#it says 18+ in my Navi and I have warnings on every one of my fics

[gojonanami]

people who follow me:

pls this is an 18+ blog - please have your age in your bio (or range idc as long it’s 18 or older) — I don’t have time to police every person that follows me — so can you pls abide by that?

people who message me:

I don’t mind getting messages from non-moots (it does say in my rules that I don’t want messages from non-moots) BUT pls have your age in your bio if you message me — sometimes I forget to check until after and it makes me uncomfortable to think I’m interacting with a minor w/o realizing

thanks 💕💕

[thesummerpetrichor]

𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓫𝓮 𝓶𝔂 𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓭𝔂

Father in law!Javier Peña x afab!fem!reader

Summary: Your soon to be husband leaves you at the alter, but you should have guessed since the practice seemed to run in the family. It’s hard to be upset however, when his father comes to repent for not only his own but his son’s wrong doings. Aka fiancé’s dad Javi fucking you in your wedding dress after his son ditches you at the altar.

Warnings: 18+ only minors DNI you will be blocked. Minimal editing, unspecified but thicc and legal age gap, infidelity, daddy kink, heavy breeding kink, insane dirty talk, toxic father son relationship, reader is delulu, praise kink, petnames, sex in front of a mirror, veil pulling??, a few spanks, creampie, Javi fucks you into the mattress, unprotected P in V [don’t do it!!]. Let me know if I missed anything 🫶.

Word count: 2.6k

A/N: Literally just porn without plot, lotsa fucking, I want father in law Javi. Minimally edited lmao I just banged this out Can’t wait for you to read it!! Hope you enjoy, nasties! Mwah!

Masterlist

You rich and I'm wishin', um

You could be my mister, yum

Delicious to the maximum

Chew you up like bubble gum

You love me, he wants me

I think I want you too

Best day of your life- yeah, what a fucking joke. But what were you expecting? Ditching people at the altar seemed to run in the family. Okay, maybe that was a bit of a harsh assessment of the Peñas, especially Peña senior, who, despite all you had heard of him from your ex fiance, had always shown you kindness. 

The thing is, it becomes really fucking hard to be charitable to a family when their son humiliates you infront of the entirety of Texas. Leaves you high and dry on the steps of the biggest church in town in your great grandmother’s silk dress. It becomes even harder when you learn his mother had been in on it all along, sparing you not even a little apology, or a comforting embrace after her son's little getaway plan had been revealed. 

Instead of extending you a supporting hand, she ran away to make sure her baby boy was okay, and that this entire ordeal hadn’t taken a toll on his emotional and psychological well being. 

How thoughtful. 

Of course, you were the pathetic one– unable to look anyone in the eye, sobbing on your fathers shoulder till you couldn’t breathe any longer. So distraught and unwell even getting out of your wedding attire seemed impossible. It only made you feel even more pathetic. At some point you ended up curling up in your hotel bed, still in the “happiest day of your life” outfit, and pleading for some time alone from your friends and family to wallow in your own suffering. 

You would eat your feelings in the from of the apology chocolates the hotel had complimented for you, but you couldn’t manage to even do that without feeling like a total fucking looser. 

After all that had transpired, and after years of hearing nothing but sour things about your soon to be father in law, safe to say you were surprised to see him at your hotel room door at midnight as the ambassador the family seemingly sent to smooth things over. 

For it being only your second time meeting the man, this was far from the most opportune scenario. In fact, him showing up all sorrowful and apologetic for his shitty excuse of a son, in his navy blue suit and loose tie, made your already pathetic day all the more difficult to get through. 

Your whole relationship you had blamed every fault of your boyfriend on his absent, detached father. You’d heard plenty about the lack of childhood visits, quality time, and playing soccer that had plagued your partner’s life, and had found it quite easy and comforting to pile on every relationship problem you ever came across as the consequence of Javier Peña’s lack of responsibility and good parenting. 

What you didn’t expect, was to find that Javi Peña was a whole lot more normal and level headed than you anticipated. He was just a guy trying to make a good living and provide for his family. Sure, he was a little bit reserved, but he was only ever warm and sweet and even quite chatty with you. To be frank, you should have seen your boyfriend’s shitty behavior as a consequence of his insufferable mother from a mile away. God knew you weren’t expecting Peña Sr. to be the better of your two soon to be in laws. 

That being said, you would have never expected to be on your hands and knees, on what was supposed to be your marital bed, being pounded from behind by your ex soon to be father in-law. 

Because that's where you are now, eyes rolling to the back of your head thanks to the most intense pleasure you've ever felt. The drag of Javis cock against your walls has been building a steady heat in your belly, the stretch of him so perfect and delicious it has you pushing your hips back to meet his every thrust. 

Any other day a man like him wouldn’t have needed much to woo you– with his cut jaw, handsome features and those chocolate brown eyes you wished his son had inherited. Safe to say on a day like this one it took even less, just a few rubs on your back, a hand smoothing over your head and trailing down your waist, a few “pretty girls” and “poor things” and some fucking sympathy from someone from your boyfriends sorry family. 

Fucking pathetic. 

But Javier knows his son is pathetic, knows he is a good for nothing moron who doesn't even know what he was losing out on when he walked out on you.

“He’s a fuckin fool- look at this tight little pussy, squeezin’ me so fuckin good. Bet he didn’t fuck ya like this, huh baby? Didn’t make ya cum over and over, make ya scream… stupid fuckin boy..” Javier’s grip on your hips tightens on hearing your moan, and he curses under his breath when your pussy flutters around his cock. 

Your legs are threatening to give out under you, your knees tender from how long you've been leaning on them. Javier’s hand moves to grip the fabric of your veil, using it to pull your head back and make you face the mirror that's been teasing you all evening. “Look- Look at ya- fuckin cryin’ on my cock. ‘S the only reason ya’ shoulda’ be cryin’ in this pretty dress..” With drooping eyes you're faced with your own reflection– stains from your mascara running down your face now less thanks to the sorry of the afternoon and more thanks to the way Javi’s cock has been nudging your sweetspot. 

You watch your tits spill out of your beautiful silk dress, the fabric now disheveled and a far cry from the sophisticated, simplistic garment it once was. You can barely recognise it, but then again you can barely recognise your own reflection. “Look at that pretty little body- fuckin made for me.” 

“Yours-” you cut yourself off with a gasp, Javi’s hands squeeze your hips and your cheeks set ablaze at the way he looks at you when you catch it in the mirror. The whole sight is so debauched and depraved– you on your hands and knees for a man who could easily be mistaken for your father. But somehow it's even dirtier- the possibility of your ex finding out sends you into overdrive. 

The silk of your dress brushes against your hot skin, flipped lewdly up to reveal your bare ass, bunched at the waist, the straps drooping and threatening to fall. Javi pulls the zip down even further, watching as it hangs off your body, draped like fabric from a 15th century painting. 

Javi’s voice calls your attention back to the present moment, lewd words showing you he doesn't hold back the way his son does. “Gonna fill this tight little cunt up..” The stretch is so delicious between your legs, you feel the steady throb continue to tighten the coil inside you and you can’t help but moan. “Yeah, you want that? Want daddy to put a baby in you?” the thought makes you shiver, that name makes you shiver, has your cunt clenching around his cock. What an image- you, belly round with your father in laws child, well, your ex father in law. Unlike his son you were sure he would be the perfect husband, would bend you over ever surface in your picket fence house and fuck you just like he’s doing now. 

Deep, and hard and fast, just like you need it. Just like you've always needed it.. 

“Please daddy, want your babies, wanna be yours…” Your voice is so broken and wrecked you're afraid he can’t understand what you're even saying. To be honest you can’t be bothered much, it feels so good, his thick, hard cock feels so good pounding between your thighs there's little else you can keep your mind on. 

“Yeah? you like that sweetheart? we can play house..” you nod your head and his hand tightens its grip around your veil, exaggerating your movements, bending you to his will. “Wanna play house with daddy? can be my pretty little wife” you fist the sheets, pushing back against him with his every thrust. You do want that, you’ve always wanted that. And what better person to do it with. Sure, his wife always complained about how he was never around, but that's looking a lot more like a her problem– especially with the way Javi’s tip continues to kiss your sweet spot. 

“Yes daddy, please..”  

Javier lets go of your veil, and pushes his palm between your shoulder blades, forcing you down into the mattress till your cheek is pressed against the warm, fluffy duvet. One hand keeps you there, the other lands a quick spank to your ass and kneads at the flesh with a newfound desperation. “Won't be able to even say his goddamn name after I'm done with ya. Stupid boy doesnt know how to treat a pretty thing like you– so sweet, so gorgeous, so fucking smart. Too fucking good for him.” 

With your lips parted and breathing heavy you drool onto the covers, letting Javi pound you into the mattress and overshadow every other thought that dared cross your head earlier in the day. If his plan is to make you forget about anything that isn't him, it sure is working. You don't think you’d even want to sound out his incompetent son’s name after he’s done with you. 

As if he can read your mind his voice calls from behind you. “Want ya to be drippin with me.” the wet schick of his cock fucking into your tight, wet, hole reminds you of just how needy you are for him, and the prospect of having him dripping out of you– down your thighs, between your legs, leaving you all messy for him to come back and do it all over again, drives you absolutely insane. 

“He’s fuckin useless, just like his ma. But look at you, so fucking tight ‘round me, making all those pretty sounds, she fuckin’ wishes she was you.” His words have your cunt squeezing around his cock, and a lewd, pornographic moan slipping past your lips. “My girl’s gonna be the perfect lil’ mamma, aren’t ya, so fuckin’ pretty.” You would certainly like that- in fact you’re almost surprised with how appealing it sounds to you. 

“Gonna be perfect for you daddy, only for you.” your dress rides up even further, the front slipping further down. 

“Thats my fucking girl.” That growl of his sends shivers down your spine– possessive, and confident and dripping like honey from his lips. It was almost like it could send you over the edge by itself. The lewd creaking of the bedframe fills the room, the sound of skin on skin driving you wild. The way he handles you– firm and deft but gentle and passionate, it's nothing like his son. 

He’s nothing like his son. 

“Yeah, bet it feels good don’t it, bein’ fucked by a real man? Feel daddy so deep in ya? Nothin ever been that deep before, huh..” You shake your head ‘no’ and he coos at how pathetic you must sound, barely able to make a coherent sound, forget string together a whole sentence. 

“Make me go fuckin’ crazy, babygirl.” 

What he says is fucking filthy, there’s no denying, no justifying it. It makes you squirm, makes you even wetter, makes you want him even more. 

“Think you wanna go back to him? With daddy’s cum drippin between those pretty thighs, show him how a real man treats his girl?” 

“Gonna make ya beg him to stay, gonna talk some sense into him, just so daddy can have ya all to himself, ain't that right? You gonna sneak into daddy’s room in the middle of the night? All wet an’ achy? Beggin’ daddy to fuck ya how ya need?” 

“Wanna run away with me baby, live in a perfect little house, let daddy give ya his babies, fuck ya full’ve my cum every single night?” 

His hands roam your body, smoothing over your hips, reaching forward to squeeze at your breasts, pinching and kneading the flesh. He bends down to trail light kisses along your spine and the feeling is like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Your head twists side to side against the sheets as you squirm, each sensation like it's heightened to the maximum, the heaviness and the throb between your thighs at an all time high. 

You know you're close, you can’t hold it off much longer. Your cunt squeezes and your toes curl. You also know Javi won't last, you can feel him pulse against your swollen walls, can feel the way he desperately thrusts into you, pushes you further down against the mattress, grips your skin with that renewed fervor, with the desperation of doing anything to hold on to the incredible sensation. 

“Come for me, babygirl, come for daddy, show daddy how much ya needed this, show daddy how bad ya need his cock.” 

Your legs part even further under you, if that's even physically possible, your entire upper body being smashed into the mattress. You call out Javi’s name, followed by a string of desperate, strained, whiny daddy daddy daddy’s. 

With a strangled moan that's partially muffled by the covers you come undone, your head spins and your heart pounds in your chest, you feel yourself gush and clamp down around his cock. You feel Javi’s hips stutter behind you and his cock throb against your wet walls. The feeling only prologues and intensifies your orgasm, your body going slack and eyes rolling back into your head. 

“Please daddy, need your cum, please, give it to me..” 

Javi’s groans catch your attention as you come down from your high, still reeling from the aftershocks when you feel his cock twitch inside you and paint your walls with his hot spend. Your words are strained and slurred, but they clearly get the job done. You shiver and press your ass back against him to meet his stuttery, sloppy thrusts, and bite your lip when you feel him tighten his grip on your hip, feel him land a final spank to your ass for good measure as he slows down. 

You keep your ass in the air, face still pressed against the mattress as Javi pulls out. You hear him mutter a few strained curses under his breath as he does, and catch him looking between your legs to see his spend obscenely leak out of your used hole. He reaches his fingers to rub against your messy folds and you whine, feel him gather up your juices and push them back inside your cunt in a way that has you almost cumming right there again. 

Your dress is still pooled at your waist and he unzips it entirely, sneaking his hands under your thighs and flipping you over and yanking you towards him. 

“You really want daddy’s babies?” Your head falls back against the bed when you feel his hand cup your cunt, rub your messy, swollen folds with the calloused tips of his fingers. You barely manage to nod. 

“Then I ain’t done with ya yet pretty girl.” You tilt your chin to catch his gaze, now in nothing but your stupid little wedding veil. You’re not sure about the best day of your life, but this sure as hell contends for one of the best nights. 

You can be my daddy tonight-night-night

I'm neon phosphorescent

Open like a Christmas present, oh

You can be my daddy tonight-night-night

If you're seeking heaven

Then you wanna come and get it alright

Be my daddy tonight

What's up what's up

What's up what's up

Be my daddy be my daddy

Be my daddy be my, be my daddy tonight

AHHHHH feel like I’m going to hell for this one. Thanks so much for reading!! Please please please let me know what you think. I’d love to know your thoughts!!! Thank you to everyone who engages with my work, you keep me writing!! 💗🐝

[cherrycolored-punk]

still frames - bestfriend! e.m. x fem! reader

author’s note: reminiscing about the friend I had in high school, the one who I’d create playlists with and who’d call to play his guitar for me every night. and you can’t tell me that Eddie isn’t the same type of dude. the sweet bits are based on the reminiscing. the rest is pure fiction with our favorite goof. anyways, enjoy!🧡

w/c: 5k

warnings: angst, pining, smut (oral - reader receiving, protected p in v), spanking, teasing, uhhhh let me know if I forgot anything

‼️ THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG, MINORS DNI ‼️

Raindrops race down your living room window in lines, and you watch them from your spot on the floor. It’s fall, and the lush greens of summer have begun to change color; their leaves now varying hues of orange and yellow. They create a coziness in your apartment, a warmth that feels like it envelops you and is amplified by the scent of your favorite candle; crisp apple, nectar, and warm clove spice fill your lungs with each breath you take.

Eddie lays beside you on his stomach, focusing on his phone and the playlist you created for him.

The playlists were a tradition since middle-school, a way to introduce each other to a new sound or a band the other might not have heard of. For some time, though, you’d been using it to send cryptic messages, and he hadn’t caught on. 

Your crush on Eddie came suddenly but was felt all at once. 

It was a spring morning nearly two years ago, and you’d laid dying in bed, except not really. You just had the flu, but you felt close to death and had texted him as much.

Eddie: what do you need?

You: hit me with your van, stab me in the face…please end my suffering.

He, of course, didn’t grant your wish, but he’d shown up at your apartment after work with a grocery bag full of supplies. Eddie was still wearing his navy coveralls covered in oil and smelled like grease. From what you could smell, anyway. You could barely breathe through your nose.

“I got you theraflu tea, and I don’t want to hear you complain about the taste. You just need to drink it,” he scolded before you could even complain. 

Your jaw snapped shut.

“Also got your favorite soup, four cans,” he held his fingers up, “orange juice, Vicks, popsicles in case your throat hurts, those saltines you like, and,” he turned, “I brought Scream for us to watch since I know it’s your favorite.”

It hit you like a ton of bricks, made your heart stutter, and nearly stop. 

It was the way he was smiling, the familiar excited gleam in his eye as he looked at you. It was the fact that he’d shown up after a twelve-hour shift with all your favorite sick foods in tow. 

Your eyes traced over his face like you were seeing him for the first time. The sharp edge of his jaw, the plump of his lips, the freckles that dotted the slope of his nose, and when did Eddie become so beautiful?

You’d tried blaming it on the fact that less oxygen was getting to your brain and a virus was wrecking your immune system, but now you didn’t have the same excuse. Now you couldn’t look at Eddie without noticing the pinks of his cheeks or the different smiles he had. Couldn’t be around him without yearning to hug him or hold him in a way that didn’t scream just friends.

The past year and a half had been overwhelming, the yearning making you feel hollow. Like if you didn’t say something, it would continue to eat you alive, but telling him ran the risk of ruining the friendship and that was a fate worse than being alone.

You glance over to the playlist he’s listening to, at the song playing, and clench your eyes shut.

Despite the music in your ears, you can hear the song reverberating off the walls of your skull. The one you heard that made you think of him. It plays in your head, having memorized every lyric and the way the singer’s voice influxes with certain words.

Bet you never knew it

Think you’d suit me just fine

And you know he’ll never get it, never know you’re hopelessly in love with him.

You close your eyes and focus on the song, one he chose specifically for you. 

Good Riddance plays soft, a break from the heavy metal he always added but not a song you hadn’t heard before. It brings a sense of nostalgia in the form of a lump in your throat, and you swallow hard, images of high school flashing through your mind like a retro view-master. It feels like yesterday and another lifetime all at once. The plays you were in, the various games you cheered at, going to Corroded Coffin’s shows, staying over at Eddie’s house, the first time he’d convinced you to join a campaign…the face of “I told you so” when you told him you had actually enjoyed it.

Eddie pulls the earbud from your ear, auburn hair tickling you where it meets your bare shoulder and interrupting your reminiscing. You turn to him, curious eyes meeting his steady gaze. 

“What is it?” you question with a quirk of your brow, unable to decipher the expression that colored his features. 

“Curious choice of songs here,” his voice carries a teasing lilt as he turns onto his side, facing you. 

You could feel his gaze on you, searching your features for the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet. 

“How do you figure?” you turn, matching his pose, and rest your chin on your palm.

Eddie thought for a moment, his eyes turning up and to the left as he searched for the words. 

He looks handsome as ever, pale skin glowing from the light of your candle. Cinnamon eyes lit with a hint of mischief and something you couldn’t name. 

His eyes shift down and meet yours, a broad dimpled smile slotting into place. 

“Something tells me you have a crush on someone,” and your heart practically drops into your ass at his words.

“A crush?” You ask, half-laughing at his accusation in an attempt not to vomit.

“Oh, don’t play coy. Every song on here drones on about love,” he points to his phone, his eyebrows pushed into his bangs. 

“They’re just good songs, Edward,” you shove his head and lay flat on your back, but he follows your movements, hovering over you. Close enough that you can smell the spearmint of his gum and the cologne he wears; musk and smoked suede. It makes your mouth water, his proximity making your heart lurch in your ribcage. 

“I never said they weren’t good, Princess.” 

Your hand reaches out to push his face away at the nickname, but he catches your wrist in his grasp, a cocky smile spreading wide on his lips. 

“What happened to us not questioning the playlist, Munson? Isn’t that rule number one since day one?” You attempt to fight your wrist out of his grasp, but it remains firm. 

“Let go,” you grumble, and he shakes his head.

“Not until you tell me,” he counters.

“Tell you what?” you stop fighting, and your arm falls back near your head, his fingers still wrapped around it as though he were pinning you there. 

“Who is it?” he shrugs, but you don’t miss how his adam’s apple bobs as he asks. 

You wonder if Eddie can hear how your heart hammers, your senses overwhelmed by his sudden inquisition. 

“There isn’t anyone,” but your gaze turns from him, and he knows you’re lying. 

“Not good enough,” he shakes his head.

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I need to know,” you look back at him. The need you’d felt for the past year reflected in his gaze.

Time slows.

“Why?” your voice is softer, barely above a whisper. Breath held as you wait for his answer. 

He lets go of your wrist and settles back at your side, reaching for his phone as you watch him. The anticipation of his response pushing you closer to cardiac arrest. 

Eddie pulls out your other earbud and places one of his own in your ear. 

