to scare you off, knowing that you’re still rather timid in the bedroom despite certain… desires you may attempt to make plain to him. But never had you even tried on anything as revealing as your purchase today - you’d tried it on over your underwear, aware that not only were you not comfortable with the random sales girl seeing all you had to offer but that Elvis would, should he ever find out, go completely off the rails at the very idea.

By the time you get back, it’s mid-afternoon, and you sit and chat with Mary for a little while in the kitchen before pulling yourself together, deciding to go and have a long bath before you have to be ready for Elvis’ return. The hot water does the trick at revitalising you and it allows you to make sure every part of you is perfect for the night you have planned; making sure you’re buffed smooth everywhere that you require to be. You take your time moisturising every inch, the coconut vanilla scent you both favoured remaining long after you re-cap the tub.

Finally, you’re in your robe, looking down at the big white box in your hands, you hold it for a moment and sigh before placing it back down on the bed. You turn to look through a drawer instead, pulling out a couple of different options. What were you thinking this morning? There’s no way you can pull that outfit off! You rifle some more, sure that at the least there was the pink satin set Elvis bought you last month somewhere in there and that would probably do if you put in a little more effort. But alas, while you can find the bra the matching panties are not in there, you huff; how can there be half the set?

The room you’re in is technically your bedroom, but it’s used as a dressing room since it houses all your clothes and you haven’t, despite how long you’ve been here now, slept a whole night in it. Despite the gorgeous bed adorned with all manner of frilly pillows and bedspreads, it was still a regular-sized queen frame and while it made you feel small in the centre of it - setting up the bed as if it were a twin with a singular set of pillows in the middle, Elvis claimed it was far too small and there was no need to stay there when he had such a large one next door. Disregarding the fact that wherever you slept he couldn’t help but crowd into you, or clutch onto you regardless of the width of the bed.

You consider the options before you. Biting your lip in consternation for a second before remembering that if there was a mark Elvis didn’t put there himself he wouldn’t be too pleased. You dramatically sigh looking the box over again. Fuck it. The vulgarity of the phrase is unlike you even in your thoughts. ‘Fuck it’ you think again, ‘If I’ve got this far I might as well go the whole damn way.’ You pop the babydoll over your head so that you don’t have to mess with the perfectly tied ribbon in the centre and tug it so it lies correctly. The slits in the bodice falling directly where they should be and your breasts resting properly in the cups. It was…sheer. Very sheer. You knew it was, but seeing it fully without your underwear obscuring the visuals it seems even more daring than you expected. It’s so exceedingly different to your usual underwear, which were all, even the ones bought by Elvis, certainly opaque. Most of your underwear had still been bought by your mother and so your collection mostly consisted of sensible block colours and girlish utilitarian designs. The bottoms were also considerably smaller than most of your own, you assessed as you dragged the panties up your legs, which has been a deciding factor in why you bought the set - since they weren’t too outrageous but were still decidedly different. Instead of cutting across your legs at the top of your thighs, they curved upwards into a high-leg effect. This also meant that they were considerably slimmer in the coverage at the back than you would normally consider proper, and made from the same sheer material with a tiny strip of silk along the gusset. But then, you also wouldn’t have found buying lingerie, a negligee no less, with only ties to hold it closed in a sheer dark maroon red proper usually either.

You stand and looked at yourself in the mirror for a moment. The overall effect was striking. Your skin looked paler in contrast to the depth of the colour and the blush you felt crawling over your chest and cheeks appeared to blend in, rosying your complexion twice over. You attempt a pose for a moment and debate if you should try to make your nipples harden or leave them as they are, knowing that the lack of structure to the garment will mean they’re probably going to be visible through whatever you decide to put on top. Suddenly you feel ridiculous, you’re not about to be in a goddamn centrefold. What are you playing at? You look like you’re playing dress-up. But when you glance over at the clock again you realise your time to make any changes has gone and if you want to be dressed by the time the boys get home you need to get a move on. Fast. You’d laid out a couple of options earlier and you decide to go for the safest bet, he loves green on you. It’s a little silk set - a long sleeve top with a high neck collar with little covered buttons going down the back and a matching mini skirt with a little flare to it. But when you put it on you realise that should you lift your arms it bares enough of your midriff that it spoils the surprise of the babydoll. So, thinking fast, you decide to simply hitch the skirt up high and tuck the shirt in. It causes the skirt to rise to an almost indecent height but the flounce at the bottom affords at least the illusion of length.