I Want You plays, and you recognize the familiar sound of Mitski’s voice. One that is full of yearning and a palpable sorrow. You look at him with a curious upturn of your brow, a silent question, and he turns the screen of his phone towards you. 

It’s a new playlist, one you hadn’t seen, and it bears a simple title: your name. 

A million thoughts race through your head, but you can’t find the words or the right question. 

“Mitski?” You decide to tease, your cheeks warm as the feelings rush through you. The realization that maybe, just maybe, he loved you too. 

“Shut up,” he grumbles, but it’s full of affection, and his face leans closer—his gaze darts between your eyes and the swell of your lips. 

Your mouth parts in anticipation, eyes fluttering shut as your head lifts to meet him halfway. 

A small gasp escapes your lips at the first contact, his lips softer than you’d ever imagined. Slotting perfectly together with yours. He tasted like the gum he chewed and the soda he’d had; sweeter than you thought he’d be.

Eddie’s hand cups your face, gently holding your jaw as his thumb rubs the apple of your cheek. Holding you almost reverently. 

The kiss deepens as he pulls you on top of him, his tongue tracing the curve of your bottom lip, asking for permission. Your tongue swipes against his in response, and you swallow the moan he feeds you - fingers tangling in the fabric of his black t-shirt as he holds you to him. 

His large hand wanders down your back and over the curve of your ass, gripping the dough of it. You can’t help the circle of your hips as you grind against his thigh. Chasing the friction you so desperately need. 

Your lungs begin to ache as the kiss deepens, desperate for oxygen but more so for his touch, and you roll over, pulling his weight on top of you. Enjoying the feel of his body pressed into yours, and his knee slotted between your legs. 

Eddie pulls away, taking a deep breath to fill his burning lungs, and you chase his fleeting lips - eyes still closed. He chuckles, rubbing your cheek affectionately - memorizing the softness of your skin and the warmth of your body underneath him.

You breathe in deeply, gaze finally meeting his, and the first thing you notice is the flush of his cheeks. Then the way his brown eyes are almost obsidian; darkened with need. His nose brushes yours as he leans in for another kiss, just as soft as the first but quick so he can look at you again. 

“Are you finally going to tell me who it is?” He questions, lips hovering over your jaw, and you can barely breathe. Anticipating his touch. 

You shrug your shoulder, not ready to admit to defeat. 

“Couldn’t tell you, just some guy,” you play with the collar of his shirt, acting aloof. 

“Just some guy,” he repeats with a shake of his head, pressing a kiss to the space between your jaw and your ear. 

Your breath comes out shaky, and you can only nod.

“Was hoping it was me, Princess,” he kisses down your neck causing goosebumps to sprout along your arms.

His lips press against the skin of your shoulder, pushing at the strap of your dress with his mouth to nudge it out of the way. 

The curve of his lips is a whisper above your skin, his head dipping down and tracing the tops of your breasts. You arch into his touch, desperate to feel his mouth over every inch of your body. 

He stops abruptly, his head lifting back to hover over yours with a mocking grin. Enjoying how he already affects you, the way you whine when you don’t get what you want. 

“As if you don’t know the answer,” you gruff, and he leans in, shaking his head. 

“I want to hear you say it,” he whispers, face inches from yours—a dare. 

The stubborn part of you wants to deny it, wants to keep the secret close in case this was all in jest, but there’s another part that yearns to hear him say it too. To hear him say it back. For it to be more than a private playlist with your name attached.

“It’s you,” and you almost want to disappear. To sink into the floor or to be swallowed whole. Despite the kiss, despite the way his body presses closer to yours when he finally hears you say the quiet part out loud. Saying it out loud made it real, the threat of losing him as a friend more imminent. 

But his mouth is back on yours, more fervent than before. His hand traces up your thigh and grips the soft flesh. Pressing himself against you. 

You kiss him back with just as much need, an eager hand pushing at the hem of his shirt until you feel his skin. The curve of your nails drags lightly down his abdomen, stopping just above his belt. Enjoying the way the coarse hairs that lead into his pants feels against your fingers. Your other hand curls in his hair, holding his face to yours. 

Eddie shudders at the sensation, a small gasp spilling from his lips as they leave yours. You look at him through hooded eyes, a slight grin slotting into place when you notice his flushed cheeks and hair slightly disheveled. 

Energy thrums through you, making your heart pound. God, you want to make him gasp like that again.

“Was that so hard?” He questions, his expression a little cocky despite his breathlessness, and if you weren’t so eager to kiss him again you might just push his face from yours. 

“Shut up,” you say affectionately and kiss him again. 

Soft, sweet. Relishing in the feel of his lips until it isn’t enough. Until the carnal hunger can’t be ignored. 

Your tongue swipes against his lower lip, and you suck it between your own. Swallowing his low moan. The palm of your hand trails lower, small fingers wrapping around his handcuff belt. Breath caught in your throat until it makes your lungs burn, and you pull away. 

Eddie watches you, your slow, languid movements causing him to hold his breath in anticipation. His long, callused fingers push up, up, up until you feel them beneath your panties, matching your pace, creating a line of fire wherever they meet your skin. 

His belt falls open with a rumble of metal, and he presses his forehead to yours; hand gripping your ass, fingers spreading you apart, and edging closer to your center. 

Your palm rubs against his coarse pubic hairs as you slide your hand further into his boxers, a small gasp escaping your lips when your fingers rub against the warm length of his arousal. Eddie is bigger than you had imagined, and you’d spent plenty of time picturing him while in bed. Legs spread and fingers working you over the edge. But this is better than a daydream. 

His cock jumps against your palm as you wrap your fingers along his shaft, exploring the soft skin and the thick vein that lines his length. Your thumb brushes against his tip, collecting the pre-cum that leaks from it. 

Dark eyes watch as you remove your hand and bring your thumb to your mouth, tongue swirling against your digit before sucking it clean. 

A groan escapes Eddie’s lips, his jaw slack. Eyes hooded with need. 

His next movements are fast, quicker than your mind can keep up with.

He flips you onto your stomach, mouth racing down your back eagerly; needy hands pushing the fabric of your dress up until your ass is exposed. 

“This okay,” he questions, fingers hooked on the lace of your panties, and you whine, ass wiggling eagerly beneath him in response. He slaps the fat of it, a cocky laugh falling from his lips, but he wastes no time.

Eddie tosses your panties over his head absently; gaze focused on the swell of your butt. He hooks an arm around your waist and drags you up on all fours until you’re bared to him. His hands are on your ass like an anchor as he dips his head closer. 

The scruff of his beard scrapes against your soft skin, his warm breath felt against your spine. Each kiss is slow and deliberate, felt in your core as his lips trail down the small of your back and over the valley of your ass. He grips your cheeks and spreads them, revealing the rim of your ass and your glistening cunt. 

“So fucking pretty,” and he practically whimpers at the sight, grabbing his cock to adjust the strain against his jeans. 

He traces his middle finger over your slit and to your bundle of nerves, creating a circle around the bud; a sensation that makes your hips jolt, a soft moan escaping your lips. 

You breathe in sharply when you feel the nudge of his nose against your sex, his tongue swiping along your folds. Savoring the way you taste. 

He teases you, tongue flicking against your clit before swiping towards your aching center and stretching you over his tongue. A guttural moan escapes your lips, your nails digging into the plush of your carpet at the sensation. 

Eddie buries his face deeper, pushing his tongue further into you with a groan that vibrates through you. 

“Oh my god,” you keen, reaching behind and knotting your hands into his hair. You grind against his face, eyes rolling as his tongue darts in and out of your sopping cunt. Fingers pressing into your clit. 

“Fuck,” he moans, voice gruff. 

His tongue laps at your arousal, middle finger prodding your entrance. You release his head, bracing against the carpet. He stretches you inch by inch before adding another, his digits curling inside you. Slowly, he begins to pump them into you, hitting a spot that makes your breath catch in your throat. You clench around him, the orgasm already building.

“Eddie,” you whine, spurring his movements to quicken. For his mouth to wrap around your clit and flick his tongue against it, eager for you to come undone.

You ride his fingers, desperate for the release and out of your mind with need. Body humming, warmed over from the intensity of your arousal.

“Gonna come for me, Princess?” 

You nod your head, pushing your pussy back against him. Desperate for his tongue on your sensitive bud. 

“S-so close,” you stammer. 

Every muscle in your body tenses, and you bury your face in the carpet as the feeling crashes over you. For a moment, you can’t breathe. The moan trapped in your throat and eyes clenched shut until, finally, your center unfurls. 

Your cunt flutters around Eddie’s fingers, and you moan his name as your legs begin to shake, but he doesn’t stop. He continues to pump his fingers into you, groaning at the noise it makes and the way your pussy grips him. His tongue flicks wildly against your clit, eliciting a loud groan to escape from your lips. Your legs shake more intensely as tears spring to your eyes. Bordering overstimulation. 

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,” you beg, and suddenly, he pulls his fingers from you. Fat tongue dragging against your wet heat and savoring every drop of your essence. 

He slaps your ass once. Twice. Leaving kisses where his hands were before and trailing them up your back, pushing the fabric of your dress up with him until he pushes it off entirely. 

He’s bent over you, torso pressed to your back. Hard arousal pressed to your sopping center. Warm breath felt against your neck as he whispers.

“Sound so fucking pretty, want to hear you again. Want to watch you.” 

He presses closer to you so you can feel just how badly he wants you, and you shudder. You match his movements, pushing your ass back against him, turning to watch the way his eyes close and his jaw clenches. 

“Do you have a condom?” You whisper, and his eyes open abruptly, searching yours.

“Y-yeah,” he stammers, nodding his head late as though his body was just catching up with his thoughts. 

But he doesn’t move, and it makes you feel shy. A little unsure of yourself. You squirm beneath him and flip over so that you’re face-to-face. 

“We don’t have to,” you rub an absent hand against his face, trying not to think about the fact that you were mostly naked and he was hovering inches from you, fully clothed. 

Eddie shakes his head and leans closer.

“I want to,” he says with more conviction and kisses your cheek, brushing his lips along your jaw. 

“You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted to,” he whispers against your neck. 

His tongue swipes along your neck and nips at your soft flesh. A free hand wanders down your side, creating goosebumps in their path. 

“Have you thought of me?” You ask, dragging a hand down his sternum to the top of his still-open jeans. Your voice is teasing, heavy with a flirtation he’d never heard before, and he nods. No longer cocky, hovering above you but entirely at your mercy. 

“What have you thought about?” You push your hand back into his boxers and begin to stroke him, jaw going slack as you watch his eyes flutter shut. 

Eddie groans, the fingers at your side digging into your skin.

“Y-you in my bed,” he stammers, mind occupied by the feeling of your hand wrapped around his dick. Your grip tightens around him, your grasp firm as you pump his cock faster.

“Is that it?” You whisper against his mouth, nipping at the pout of his bottom lip. He follows your mouth as you pull away, and he shakes his head.

“Thought about how good you’d look as I fuck you,” his words are a little breathless, but they cause your thighs to clench. 

The movement isn’t lost on him. It spurs him on, the familiar cocky grin slotting into place—a glint of mischief in his eye. 

“You’ve thought of it too, haven’t you?” His nose brushes yours, lips hovering over your mouth as he waits for your response.

The shudder that runs through your body gives you away, and you nod. Hand still pumping his cock.

Eddie kisses you more tenderly than you expected. His lips soft against your own, relishing the feel of you. 

“How often?” He questions, mouth still hovering over yours. Hand tracing down your thigh and up again.

You try to concentrate, hand still working him but your rhythm unsteady as you debate to tell him the truth. 

“Every day,” you stroke him again, “sometimes twice a day.”

His mouth crashes against yours, all teeth and tongue. Your hand reaches from his boxers and begins to push at his jeans. He helps you, one hand next to your head, holding his weight above you, and the other helping push his jeans until he kicks them off. Eddie sits up and tugs off his shirt, revealing the expanse of his torso—the dark lines against his alabaster skin. You trace your fingertips over them, lips pressing against his chest as he reaches behind you and unclasps your bra. Eddie tosses the fabric aside, eyes fixated on the curve of your tits. 

“Fucking hell,” his voice is low, appreciative, and he reaches out to trace his fingers along your newly exposed skin. Your back arches into his touch, watching his thumb roll against your nipple and pinch the sensitive flesh between his fingers. A moan falls from your lips, and your head rolls back, legs closing around him.

His head dips to your neck, and he kisses down your chest, over the slopes of your breasts. 

Eddie’s tongue flicks and sucks, pulling your nipple between his teeth. One hand gripping your hip and leading you back down until you’re lying beneath him.

He reaches for his jeans and grabs his wallet, pulling a condom out. 

You stop him before he can unwrap it, “Wait.”

“Are you okay?” He stops and watches you with worry.

“Can we,” you pause, “can we go to my room? To the bed?”  

“Afraid of a little carpet burn, Princess?” He teases, and you swat his bicep, pushing at his chest so you can move past him. 

“Shut up, Munson,” you push his face, but he grabs your hand, standing and pulling you along with him. 

You turn from him to walk to your room, and he slaps your ass, causing you to yelp as you run away from him, your giggles filling the apartment. Eddie chases you, hand reaching out to slap your butt cheeks every so often until you reach the room and suddenly turn to face him.

His chest crashes against yours, and your chuckle dies when you look at him again. The desire in his eyes, the blush that’d crept into his cheeks, and the state of his hair. You reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around his cock, pumping him as he leads you to the bed.

Your back plops against the soft mattress, and he drags your ass to the edge, legs spread wide for him. 

He unwraps the condom and rolls the rubber down his shaft, one thumb drawing circles against your clit. Gathering your slick. 

You pant as he works you up, whining when he stops, only to jolt when his wrapped length rubs against your slick folds. Your fingers wrap around his wrist as he inches into you, his eyebrows pushing together as your cunt wraps around his cock.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, gripping your hip with his free hand. 

Eddie is a stretch, but the feel of him pushing into you is delicious - every inch making your toes curl. 

“Oh,” you moan, and it’s all you can manage. Words turning to nonsense once he’s fully seated inside of you. 

He leans down and kisses you, lips hard against yours as his hips roll into you. His rhythm starts slow, pumping into you at a languid pace. Savoring the way you feel, the way your moans sound, and your naked chest feels pressed to his. 

His movements quicken, the snap of his hips growing louder as he juts into you. You pull away from his lips and dig your nails into his bicep. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes focused on where your bodies are connected. Watching the way your pussy sucks him in, clenches perfecting around his shaft, and the image of you draws him closer to the edge. 

Eddie pushes off the mattress, straightening your legs until they’re pressed against his torso, one foot resting on either side of his head. He has the perfect view of you; the bounce of your tits as he ruts into you, the way your mouth hangs open, and your eyes are entirely focused on him. 

He pounds his dick into you, one hand moving between your legs and drawing circles against your bud. 

“Eddie, ahh, oh fuck-” you grip his forearm as he continues to thrust every inch of his cock in and out of your sensitive cunt. 

“You like that, baby?” and you nod.

“Say it,” he groans, hips stuttering as he nears his pinnacle. 

“Feel so good, Eddie,” you moan, and the way you say his name makes him clench his jaw. Trying his best to maintain composure until you come.

“Going to come for me, sweetheart?” and it sounds like a demand. Your nails dig into his skin as you nod. 

Your eyes trace down his body, watching the movement of his hips and the way your ass reverberates with each movement. The image of him, the erotic sound of skin on skin, bringing you closer.

“Please,” you beg, back arching off the bed as you get closer. The rubber band at your center stretching thin and ready to snap.

Your legs fall from his shoulders and hook around his waist, pulling him closer. Deeper. Exactly where you need him. The tip of his cock nudges your spongy center, the orgasm building with each rock of his hips until it’s enough.

His name is on your lips like a prayer, vision white as the intensity of the orgasm pulses through you. 

“Baby,” he groans, the grip your pussy has on him causing his hips to stutter and the muscles in his abdomen to tighten as he reaches his peak. His hands grip your thighs, his dick twitching inside you as he spills into the condom.

You come down for your orgasm and watch him through hooded eyes—the flush of his pale skin, the sharp edge of his jaw.

So fucking pretty.

He releases his grip on your thighs and slowly inches out of you. 

You whine at the loss, already needy for more, and he gives you a cocky smirk. Eddie presses a quick kiss to your lips before disappearing down the hall, and you listen as the faucet squeaks, then off before he returns. 

He approaches you with a warm washcloth, and wipes your center before discarding it into your nearby hamper. 

You pull him forward, resting his weight against your body. For a moment, the two of you sit in silence. The only sound filling the room is your heavy breaths and the faint thrums of your hearts. 

“That was-,” and he can’t finish the sentence. Unable to find the right string of words.

Eddie pushes his weight off you, balancing on his hands and meeting your gaze. He leans closer, his nose tracing yours, and he kisses you softly—a hum vibrating against your lips when he releases your mouth.

“Decent,” you shrug and roll your eyes affectionately. Falling into your usual teasing.

“That was some of my best work, babe,” he gasps, feigning shock. Hand to his chest as he stands straight. 

Your heart skips at the nickname, but you try to hide it. Babe. 

“Guess you’ll have to show me again,” you shrug and push yourself further onto the bed. 

Eddie raises a devious brow and follows your movements, his body inching forward as yours inches back. 

“I can show you again,” he kisses you, “and again,” he kisses you once more, “as many times as it takes to convince you,” he promises.

[hansensgirl]

summary. | Your affair with your boyfriend’s dad escalates drastically.

prompts. | Steve Rogers + boyfriend’s dad + “You’re so cute when you’re struggling like that.” + cum-play, requested by Anonymous.

pairing. | dark!boyfriend’s dad!Steve Rogers x fem!reader.

warnings. | NON/DUBCON, smut, cheating, age gap, restraints, cum-play, fingering, male masturbation, orgasm (f), Daddy kink, praise, dirty talk, and more. 18+ MINORS DNI!

author’s note. | this is a part of my Dark Concepts (2023) request form. thank you for taking part in this event! please enjoy and don’t forget to reblog. MINORS DNI, 18+ ONLY! taglist: @hansensfics

You can’t even begin to imagine what your boyfriend would say if he caught you.

Steve keeps telling you his son won’t be home anytime soon, but you doubt it. He has a way with words where he can get you to do anything, and that scares you.

“Fuck, you’re so sexy, baby,” the older grunts, keeping your legs spread open with one of his strong hands. His skin is flushed and covered in sweat—you can’t help but admire him, even though you shouldn’t. 

The affair should’ve ended ages ago, but every time you tried, Steve managed to convince you otherwise. 

“I should’ve tied you up a while ago—I love seeing you like this, all vulnerable…” Steve says, and you wiggle your fingers just a bit. He’s got your hands above your head, wrists tied together with a piece of red silk. You still have feeling in your arms, but the knot is tight enough to prevent you from breaking loose. 

Your boyfriend’s dad strokes his large cock, pre-cum dripping down and onto his pale hand. He stares at your cunt, admiring his work. Your clit is raw and puffy, and your hole is leaking with his cum. It drips down to your ass and then the bed, staining the navy blue sheets. 

“Do you like it, sweetie?” Steve questions, looking up at you. You’re a panting, writhing mess, with your chest rising and falling. Your tits beckon him to play with them, and so he does. 

The hand he used to keep your legs open—even though the special rope that he tied you to the bedposts with already does that—travels to your chest. He pinches at your hard nipples, and you whimper, pouting at the sensation. 

“Uh-huh, I love it, Daddy,” you tell him, your mouth operating before your brain has time to even think about what he’s asked you. But it’s true—you love everything he does to you, even though you always fight him a bit at first. But Steve likes that; it makes him so hard. “I know you do, baby.”

Steve leans forward and takes one of your nubs into his mouth, sucking and teasing it with his teeth as he massages the other. He then switches, giving the other breast the same treatment until you’re saying, “Daddy… Please…”

You can feel the older man’s cock against your thigh, and you realize that you’re in need of another orgasm. When he’s around, you’re insatiable. Perhaps it’s the thrill of getting caught—the secrecy. Or maybe it’s just that Steve Rogers knows how to make you feel so good. 

“What does my princess need? Hm?” he questions once he pulls his mouth off your tit, releasing your nipple with a resounding ‘pop!’. “Wanna come again, Daddy… Please?” you ask sweetly, giving Steve your best puppy-dog eyes.

You catch sight of the greys that decorate his hair, especially in his beard. You’ve told him how much you love them before, and afterwards, he ate you out until you were crying.