As you’re buckling your shoes you can hear a murmur of a car driving up from the gates getting louder. ‘Just in time.’ you think as you quickly fix your hair, you wish you’d left yourself more time to do something else with it but shopping and the preparation for the evening had taken longer than you had planned so you were stuck with the teased hair and white scarf you’d tied into a headband from earlier. Luckily the white still goes well with your white socks and shoes. You could hear the boys laughing and the car doors closing and you hurried so you could greet them as they came through the door. Ridiculous as it may seem you were always excited to see him when he came home - he just seemed to have a magic touch that made everyone happy to see him regardless of how little time had passed since you last had him.

The men burst through the doors just as you’d made it to the bottom of the stairs and you were pleased you’d made it that far because when Elvis comes in he immediately looks up and beams through his sunglasses at you when you’re the first thing he sees in the house. He comes forward to grab you around the waist and you stumble for a second before his grip steadies you, his hands hot on your sides,

“Hey there, pretty mama.” You smile back at him,

“Hey, handsome boy.” You lean up for a hello kiss, which he obliges, the rest of the group spill into the hallway, shouting their hellos and greetings at you on their way past. He looks down at you and smiles,

“Whoo,” he lets out a whistle, “Baby, what are you all dressed up for? This all here for me?” He pushes you back and spins you around, your skirt flicking up slightly as it catches the slight breeze. You laugh,

“Well, duh! Who else Daddy!” His smile grows even wider, and he pulls you up to him

‘Well who indeed baby,’ he muttered against your lips, before kissing you again causing you to melt against him.

——-

Several hours later you’re all sitting around having after-dinner chats and drinks; both Elvis and yourself were nursing Pepsi’s but most of the rest of the group had felt free to avail themselves of his well-stocked bar. It was a pretty standard evening, nothing too rowdy and no strangers had been invited so it was just what Elvis would call family there tonight. He’d had you on his lap for most of the evening, placing you onto his thighs almost as soon as you’d finished eating, and then when you’d all moved into the den he’d made sure you knew he expected you perched between or on his legs. When you’d come back from the bathroom he’d not even paused in his conversation - simply holding out a hand and pointing to his thigh. Finally, you had thought, he’s showing an interest. He’s laughing and joking with the other boys while you sit there, jostling with every guffaw - his hand slips under your skirt, almost surreptitiously, although you’re sure everyone’s aware, and while you had been lazing against his chest you perk up slightly at the contact.

You feel him brush the back of your bottom - his hand pauses for a second by the crease between your ass and thigh before he dances his fingers across, he eventually finds the leg band and snaps it lightly against your skin. You didn’t expect it so you jump a tiny bit, although it didn’t hurt, and his hand immediately soothes where he may have left a mark and while his conversation doesn’t falter you can almost hear the cogs whirring in his head. You bury your head in his shoulder to disguise your smile, and can’t help but squirm a little as he readjusts you - holding onto you with one hand as his other, the one closest to his body, slips up the front of your skirt. You let out a tiny breathy whine as his fingertips run across your panties - the barely there fabric allowing to you feel everything. He removes his fingers and taps your thigh causing you to sit up straighter. Clearly, he doesn’t intend on doing too much in public tonight. He lightly pushes you off as he makes a stand, starting to make his excuses. “Oh, It’s been a long day.” He grips you tight to him as he announces that unfortunately, he has to be going as he’s sure you’re "tired and need to be put to bed". You fight back a growl at that remark, you’re perfectly capable of putting yourself to bed thank you very much. But you don’t want to protest too much; it’s been hours since dinner was served and you were more than ready to leave. The longer you had to wait to show off your new purchases the more anxious you got.