“Daddy’ll make you come again, baby. Don’t worry,” he tells you, and you thank him nicely. “You’re such a good girl,” Steve coos. 

He stretches his dominant hand down to your messy pussy, and he rubs your folds just to tease you. You whine, and he chuckles. He reaches down to your leaking hole and groans when he feels just how wet you are. 

“Daddy really filled you up, huh, baby?” Steve notes, dipping his fingers into the mixture of his seed and your arousal. He coats his digits in his cum and pushes in, shoving two fingers into your cunt. Your back arches off the bed, and Steve praises you for taking his digits so well. “Daddy’s best girl.”

Steve begins to fuck you with his fingers, sometimes pulling them out entirely to spread his cum all over your pussy. The wet sounds that come from your pussy are so loud, but your moans drown them out. He curls his fingers skillfully, reaching that sweet spot that has your legs shaking just a bit.

“Fuck! ‘M gonna come,” you whimper, and the older man curses. “Gonna come for Daddy? Go on, make an even bigger mess, baby,” Steve urges.

As he says this, you come undone around his fingers. Your walls clench him, and you thrash around a bit from the amount of stimulation. 

“Good girl, so good for me,” Steve hums, and through your fucked-out stupor, you register the tell-tale chime of the sensor on the front door. Your boyfriend. He calls out, asking if anyone’s home.

Panic surges through you, and your stomach drops. Your sensual mood is immediately killed, and you try to wriggle out of the situation Steve has placed you in.

The older man chuckles. “You’re so cute when you’re struggling like that,” he says, and he doesn’t do anything to help.

“Steve! Untie me—he’s gonna catch us,” you spit through clenched teeth, scared and angry. “Mm, no,” he bluntly tells you, and you fight him even more. “Please! You can’t let him see us like this,” you reason, tugging at your restraints.

“I think it’s time he learns how much his girlfriend loves Daddy. Don’t you agree?” 

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | four

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: after a conference in new york, you and j miller phd take things a step further. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, i think i describe reader as having sweaty palms about 1500 times so it deserves a warning, alcohol consumption, the plight of being a woman in academia, oral [f receiving], unprotected piv sex [IN A BED ??? GASP] for you filthy animals, prone bone, a little roughness and then not much at all, uhhh pet names during sex.... uhhmm intimacy errrrrr.... soft!joel... feelings... okay bye word count: 9.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: hey folks, thank you so much for all your patience as i took my sweet sweet time writing this. we get to know our prof a little better in this one so a fair amount of dialogue for you but yeah anyways i hope you enjoy it, and i'd love to hear what you think! [and if i Fell Off because of the depression, don't tell me lol] A WORD ABOUT THE TAG LIST: i will continue the taglist for this part and for part five, and after that i will rely solely on my notifications account @hier--soirupdates so pls follow that and turn on notifs to be told when i post writing x this is part four of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three.

Saturday.

The conference centre is vast.

A large space that protects you from the threatening clouds that loom over New York City, and exposes you to countless dense conversations.

An NYU teacher’s assistant is glued to your hip, parading you through the centre with a wayward index finger that points out the bar, the room where the keynote speech will be given [large, with an imposing stage], and the room where you will give your presentation [less large, with a far less imposing stage].

Your presentation.  

You fight the urge to pull up the email for the thousandth time while she explains how there will be fifteen minutes to set up beforehand, and advises on when the doors will open for guests, and reminds you that you have a strict allotted time of 20-minutes, do you understand?

But the email is branded on the inside of your eyelids after this morning’s flight was spent reading and rereading and rereading the words. So you nod and smile and placate her on the tour of the centre, as you run through it in your mind.

We look forward to welcoming you to NYU’s Annual Classics and Ancient History Conference. Our team was intrigued by the presentation devised around your translation study in Athens…

“Did you hear me?”

You wish she wasn’t dressed so casually.

Loose balls of lint are collected on the back of her cardigan like trinkets, weighty and threatening to fall off in a sort of bread crumb trail behind her every movement. It makes your dress feel all the more serious, all the more formal. Navy blue and a little tight, with sleeves that slant across the middle of your bicep and a hem that cuts modestly across your lower thigh. Professional, smart, sexy, but not too sexy. You and Nora spent two hours at the mall picking it out last weekend. And you can see people in suits, in blazers, in dresses, everywhere you turn, but your eyes keep returning to the TA’s cardigan. Little pills, sad morsels of broken fabric.

She says your name sharply.

“Yes,” you snap to attention, and clock her poor attempt not to roll her eyes. “You were saying?”

“It’s an open bar,” she continues from a few steps ahead, slowly back away while raising her voice to be heard over the countless others sprouting across the room. “And food is served after the Keynote.”

Finally free of her and her cardigan, you scale the edge of the hall, curious eyes glancing across faces familiar and not. You notice some other postgrads from UNE, and some professors from your alma mater. But it isn’t until three hours into the conference that you notice him.

You’re in a painfully long conversation with Professor Carmichael, an ancient history department head from Boston, when you notice them.

“Well you see,” he’s saying, slowly. “The First Roman Triumvirate was very unique. Surely you agree with me there, my dear?”

“Of course,” you nod amiably. A waiter floats past you holding a tray of glasses. You grasp one with a grateful smile, and turn back to face him with a sip of cold white wine moving down your throat. “The Big Three, it’s all very interesting. Although I must say, I am personally more interested in the second triumvirat—”

“Oh they all say that,” he waves his hand. “Everyone is so taken by Antony and Octavian that they forget about Crassus! So tragic.”

“A very tragic death,” you offer an exaggerated frown. “I agree.”

Carmichael hums, eyes narrowing as if you’ve said something wrong. Sipping your wine, your eyes float over his shoulder, determinedly trying to spot any sign of food, gaze spilling across countless faces and tables and waiters and professors until one set of people makes you pause.  Wild dark hair atop a floral dress floats in your vision, her pale hand hovering over the sleeve of a tall man in a suit. You watch the backs of their heads; the way the woman tilts her chin upward to speak to the man and laughs at what he says in return. That laugh. You frown, and feel yourself take a step forward, a step in their direction.

“Is something the matter?” Carmichael asks and you halt, flash him a sweet smile and shake your head.

“No,” you rush, practically tasting the opportunity to escape the conversation. “I’m sorry, Professor, I thought I saw someone waving me over. If you don’t min—”

“Always so many people to talk to at these things,” he says in a sing-song tone of voice, smiling obliviously. “All in due course, dear. You’ll find them later I’m sure.”

It’s not until fifteen minutes later that the tap comes on your shoulder. You turn and feel relief wash over you as you come face to face with Rachel, with her tangle of curls and bright orange dress. But then a jolt shudders through your frame, for you spot the man accompanying her; the man you watched her traipse around the room with, the man in the sleek black suit—Joel, hovering a step behind her.

“Rachel,” you blink. “Joel. Hi—”

“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Rachel says. Her eyes are wide, lips pulled back into a crooked grin that immediately sets you at ease. Joel, on the other hand, looks uncomfortable to say the least. You watch him tuck his hands in his pockets and then take them out again quickly, lips pursed together in a tight line as he glances between you and Professor Carmichael.

“Joel,” she grips the sleeve of his blazer and tugs him forward to stand beside her. You watch where her hand grazes him - the ease with which she jostles him around. “Did you know?”

“No.” He stares for a moment, lips parted and eyes darting across your face, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t know.”

“I’m giving a presentation,” you explain quickly, eyes darting between the two of them, fingers tightening around your glass every time your eyes settle on him. He trimmed his beard again; the hairs are shorter, neater—almost too short and too neat for your liking. His shirt is pressed and crisp, shock white beneath the midnight black of his jacket. He’s wearing different glasses. Tortoise shell glasses. Someone clears their throat to your right, snapping you out of your reverie. You apologise quickly, “This is Professor Carmichael.”

“Of course,” Joel nods, stepping forward to grip the older man’s hand. “Good to see you again, Professor.”

“And you, Professor Miller,” Carmichael chuckles, patting a shaky hand against Joel’s shoulder. “When was the last time we crossed paths? A year ago?”

“Must’ve been a year,” Joel smiles easily. His eyes slip to look at you every few seconds. “The conference in Ottawa.”

“The conference in Ottawa!” Carmichael cheers, nodding away. A weight sinks in your stomach like a cinder block as you watch the Professor gear up to wrangle Joel and Rachel into another conversation about Crassus’ untimely demise. But then Rachel slips away, called out to by someone across the room. And before Carmichael can open his mouth, Joel is speaking again, that honeyed drawl like music to your ears.

“Excuse me, Professor Carmichael,” he smiles again. Two of his fingers grip your elbow, tugging you a step backward. “Do you mind if I steal my star student for a few moments?”

Joel tilts your body to the left, and then the two of you are veering off into the crowd, wandering through throngs of people, his warm fingers pressed against the soft flesh above your elbow.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” you say under your breath, glancing around warily, trying to spy any curious eyes that might notice the two of you.   

“Could say the same thing,” he murmurs, dragging you to a stop at the edge of the hall with his eyebrows raised. “When’s your talk?”

“At one. Overlaps with the Keynote, which I’m a little relieved about,” you smile, a pinched, tense thing. “Hopefully everyone will go to that, and I’ll have a smaller crowd.”

Joel’s eyebrows raise. You think you notice his shoulders stiffen. “S’that right?”

A persistent pang of hunger stabs through your stomach, you rub a hand over the front of your dress and nod. Curious brown eyes follow the movement.

“Here,” Joel reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. His fingers graze your skin as he tucks the shiny rectangle of foil into your palm. “They don’t put out any food until after the Keynote.”

It’s a granola bar. Peanut butter and banana. You stare at it for a moment, almost dumbfounded by the kindness of the gesture. By how attentive he is; how much he notices without you even having to speak.

“Thanks,” you say. Nestle it into your purse and give him an appreciative smile.

“Sure,” he nods jerkily. Adjusts the glasses on his nose. “I’m disappointed to miss it.”

“Oh?” you blink. Your eyes focus then, flitting downward to focus on the badge hanging from his lanyard.

Joel Miller, Ph.D.

University of New England.

Keynote Speaker.

“Oh, shit.”

“Mhm,” Joel squints at you. “Sorry if I don’t share the sentiment that everyone comes to watch me instead of you.”   

“Why didn’t you…” you gape. “You didn’t say you were giving a talk?” 

“You didn’t ask.”

“The Keynote speech is a big deal,” you say, as if he wouldn’t know.

“I was their third choice,” he shrugs you off with practiced ease. “First two weren’t interested.”

“Third time lucky then,” you smile, and he chuckles. Someone calls Joel’s name then, and you both spin to see Rachel across the room with a group of people, all eagerly waving him over. Something nasty curls in your chest – something bitter and unwarranted and cruel. You smother it with a mouthful of wine and a soft smile of farewell to him as he turns and walks in her direction.

A hand clasps down on your shoulder and you flinch, turning to see Professor Carmichael beaming.

“Where were we then, my dear?”

You eat Joel’s granola bar at the back of the hall five minutes before your talk and walk onstage with the taste of peanut and banana on your lips, brushing crumbs of dried oats off your fingers.

Fifteen people attend, spotted miscellaneously across the amassed rows of chairs. The slide clicker is damp in your palm, and your thumb hovers trembling over the button, awaiting each moment you need to press down.

“Working alongside some fantastic translators,” you tell them. “We focused on studying the disparities between how Greek texts are translated by men and women. Particularly, we aimed to delve into the way emotive language has been downgraded or elevated depending on the lens through which a text is being viewed.”

Professor Carmichael sits in the front row, those sun-spot covered hands clasped in his lap, offering an encouraging smile as you shift upon the stage. Rachel is a few rows back, and she nods intently whenever you glance in her direction.

“One of our main points of focus,” you continue. “Was to understand points of difficulty in translating while accounting for cultural nuances, and how the context of differing authors can impact upon this. In my next slide—”

It’s as you turn to glance at the display that you notice them for the first time. Three rows from the front, where a group of men sit. Two of them young, maybe around your age. You change your slide and watch them whisper in each other’s ears. One of them points at you. Or not you, rather—your legs.

And you yearn for it to be meaningless. A meaningless gesture between colleagues. Meaningless legs, meaningless dress, meaningless curves and slopes and dips and spins. But as you continue, you know it can’t be. The way they talk through your presentation, as if they aren’t bothered to be heard. The way they leer at you over Carmichael’s shoulder, grinning to each other. Your words in one ear and out the other—simply a talking point for them, a blue dress, something to stare at. Your dress feels hot, tight, and your chest feels hotter, tighter under the lights as those eyes glaze over you. You glance back towards Rachel. She gives you a thumbs up that doesn’t serve to cool your nerves.

“When translating word for word in our field, it’s uncommon,” you stutter to a stop, eyes flashing warily. “Sorry, it is not uncommon to find that narratological creativity dwindles.”

You hear a chuckle to your right and swallow down the urge to shoot daggers in the direction of the sound. “Translators struggle to maintain the in-depth imaginative expression that the original Greek text inspires. But through my discussions with Professor Samaras, we found that…”

It’s in the final minutes that you notice him. Tucked away in a back row of the room, arms folded across his chest. You pause for a moment, words caught in your throat. But Joel merely gives you a short nod. The faintest hint of a smile, of the corner of his eyes slanting upward, and it’s as if a cool breeze washes over you. Hands steady, knees lock, and you push through. You don’t look at any of their faces until it’s over.

And when it is, and scattered applause decorates the air, you can’t help but cast a smile in Joel’s direction. A smile that slips and wavers when you spot the broad expanse of his back, that sharp black blazer, as he slips out the doors without wasting a second.

The rest of your audience follows suit, a slim line that wanders out the doors without a second glance—spare Carmichael, who tells you he was quite taken with how you presented yourself, my dear.

You hear your own name and turn to see Rachel approaching, a burst of floral frock and swinging earrings. Her smile is wide and crooked, and you can’t help but smile back.

“That was wonderful,” she cheers, squeezing your shoulder. “I was so taken by how you spoke about the importance of linguistic quality assurance when translating emotive texts. Brilliant!”

Your face warms. “Thank you,” you shake your head quickly. “It was… thank you. That’s very kind.”

You glance over her shoulder, wondering if he’ll reappear – perhaps share her sentiments, maybe shower you with praise. He doesn’t.

She catches you looking. “Joel was in a rush,” she offers easily. “Lots of people wanting to talk to the man of the evening.”

“Of course,” you swallow thickly. Another smile.

Rachel stares at you curiously. “He’s very impressed by you, you know.” Her voice is warm, gentle—soft spoken like a mother who can sense the slightest flash of insecurity. You cringe immediately, feel your arms cross protectively across your chest. Don’t give the game away now. “Honestly, I think he read your comparative paper on the katabasis three times. Practically raved about it when I asked what it was.”

“Oh,” you blink, shifting uneasily under her gaze. “That’s… wow, I’m flattered.”

“He sees a lot of potential in you,” she says.

“Right,” you nod. “Well, he’s a grea—you’re both great teachers. I’m very lucky to be learning from the two of you.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment, and you fear your face grows warmer in the silence. Can feel the slick on your palms returning, the flash of heat in your chest, the longer you sit in it. You make a quick and tumbling excuse to flee the scene, spitting a mess of thank you so much and just need some fresh air, before you’re stumbling out of the hall and wandering outside on newborn deer legs. You snag a flute of something bubbly off the bar on your way, and find yourself on a secluded bench in the breezeway behind the conference centre.

You sit there alone and watch the grass, the way the light from inside shines out across the green. Feel the chill of the wind slip past you, rustling your hair and raising goosebumps on your bare legs. Sip dry Cava and contemplate how many more of these things you can feasibly imagine attending in your career. There’s a single text from Nora on your phone, asking how the presentation went. You tuck it into your purse, leaving the message unanswered.

By the time you hear the door hinges creak, the glass is near empty. You spy a shadowy form snaking its way down the path, headed in your direction.

“Mr Keynote Speaker,” you hum. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Funny,” Joel mutters dryly, knees cracking as he falls onto the bench beside you. A heavy sigh slips from between his lips, fingers lacing together in his lap as he gazes across the breezeway. You down the last of your drink and place it on the concrete by your feet. “Needed some god damn peace and quiet. All that chit chat drives me insane.”

You murmur in agreement and stare at the side of his face – the neatened beard, the thick frame of his glasses. Purposeful or not, the side of his body is pressed against yours. Thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder – he’s sat directly in the centre of the bench. Heat radiates off his body and it’s almost too warm, and yet you find yourself relaxing against him.

“First time at one of these?” Joel asks gruffly. He’s still not looking at you, his eyes trained on a pigeon pecking at a discarded foil wrapper on the grass.

“Is it that obvious?” you grimace.

“Only because I’ve been to twenty of the damn things,” he says. “Y’learn how to smell the nervous energy comin’ off the first timers.”

“Twenty?” you mutter. Feel your stomach curl and twist at the idea of doing this day nineteen more times.

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Went to a lot during my second degree. Had to get good at talkin’, fast.”

“Ahh,” you say. “So, you weren’t always such a sweet talker then?”

He lets out a low chuckle, as if amused by the thought. “Sweet talker, huh? That what I am?”

You shrug, suddenly emboldened by him following you outside, by how close he is, by how open he seems.

“I suppose,” you say slowly.

“And what gave you that idea?”

“You here alone?” you offer a poor imitation of him, voice low and breathy with your awful take on a Southern twang. “Meet me in the bathroom.” You wink, quietly delighted by the way his lips have tightened into a flat line.

“Funny,” he says again, entirely unamused now.

Something warm shifts in your lower stomach. Something wet—a vivid memory of him on the ground behind you in the bathroom of a bar, of hands spreading you open, of his tongue pressing inside you, of The Eagles playing faintly in the background.

“You do that kind of thing often?” you ask.  

“Do what?”

“Approach young women at bars,” you wiggle your eyebrows, smirking. “Rob them of their virtue in the bathroom and then hope you never see them again.”

“You? Virtuous?” Joel rolls his eyes. You can see the corner of his lip curling upward. “Must be gettin’ yourself confused with somebody else.”  

“Maybe,” you smile.

“Sometimes,” he casts you a look, after a moment. “Not… often. And not young.”

“Younger,” you counter quickly.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” he trails off and shakes his head. “It’s not a thing I do, alright?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t date then?”

He tilts his head at you curiously, eyes planted firmly on your face now. “Not for a long time.”

“Why not?”

“Been busy,” he grunts, clearly growing impatient by the line of questioning.  “Spent a lot of time studying. Working.”

“Where did you study?” you press.

“This twenty fuckin’ questions?” he snaps, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Came out here for—”

“You came out here,” you interrupt. “Because I came out here.”

He glowers at you, but doesn’t try to deny it.

“Night classes at Texas A&M for my undergrad,” he grits out. You smile sickly sweet, pleased. “Did my postgrads part time at UT Austin,” Joel says.

Your eyebrows kick up again, the teasing pretence all but forgotten. “Sounds… unconventional?” you offer softly.

“That’s one word for it,” he agrees vaguely. “Spent the better half of a decade at school just to end up teaching at one. Ain’t that somethin’.”

“And before that?” you press.  

“Before that,” he continues with a wry grin, one full of distaste and frustration and resentment. “Was a contractor for a long time. Houses, buildings.” He rests a hand against his shoulder, fingers pressing against the muscle there, as if working out a decade old knot.

And for a moment you can see it. Can almost taste it. Collared shirts and glasses replaced with hard hats and hammers and dirt in the lines of his palms. Joel carrying a plank of wood on his shoulder, wearing a toolbelt. Joel on his knees, sweat shining on his forehead while he wields an electric drill.

Your dress feels too tight suddenly. Too warm.

“A contractor,” you say distractedly, and hope he doesn’t notice how your thighs press together.

“Mhm,” Joel nods. “With my brother.”

“You have a brother?”

He ignores that. “Where did you study?”

“San Diego State,” you flash him a grin. “Go Aztecs.”

“Good school,” he hums. “You’re a long way from California.”

Only a little further than Texas, you think.

“You did good up there,” Joel adds.  

Your smile dips and wanes into a scowl, uninterested in the change of subject.

“What?”

“It was…” you shake your head slowly, face warming as you glance down to your lap.

“What?”

“It just wasn’t what I expected.” You pick at a loose thread on the hem of your dress. “That’s all.”

“And what did you expect?”

“To be listened to,” you grunt. “Not gawked at by some ancient jerkoffs that were only there to stare at my ass when I turned to change a slide.”

Joel nods, quiet.

“I wanted it to matter,” you mutter. “Wanted to… fuck, I wanted to impress them.”

“I was impressed.”

“Oh yeah?” you snort, finally looking up. “You hightailed it out of there pretty quickly.”

Joel shakes his head and stares back at you, gaze heavy. His hands tighten into fists against his thighs, knuckles lightening to white as he squeezes. You shuffle on the seat—ignore the flare of heat that erupts where your shoulder nudges firmer against his. 

“I guess you could say,” he speaks slowly. “I’m tryin’ to keep my distance.”

You arch an eyebrow and attempt to swallow the laugh bubbling up your throat.

“Well, you’re doing a great job,” you smirk.

Joel laughs and your smile falters, mouth going slack at the sound. How rare it is, and how much rarer to have it all to yourself like this. For all of his sharp angles, his sweet talking, his harsh words, and harsher touch—that laugh is the cruellest part.  

He jostles his shoulder against yours a little. An acknowledgement; perhaps a glimpse inside. Something that says, I know, I see it, I feel it, I can’t stop either.

“You make it hard,” he says then, and his voice is soft—almost a whisper.

“How’s that?” You match his tone, as if you’re two little kids who’ve snuck outside to share secrets where no one else can hear them.

“You bein’ here,” he murmurs, eyes searching. “Startin’ to feel like you’re everywhere I turn.”

A breeze swims past and you shiver, locks of hair floating in a mess around your face until you pat them down. Joel moves almost imperceptibly, curling his side tighter against yours to shield you from the onslaught.

“I know the feeling,” you admit.

The muscle in his jaw ticks and he clears his throat, looking out across the green again. For a moment the pair of you sit in silence. Not as professor and student, but simply a man and a woman on a bench. Breathing the same air, soaking in a shared silence that only the two of you could understand. And there are so many more questions you want to ask him, so much more you feel compelled to know, but instead you settle for this—sitting on a bench together, shoulders and thighs and chests pressed side to side, two frames moulded around the welcoming shape of one another. For now.

“It gets easier,” Joel says then, jaw tense as he spares a glance back in your direction. “This stuff, these people, all the talkin’.”

You acknowledge him with a small smile, just the slightest twitch of your lip. Don’t bother saying, maybe for you. Maybe for a man.

“You know,” you suck in a breath and give him a lazy smile instead. “I think this might be the longest conversation we’ve had without ripping each other’s clothes off.”

“Mm.” He leans his head back to rest on the wall, eyes focusing up towards the sky.

“I like it,” you say quietly. Hear how vulnerability chimes in your voice – a wobble that begs to be ignored and understood all at once. “It’s nice… talking like this.”

Joel’s head tilts towards you, dark eyes locked on yours. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see that wariness in his eyes. The same wariness that poured out in flecks of brown and amber and gold in the light of your bedroom a week ago, when he told you he was fifty. A hesitant curiosity, an incessant suspicion, a bark of disbelief. You feel the desire to pluck the feeling out of him and swallow it whole. To lock it safely inside yourself and make it so he never has to feel it again.

So you lean in a press your lips against his. Painfully soft, just a whisper of two mouths slotting together. Chapped and dry from the wind, he tastes like bitter sparkling wine. You sigh into him, uncaring. Hook your ankle around his, place your hand on his thigh, and sink closer, deeper.

He pulls back an inch, mouth still hovering over yours, the tip of his nose pressed into your cheek.

“Shouldn’t do this here,” he warns quietly, eyes still closed. His breath is hot against your face, and you inhale the taste of mint and Cava and Joel.

“I know.” You grip the lapel of his blazer and kiss him again. Firmer this time, grazing your tongue along the seam of his lips until he welcomes you inside to taste behind his teeth. The frame of his glasses presses into your nose, your cheeks, and you smile into his mouth. Rough palms and lazy fingertips graze the skin of your bicep, your neck, until they find a home at the nape of your neck. His thumb presses against the hinge of your jaw, hot wet tongue working your mouth open until you’re whining, teeth nipping at his bottom lip and fingernails digging into the meat of his thigh.

Only when you move to press a hand beneath the collar of his shirt does Joel pull back again, this time to stand and take a step away from the bench. A tinge of scarlet creeps its way from the hollow of his throat to the apple of his cheeks. He clears his throat and glances over his shoulder, towards the door. When he looks back, there’s something new there. Some dangerous that flashes in his eyes and lingers when his gaze dances down the curve of your body against the seat.

“Where are you staying?” you ask, breathless.

For a minute he doesn’t answer. Simply stares, contemplating, broad chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The lenses of his glasses are fogged, and you watch them slowly clear.  

Then— “The Pendry.”

Joel reaches into his pocket and retrieves something small and laminated. You take it from his outstretched palm carefully. “Fifth floor.”

You stare at it for a moment. Turn it over in your palm once, twice. Read the room number printed on the key card before tucking it safely into your purse. When you look up again, Joel is already walking back inside.

It’s nearing midnight by the time you arrive at the Pendry – a high rise in Manhattan West, the kind with a fancy lobby and a doorman in a neat black suit. The polar opposite of the hotel where your suitcase lies unopened across the city. You feel out of place in an instant, but you’re still in your dress, and the staff don’t bat an eye at your presence. The key card he gave you is hot where your fingers curl around it, plastic damp and foggy with the sweat from your palms. By the time you reach his door you have to wipe it on your dress before the sensor will recognise it.

A hollow beep echoes through the hall, and his door presses open with a soft hiss.

The room is enveloped in darkness. Moonlight shines in through a slim gap in the curtains, highlighting vague edges of the space. A desk against the wall, a large bed on the left of the room. For a moment you consider that he isn’t here—that he got caught up at the conference, sweet talking into the midnight hour with other professors and alums. You can hear sounds from the street, music and car horns blaring, even from the fifth floor. But nothing else. No Joel.

Tentatively, you take a step inside the room. And then another. Kick your heels off and feel rough carpet hairs sift between your toes. Holding your hands out into the darkness, fingertips ghosting the wall for support, you venture further into the room, only pausing when your shin thumps against the corner of something sharp and sturdy.

You spit a surprised curse and stumble into the wall, hands falling to grip your leg where it throbs and smarts.

“Jesus fuck,” you hiss, smoothing your fingers against the already forming lump.

A lamp flicks on, and the room lurches into view, tinged in a soft yellow light. You jump, eyes squinting against the sudden brightness. Bed sheets rumple and shift, and Joel is frowning at you from his place amongst the pillows, a hand raising to drowsily scratch his chin.  

“The hell are you doin’?” he rasps.

Heat flares in your face as you straighten up, mirroring his frown. He moves slow, a sluggish stretch out of bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and he looks almost concerned. It gives you pause for a moment, eyes unsure of where to settle, as you note just how much of his body you’ve never seen before. The soft muscles in his legs, the dark hair over tan skin. You can see the slight round of his stomach through the thin fabric of the shirt.

“Were you asleep?” you accuse.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” Joel mutters, and the sound is a fractured medley of words and yawns. You feel a dull pang of disappointment in your chest as you watch him rub sleep from the corner of his left eye.

“Were you hoping I wouldn’t?”

He doesn’t respond.

“You gave me a key.”   

“I know,” he sighs.

“Of course I was going to come.”

He nods. Yawns again, hand snaking upward to cover his open mouth.

You turn your back on him slowly. Take a glass from the little kitchenette and let the faucet run a cool burst of water into it. Little specks of water splash up, dotting against your hand. Your feet ache from wearing those damn heels all day, but you wilfully ignore the pain, gulping down half the glass while staring at your reflection in the splashback. Blue dress, hair tucked behind your ears, charcoal smudged around the curve of your eyes.

Joel’s fingers wind around yours, peeling the glass from your clutch so he can steal the final few sips. He discards it on the counter and leans against it. You try to make out his expression in the shadowy light, wiping your water-dotted arm against your side.

“S’a good dress.” He looks more alert suddenly, eyes sharp and focused, wide shoulders squared.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Didn’t say anything about it earlier.”

“Was tryin’ not to think about it,” he says plainly. “And how badly I wanted to take it off.”

Your hand stills. That misplaced disappointment slips out of the room, an unwelcome third party, and you grin at him. A sleazy, sleepy smile, and walk backwards in the direction of the bed without taking your eyes off of him.

“So take it off,” you challenge.

Your heartbeat is a steady thrum against your breastbone as he crosses the room. Badoom, badoom, no less than three strides and he’s there, gripping your waist to turn you so his chest is against your back.

Your zip is a low whir in the air, spinning downward slowly, slowly, from the nape of your neck to the sloping base of your spine. Deft hands trace skin, grazing every mark, every freckle as they are revealed to him, until the material of your dress is a gaping smile across your back. You shiver as the air rushes to meet your bare flesh, and then careful—cautious—you feel a pair of lips press against the top of your spine, soft pink against steely vertebrae. You say his name, low and surprised, and he doesn’t say anything. Those hands push the dress down your arms, and you watch it tremble and fall, a mess of blue at your feet.

You can hear his breathing; the way it stutters and jumps as he traces the clasp of your bra, the arch of your spine beneath it.

“Take it off,” you say again, and feel a sharp scratch of desperation that perhaps this time he won’t deny you this. This something that you’ve not experienced even once, and yet you find yourself missing.

The idea of his skin against yours is something prophetic, something inevitable, something divine—something determined far before the two of you met in that bar. It’s out of your control or his, irrevocable—a beast bred from desire that claws and snaps at the bars of its cage, calling you kicking and screaming into each other’s arms.

His fingers pluck at the clasp, and you smile. Sigh in relief as your bra hits the floor and the weight of your breasts are borne to the increasingly warm air. Joel is still behind you, still not seeing you. But broad palms splay across your back, massaging and flexing into your skin as they roam your sides, your stomach, up your front to cup your breasts. You gasp, eyelids fluttering as he squeezes softly, palms warm and solid against the stiff peaks of your nipples.

“Fuck.” Joel’s nose buries itself in your hair, his forehead against the back of your head. Your legs shake, and you lean back into his chest, your body a soft and tremulous thing that would surely float away if he weren’t here to hold you up.  

His hands are on your breasts, sweet and tender and finally, and you wonder how long this wanting will feel like burning. Like nicks of flame that gloss over you and spit embers at anyone who dares to get too close—at him, sparking and sputtering as they collide in a spitfire symphony. This man who lives set ablaze in his own right. This man who welcomes your flame every time—swallows it whole, and lays kisses against the back of your neck with lips still warm.

Calloused fingers roll and circle your nipples, playing gently, listening for every gasp, every sigh, before diligently repeating whatever it was that called the sound forward. Your underwear is all but ruined, already damp and clinging to the slick skin between your thighs. And you can feel him against your lower back, albeit unmoving—not grinding against you, not pushing you down onto the bed, but waiting – for what, you can’t be sure.

You turn around faster than he can stop you. Hook fingers into the band of your panties and drag them down in a swift movement before straightening, holding his gaze all the while. And Joel—

He looks in pain. Dark eyes lock onto on your face and don’t stray. Don’t dip downward, don’t glance around the room. His hands hang by his sides, palms facing upward in a dejected fashion, jaw slack as he just—waits.

“Why won’t you look at me?” you whisper.

“You don’t….” he shakes his head. “If I look, I won’t be able to forget. And I—I can’t—”

There’s a flash of that memory again. Sweating in the dark bathroom of a bar in Portland. Joel wiping stained lipstick from your chin. The words I’m gonna remember this dripping from his swollen lips.

You take a step forward. Feel your nipples graze the soft material of his shirt. “And what if I don’t want you to forget?”

He says your name quietly, shoulders tense. But when you grip the hem of his shirt, he doesn’t stop you. Rather, he lifts his arms and lets you drag the fabric over his head. You marvel at the bare skin, eyes dancing across jutting collarbones and the soft swell of his stomach. Watch the way his chest rises and falls as stilted breaths flurry inside him before spilling into the air between you. Admire the trail of dark hair that rests between his bellybutton and the soft band of his underwear. His eyes don’t leave your face as you push the boxers down his legs.

“So handsome,” you say and Joel exhales, hands hovering a hairsbreadth from your waist. The weight of the moment hangs heavy between you. This moment of more. To be with him like this feels like more. To be naked feels like more.

You grip his hand and raise it to your breast again. Squeeze your fingers over his. His thumb flicks across your nipple and you gasp. His eyes darken, nostrils flaring as he fights to restrain himself.  

“Joel,” you whisper. “Look at me.”

Finally, he does. Those brown eyes flickering downward to rake in the sight of your body.

He’s on you in a second, mouth slanting desperately against yours while his hands drift aimlessly across skin, untethered in their access. Fingers pinching and grabbing and squeezing, teeth searing at your lips, and you gasp as his cock presses against your stomach. The long, thick weight of him, drooling and needy. Your fingers slip around him, rub softly over the underside of his head, the vein on the underside of him. Joel grips your wrist and pushes you backward a step, his lips leaving yours with a wet smack.

“Sit on the bed,” he orders firmly.

You wander backward, stumbling onto the edge of the bed when your calves collide with the heavy wooden base. He watches you, hand drifting to wrap around the base of his cock. He strokes himself gently, black eyes tracing vigilantly over every inch of your body. And you expect him to push you down, to crawl on top of you. Instead, you watch with bated breath as Joel drops to his knees in front of you. His knees crack as they bend but he ignores it, nudging your thighs apart so his broad frame can fit between them. Hooded eyes gaze between your thighs, roaming across all of the bare skin on show. Slowly, he lifts a hand and rests it gently on your mound. Calloused fingers stroke over the dark hair there, stroking through the short curls. You sigh and cant your hips up, but Joel only grunts, his free hand squeezing your thigh to hold you against the mattress.

Before you can process it, he’s leaning forward, nose nestling in your hair as his warm tongue parts your folds. You groan in unison, your fingers carding through his curls to hold him against you. He murmurs something that you don’t quite catch over the roaring in your ears, but you don’t care. Too caught up in a smooth slide of his mouth slotting against you. The flat of his tongue glides up and down your sex, smearing a mess of slick and saliva in his wake. You gasp as it flicks sharply across your clit, your jaw tensing at the harsh sensation. Joel notices—pulls back.

“Tell me,” he urges.    

“Slower,” you say quickly, voice feeble and desperate.

“Slower,” Joel repeats with a nod, and he massages your thighs as he licks into you, fingernails scraping your skin as his grip tightens and loosens and tightens and loosens. He traces slow circles around your clit with the flat of his tongue that have you gasping and bucking against his face. And when his tongue presses inside of you, you moan, fingers twisting in his hair and tugging.

“Fuck,” he growls into you, and he likes that. You do it again and his eyes flick open, pupils blown, gaze darting wildly across your stomach, your arms, your breasts, your face – watching, admiring, taking in every detail of the offering that you’ve laid so generously at his altar. The tip of a finger curls inside you and he grins when your thighs tense around him. He rears his head back to watch how you welcome him inside, eyes locked on the way your weeping cunt clenches and drips around one of his fingers, and then another.

“Yeah,” you sigh, nose scrunching at the slight stretch. “Yeah, like that, fuck.” 

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Christ.” And then the cut of his wet red mouth is back on you, lips parting to suck against your clit until you’re crying out, voice a hoarse shout as you speed rapidly towards your end.

“Shit, Joel,” you gasp. One of your legs kicks out straight and his hand drops from your thigh, one set of fingers working you open while the other comes up to part your lips, giving himself more access. As he lathes wet kisses against you, the coarse hairs of his beard scraping your inner thighs, you can feel it. That liquid heat that coils and stirs in the base of your stomach.

“Joel, I—ohh—I think I’m gonna come,” you whimper, hand shooting out to grip his shoulder. Your nails dig into the tense muscle there, using the leverage to rut your hips against his face.

He groans into your sex, fingers moving faster, unforgiving against that spongy spot deep inside that sets you alight. His teeth graze against your clit, the lightest brush, and your stomach is tensing, every muscle in your body locking up.

“Give it t’me,” he says gruffly. “That’s it, come on, baby.”

A choked gasp falls from your lips and then you’re coming, twitching against his face, pussy bearing down on thick fingers that stoke you through the high. Your hand leaves his shoulder to grip the back of his neck, holding his face against where you’re aching for him still. Joel moans, a low sound from deep in his chest, dragging his fingers away so he can drink down every heady drop of your orgasm.

Baby.

The word rings in your head, bouncing inside your skull, a fierce ricochet. Baby.

Trembling fingers feather across the cowlick at the crown of his head, twisting and petting soft wayward curls as his mouth pulls back, a wet drag across the skin of your hip. You catch a glimpse of his cock, heavy and throbbing between his thighs.

Joel’s teeth nip at the sensitive skin of your thigh, a sharp pinch that makes you flinch. Tired muscles tensing, face twisting up as he sucks and licks, hot tongue soothing over the stinging red mark. He breathes your name, mouthing the sound into your flesh once, twice.

“I’ve been tryna remember this,” he murmurs. “Only ever had it for a second.”

You whimper as he licks into you again, slowly. And you’re so sensitive, and maybe—maybe—it’s too much, too soon, but he doesn’t care. He grips your calf and tucks it over his shoulder. Holds it there in a vice grip.

“Wasn’t enough,” he says. Dark eyes look up and you’re rapt in them—bound and boneless simply from having those eyes on you you you nothing but you all he sees is you and he loves it, you can tell. Thrives on the way you melt beneath his rough fingertips, the wet drag of his tongue. “Remember that first day in my office?

Remember, remember, remember, how could you forget? I’m gonna remember this this this.

“Yes.” Your leg trembles against the side of face, the coarse hairs of his beard scratching your skin. The tip of his tongue lathes slow circles around your clit. A cruel, leisurely slip of flesh on flesh that has you gasping and twitching beneath his hands.

“I wanted this that day,” Joel rasps. “Needed it. But you were gone so soon, ‘n’ I couldn’t help myself.”

“What—oh fuck—” He flicks his tongue faster, hot swipes from side to side that have your thigh clamping down against the muscles in his neck. Your mind is a blur, eyebrows furrowed as you try to make sense of his words.

“Fucked my fist the second you left,” he growls. “My fingers in my mouth, the taste of you—Christ, couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

“Joel,” you gasp, impatient. “I—get up here. Please, just—”

Strong hands push you up, push you back, further onto the bed until your head hits the pillows. His hair is a wild fray around his head, knotted and mussed from your fingers raking through it.

“I don’t have anything,” he says.

“I don’t care,” you say.

His knees press onto the mattress on either side of you and his eyes glance down your chest before he grips your waist and he’s turning you. Your stomach meets the sheets and you move to arch your back, to tilt your hips up towards him, but a firm hand rests on the small of your back, and keeps you down.

“Like this,” you hear him say. “Trust me.”

His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel him there, knuckles brushing the flesh of your ass, spreading you apart so his cock can press inside. The pillow swallows your wet gasp, and your eyes pinch shut against the stretch as he sinks deeper and deeper. Every delicious inch splits you open wider, further, carving out that space that’s just for him, and it’s more. Your vision blurs and you clutch at the sheets, fingers tangling in linen as Joel’s breathy groans fill the air.

“God,” he grunts. “Always so fuckin’—tight.”

You cry out as he begins to move, pressing you further into the mattress. The stretch of him is so broad—so deep—it has hot tears pricking in your eyes. Your legs are straight, almost clamped together, leaving the smallest gap for him to break through. His chest melts against your back, sweet sweat sliding from skin to skin. And his stomach is soft against the base of your spine, but his teeth are sharp where they nip and smart against the skin of your shoulder, your neck. He sets a pace that has you biting down into the pillow to muffle your groans. It’s almost overbearing how good it feels, how he surrounds you. Flat against the mattress, there’s nowhere to hide from the pleasure, no way to twist or curl your body away from how good it feels. A choked moan is muffled by the pillow.

And then his fingers are in your hair, dragging your head up.

“What are you fuckin’ doin’?” he grunts. You gasp, eyebrows furrowed and mouth ajar as you take take take. He pulls your hair harder when you don’t respond, presses his chin against your shoulder, lips curling against the skin of your neck as he speaks. “Don’t do that, not here. No more hidin’, I wanna fuckin’ hear it.”