Elvis pushes you in front of him, slapping your ass playfully to get you to move, you quickly say goodnight to everyone left downstairs as you dutifully get moving towards the staircase. As soon as you’re out of the room Elvis grabs your wrist and pulls you back. He looks at you in the eyes for a moment, unblinking and you’re the first to break glancing down at his lips and back up. The second you looked away you’d lost and he immediately pounced, kissing you like he was dying without it. Your tongues fought for dominance for a moment, and his hand stayed clutching your arm while the other climbed up your chest to rest just below your neck. You acquiesce, submitting and letting him take complete control except for your hands finding their way into his hair. He pulls back and pushes you in front of him up the stairs, you hurry up them - near slipping once but thankfully his arm caught your elbow before you fell;

“Eager darling?” He laughs at you, and looks you once over before throwing you over his shoulder and bounding up the last few stairs - he smooths your skirt down as you pass into his bedroom. He smacks your ass once, you yelp and he drops you gently on the bed, leaning over you to kiss your face and neck. One of his hands goes up to hold himself up, resting the other side of your head whilst the other strokes gently up your leg getting bolder and climbing up even further with every passing second. He presses his fingers against your panties and pauses again. Your breath catches in your throat. He sits up and pushes the skirt all the way up, he pulls back to look at you. He stares at your panties for a moment, you know by now the growing dampness has to be evident through the other side, they are after all very thin, before looking you up and down as a whole.

“Is there…” His tone is gruff, both from momentary underuse and arousal, he coughs a tiny bit and his voice is even deeper when he continues, his words slightly slurring together, “more of this unner here?” He tugs at your shirt, and you nod,

“Yes, baby, it’s a set.” He frowns for a second, before moving like a child unwrapping a present on Christmas morning, rushing to tug at the shirt again, moving his fingers to pop the top couple of buttons out when it doesn’t shift and grabbing hold when he deems you capable of getting your head out. You slither out of the shirt and allow yourself to be manhandled for him to access the zip on the side of the skirt, pulling it open and off your body in one pull. He takes a deep breath in and stands, taking a few paces back to appraise you better. His eyes darken as his pupils widen as he looks you over, and he crosses his arms, the veins in his forearms flexing. You thank god for his preference for short sleeve shirts for a second. You look up at him through your eyelashes, attempting to recreate the coquettish countenance that all the girls seem to have a knack for that you can never quite achieve. His eyes flash and his frown deepens.

“God-almighty what’s this get-up all about?” You stare back at him stunned, he doesn’t seem pleased. In fact, he sounds downright pissed.

“What…what do you mean?” He stares at you, not responding and like always you cave first. “What do you mean daddy? Don’t you like it?” You push yourself up onto your elbows looking at him with concern. He heaves a dry breathless laugh, and he leans back down, his hand rising up your stomach, through the break in the negligee and up to squeeze a breast, fingertips dancing over a nipple as he resumes kissing your neck, pulling you closer to get to your lips. He breaks apart briefly to speak,

“You tryna kill your daddy sweetheart?” You laugh against his lips, laugh turning to a moan as he pinches a nipple particularly roughly and catches your bottom lip in his teeth. His fingers trail south again, and before you know it he’s tracing the line of your waistband, his fingers starting to dip beneath when you seem to lose all control of the situation. They’re not doing much more than simply resting there but even that is enough to set you alight. Your own hands start to travel down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt along the way, you buck up as his fingers graze past your naval circling around before going back to their ministrations below the panties. Your hips briefly touch his and you moan,

“Daddy, please. Please. I’m all wrapped up just for you. For anything you like.” You take a shuddery breath in as he leans back to look at you again, his own lips looking bitten and swollen and his eyes burning brighter than you’d seen them in days.

“Please Daddy, it aches.” His eyes roll back and he starts to stutter a response, his hips thrusting seemingly involuntarily forward. ‘Gotcha’ you think. You arch your back and through your hooded eyes you can see his expression perfectly he hungrily watches your own hand trail down to your soaked panties. You moan as your fingers touch your hot lips beneath your panties, spreading them apart and rubbing a finger between - and you look back at him, gazing into his eyes for a second before taking the chance.

“Daddy, I feel so empty,” you squirm slightly for emphasis, and you glance down at his still fully clothed bulge, “You could….put it in me if you like?” His hips shutter forward and he breathes out heavily, his eyes closing briefly before he grimaces. Damnit - you were so close. You shouldn’t have pushed your luck - just taken the attention he’d not been recently bestowing on you happily and moved on. He stands up again, this time grabbing your forearm, yanking it out from between your legs and pulling you right up with him, like a rag doll you go where you’re put. He sits on the bed and pulls you around to sit facing him on his spread thighs. He hums for a second, one hand gripping tightly at your side, the other clutching your thigh. You drape your arms over his shoulders, simultaneously for balance and for lack of knowing what else to do with them. His hand on your side moves up to grip your neck as soon as you seem to start to relax.

“My lil' girl a whore now?” You stare back at him. The tone was unkind and unnecessary - while he’s been stern with you in the past he’s never been so callously harsh before and you can’t imagine what he stands to mean by it. You look back at his face horrified for a moment, tears immediately starting to fill simply at his tone.

“Daddy!” You respond in outrage, pulling your arms away, “What on earth do you mean! Do you not like the outfit?” He looks at you again, flicking the bottom of the babydoll with a finger;

“Well honey, It’s not what daddy would have picked out for ya.” Your cheeks redden as you sputter back at him;

“What’s wrong with it? I liked it! The girl at the store liked it!” At no point when you’d spent the day planning the evening had you expected he’d get you undressed and then not like the get-up. It was a scenario that had not even crossed your mind. His grip on your thigh tightens further.

“We-ell baby,” He starts to take on the educating tone he’s forced to put on so often in his movies, or rather the tone he ends up using in his movies because he does so often use it to talk to women, “I like it too but it’s not right for my innocent little girl. You’re not a whore waiting to be … fucked. at any given moment. You’re my sweet little baby doll and if you wanted new panties you should’ve come ‘ere and sat on daddy’s knee and asked for them.” You felt another rush of wetness at his words, even as your body burned with embarrassment, you attempt to push away from him but he holds you in place,

“I’m not a child Elvis! I took myself to the boutique, I tried this on myself and I feel good in it! And who cares even if I was a whore!”

“Hell darlin’,” he laughs again briefly, “I oughta putcha over my knee for doin’ all this behind your daddy’s back. Let alone suggesting your daddy might be with a whore.” His tone changes again deepening further as his grip on your neck tightens for a second, holding your head in place. “Baby, I thought we’d been over this. You’re my dolly. My yittle bittle baby doll and that means I get to buy you new clothes, or underwear and dress you exactly how I want to.” He swats your ass, and his tone changes as he practically growls the next part, “1And that also means that you’re a whore if I say you’re a goddamn whore, and if I say you’re not then you’re goddamn not. Get it doll?” You squeak and nod as he grips your chin. “And my wittle girl is a good girl, so however much she wants it, she isn’t getting fucked by anyone but me. And that means she’ll have to wait until Daddy’s done the right thing. Understood.” His finger taps your cheek, your wetness has to be leaking through to his thigh by now, you can practically feel it seeping through the fabric. You hurriedly nod,

“Yes! Yes, daddy.” He rewards you by hooking a finger into the crotch of your knickers and gently stroking from your clit down to your labia and back up again. He shifts you to balance on a single thigh rather than across the two, You rut against him, unable to stop yourself - catching his finger between your core and his own leg; his knuckle catches briefly on your clit and you feel sparks - almost like pins and needles shoot through your body. He pulls his hand away as soon as you rock back again, and stills your forward motion with his wet fingers against your middle - wrapping his arm around you to hold you in place against him, his hand once again sliding down to play with you although this time he kept you still - his lips are against your ear and he kisses just beneath your ear lobe and down to the crease of your shoulder before continuing to talk,

“Honestly honey, I’ve got a good mind to put you over my knee anyway and give you a good dose of what happens to sneaky, naughty, dis’bedient little girls.” Your face burns and he laughs, jostling you on his lap before he pulls his finger out, wiping it on the mesh of your top on the way before considering for a moment and shoving it into your mouth with the firm instruction to

“Taste how desperate you are for me.” He uses his other hand to pull at the ribbon holding the two sides closed,

“I want this off, and my pretty little dolly back in her pretty little girl clothes, and maybe I’ll decide you don’t need that spanking after all.” He yanks it down and off of you, simultaneously gently but roughly pulling your arms out, akin to a tired mother forcing her baby’s arms out of their sleeper. Before screwing the fabric into a ball and flinging it against the wall. You don’t really understand - he can’t like your usual underwear, can he? And it took such a lot out of you to even go and get this set that to just have it thrown off upsets you.