He grips your hips and drags you upward so you’re on your knees, bracing against your forearms, and then his hand snakes around the front of your body, fingers dragging between your thighs as he begins moving again.

“Oh fuck,” your eyes widen in surprise, jaw hanging slack as he rolls his finger in expert circles over your clit. “Fuck, fuck.”

“Yeah?” he gasps.

“Fuck,” you repeat, mewling every time one of his thrusts sends your face forward into the pillows. “Yes, oh god.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ like that.” Each word is punctuated by a thrust of his hips. “That’s it, lemme hear it.”

“Joel,” you cry out, voice cracked and broken. “So good.”

“I know, baby,” he grunts. “I know.”

“You’re so—deep,” you gasp.

“I know,” he soothes.

“I missed this,” you babble, mouth moving faster than your mind. “Missed you.”

“Christ,” he spits, pulling you up until you’re leaning against his chest. His fingers are a blur against your clit, cock a fast wet shift in and out in and out.

You tilt your head back against his shoulder, mouth hanging open as you press your ass back into him.

“Missed me?” Joel says, and his cheek is warm against yours. Wet. Your face is wet. “Gonna show me how much?”

“Yes,” you moan. His free hand grips your breast, squeezing and pinching.

“Need to get my fuckin’ mouth on you,” he growls.

“No,” you beg. “Joel, don’t—fuuuck, fuck, don’t stop.”

“Wanted to,” his hips stutter against you, losing momentum for a second. “Jesus, wanted to take my fuckin’ time.” You snake a hand behind his head to grip his hair again, to press his face into your neck. His mouth latches onto your skin, spit mixing with sweat where his teeth and tongue trace your roaring pulse. Your thighs are trembling, knees weak and wobbling against the mattress as he pistons into you, unrelenting, unforgiving.

“I’m—” your eyes start to roll back. You can feel your back arch and twist against him, toes curling into the sheets. “Oh my God.”

He says your name in a panicked hiss and pulls out.

You gasp at the loss, eyes flying open in alarm. He moves your body, not wasting a second as he lowers you down onto your back presses inside again, hands gripping the underside of your knees, holding them against your chest. Practically bent in half, you tremble in his grasp, eyes blurred and wet as you sob his name.

“Lemme have it,” he goads you, voice a dull vibration against your chest. “Bein’ so fuckin’ good for me, yeah, just like that.”

And it feels like something splinters within you as heat floods your senses, vision whiting out until all you can see is the soft edges of his curls against your chest, the wet smear of his tongue over your nipple. All you can hear is the words he speaks against your skin.

I’m close, he warns, and you say yes, say please, say I want it, because you do.

“Where?” You call the shots.

And you say, Inside, say, I want it, because you do.

Because you want everything. Everything he has and whatever dark matter is left after that. And everything is a naked thought, a stark realisation, a frighteningly bare streak of madness that zips down your spine and melts in your belly, and you can feel yourself tightening around him with the enormity of it. Can feel your body squeezing and sucking and holding it holding it holding it and with black eyes, spheres of a night sky’s pitch, he stares at you. Unruly eyebrows pinched tight. Mouth slick and swollen and snarling, white teeth grit like prison bars, keeping everything contained inside himself, just out of your reach.  

“Fuck,” Joel spits, pleading, desperate. “Don’t—”

But his hips are bruising against yours and you relish in the ache. The jut of bone amidst the softness of his skin, a reminder of the coldness in him, the determination, the impatience. And you know that you can only have so much softness until there is stone. But you cannot understand don’t, you never have with him, so you grind upward. Meet him thrust for thrust, and shiver in delight as a tortured expression passes over his face. And when you come again he curses, broad palms bearing down on you, holding your frame into the mattress as he pushes you through it, prolonging that naked thought, that fearsome idea. You only hope that he cannot see how your own everything spills. How it cools and congeals around him with its palms spread open, longing to receive as much in return.

Joel comes with a shout, hips dragging backwards so his spend can spill across your stomach and the puffy lips of your sex. He grips his cock, milking himself for all he’s worth until wet ropes of his come are smeared across your thighs too. You gasp and writhe against the bed, trying in vain to keep your heavy eyelids open, not wanting to miss a second. The shine of your slick on his thighs and lower stomach is clear in the dim lighting, and you smile at the sight of it – your claim on him. Chest heaving, he follows your gaze, fingers swiping across his skin before sinking into his mouth. He groans around his fingers and you stomach lurches as he lowers his chest to the bed, mouth drifting between your splayed thighs.

You cup his jaw and hold him still.  

“I can’t,” you murmur, and your voice is cracked and broken. “S’too much.”

And he agrees, tracing the marks on the inside of your thighs with his mouth until your eyes drift closed.

Time passes slowly after that. You don’t open your eyes for a while. Too fucked out, too tired, too tender.

There’s a warm glide of something soft and wet over your stomach, your thighs, between your legs—Joel cleaning up his mess. You almost wish he wouldn’t.

“Sorry,” you mumble a few minutes later. “I’ll go in a second.” But your eyes are closed, and the sheets smell like him.

You feel the mattress dip beside you. Hear a soft click as he turns off the lamp, and darkness swells around you once more.

“S’okay,” he says, and his voice is so close, as if he were whispering against the shell of your ear, breathing the words into you. “Don’t have to go.”

And it makes sense not to go. To stay, to stay, to stay. To sink deeper into the hotel mattress, and let the sounds of his heavy exhales lull you further to sleep. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t come any closer. But you can smell him. Can feel his warmth, a radiating sun that shines across the side of your body closest, and you sink deeper still.

You think of the katabasis - the hero’s journey spiralling down into the underworld. Of Orpheus seeking the safe return of Eurydice, his love lost too soon. Of Odysseus, guided by Circe to discover Teiresias on his quest for homecoming. Of Aeneid, venturing downward to meet his father and hear his true destiny. This descent into the afterlife, into the realm of the dead, wherein upon return our hero is irrevocably changed. But to stay, to stay, to stay. So warm it is here, you think, so lovely and warm to descend wholly into this wanting, this burning, this everything.   

“Is this a good idea?” you murmur, voice a drowsy call into the darkness. “For me to stay?”

Joel doesn’t respond.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @bbyanarchist @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida @mendessi @love-the-abyss @myrealmofchaos @a-roving-woman @punkshort @gracie7209 @whichwitchwanda @fellinfromthetop @bitchwitch1981 @suzmagine @@lmariephoto37 @harriedandharassed @cumberpegg @tonysttank @ourautumn86 @my-tearsricochet @shotgun-shelby @5oh5 @psychedelic-ink @what-is-your-wish @sugadolly @elissaaa @nobodycanseeinsidemysoul

thank you for reading! x

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. “Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. “Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is truly desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”

[nastyaromatherapy]

can we get dark ethan where he takes reader’s virginity through non con? sorry if this request is too dark only if you’re comfortable with it 💜

Unwanted encounter (18+)

Ethan your econ partner, loves the idea of taking your virginity.

pairing - ghostface!ethan landry x cheerleader!fem!reader

one shot length, 2.2k+ word fic

warnings: non con, first time, minimal knife play, hair pulling, creampie, reader is smart w an airhead personality, pervy ethan

read more cut isn't working so sorry for that 🌚

Your professor partnered up you and Ethan for an Econ project. Ethan at first, was not at all thrilled. You were popular, didn't care much about grades, and had the douchiest boyfriend.

He on the other hand, actually wanted that A, and didn't have many friends outside of the core four. He wasn't that close with them either. You wanted that A too, he just wasn't aware of that. He already created a version of you that was untrue in his mind.

But when the day finally came, and he was over at your house, he realized how wrong he was about you. He realized that you were actually really smart, nice, and funny. You actually had a personality.

He asked to see all of the research you've conducted, and you showed him pages of notes. "You're smarter than you look y/n," he teased. You rolled your eyes at him. "What's that supposed to mean?" You asked, taking offense. "I mean you look like the average cheerleader that's fucked more then half of the football team."

You gawk at him and his incel driven ignorance. "I haven't even fucked my boyfriend on that team," you corrected, annoyed. "I'm a fucking virgin- you know nothing about me." He went silent not knowing what to say, but the thought of you never being taken like that before made him throb in his jeans.

"Fuck I'm sorry, it was just a joke." He apologized, voice getting quieter the more he spoke. "Joke," you repeated, clicking your tongue. "Just get the fuck out of my house, my boyfriend 'll be back soon. He's not going to be too happy with you here. He doesn't like dogs on the bed," you snark, pointing to the door.

He looks at the ground and apologizes under his breath again before leaving the room.

Your boyfriend didn't come home. He texted you, "Gonna be out a little later than usual, emergency with the guys." You believed him, Ethan knew he was out fucking some girl. Guys like him can't live with abstinence.

Ethan sat at home, jerking off to videos of you on the sidelines in football highlights. He groaned whenever your skirt lifted up when you jumped, exposing some of your dark navy panties.

He had to know how it felt to be inside you. How tight you would be, never been stretched before. He imagined your moans, begging to be slow your first time, loving the way he impaled your cunt.

He pumped himself faster, getting closer to the edge, imagining his hands were your soft, delicate ones. Then his mind wandered to other places, how would your lips feel, wrapped around his tip? He came just at the thought, shooting ropes onto his grey sweats.

He just had to feel you, he had too. So, he put on his black robe and mask, the one he planned to use to execute Sam, Tara, and the rest of their friend group with. But today, he had other plans.

He creeped to your rich boyfriend's house, seeing you in bed reading a book in the window. You were listening to god knows what with your airpods, bopping your head to the music while highlighting pages of the book. He gave your phone a ring, and he watched you doubled tap the earbud to answer. "Hello?" You asked with that sweet voice of yours he relished in. "Hello y/n," he asked using the voice changer. "Hi!" You respond bubbly and obliviously.

"Watcha listening to?" He asked huskily. "Ariana Grande," you giggled out. "Who's this?" You ask the mystery caller. "Oh only your biggest fan," he replied, voice smooth. "I look forward to seeing you every game, you're my favorite." You blush at his creepy compliment, continuing to annotate the quotes in the book. "Thank you, I work hard. But seriously.. who are you?" You repeat.

He chuckles to himself, "What? You want to see me? Want me to show myself?" You shake your head giggling, unaware of the danger coming your way. "No, I just need your name." You said.

"Need," he repeated. "Y'know what I need at a time like this? A warm cunt I can stretch out," he groaned. Bewildered, you check your phone to see who called, no caller ID. "Uh, what?" You awkwardly chuckled, growing uncomfortable.

"You're a virgin, right y/n?" He asked. You nodded, unaware you were being watched, but you did it subconsciously anyways. "You ever thought about it? Getting fucked by a cock?" He asked through the phone. "Of course I have. But it's never been the right time, y'know? I want my first time to be special."

As you spoke Ethan snuck his way into the house, making his way towards the room where you basked. "Trust me," he spoke, breath heavy. "It will be," he finished, stepping his way into your doorframe.

You screamed out, scared, shaking uncontrollably. "Oh my god! Get the fuck out I swear to god, my boyfriend will be back soon, and he will not be happy with you." He tilted his head, knife in hand. "And you think he's happy with you?" He asked, plunging onto the bed, mounting the top of you, struggling to hold you down. He started to graze the blade of the knife against your jaw. "Every weekend," he drags out, still using a voice changer through the mask. "He goes missing. He goes to the sorority house and knocks up a couple of sisters."

You tear at the news, not wanting to believe it. "You're lying!" You spit, trying to escape his grasp to no use. "No, doll. I am telling nothing but the truth." You reach up to try to pull the mask off to no use, he pinned your arms down onto the bed. He sighs and gets up off of you, pointing the knife at you so you stay put.

He places a camera on the dresser, facing the bed. "What'd you say we get back at him, hm? We make him a little movie, and he see's how good I fuck you?" He said, climbing back onto the bed. You cry, "Please no." You shake your head with tears streaming down your red cheeks. "Please fucking yes," he mocks, reaching up your nightie.

You gasp when his gloved hands grasp your body, making their way up to your breasts making you whimper. "Your boyfriend ever touch you like this?" He asks. You shake your head a no in response, sniffling a little.

His hands moved down to your delicate lacy panties, slipping them off swiftly. You gasp as the cold hair hits your pussy. He takes the gloves off of his hands and tossed them onto the floor before toying with your folds. You weren't soaking but you were getting there, wetness dripping out of your pussy.

He attempted to slip a finger inside but you were so goddamn tight. You whined having nothing ever been in there before, not even a tampon. He finally got one in and you moaned out, kicking your foot a little. "Easy," he whispered, trying to make room for another finger. You were much wetter on the inside then out. "Please, if you want to live just s-stop. My boyfriend will actually kill y-" You were cut off by your own moan when he slips in his second finger.

You moaned at his big fingers, extremely sensitive. "No, stop- Ethan," you moaned out. His face shot up when you said his name. You noticed his reaction. "You don't even have to hide it," you said breathily, chest heaving. "I've never told anyone I'm a virgin." With that he slips the mask off, revealing his cute but devilish face and sweaty curls. He bit his lip and curled his fingers deeper inside you making you screech.

You shook your head a no as you felt yourself grow close, but your body was going against your protests, molding itself against his touch. "Ethan please s-stop," you pleaded as your thighs started to clench. Your hips completely contradicted your words, bucking into his fingers before letting out a final scream and secreting fluids onto his fingers and your sheets. He inhales before leaning down and sucking your clit, extending your high.

You huff and puff, chest rising and falling. Ethan pops off of your clit and goes for your lips, kissing you. You don't kiss back, trying to retract your lips as much as possible. You couldn't deny he was a good kisser, but he broke into your house and fingered you against your will, and made you orgasm.

"Come on, baby," he grunts into the kiss. "You can't deny I'm the best you've ever had." You shake your head when he finally pulls away. "You're the only I've ever had! Please Ethan, I love my boyfriend, I don't want this." You cry, but he keeps groping you through your dress anyways, making you throb again. "Well maybe I don't care what you want. I care what your cunt does." He says, kissing at your neck as he continues to toy with your heavy, cloth covered tits.

Your nipples grew perky and you moaned as he sucked on that sweet spot on your neck. He left a mark on your neck and pulled away, then he started to pull down his pants. After that he took off the whole costume, leaving him naked on your bed. "You look so sexy in that dress, but you're going to have to take it off." You shook your head a no. "No?" He mocks. He picked up his knife from the side. "Guess I'll have to cut it off." Your eyes grow wide, not wanting to ruin the expensive gift from your boyfriend. "No!" You yell, stopping his actions. "I'll take it off," you say weakly, pulling it over your head.

"Good girl," he cooed. "God you're beautiful." He groans, pumping himself in his hand, eyeing your pretty, dainty tits. "Come on, try it," he urged, guiding your hand to his length. You wrapped around him perfectly, hand more gentle than his own. He groaned as you jerked him, feeling disgusted with yourself. On your boyfriends bed, giving your econ partner a handjob.

He groaned and grew more desperate, needing to be inside of you more than anything. He removed your hand from him. "Turn around," he spoke, motioning you to face the headboard. You choked on tears, complying worriedly. He pushes your face into your pillow and guides your ass up. He grabs the knife and grazes it along your back, making your spine shiver.

"Ethan please, we can forget about this, I swear." You beg, but it doesn't stop him. Ethan teases your opening with his tip making your mouth agape. You involuntarily start to push back against him, scooting your ass back to meet his cock. "Slut," he remarks, slapping your ass cheek leaving it a bright red.

He grips your ass with his hands, making you suck in air a little, before he pushes in a little more than the tip. You groan at the stretch, face contorting uncomfortably. He let you adjust a little, only using the tip for a solid minute. "Ethan please stop, it hurts s'much," you whined. "Hurts? I'm not even halfway," he chuckled out, continuing to fuck you with his thick, pink tip. You cried, stomach bubbling up from the stimulation.

Your wetness seeped onto his cock, making it easier for him to ease his way all the way in, slamming his hips against your ass making you bite your pillow, screaming into it. "That's it," he whispered, slowly thrusting in and out of you. You moaned into the pillow, arching your back.

He grunted and started to get rougher, slamming his hips against yours, every thrust making the bed frame hit the wall. He gripped your hair and pulled your head out of the pillow, your face covered with tears. You moaned, gripping the sheets behind you while taking him from the back. You felt yourself getting close again, stomach tightening as you felt the sensation of having to piss. He felt you clench around his length and whispered in your ear, "Cum on my fucking cock, slut."

In response to his words you screamed out as you came around his cock, leaving a creamy ring around his base. He let go of your hair, letting you collapse back onto the bed. He continued to hold your ass up, continuing to hit it roughly, groaning at every one of your throbs. You started to salivate a little against the pillow due to your excessive whines.

He wiped the sweat off of his forehead while panting, getting close. His thrusts through sloppy and less uniformed. "Gonna breed this pussy, and you're gonna wish I was in you every second of every fucking day," he spat out, huffing and not being able to hold back any longer. With a final thrust, he came deep in your cunt, shooting spurt after spurt inside you. After he pulled out, his cum dripped out of you followed by the sound of flatulence.

You laid there and didn't even realize how much time has passed. Ethan disappeared through your window that was now open with his camera with everything documented. Through the window, you saw lights of a car, and soon your boyfriend stumbled in, eyeing your cum dripping cunt.

[lovelybucky1]

Smoke Me Out

Kinktober Day 3- Corruption Kink

warnings: female!reader, college!au, drug use (weed), slight age gap (everyone 18+), slight dubcon, sex while under the influence, childhood friends, brothers best friend!anakin, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, cum play, tattooed and pierced anakin, 18+ minors dni

masterlist

kinktober masterlist

you are half way through your first semester of college and you've never felt more uncool in you're entire life. you rushed for a sorority and you got into alpha delta pi, and though they have parties every weekend where you get drunk, you still feel like you're missing a key aspect of the college experience.

you want to get high. you've never smoked anything before and you're nervous to ask your sorority sisters or a frat guy to help you through your first time. you didn't know who else to ask to supply good stuff or even who to trust other than anakin.

you've known him forever. he's your brother's best friend and he was always around when you were growing up. you used to have the biggest, most hopeless crush on him when you were younger. now he's a junior at the same college you go to, but it's a state school, everyone from your hometown goes there.

when you finally decide to ask anakin to give you some weed, you text him, telling him you're coming over. no information or anything, just "omw".

you walked the mile or so to the off campus house anakin shares with your brother and a couple other friends. when you walk up, you see the porch light is on, illuminating the figure on the porch.

"your brother's not here," anakin says instead of a greeting.

"i'm not here for him," you say as you skip up the porch steps. anakin sits on a dingy lawn chair and smokes a cigarette, the pungent smell filling the air.

"so what do you want?" he asks, raising a pierced brow at you.

"well..." you start, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

"well?"

"i want some weed."

anakin lets out a chuckle. "you're not serious."

"i am! i wanna do it but i don't want to do it for the first time with a stranger."

a slight smirk forms on anakin's lips but he does not make a comment about your double entendre.

"that's cute."

you frown. "i'm serious, anakin. can't you help me out?"

anakin hums like he's thinking about it. "no."

"what? why not?" you whine. "i can pay, i have money."

"it's not about the fuckin' money," he rolls his eyes. "i'm just not going to let my little sister get high."

"i'm not your little sister," you huff.

"might as well be."

"i'm an adult, anakin! i can make my own decisions."

he picks up his foot and stubs his cigarette out on the heel, then tosses the butt onto the porch. he stands up and now, instead of being blow you in the chair, he has to look down to meet your eyes.

"and i can decide not to give you any."

you cross your arms and look up at him. you know it's a bit childish, but if he's going to treat you like one anyway, what's the harm?

"fine then. i'll just get some frat guy to smoke with me."

that seemed to get a rise out of anakin. "no you fuckin' won't," he says, voice gruff.

"i will. you know i'm in a sorority now. i have frat guys busting down my door. i'm sure i'd have a line waiting if i said i wanted to smoke."

anakin's frustration seems to grow when he sees the smirk on your lips. without another word, he grabs your forearm and yanks you, forcing you to follow him into the house.

"anakin!" you exclaim, but he ignores you.

he practically drags you up the stairs and down the hall to his bedroom. you've never been inside it, only having seen it from the doorway of your brother's room by the stairs.

he marches you over to his dresser and you take in the sight of the room. navy blue sheets on an unmade bed, dirty clothes on the floor, a pair of panties you suspect aren't his at the foot of the bed. empty beer cans, some with holes in the sides, litter the top of the dresser. he has a small box of jewlery for his piercings, a poster of his favorite band, and a framed picture of him with you and your brother as kids.

the room is gross, not unexpected for a 22 year old, but it feels like anakin. evidence of his vices everywhere, but touches of personality shine through.