“But, but wait a second Daddy, don’t you think it’s all a bit babyish? my mother bought most of my underwear.” You flinch slightly and put on your best pleasing eyes, “And… you’ve been ignoring me and this set really was a lot of money…”

He pauses again, before putting you upright between his legs to tug the panties off - you have no choice but to help by stepping out of them, still held by your arm and not wanting to stand there stupidly hobbled by the frankly, soaking panties, he talks as he strips you;

“So that’s what this is all about? I’ve been ignoring you? I’ve been busy mama.” You start to protest again and he jumps in before you can say anything else, “I like your panties darling, but if you wanted something new you should’ve asked, I’d buy you the whole damn shop.” You scoff,

“Yeah but only the ones that the pope himself would approve of.” He growls and grips your arm; chucking you over his legs. “No! Daddy! Elvis! I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant that - you don’t have to do this!”

He smacks your ass hard, a handprint blooming in pink almost immediately - “Elvis!” you shriek.

“Clearly, you need some remindin’ whether you got a ‘pinion on any of this,” his accent deepens - full words becoming lost and his sentences blending together as his breathing picks up, “and who your Daddy is.”

You’re not sure how he manages to stay so stern when he couldn’t keep a straight face delivering a similar line in Blue Hawaii - unless it’s simply that he truly does believe he has the right to do what he likes here; he’s not playing around with you. But that’s a thought you have later, in the moment all you can feel is the flood of heat between your legs from his word and all you can think is, ‘Lord above he’s smacking me hard.’

“You’re mine. Say it. Say you’re my dolly.” His hand smacks down again, he doesn’t hold back much. While he might treat you like china the rest of the time for some reason he truly seems to believe that it doesn’t count if he’s spanking your ass. Even his playful slaps are generally pretty hard - he doesn’t seem to feel the need to modulate his boisterous approach to activity if it applies to smacking you. He spanks you for probably only a minute, you squirming around the whole time, before he pauses and pulls you back closer to his body, you shriek when his hand comes down again, instead of leaving your body again he grips down - his fingertips turning where’s he’s clutching white amidst the pink-red of the rest of your ass. You take a shuddery breath, you feel like you’re on fire, and while you’re sure you should be trying to resist more you can’t help but melt at his rough actions. He lifts to go again and you panic, thinking that really you’ve had enough of this now and you start to plead,

“I’m yours! I’m yours!” He smiles to himself, lowering his arm to pull you closer and leaning down to growl closer to your ears;

“You’re my what?”

“I’m your doll! I’m your baby!” He chuckles,

“That’s right baby, that’s right.” His hand slaps down a few more times before he stops to gently rub the marks he’d left, his thumb going in small circles. He hums for a second,

“Now lil' baby, this isn’t the first time this has come up, so I’m starting to get that you might be serious about feeling …” his fingers tap on your cheek, “oh so empty”, he puts on a high-pitched voice in an attempt to mimic you, “So how’s bout this darlin’, my mind ain’t changing and I ain’t gonna be rushed but … why don’t we set a date?” Your heart jumps to your throat, he can’t seriously be asking you this, bright red bent naked over his lap. It’s too ridiculous for words,

“Daddy, El-, Elvis, are you,” you push at his arms, twisting around, “are you serious baby?”

“Serious as sin mama - but now don’t go getting it twisted - I’m not saying we’re gonna go out tomorrow - but …” he raps his fingertips on your sore ass consideringly, “how bouts next summer?” You paused briefly in your attempts to squirm around,

“As long as you’re serious - you could promise five years from now and I’d be happy!” He laughs,

“Well now that you mention it the new decade could be a plan.” he tugs you back up and you immediately fling your arms around him,

“Thank you,” you kiss his neck, “Thank you,” his face, “Thank you,” his lips.

“Only you darlin’ could be put over my knee and come back up proposed to … you got me wrapped around your finger doll.” He squeezes your ass cheek and you squeal in response.

“None of that now honey,” He shushes you, “Daddy don’t wanna hear you whinging and whining - you deserved every one of them handprints.” You look back up at him, making your eyes as big as you possibly can,

“Aw, little mama that’s not fair - don’t look at me like that.” He’s now the one whinging, “Daddy’ll make it all better - he’ll kiss it better.” he lays you down and you bring your knees up, your legs spread looking at him between them; you can’t help but laugh at how eagerly he jumps onto the bed, settling between your thighs. He leans down again, your legs encasing him. He looks up at you, his face is slightly flushed and he looks overwhelmingly, ridiculously, happy - you can’t help but feel pride that out of all the girls in the entire world who want him you’ve managed to make him feel this way. He kisses your forehead, his open shirt tickling your sides as he leans over you, he’s suddenly your entire focus - all you can see, smell and feel is him.

“We’ll hafta make it official baby, why dontcha pick a ring out from Daddy’s box in the morning for now and Daddy’ll go shopping soon?” You nod frantically, narrowly missing bumping heads with him. You lean up to catch his lips again, he’s unable to simply kiss; his teeth catching on your lips. Your head rolls back and you can’t help the noises that are coming out of your mouth - you’re practically keening as he moves down to mouth at your jaw and neck. He slides down further, peppering your chest in kisses - he sucks just below your collarbone, leaving you gasping and a bruise sure to bloom.

“For now though darlin’ let’s get this feeling better.” He swats your ass and you yelp -

“That’s not…That’s not better El-“ You break off as he kisses down your naval, his hands gripping your hipbones and his thumbs rubbing circles.

“Just relax baby, Daddy’ll take care of you.” He kisses just above your mound and you can’t help but thrust up slightly.

“No, no. Stay right there sweetheart, stay right there and I’ll take care of you. Wanna make the most of my good little girl before you become my wife.” He pushes your hips down, and then spreads your thighs further - “Daddy’ll kiss it better, make you forget about your sore ass.”

It’s one of his talents, he almost might be as good at it as he is at singing. He licks a stripe down before focussing on your burning core, his tongue slipping in and out as he rubs his thumbs over your clit, his hands holding you open for him. He sucks and nibbles like he has toand you can feel the edge building as he moves his hands to hold your thighs and down and sucks on your clit. Your hips grind in circles, and despite his efforts to hold you down you can’t help but push down and he responds by pushing back - simply sucking harder than before. Your body shudders as you head for an orgasm and you tremble as he lets go with a kiss to the spot he was sucking before once again licking down to your entrance.

“Lawdy baby you’re drippin’.” He stands up and looks down at you, before heaving you up, you stand on shaky legs for only a moment before he hoists you back, sitting himself on the bed and pulling you down - your back against his chest. His thigh slots between your leg, and you can feel his burning hot length against your side - he wraps an arm around you pulling you tight to him as your sweaty bodies slide against each other. Your head rocks back onto his shoulder and he leans down. It’s an awkward angle and you’re sure your neck will be sore after this but you wouldn’t ever be the one to end it. He’s practically clutching at you - his hand that wasn’t curled around your waist keeping your head in place and kissing you with a dizzying force. He pulls back and you pant, his hand trailing down your body, thumb brushing your nipple, each little movement causing you to shiver.

It eventually reaches between your legs and with a single finger, he strokes down both sides of your labia before circling your clit. Your breathing is heavy now, erratic, and you can hear and feel his similar change of pattern against your neck, his head dipping down to kiss your shoulder. He pulls you tighter so that you’re leaning more heavily against him as he shuffles back - allowing him to lean on the heavily pillowed headboard. He spreads your labia with two fingers and you would, if you had any presence of mind left, be embarrassed at how his fingers just slipped with how wet you are. He dips a single finger into you, and you shudder around him, it’s obscene how close you are to orgasm that that almost sets you off, he chuckles against your shoulder before crooking his finger - your back arches as he strokes your walls. He kisses you again and then he pulls almost all the way out, before going back with two fingers. Your hips are circling of their own accord again now, grinding back down on him. You can feel his cock against your back still, and you wobble on his fingers and thigh as he releases your waist to pump it a couple of times.