"you want me to smoke you out, huh?" he opens the top right drawer of his dresser and takes out a pre-roll and a lighter. "here you go."

you take it from him, but you don't feel as excited as you thought. anakin's attitude is kind of killing your vibe.

"are you mad at me?" you ask.

"mad? no," he says, looking at you with crossed arms. "just a little annoyed that you came here beggin' for weed and got all bratty and started running your mouth when i said no."

"i did not get bratty!" you whine, sounding very bratty.

anakin rolls his eyes. he turns and walks towards the window, pushing it open and sitting down next to it. you follow and sit across from him, the blunt and lighter in each hand.

"what do i do?" you ask.

"christ, haven't you ever seen a movie before? you put this end in your mouth," he points to the filter end. "and you light this end."

you do as he instructs, and attempt to take a drag. you end up inhaling too deep and you start to cough, eyes watering. anakin doesn't laugh at you, but he does give you a satisfied little smirk.

you take another hit and this time it goes better, you only cough a little bit. anakin reaches over and grabs the blunt from your hand and you frown.

"you're not smokin' this whole thing yourself."

anakin puts it in his mouth, right were a ring of your lip gloss is, and took a drag just like he taught you, but his was perfect. he didn't cough or choke, and the cloud he exhaled swirled out the window.

he gives it back to you and watches as you take another clumsy drag. when you hand it to him again, he takes a long drag but doesn't pass it back.

"hey," you whine.

"that's enough for your first time," he says.

"that was barely anything, anakin."

"it hasn't hit you yet. you wanted me to take care of you, right?"

you huff. "yeah."

"so shut up."

you roll your eyes but decide not to argue further. you and anakin sit next to the window, letting the slight cool breeze blow in on you. you feel yourself become more fuzzy as time passes. you're not very high, but it just enough to satisfy your curiosity.

"how do you feel?" anakin asks after some time of silence.

"good. fuzzy."

"that's good. means you're not too far gone." anakin takes a pause before continuing. "i can't believe you were gonna let a fucking frat guy smoke you out. do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

your eyes flick back up to meet his; you hadn't realized you were staring at his lips. "some of them are nice."

"nice," he scoffs. "they're only nice because they want to fuck."

"that's not true," you huff.

anakin takes a hit and when he speaks, smoke pours from his lips.

"jesus, you're so naïve. frat guys like dumb inexperienced sorority girls."

"are you calling me dumb?"

"yeah i am. you need to stay away from those guys."

"well it's a little too late for that," you bite.

anakin's brows furrow and his lip curls in disgust. "you didn't sleep with one of them, did you?"

"not just one."

anakin sighs loudly and shakes his head. "what the hell were you thinking?"

"i was at a party and we just had fun. don't act like you've never had casual sex before." anakin stubs out the blunt on the window sill and leaves it there to smolder. he gets up from the floor and walks around the room aimlessly. "why are you being so dramatic? are you jealous or something?"

anakin's eyes snap over to yours. "no, i'm not fuckin' jealous. no one's fuckin' allowed to touch you."

"why do you get to decide that?" you shout, feeling your blood boil with anger.

"because you're mine!" he yells back, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "i protect you, i keep you fucking safe from assholes like the ones you're just falling into bed with."

"i’m not a child, i don't need you to protect me!"

"i obviously haven't done a very good job. why would you even want a frat guy, they don’t know how to fuck.”

“and you do?”

you’re not sure why you said it. it’s irrelevant to the argument but for some reason it just slipped out. you can’t say you’ve never thought about how anakin would fuck before. you’ve spent many nights up late thinking about your older brother’s best friend.

“yeah i do,” he says, voice low. “i could show you what good sex is. it’s nothin’ like you had with those guys.”

your breath catches in your throat at the unexpected development. is anakin offering to fuck you?

“i thought you said i was like your little sister,” you say, suddenly timid.

“that's what you're hung up on?” he asks as he crosses the room in a few short strides. standing right in front of you, anakin towers over you. you have to crane your neck to look up at him, meeting his light eyes. "let me do my job and teach you something, huh?"

you shyly nod, none of the anger from moments ago fueling your actions any longer. desire burns in anakin's eyes, and although its odd that he is looking at you in such a way after being nothing more than platonic your whole life, it doesn't feel wrong.

"you want me to kiss you?" anakin asks. again, you nod.

he leans his head down and presses his lips to yours. it's not very tender, but you didn't expect it to be. his lips are slightly chapped and the kiss is rough. he's claiming you. anakin's hands grip onto your wrists and he pins them to your sides as he continues to explore your mouth.

when he pulls away, his lips glisten with spit and he's smirking down at you. he walks you over the bed and grabs the hem of your shirt. without saying anything, you raise your arms above your head and he takes it off, leaving you in your bra. anakin looks at your chest shamelessly, eyes drinking in the sight of you.

"anakin," you say, embarassed.

"what? you wanted me to fuck you and now you're getting all shy when i look at your tits?" he palms your breasts through your bra, watching them bounce. "how're you gonna react when i see your pussy?"

"don't say that," you whine.

"say what, pussy?" you nod. "aw, is that too dirty for you, sweetheart?"

he grins as he takes off his own shirt and tosses it to the floor. you ogle at his bare torso, acting like it's your first time seeing it. he has gotten more tattoos since the last time you saw him shirtless, and his left nipple has a silver bar through it.

without waiting for you to catch up, anakin undoes the buckle on his jeans and pushes them down to his ankles, kicking them off before removing his socks. now he's left only in a pair of loose plaid boxers that rest low on his hips, showing off the star tattoos on his hip bones. he then motions to you to do the same.

you kick off your shoes and socks, then more timidly, you take off your pants. you're left standing in your childhood crush's bedroom in your underwear.

"come on, take off your panties," he says, grinning. "let me see that pussy." you pout in response. he steps closer to you, putting his large, warm hands on your hips. "do you want me to do it for you?" you bite your lip and nod slightly.

he holds onto the waistband of your panties and pulls them down as he sinks to his knees. he lets the delicate fabric fall to the floor and he looks hungrily at the newly exposed area. he leans his face in and presses his nose to the joint of your leg and groin, taking a deep inhale of your scent.

"anakin!" you squeal, grabbing his hair and pushing his head away.

"what's wrong?" he asks, sitting back on his heels.

"don't be mean to me."

"i'm being mean? imagine how those frat guys would treat you. actually, don't."

anakin pushes you back on the bed and he crawls between your open legs, resting his cheek on your thigh as he stares at your pussy.

"what a pretty cunt," he smirks.

teasingly, he traces his finger over your slit, gathering your wetness. he circles your clit to gauge your reaction, delighted when you squirm.

"i bet most guys can't even find this. the most action it's probably seen is from you playin' with it yourself," he says, eyes flicking up to yours. "is that true?"

you squeeze your eyes shut and nod, evoking a laugh from anakin.

"this poor, neglected little pussy," he coos. "what do you think about when you touch yourself?"

"i-i'm not telling you that," you say, voice breathy.

anakin tuts as he pushes his long, slender middle finger into you.

"i bet it's not any of the guys who can't make you cum. is it a celebrity? what's the name of the actor you used to be obsessed with? i was so jealous if him."

"you, anakin," you whimper.

"what was that?"

"i think about you."

anakin grins and slides another finger into your pussy, curling them up to rub at that spot deep inside you.

"that's a good thing, then, because you're all i think about too."

"please fuck me, anakin," you beg, your voice sounding unfamiliar to your own ears.

"already? but you've only taken two fingers. are you sure you're gonna be able to handle my cock?"

as desperate as you are, you're growing tired of anakin's coddling.

"i'm sure i've taken bigger. just fuck me."

anakin raises his eyebrows and blinks at you a couple times, clearly offended. he gets up from his knees and pulls down his boxers, letting his long, hard cock slap against his abdomen.

"alright then, since you want to be such a big girl, i'll give it to you."

he grabs your lower leg and hoists it over his shoulder as he lines his head up with your entrance.

"wait," you stop him. "are you clean?"

he gives you an unimpressed look. "yeah, i'm clean. are you?"

"yes," you nod.

"i'm not gonna knock you up, am i?"

"if it happens, it happens." anakin freezes. "i'm joking, you asshole. i'm on the pill."

he rolls his eyes and presses his tip into you. you whimper at the stretch but you give him the okay to keep going, so he continues. he feeds his cock into you and it feels never-ending.

"is it too big for you yet?" he asks smugly.

"shut up," you breathe.

after going slow to start, anakin seems to get tired of waiting. he pushes in until he's fully seated inside you, filling you up more than you ever have been. he then starts to rock his hips, driving his head deeper.

"fuck," he groans. "never imagined this pussy'd feel so good."

you reach down to rub your clit as he fucks you, feeling yourself becoming closer as he continues to stimulate your g-spot with his cock.

sex with your previous partners truthfully had not bern very satisfying. but with anakin, you find yourself hurtling towards the edge faster than you get with your favorite toy. maybe its from years of pent up attraction to him finally spilling over. maybe he’s just that good at sex.

“just like that,” you say breathlessly.

anakin is looking down at you with half-lidded, lust filled eyes. his mouth hangs open as he thrusts into you, really putting his back into it to fuck you hard like you deserve.

“little cunt’s squeezin’ my cock. guess she likes me, huh?” he asks with a smirk. you bring your arm up to cover your embarrassment from his babbling. “don’t be such a prude, i know you like what i’m sayin’. you’re soaking me. it’s dripping all the way down my balls, baby. you made such a mess of me with that slutty cunt.”

you let out an unintelligible whine and anakin laughs. your fingers speed up on your clit as anakin fucks you harder, keeping up with the intensity of the stimulation.

“i’m gonna cum,” you say quietly, like you’re confessing a shameful sin.

“yeah?” he asks. “cum all over my dick, baby. ‘m all yours.”

after a few more thrusts, the tension in your stomach releases and your orgasm washes over you. anakin continued to fuck you through it, dragging it out longer than just a few seconds.

when you finally let yourself relax, the stimulation becomes too much and you whine at anakin, telling him to stop.

“your little cunt not used to it being that good?” he asks as he pulls out.

his cock stands against his abs, slightly curved and glistening with your cum. he strokes himself as he looks at your body, deciding how he wants to cum.

“get on your knees,” he says.

“i don’t wanna blow you,” you saw, furrowing your brows at the thought of your juices in your mouth.

“i wanna cum on your tits. get on your knees.”

you stand from the bed on wobbly knees and kneel on the ground in front of anakin. he positions his dick in front of your face, but too far to taste it. he jerks himself off, using your cum as lube to make the glide smoother.

“look up at me,” he demands. you do so, looking up at his face with wide eyes instead of at his cock. “those pretty eyes,” he mumbles.

you watch his abs clench and flex as he nears his orgasm. it’s almost mesmerizing to see the physical reaction he has to you.

“want you to cum on me, anakin,” you say.

maybe you’re playing it up a bit for his sake, but it seems to work, because suddenly he’s moaning and hot spurts of cum paint your skin. he continues to jerk himself off until he’s finished, and as he catches his breath, he admires his artwork.

“fuck, baby,” he sighs.

anakin drops to his knees in front of you and drags his fingertips through the mess on your tits.

“that wasn’t your pay of getting payment for the weed, was it?” you ask, giggling.

“fuck no,” he pants. “nah, i did that cause i wanted to. and now i’m never gonna let you look at another frat guy again.”

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Honey Girl. Chapter Three.

Chapter One. Chapter Two. Chapter Four. Chapter Five. Chapter Six. Chapter Seven. Chapter Eight. Chapter Nine. Chapter Ten. Series Masterlist. The Playlist.

Chapter Synopsis - You and Bucky get closer. Your choice only gets harder.

Pairing - Dad'sBestFriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au.

Word Count - 6.4k

Age Rating - 18+

Warnings - smut. cursing. angst. alcohol consumption.

Author's Note - angels, i can only apologise for the wait!! i've had some stuff going on, and i was on vacation, so this has taken a while. thank you so much for your patience, kindness and support on Honey Girl - it means everything.

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback!!) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3 please, send me your thoughts, predictions, desires!! i will get excited with you!!

Masterlist. Inbox.

The sunlight seeps through the stained glass windows, murmured chatter echoing off the stone walls around you.

You smooth down your dress and adjust your bracelet, smiling at the rare sight of your family and friends all gathered together in one place. Your parents are sat on either side of you, all of you eagerly awaiting the beginning of this exciting occasion.

Man, you love weddings. You always have. So much happiness and joy in one short day, everyone excited about the possibility of eternal love.

You're still sat waiting when you realise, with quiet uncertainty, that you're not sure whose wedding this is. All of your family is here, as well as many of your friends. So why do you feel so confused all of a sudden?

The Priest gestures for all of the guests to stand just as the first notes of the Wedding March begin to reverberate around the room. You turn around, craning your neck to try and get a glimpse of the bride.

You don't know her, but she's... beautiful. Long, dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders, white silk dress hugging her frame perfectly, accentuating every dip and curve. She has kind eyes, warm and brown, and a blinding smile that's infectious and dazzling. Her skin glows in the stained glass sunlight, illuminating her in an ethereal radiance. She has a beauty that belongs on the cover of a magazine, or on the ceilings of the Sistine Chapel.

You eagerly turn back towards the altar to find out who her lucky groom is. He has his back to you, dark suit stretched across his broad shoulders. He turns, and you can't help the gasp that escapes your lips.

It's Bucky.

You're panicking, suddenly. You want to scream, shout, run over to them and object in any way possible. Your Mom grabs your hand tightly from one side, as your Dad does the same on the other.

"Mama, I have to-"

"You can't, sweetheart. It's not fair."

"You made your choice," your Dad says kindly, not an ounce of malice in his voice. "Now you have to let him make his."

White hot tears drip down your cheeks as your chest rises and falls with frantic frustration. This isn't how you wanted things to go. This wasn't supposed to happen.

The lights in the church are suddenly too bright, the wooden pews too hard. There's an incessant knocking noise coming from somewhere in front of you, loud and overwhelming. You swear someone's shouting your name in the distance, among all of the chaos.

"Honey? It's Bucky. Are you okay?"

Why is he asking if you're okay? Of course you're not okay, you're in this living nightmare.

Nightmare.

You're having a nightmare.

You wake with a startled gasp, cheeks wet and warm, sweat dripping down your back. The knocking hasn't stopped, in fact, now it's even louder.

"Sugar? Are you in there? Can you let me in?"

It's Bucky. Bucky's here.

You throw yourself out of bed and race through your apartment, swinging open the door. Bucky is stood on the other side, still in his navy plaid pyjama pants, sweater thrown over himself haphazardly. You look down at yourself and see that you're only wearing an old t shirt, legs bare and feet cold on the wooden floor.

"Are you okay?" he asks gently, stepping forward into your space. "I had this horrible feeling. It was like... like I was panicking. I knew it wasn't me so I figured it must have been you. What's wrong, sweets?"

He snakes his fingers around your wrist and pulls you into him gently, wrapping his arms around you completely. You relax into his embrace, inhaling the warm, cosy scent of him. All the fear leaves your body, and you cling to him tighter, worried that he'll disappear any minute.

"I had a nightmare," you whisper into the soft cotton of his chest.

He pulls back to look at you, large, calloused hands cradling your tear stained cheeks.

"You wanna talk about it?"

You deliberate for a second before shaking your head softly.

"If you change your mind, you know I'll always listen to you. Any time. I mean it."

"I know," you say quietly. "Thank you."

You step away from him and towards the couch, where you curl up with your legs tucked underneath you. Bucky walks over to the kitchen, filling the kettle and placing it on the stove. He makes two mugs of tea, handing one into your outstretched hands carefully. He shuffles to sit next to you, pressed into your side, arm slung around your shoulders. You relax into the broadness of him, the comfort he brings, the safety. The two of you fall asleep intertwined, warm and content, wrapped completely in each other and the blanket of your love.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You're both startled awake by a phone ringing. The unwelcome melody is coming from somewhere between where you're nestled together, limbs intertwined and bodies connected.

"It's-fuck- is that mine or yours?" Bucky's mumbling as he scrambles amongst the couch cushions.

"Yours, I think," you reply, finding your phone on the floor where you've kicked it in your sleep.

Bucky finally finds the source of the noise, trapped in the arm of the couch. He presses the green button reluctantly, still disorientated from being woken so suddenly.

"Hello?"

That deep, raspy grumble of his morning voice is enough to make you melt back into your original position, the tone golden and honeyed. You slide back towards him and tuck yourself into his side, the two of you fitting together perfectly.

You can hear muffled talking on the other end, which takes Bucky a minute to comprehend. When he does, his eyes widen, and he looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.

It's your Dad, he mouths silently, muscles in his body going rigid.

Fuck, you mouth back, praying that he can't hear the two sets of heaving lungs on your side of the line.

"Yeah, of course. I'll be there. Sounds good, man. See you then."

Bucky's about to hang up the phone, when your Dad makes a noise of complaint. You can hear your Mom yelling something at him in the background.

"They're coming here," he whispers to you as quietly as possible, covering the phone speaker. "Fuck, what do we do?"

"Tell them you're already here... borrowing something. Or giving something back."

You shoot him a look that says trust me. Trust you, he does.

"I'm with her right now. I can ask, if you want? Yeah, just dropping off a couple of tools - last time I saw her, she mentioned a few loose screws in one of the kitchen cabinets. Easy fix."

You can hear your Dad singing his praises and expressing his gratitude, and your Mom asking Bucky to put you on the phone. He passes it to you carefully, as if it's a bomb, bound to explode at any given second.

"Hi, Mama."

"Hey, sweetheart. Bucky get everything sorted for you?"

"Oh, yeah. He's been great. Fixed it in two minutes flat. I just didn't have the right kind of screwdriver."

"He's one of the good ones, huh?" she chuckles. "We called to tell you that you have to come to our get together later. I know it's a little impromptu, but we have so much produce from the garden, too much for just us. We'll have dinner in the backyard, and drinks, and play some games. And we'll tell you all about the wedding!"

Your Mother has a gift for hosting. She's a people person through and through, warm hearted and kind spirited in nature. She loves having people over at the house, loves cooking for them, loves choosing wine pairings for her dishes and explaining each one carefully. It's a gift. She's a gift.

"I'd love to come, Mama. Do you want me to bring anything? I can make desserts?"

"Oh, darling, would you? I'm making a strawberry and cream tart, but you know it's nothing compared to your talent."

"Oh hush," you chide playfully. "I'll see what I can conjure up. Maybe I'll even rope Bucky in to help."

You wink at him cheekily and he laughs, the sound settling gently in your ribs like a caged bird singing it's morning song.

"Glad to be of service!" he yells into the phone, his right hand moving to rest at the nape of your neck. He massages the muscle there gently, and the tension leaves your body just as quick as it arrived.

"What time, Mama?"

"Everyone's arriving at seven o'clock, but you and Bucky feel free to come any time. Did you hear that, Bucky? Any time!"

"Loud and clear," he chuckles. "See you soon, Lori."

"Bye, you two. Call if you need anything. Love you, sweetheart."

"Love you too."

She hangs up the phone and you're plunged into silence, the two of you panting like you've just ran a marathon.

"Fuck," Bucky breathes.

"Yeah, fuck," you exhale. "Now my parents think I'm not capable of fixing a loose screw."

"It was the first thing I thought of! Sorry, honey. Didn't mean to undermine your DIY skills."

You fake angry, but you can't keep it up while he's looking at you like you hung the moon just for him. The corners of your lips twitch, and before you know it, you're grinning at each other like idiots.

"Now I have to make dessert," you laugh. "There go my plans for the day."

"You offered."

"I panicked!"

"I'll give you a hand, if you need it. I don't have to be at work for another hour and a half."

"It's okay," you reassure, reaching out to link your fingers with his. He's still absentmindedly tracing patterns across the back of your neck, the sensation almost soothing you back to sleep.

You relax into Bucky, and he pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you. He's so warm, and soft, and broad. You realise that there's been two occasions recently where you've slept like the dead. Both were in Bucky's arms.

"You wanna help me make breakfast?" you whisper, careful not to disrupt the golden glow of the morning sunlight. The orange hue of the room feels fragile, sacred even. You don't want to ruin it.

"Of course. I can't bake, but I can cook. I have my uses."

"That, you do," you tease, leaning back into him as he places a tender kiss on top of your head. If you could bottle up this feeling of complete tranquility, you would. For a moment, everything else disappears. It's just you and your soulmate. Nothing else matters.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Bucky, as it turns out, is a decent chef.

Sure, he's not Michelin star level, but neither are you.

You're sat on the counter, bare legs dangling over the side as you watch him move around your kitchen with ease, as if it's his own. You can't help but notice the way he belongs here. Like he's been here all along.

Bucky leaves everything cooking on the stove to come to stand in between your legs, warm hands splayed across your thighs. He rubs comforting circles into your skin while his steely blue eyes look at you intently.

"You okay?"

You smile at him softly, draping your arms around his neck to play with his hair.

"I'm fine."

You're not fine. The words California and Bakery and Dream Job and Bucky keep circling around your mind like horses on a fairground carousel. The more time you spend with Bucky, the more your Tethering makes sense. The two of you work. This connection you have is made of threads of gold, braided into both of your souls.

"You've been quiet all morning. And... I can feel it, you know. This anxious, sinking feeling, deep in my chest. There's something really bothering you, honey."

You take a deep breath and grasp onto his shoulders tightly, grounding yourself back down to Earth.

"I'm okay. There's just a couple of things I need to work out, and I think they're giving me some anxiety. I'm just stressed, I think."

"Are you trying to convince yourself, or me? Because you're not doing a very good job of either."

He's only teasing, but the way he's looking at you makes your breath hitch. It's as if everytime he looks into your eyes, he's also looking into your soul. It's like he can read your mind. Your heart is covered in braille and he's running his fingertips over it gently. You suddenly feel very exposed, shrinking down into yourself on the counter.

"Hey, pretty girl. Look at me. Please."

He uses his finger and thumb to tilt your face towards him, holding onto your chin gently.

"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to push you, or anything. I'm just worried. It's weird, being able to feel what you feel. I think I'm still getting used to it."

You smile at him carefully, running your fingers over the stubble on his cheeks.

"I appreciate you looking out for me, Buck. It's just... overwhelming, I guess. Nothing's a secret between me and you anymore."

You both know that's not true.

"You know, if there's anyone who understands how you feel... it's me."

"You're right," you laugh, "on account of the whole half-of-my-soul thing, I guess."

"Exactly. It's scary, but you're not alone in this. The two of us will figure it out. I know we will."

He has so much faith in you it makes you want to cry.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer to you. He leans down and presses a sweet kiss to your lips, firm and reassuring. It's like he's reminding you that he's right here, in front of you. He's not going anywhere.

You might be, though.

"We've got all the time in the world, remember?" he murmurs against your mouth.

"All the time in the world," you echo, tucking your head into his chest.

He holds you close until your breakfast starts to burn. The impending fire on the stove is nothing compared to the impending fire that feels like your future.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The two of you eat on your balcony, tangled together on the love seat chair. The sun is beating down, beams of light illuminating Bucky, setting him aglow. He looks like an angel, the golden hue creating a halo around him. You wonder for a second if he is. An angel sent just for you.

"Oh hey, did I tell you?" he asks, turning as much as he can in his spot to face you.

"Tell me what?"

"Leonie and Eli are having a baby."

"No way!" you exclaim, grabbing a hold of his hands in excitement. "I'm so happy for them. Man, it feels like yesterday that they found each other."

"Right? Hell of a story, too."

"Rough one, though. I mean, imagine it. You introduce your brother to your new girlfriend, and turns out they're soulmates."

Bucky's laughing so hard that he's clutching at his stomach, shaking the chair and you along with it.

"That's fucked," he wheezes. "It's so fucked."

You can't contain your own laughter, not when his is so contagious.

"It's not funny," you breathe, but you're giggling so hard your sides hurt.

"Not funny at all," he chuckles, pinching your thigh.

"If you think about it, our Tethering is a little fucked up too. I mean, you're my Dad's best friend."

"Yeah... not ideal, huh?" he teases, still laughing.

"Not ideal at all, really," you agree playfully.

You sit in the quiet for a moment before you speak again.

"What do you think they'll say? When we tell them, eventually?"

Bucky thinks for a moment, cogs turning in his brain. He considers carefully before he answers you.

"...I think they'll be happy for us. Your Mom'll be excited. It might be a little harder for your Dad to navigate, I guess, but... he'll be okay."

"Yeah. You're probably right."

The rational part of your brain is telling you that he is. They'll be ecstatic that the two of you have found your person. The celebrations will be endless.

But there's a tiny, nagging piece of your mind that won't let you rest. It's taunting you, telling you that they're going to be confused, shocked, upset. That they won't accept the two of you. You can't lose them over a soulmate. You won't.

You clear your throat and stand from your spot, picking up your empty plates.

"Don't you have to be at work soon? I doubt you can show up in pajamas."

"I'm the boss, pretty girl. I can wear whatever the hell I want."

You raise an eyebrow at him, and he relents.

"Fine. I need to change. But I'll see you later? At your Mom's?"

"Yeah, of course. I'll see you there."

You walk Bucky to the door, opening it expectantly. He looks at you for a moment too long, still unconvinced by your reassurances from earlier.

"If you need anything, just call me. You know you can talk to me anytime, yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, absentmindedly playing with the hem of his t shirt. "I know, Buck. Thanks."

He leans in to kiss your forehead before leaving you in the doorway, more confused than ever.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You commit your day to baking your feelings away.

As soon as Bucky left your apartment, the space felt empty, incomplete. Much like you do. As much as you hate to admit it, you feel better when Bucky is around. You know it's the whole Tethering thing, but still. Your heart feels fuller, the world seems brighter, the sun on your skin is warmer. Everything's easier when your soulmate is next to you.

You click on the radio, a soft, jazzy melody filling your kitchen. You begin to measure your ingredients, picking up bowls, utensils and your piping bags as you go.

This is the only thing you've ever felt like you were made to do. Sure, you've had hobbies as you've grown up. You're a good swimmer, you enjoyed soccer, you weren't too bad at dance. But nothing compared to baking.

Which at first, sounded ridiculous. Grown ups would ask you what you wanted to be when you were older, and when you said Baker, they'd laugh in that patronising way that adults do. It didn't stop you, though.

Your Grandma bought you a half empty recipe book for your tenth birthday. You can create your own and add them, she'd said. You'll be publishing a book with your name on in no time.

Your parents took you on a European vacation when you were sixteen. In Amsterdam, you passed this tiny little bakery, tucked away down a back street. It was red brick with a big window in the front, showcasing the cakes and endless sweet treats they had to offer. When you peered through the glass, you watched as the woman who you assumed was the owner went about her day. She looked so happy to be serving her customers. You decided then and there that was going to be you one day. A Bakery of your own. A happy life.

Which is why you're having such a hard time. You haven't talked to Stella since she called you, and you're worried she's going to change her mind if she doesn't hear from you soon. You haven't talked to Bucky about it either, even though he presented you with opportunity after opportunity this morning. It's starting to feel like the walls are caving in.

So, you do what you do best. Bake.

The day passes by quicker than anticipated, lost in a cloud of cinnamon and powdered sugar. You're wiping down your counters when your phone rings, Bucky's name lighting up your screen.

"Hi, Buck."

"Hey, pretty baby. You want me to pick you up later? I'm passing your place anyway."

He's always thinking of you so selflessly. The thought makes your heart stutter for a moment.

"You sure you don't mind?"

"Course not. I can drop by at six? Gives us enough time to help your Mom set up."

"Sounds perfect. Thanks, Buck."

"See you then, honey."

You hang up the phone and realise the hours have completely escaped you. You jump in the shower and do your hair and makeup in record time, miraculously. You're stood in a towel in front of your closet when you feel Bucky pull up outside. The tension in your chest eases a little, and you take a deep, full breath. He knocks on the door, and you completely relax.

"Hey, you," he greets, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek.

You take a step back to look at him, and almost lose your balance. He looks ridiculously handsome. He's wearing a dark short sleeve button up that hugs his biceps so tightly, you're worried it might burst open. His jeans cling to his thighs deliciously, and the leather jacket slung over his shoulder adds a ruggedness that most men couldn't pull off. Your eyes rake over him slowly, taking him in from top to bottom. He lets you devour him, smirk never leaving his lips. Eventually, you meet his gaze.

"You see something you like?"

"You clean up real nice, Barnes," you tease, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

You untangle yourself from him before you jump his bones, and walk back to your closet. He follows you and sits on the edge of your bed, watching your every move like a hawk.

You pick out a sage green sundress that skims your thighs and hugs you in all the right places. It's a warm night, and your Mom loves to start a bonfire when it's cold.

"Close your eyes, playboy," you scold jokingly, laughing when he flops backwards to stare at your ceiling.

You slip the dress on, and realise it has a zipper at the back that you can't reach.

"Buck? Can you zip me up, please?"

He rises from his spot on the bed and strides over to you, standing a little closer than necessary. He pulls the zip upwards ever so slowly, fingertips brushing your spine as he goes. He's so warm and so broad behind you that it sends a shiver through your body.

Bucky brushes your hair to one side and leans down to press a featherlight kiss the place where your neck meets your shoulder. You hum in contentment, which only spurs him on. He begins to leave kisses wherever he pleases - your shoulder, your neck, behind your ear. You practically melt into him, and he wraps his arms around you to keep you steady.

"You look so beautiful," he murmurs against your skin. "Prettiest girl I've ever seen."

You smile at his words, leaning your head back to rest on his shoulder.

"Says the man that looks like a goddamn supermodel."

"Oh, angel. Now you're just lying to me."

His chuckle rumbles through the both of you, the sound lighting up your nerve endings.

Your eyes flick across the room, where you notice the clock on the wall.

"Baby," you whisper. "You gotta stop. We're gonna be late."

He groans lowly and lets his head loll into the crease of your shoulder.

"I was fine until you called me baby," he murmurs. "Now that's all I'm gonna be thinking about for the rest of the night."

"Sorry."

"You're not."

"I'm not."

You both laugh and untangle yourselves, you moving to put on your shoes while Bucky straightens himself out.

"You gonna be able to keep your hands to yourself, lover boy?"

"I'm gonna have to," he grumbles, trying to hide the smile that's fighting to take over his face.

You lean against him as you do up the straps of your shoes, dancing your fingers down his arm to interlink your hands.

"Ready?" you ask, looking up at him with big doe eyes.

"Ready," he confirms, leaning down to kiss you chastely.

"A night of pretending that we're not soulmates. How hard can that be?"

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Pretending that Bucky isn't your soulmate is one of the hardest things you've ever done.

You haven't even made it inside yet.

Buck parks his truck in your parents driveway and turns to look at you. You've been silent the entire ride over, and it's making him anxious. He reaches over and places a warm palm on your bare thigh, thumb rubbing patterns back and forth.

"You okay?"

You take a deep breath, which is all the answer he needs.

"It's alright, baby. I'm nervous too. We've got this. We're alright."

You look into his eyes for the first time since you were in your apartment, and have to fight to stop yourself from crying. You nod and bite your lip, inhaling and exhaling carefully.

"You're okay. I promise. It's me and you, honey girl. It's me and you."

You want to crawl over into Bucky's lap and bury your face in his chest. You want to curl up in his strong arms and let his scent envelope you. You want to tangle your fingers into his hair and smash his lips to yours, until you don't know where you end and Bucky begins.

Instead, you bring his hand from your thigh to your lips, and kiss each of his knuckles tenderly. The gesture makes his heart beat so fast, he's a little worried he's about to pass out.

"Come and talk to me anytime tonight, okay? I've got you. I've always got you."

You nod again, and take another deep breath.

"I know, Buck. It's the only thing I'm sure of."

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

"My baby!"

Your Mom smothers you in a hug the minute you knock on the door, almost tipping you over in the process.

"Oh, you look so beautiful. This colour is gorgeous on you, sweetheart."

The heaviness of your heart gets a little lighter at the sight of your Mother. She's magic like that.

"Thanks Mama. Is your skirt new? It's pretty."

She gives you a twirl, the skirt billowing around her like a princess. Both you and Bucky smile when you catch each others eyes briefly.

"I got it on our trip! Your Dad got a new shirt too - he looks so handsome."

She's grinning from ear to ear talking about him. Your smile only gets wider.

Bucky gives your Mom a one armed hug, and hands her a white box with a bow on.

"I wish I could say this is from me, but I don't have nearly enough talent for that."

"You're plenty good at other things, Buck," she laughs. "What's in here, sweetheart?"

"Apple, carrot and cinnamon cake with cream cheese frosting. I piped little bunny rabbits on top, too."

Before she can say anything else, you take the box from her hands and walk into the house.

"We better put this in the refrigerator before the frosting melts!" you call as you leave.

"Come on Buck, let's get you a drink. Jack bought your favourite."

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Your parents backyard looks incredible.

Golden fairylights adorn the deck, illuminating the dining area that your Mom has set up. The table is covered with a white lace tablecloth, and littered with tea lights and candlesticks. Each place setting has a wine and a water glass ready, fringed cushions perched on each wooden chair. There's a beautiful bouquet of flowers in a stained glass vase as the centerpiece, more flowers scattered across the entirety of the table.

The sun hasn't set yet, and the entire garden is dripping with the glowing orange hue of the evening. The air is warm and calm, salty ocean breeze only disrupting the peace occasionally. If summer were to be summed up in a night, it'd be this one.

Your Dad is pouring water into all of the glasses from an ornate painted jug when you walk into the yard.

"Hi, Papa."

"Oh, sweetheart!" he smiles in surprise, abandoning his task to come and give you a hug. "You look amazing. I like your dress."

"Thank you - hey, is this your new shirt? It suits you!"

"It's nice, right? Your Mom picked it out. She said the colour brings out my eyes."

You look him up and down comically, crossing your arms over your chest like a cartoon detective.

"Hmm... she's right. It definitely does."

You're both laughing when your Mom and Bucky join you, the two men immediately smacking each other on the back affectionately.

"Where you been, Buck? Work keeping you busy?"

"Stupidly busy - you wouldn't even believe."

"Well, it's your night off, so no shop talk!" your Mom encourages, handing Bucky a beer.

"Easier said than done," he winks, and your breathing picks up just a little.

"Mama, do you need help with anything in the kitchen?"

"Oh, yes please, sweetheart. Come, let me show you what needs doing."

The two of you leave the men to catch up, walking inside to prep the appetisers.

You're slicing tomatoes carefully when you turn to watch your Mom for a minute. She's chopping up basil, completely engrossed. The evening sun beams in, illuminating her as she stands by the window. You love her so much it makes you unsteady on your feet.

"Hey, Mama? Can I talk to you about something?"

She turns and immediately stops what she's doing, giving her full attention to you.

"Of course you can, baby. Anything at all."

You take a deep breath, and carry on slicing while you talk.

"So, you remember Stella, right?

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The night goes off without a hitch.

There's good food, gorgeous wine and even better company. Your parents invited many of their friends, meaning twelve of you are sat around the meticulously prepared table. In between courses, there's conversation, laughter and games, everyone letting go of the stress of the week.

You're doing everything you can to avoid looking at Bucky. You're worried that if someone catches the two of you, they'll know everything. You're surprised you haven't confessed already, the weight of the secret too heavy to bear.

Your Mom is cutting your cake on the table when there's a sudden commotion.

"Oh, fuck!"

"Shit! Shit, I'm sorry. Shit."

"Is everyone okay?" your Mom asks, flitting to the other end of the table.

"I'm so fucking clumsy, my God. Dropped my wine straight onto Bucky," Jesse, one of your Dad's oldest friends, explains.

"As long as it doesn't stain my white tablecloth, we're fine," your Mom laughs. "What do you need, Buck?"

"It's only white wine, luckily, so no stain. I'm just wet. I'm gonna go dry off."

"I have a hairdryer?" you offer without thinking.

"Good idea, honey. Go help Bucky upstairs while I get some paper towels."

You rise from your chair and make your way inside, heart racing as Bucky follows you. You rummage around the drawers of your childhood bedroom, certain you used to keep all of your hair tools here somewhere.

"You got it?" a warm, whiskey smooth voice asks from behind you.

"Got it," you reply, standing up with the hairdryer in your hand.

Bucky kicks the door closed behind him, and takes a step into you.

"I can't focus on anything when you're sat there in that dress," he murmurs. "Look like a fuckin' angel, all pretty under the lights."

Heat blooms over your chest, and you pray he doesn't notice. Your breathing quickens, and you step forward too, now chest to chest with him.

"I'm so worried that I'm going to accidentally blurt it out," you confess. "You're the only thing that's on my mind."

Bucky leans down to press his lips to yours, smiling into the kiss. You fist your hands into his shirt and pull him closer, snaking your tongue into his mouth. He tastes like mint and sugar and every kiss for the rest of your life.

He groans when you bite his lip, nipping yours back in retaliation.

"Easy, baby," he warns teasingly. "I can't go back down there black and blue."

You roll your eyes and kiss him harder, practically melting when he grabs at your ass roughly.

"What do you need, pretty girl?" he questions against your mouth. "I'll give you anything."

You're panting against him, vibrating with need.

"Need you to take the edge off," you whisper, hands shaking as you unbutton his wet shirt. "Can't carry on like this. Please, baby. Please."

"We've gotta be quick," he reminds, sneaking his hand under your dress to tease you over your underwear.

You grab at his shoulders for leverage, almost certain your knees aren't going to hold out long enough. Bucky doesn't even take your panties off, just slips his hand down the front. It feels filthier this way.

"Fuck," he groans. "This all for me, honey? You been thinking about this?"

"Yes," you whine. "All I've thought about."

Bucky wastes no time, slipping a finger into you easily. After a minute, he adds another, setting a steady rhythm immediately.

"Shit," you breathe, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his chest. "We're supposed to be taking it slow."

"You want me to go slow?"

"No, fuck," you say immediately. "Don't stop. Please."

He chuckles lowly, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you.

"I won't, baby. Almost there."

It should be embarrassing, how quickly he can take you to the edge, but you don't care. This is what having a soulmate is. They know you better than anyone - inside and out.

"So close," you whisper.

"I know, pretty baby. I can feel it. Stay quiet and come for me. That's it."

You can't hold out when he uses that tone with you. You're thrown over the edge, your climax running through you like molten honey, hot and delicious. Your knees buckle, and Bucky uses a strong arm around your middle to hold you up.

"There we go," he's murmuring. "Atta girl. That's my girl."

You wrap your arms around his waist and breathe him in, finally coming back to your senses.

"My parents are gonna wonder where we are," you realise. "Grab your shirt and the hairdryer. You're gonna have to do it while I recover."

Bucky smiles at you with so much affection, the world stops spinning for a second. This is a moment of bliss. The two of you revel in it.

Bucky dries his shirt while you go back outside, trying to keep suspicion to a minimum.

"Fixed, sweetheart?" your Mom asks, holding out a piece of cake to you. You take it gratefully and sit back down, relaxing into your chair.

"Yeah, it's basically dry. That hairdryer is old, so it's taking a while."

"Well you didn't miss much, other than Jesse telling the Joshua Tree story for the fortieth time this month," your Dad laughs.

"You love that story, asshole!" Jesse yells, just as Bucky re-enters the garden. He throws you a mischievous smile, which you reciprocate with ease.

Everyone is a little more careful with their wine as the night goes on, keeping all the glasses planted firmly on the table.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

"So then I said, well, if you don't like it, leave!"

You're pretty sure you've heard your Mom's friend Cora tell this story before, but you're all laughing like it's the first time. She has such an animated voice, you're convinced you could listen to her read the phone book.

"Which, I mean, I didn't think he would. Imagine breaking up over a chinchilla! A fucking chinchilla!"

You're laughing so hard your sides hurt. You look over to Bucky, and see that he's grinning like a Cheshire cat. You could get used to this.

"So I watched him pack his shit, box by box. Which took fucking ages, by the way. He was using those big plastic boxes, you know the black ones? And he was filling them so carefully and so slowly, that I started helping him!"

You wipe a tear from your face, still doubled over in amusement. You're gonna be sore tomorrow, the way your abs hurt now.

"But I didn't want him taking those boxes, because they're nice, right? They're expensive, and they're mine! So I helped him move out, and then unpacked all of his shit so I could have my boxes back."