“Think you can do three, little?” You frantically nod and he goes to slip in a third, your eyes widen as he goes to push it in alongside the other two, thumb rubbing your clit. It feels much bigger than just simply an extra finger, although his are pretty large, and you feel the burn (despite your wetness) in a way you haven’t since the first few times he touched you like this. His arm has encircled your waist again, so he feels how you jump as he attempts to slide in past his first knuckle and wince as he wiggles his fingers.

“See baby,” His voice is impossibly deep, and his hair brushes your neck as he speaks close to your ear, “Daddy knows best. Your tight little cunt can barely take my fingers, honey, it’s too small for much more still. Daddy’s gonna hafta open you up for next year, train your little wittle hole up.” Your mouth falls open, and he pulls the third finger out - crooking the other two in you - rubbing against your walls, and your hands clutch at his arms as you rock against him. “Can I- Baby, can I just rub against ya?” You nod frantically, grinding your hips down on his fingers and he slips them out to lift you up, placing you more squarely against him so he’s able to slip his cock under you. Rubbing it against your pussy, it knocks against your clit and you shudder - his hands lift you and pull you back and forth, you’re going to have bruises on your hips after this, and your sore ass is being knocked against him but it all just adds to the pleasure you’re feeling.

His hips start thrusting, hard, but impossibly fast - his penis sliding between your lips, your slick and his precum mixing for lubrication. He knocks against your clit, and your head throws back onto his shoulder in pleasure. It only takes a minute or so before he slams you back, and the involuntary grinding of your hips continues even as thrusts start to falter, he’s groaning behind you like a dying man, and the next second he’s cumming. He rubs it through your folds, his cum mixing with the rest of your fluids down here, making it extra slippy across his fingers - he pushes it into your pussy, slicking his way for just the two of his fingers again although you’re sure with the extra lubrication you could take more, and he crooks his fingers just so. His thumb coming up to rub against your clit once again, and everything is so sticky and it feels so wrong in a delicious way. He plays your body like he does guitar, and you’re already so close to the edge that it only takes a few seconds of him stroking you before you’re shuddering against him, mouth open. He rubs you through it, only stopping once you whine at him and attempt to buck off his hands - the overstimulation too much. You roll over, off of him and he slumps next to you. You’re still seeing stars a moment later when he taps your tummy with his sticky hand,

“Whoo,” He whistles lowly, his eyes closed, “mama, what a night.” You glance over at him, you’re having a struggle trying to process all that’s just happened. He glances over at the bundle of lingerie lying against the wall and back at you, huffing a little laugh “God you little minx, can’t believe you bought that. I really do like you in your regular stuff though honey. I really do. You’re my little yittle, I’ve just been busy baby.” You smile, it didn’t take much but you’re convinced, it never takes much where Elvis is concerned. He seems to have some sort of mystical power for it.

“I know Daddy, sorry for trying to make ya…you know.” He pars your thigh, “I do love you…. were you…” You wonder if you shouldn’t just be grateful for what you’ve just had and leave your questions for later, but you’ve just got to know for sure, “you were being serious earlier weren’t you?” You panic in the afterglow that his earlier promise may have been empty - but you should know by now he doesn’t make empty promises.

“Shit, baby, yes.” He tugs your arm, rolling you into his side, leaning down for a kiss, “We’ll sort it all out tomorrow.” You kiss him back, and then pull back, curling into his side.

He waits for a moment or two before placing a kiss on your sweaty forehead as he heaves himself up and heads to the en-suite. You’re half asleep when he’s gently wiping you down with a damp washcloth, and barely cooperative as he pulls a pair of your, regular, panties up your legs. You look up at him with hooded, sleepy eyes as you see him considering your nightgown before clearly deciding against it. He disappears into the bathroom again and you slip out of sleep as he climbs into the bed, helping you under the covers his silk pyjamas brushing against your bare skin. He pulls you against him and you’re fast asleep in seconds.

#elvis presley x reader #elvis x y/n #elvis fanfic #elvis smut #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presely smut

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