Your Mom, despite hearing this story before, hasn't taken her eyes off Cora the entire time. She's such a careful listener. It's one of the things you love most about her.

"Oh, I'll drop them off for you, if you like!" Cora yells, staring directly at you. Everyone turns to look at you in confusion.

"Why would she need all your boxes?" Jesse laughs.

"For the big move!"

Time stands still. The world goes silent. Your heart stops beating.

"...What move?" Bucky asks, never taking his eyes off you.

"To California! Her dream job, falling in her lap. We're so proud of you, babygirl. You've worked so hard for this."

Cora's tearing up now, the alcohol catching up to her. She raises her glass high in the air.

"To our little superstar. The best baker the world has ever seen! Cheers!"

Everyone clinks their glasses together in the middle of the table, except for you and Bucky. You haven't taken your eyes off each other. The world carries on, but you stay still.

You suddenly feel a cacophony of emotions - sadness, anger, betrayal, hurt and confusion settling like ten tonne weights onto your chest. Then it hits you - you're feeling what Bucky feels.

You feel a heart break.

You're not sure if it's yours or his.

tag list part one -

@lillytracy6996 @securegorgon @roostersforevergirl @povlvr @val-writesstuff  @dreadfulxives18 @1deadpool26 @abbygraceasd @nyutasgirl @mavrellover91 @winterslove1917 @f-this42 @skewedcherries @noisesinthedark @kandis-mom @black-cat-2 @harrystylesandthegoobs @vladsgirlxx @h0nestly-though @arienotari @nash-dara   @wandaneedstherapy @galaxy-dusk @justherefortheficandsmut @cremebruleequeen   @cjand10 @buggy14 @avengers-fixation @blueberrybambi @beautiful-loserr @sarah1barnes @miss-rebel-without-applause @ragingrainbowshipl @shamrockqueen @savemeroman @jenn-f @8crazy-freak8 @daddyjackfrost @openup-yourmind @adangerousbalance  @mandijo17 @daddylorianisastateofmind @rcarbo1 @casa-boiardi @spideegwen @navs-bhat @mssbridgerton @asuni921 @middle-of-the-earth @mfrnchsk

[violent-darkness]

Use me

Billy Butcher x Joe Kessler x You

Warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, porn without plot, choking, degradation, spanking, whipping, dacryphilia, consensual infliction of pain, bdsm

Notes: I have nothing to say in my defense, your honor. I am clearly a disturbed person. Also, Kessler is kinda mean in this one.

Also, in the same series: Thoughts Little pet Use me pt.2 - the Aftercare

It was one of those endless work days. The tasks just kept on coming. Your eyes stung from all the gazing at the monitor and your neck was in desperate need of a massage – all stiffened up from the lack of movement. And on top of that, that bitch Janet from HR was stepping on your nerves the whole day – dumping you with stuff that wasn't your responsibility in the first place, all the while bragging about her latest boyfriend, who apparently drove a Porsche. You couldn’t wait for this day to be over, to return home, take a nice bath, and go to bed immediately after. But life had other plans. Life being a certain tall Brit called William Butcher.

You opened the door to your apartment, and were greeted by the sight of him sitting with a manspread in the armchair across the door, his signature devilish smile painted all over his face. He was wearing your favorite navy blue Hawaiian shirt, half unbuttoned. The light was dim, with only the soft decorative lamp casting intricate shadows across the room. Your face brightened up at the sight of Butcher, and you gave him a genuine smile, the special one that you were saving only for him.

But it quickly withered upon the sight of someone else sitting on the couch to his right. It took you a moment to recognize him. It was Joe Kessler, his handsome friend with the smug smile and the raspy voice. Butcher had introduced you to him a few weeks ago at a bar. He certainly made an impression on you with his assertive and charming persona. Your brow arched. They were both staring at you with flickers in their eyes, like they were up to something.

“Good evening, luv. How was your day?” Butcher’s gruff voice broke the silence in the room.

“It was okay, I guess. Busy,” you replied. You closed the door behind you and leaned on the wall, reluctant to get closer before getting a grip of the situation.

“Been a good girl, today?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Butcher’s brow furrowed, and a hint of irritation passed through his face.

Stupid mistake. But the presence of Joe Kessler distracted you. You knew what he wanted from you, what was expected.

“Yes, sir,” you corrected yourself.

“You are wearing the thing I told ya?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Show me.”

Your eyes immediately shot to Kessler, who was glancing at you with an amused, smug look, as if he was excited to see if you were up to the challenge.

“Go on, then. Do as I say and come closer,” Butcher demanded of you.

You had no choice but to obey. You were his, after all, and those were the rules. And you took pride in it. Being Butcher’s. You paused for a moment, took a deep breath to collect yourself, then made a few slow steps towards the middle of the room, letting your bag fall on the floor, with a loud thump that echoed across the quiet room. Slowly, with a dramatic gesture, you untied the belt of your trench coat, removed it, and let it fall on the ground. You were trying to prolong the moment as much as possible. Part of you felt awkward, but another deeper and darker one drew pleasure from the way both men were eyeing you up, eager for every little movement of yours.

The trench coat was followed by your high heels, first the right one—you lifted your foot slightly and leaned to take it off, then the left one - your hand slid slowly but confidently with a very delicate movement along the length of your thigh until it reached your calf and took it off. Last was your dress. You glanced away and took a deep breath, building up the courage. You reached with your hand and unzipped the back, then let the dress slip off on its own. Underneath it, you were wearing a black sheer and lacy body, which flattered your physique and left little to the imagination. The same one Butcher had bought for you and ordered you to wear that day.

Both men were eyeing you up from top to bottom, their lustful gazes making you feel uncomfortable, but also desired, and this was causing a flush in your cheeks and pulsations between your legs.

“Shit, Billy, you were right. She really is a sight for sore eyes,” Kessler snickered.

“Told ya, mate. And she tastes just as sweet.” They were shamelessly discussing you as if you weren’t even in the room. You crossed your arms in front of your chest, pinning your gaze on the ground, unable to overcome your shyness. The presence of Kessler, whom you barely knew, made you feel uneasy.

Butcher picked up on your nervousness. He got up from his chair and moved close to you, positioning himself between you and Kessler, shading you from him. He caught your chin with his fingers and lifted it so that you could look at him with your already teary eyes.

“You okay, luv? You still sure you want this? It was your idea, but we can call it off anytime…” He was carefully examining your eyes.

It was true. You wanted this. You suggested it like the obedient little slut you were. You immediately felt drawn to Kessler’s undeniable charm when you two met and when Butcher told you some of the crazy shit they were up to in their youth, it popped right out of your mouth. You fantasized about it for weeks after. You needed them both to blur the lines between pleasure and pain, to bring you almost to the point of utter obliteration, so that you could actually feel something raw, unspoiled, and fucking real for once. You wanted to forget about yourself for a brief moment. The heat between your legs was telling you that you wanted it. You wanted to serve them both the best way you could, to obey and make them happy.

“I’m okay,” you wiped your tears with your hand and nodded with a self-assured look.

“And you’ll use your safeword if it gets too intense for you?”

You nodded again.

“I need to hear ya say it. Your words, luv,” Butcher insisted.

“I’ll use my safeword if it gets too intense for me.”

“Good. Let’s play then,” he said, giving you a gentle smile and rubbing your cheek with his thumb, then returned to his seat. “On your knees. Crawl to the top drawer over there, take the collar and the crop and bring them back to me,” he barked his order, no trace of his previous softness left.

You knew what happened when you disobeyed him, so you went on your knees and started crawling under their watchful gazes. The harsh cold floor was hurting your knees, but you tried your best to ignore it. You reached the closet at the other end of the room, opened the top drawer, and took first the black leather collar and then the crop in your hands. The touch of the crop to your bare skin made you tremble. You knew very well what it was capable of.

You crawled back to Butcher, trying your best to ignore Kessler’s presence, and handed them to him. Then, you sat with your butt on your heels between his legs, giving him an obedient look and awaiting his next orders.

“Remove your lingerie.” 

Your heart rate picked up the pace, and a lump formed in your throat. You reached between your legs to unbutton it with your slightly trembling fingers, then slipped it off over your head. Butcher smirked as he put the collar around your neck with a swift and confident movement. He pulled you up to sit on his lap and started patting gentle kisses on your face—first across your jawline, then moving to your lips. He started off slow, just gentle brushes over them, which gradually made your tense body relax. You wanted more of him, you were eager, but each time you tried to deepen the kiss, he pulled away with a light chuckle. When he finally gave you a proper kiss, the sensation of his tongue in your mouth made you moan. His left hand moved to your breasts, gently caressing them, then trailed down between your legs to your already throbbing cunt. Butcher started with gentle taps on it, just barely touching it, then slowly building up the pressure, pairing it with kisses all over your neck. He knew your body so well that your orgasm was already embarrassingly close. But he had other plans for you. He stopped abruptly, making you frown.

“Kessler needs you too, doll. Go to him,” he encouraged you. Seeing your reluctance and how shy you were made Butcher’s cock twitch in his jeans.

“Come, darling. I won’t bite, I promise,” Kessler said, his patience running thin. He reached out to your throat, his fingers curling tightly around it, and pulled you into his lap. His grip was tight enough that you didn’t have a choice but to submit. He immediately gave you a long, intense, and breathtaking kiss, making you forget all your doubts. The sense of control he had over you, the mock in his eyes, his strong tattooed hands—all made you want him desperately, and you showed it with the pathetic, involuntary whimpers you let out. Just as you were melting into his kiss, he pulled back and gave you a very hard bite on the neck, one that would leave a bruise for days after, making you scream.

“I lied,” Kessler cackled. “I wanna make you feel good, sweetheart. I do. But first, I wanna hurt you so fuckin’ bad. Will you let me?” His raspy voice was like a drug to you. You were so far gone that you were willing to let him do anything to you at this point. He was rough, intense, explosive. But that was precisely why you felt so attracted to him. His unpredictability made your cunt throb. You shot a quick glance at Butcher, seeking his permission, and after you received it, you gave a slight nod to Kessler.

“Good girl,” he patted your cheek and then suddenly gave you a harsh slap, which made your head ring, your cheek sting, and your cunt drip. He pulled harshly on your hair with one hand until you arched back into his lap, while the other found its place between your legs. He stuck two fingers inside you abruptly, without warning or preparation whatsoever, making you gasp loudly, both from pleasure and pain.

“Jesus, Butcher, this poor thing is already so wet. A real slut, this one,” Kessler said, turning to Butcher while pumping his fingers into you. He wasn’t doing it for your pleasure; it was for him and him alone. He wanted to get a sense of you. He pulled his fingers away just as abruptly and held them up to your mouth, parting your lips and making you taste yourself.

“You have to be punished, little girl. For being such a slut,” he whispered in your ear while fucking your mouth with his fingers. You could feel his throbbing cock beneath you. Your heart started pumping against your chest. The adrenaline rush made you feel lightheaded. You instinctively felt his roughness, and you were afraid he might mess you up real bad. He tossed you around, positioning you on your stomach on the backrest of the sofa. Your butt was elevated in the air at a perfect angle.

He leaned close to your face and pulled you by your hair. “Ten smacks. And I intend to make you cry. You’ll count them for me.” He stood up and took the crop into his right hand. First, he started playing with you, gliding it across the skin on your back, until he reached your cunt and put a few taps over it, making you gasp and him chuckle.

“One.” The swing of the crop was swift and precise. The spank on your butt was hard, much harder than you anticipated. At first, you wanted to scream, to tell him to stop and make the pain go away, but soon a deeper, more primal urge took over—the need to submit, to serve, and obey.

“Two.” You were wondering how you’d manage to get to ten.

“Three.” You started squirming, which only earned you a slap on your face.

“Four.” From your position, you were able to observe Butcher, still in the armchair. His jeans were unbuttoned, and he was stroking his cock lazily. He was watching you with a gaze full of desire and a hint of pride. You were his girl, and you were taking your punishment so well.

“Five.” You decided that you were going to endure this for Billy. More than anything, you wanted to make him proud. Your skin was already a mix of dark purple, blue, and yellow. The stinging was transforming into a sharp pain with every hit. You tried to remain silent, but you simply couldn’t, and your involuntary screams filled the apartment space. Tears were streaming freely across your cheeks. But the adrenaline rush and the feeling of utter submission were unlike any other. You were an instrument for someone else’s pleasure. For their pleasure. The pain was almost unbearable, but it also brought heat and desire along with it. You tried to rub your thighs together to release some of the tension, which only made Kessler’s smacks even harsher.

“Six.” The pain made you forget all about your crappy day. It cleared your mind of all the noise. Only this moment existed: here and now. Nothing out of it was real. Pure consciousness.

***

“Ten,” you were quietly sobbing by now. Kessler stopped and patted your bruised butt with the crop, as if he wanted to squeeze every last ounce of pain out of you, then put it away. He started removing his clothes.

You glanced at Butcher, who was still enjoying the view and finally got up from his spot. “You are even more beautiful this way, luv,” he whispered in your ear. “Your butt all bruised and your face in tears.”

He leaned closer and slid his hand across your butt. His roughness over your bruised skin made you squirm. “Nah-ah, be a good girl now and stay in place,” he nudged. His fingers traced down to your clit and started playing with it. The sensation mingled together with the burning of your bruises. Slowly but surely, all your pain transformed into pleasure, and you started moaning softly. When the tip of Butcher’s cock started rubbing against your cunt but not yet entering, you arched your hips towards him, eager to feel him inside you.

“Please, sir,” you let out a pathetic whimper, which made him chuckle. You wanted him desperately and you were willing to do anything at this point. You were pleading and begging, almost ready to cry again as your cunt clenched painfully, longing to be stretched out. He was playing with you, enjoying the sight of you in this state. When he finally entered you with one strong and sudden thrust, it almost made you fall if it wasn’t for his strong hand around your waist. His movements were deep and intense but deliberate. He maintained a steady rhythm, which was hitting all the right spots. Waves of pleasure surged through your body like an electric current.

You opened your eyes for a moment and saw Kessler enjoying the view, pumping his hard cock. The sheer sight of it made you want it in your mouth. You reached to grab it. The slap on your cheek was instantaneous and left a red mark, causing your eyes to fill with tears once again.

“You don’t touch me unless I allow it, understood?” he sneered. You didn’t immediately answer, still coming up from the shock, so he pulled hard on your hair. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” you barely managed to utter.

“Hey, Butcher, you are making your slut cock dumb,” Kessler snickered.

Butcher smirked, grabbed you by your throat with his massive hand, and pulled you towards him while still pounding you mercilessly from behind. “You like this, don’t you? Feeling me inside you?” he squeezed your throat. “My little slut.” The lack of air made you dizzy and euphoric. Butcher didn’t need an answer from you, not really. The intensity of your moans and the pathetic, needy way you whimpered his name was enough proof for him.

“Hey, Kessler, did you know that this one comes from having cock in her mouth?” Butcher scoffed and released your throat.

“Fuckin’ hell, I gotta test that, don’t I?” Kessler chuckled enthusiastically before pulling your hair and forcing his cock deep down your throat. The room filled with slurping sounds, interrupted by your occasional gagging and desperate gasps for air. He was fucking your mouth with a steady, controlled pace, matching Butcher’s. He pulled out just for a moment to rub his cock all over your face. The saliva and his precum combined with your already smudged mascara, making your face look like a complete mess.

“Let me see your tongue, sweetheart!” Kessler instructed, and you opened your mouth wide and pulled out your tongue as best as you could. He spat on it and then pushed his cock deep inside your throat once again. The way he was using your mouth made you feel like a tool for his satisfaction, and this, combined with Butcher’s cock deep inside you, hitting all the right spots, made you absolutely feral. Your orgasm was close, and they could tell. You barely managed to mutter “Billy!” before Kessler forced his cock all the way down your throat without letting you pull back despite your fierce gagging. He pinched your nose instead, and the suffocating, slightly panicking feeling was what moved you over the tip. Your whole body started trembling uncontrollably, waves of enormous pleasure took hold of you as you came hard.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Butcher murmured, the feeling of your cunt clenching and pulsating around his cock almost made him come as well.

Kessler’s cock was still in your mouth, and he let out a few loud grunting noises when he felt the vibrations in your throat caused by your pathetic attempts to scream and moan.

As soon as you recovered from your orgasm, Butcher grinned and announced, “It’s time for a switch!” then pulled out from you. Kessler sat on the couch and pulled you like a ragdoll on top of him. He grabbed his twitching cock and guided it inside your wet cunt.

“Fuck, baby, you are so tight. It feels so good,” he held you by your waist and started controlling your pace, thrusting deep inside you. Your clit was rubbing against his lower abdomen, and the pleasure once again started building up. Your bruised butt was smacking against his thighs, but you didn’t mind; you were entirely consumed by the pleasure he was giving you.

Butcher stood beside the couch and tilted your head toward him.

“Open your mouth for daddy, sweetheart,” he nudged with a slight pat on your cheek and a dirty look, which made you clench. You stuck out your tongue, impatient to feel him in your mouth. His cock was like a drug, so you were doing your best to serve him as best as possible, to accommodate his whole length. Every time you gagged or your throat spasmed, it made him let out a low growl. Meanwhile, Kessler was fucking you dumb, shoving deep inside you and stretching you to the brim.

The pressure started building up inside you. “Fuck, I’m gonna…” you whimpered.

“You gonna come again, luv?” Butcher started putting gentle kisses on your neck and face with a smug smile.

“Come for us, doll.” Kessler pulled out and positioned you on your back on the couch, spreading your legs. He started smacking your swollen, throbbing cunt repeatedly, all the while shoving his two fingers inside you. His movements were gentle at first, but with increasing harshness. The cocktail of pleasure and pain made you moan and squirm. Butcher placed his knee on your chest to hold you firmly in place and started caressing your nipples with one hand, while the other was placed firmly on your throat, applying pressure. You opened your eyes and saw them both above you, with their hard, throbbing cocks. You were completely exposed, used by them, a toy for their amusement. The next hard smack on your cunt from Kessler, combined with the growing pressure Butcher applied on your throat, making it hard to breathe, made you feel an overwhelming sense of pleasure. Your thighs started trembling uncontrollably alongside your pulsating cunt while you started babbling incomprehensible sounds. Your orgasm made you forget your entire existence. Butcher and Kessler were enjoying the sight of you losing it completely, savoring every detail of the scene before them and your uncontrollable shaking.

When the aftershocks calmed down, they started taking turns using your throat. You were a complete mess by now, too exhausted by the intense emotions you had gone through, so you just let them do whatever they wanted with you, chasing their own highs. Kessler was going feral from seeing you in this broken state. And yet you were still taking his cock so well, not even an ounce of resistance left in you. He came first with a loud groan, pumping his cum all over your face.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” Butcher guided your head in his direction. He was stroking his cock viciously, as you fluttered your tongue against his bobbing head. He came soon after in your mouth and all over your face.

You gave them both a content smile, barely able to keep your eyes open at this point and lazily used your fingers to pick up their cum from your face and then taste it. They both made you feel so dirty. Used.

Seconds passed. Or maybe minutes. Hours even. You couldn’t tell anymore. Time had stopped still, but at some point, you felt the strong, familiar hands of Butcher uncuffing your collar. He stroked your hair, then shot you a gentle kiss on the shoulder. He picked you up in a bridal carry, careful not to touch your bruised butt. “My little pet,” he whispered with a gentle voice, “Let me take care of ya.” He carried you to the bathroom, where Kessler was already preparing the bathtub for you.

[bradshawsbaby]

Change of Plans

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Wife!Reader

Summary: You and Bob are supposed to be getting ready to attend the Navy Ball, but after being gone on a mission for three months, your husband has other plans.

Word Count: 4.8k

Author’s Note: Happy International Bob Floyd Fucks Month! Thanks for hosting, @attapullman!

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Explicit sexual content, oral sex (female receiving), allusions to sex, innuendos, and fluff because I'm physically incapable of not writing fluff.

All the make-up in the world wasn’t going to hide this hickey.

Groaning in frustration, you rose from the stool at your vanity and leaned in closer to the mirror, dabbing delicately at the sensitive, bruised skin at the base of your throat, right along your collarbone. It felt as though you had already applied half your tube of concealer, and still the purplish mark was glaring back at you, mocking you with its prominence.

It was hopeless.

Maybe you could swap out the necklace you had been planning to wear tonight with a larger one from your jewelry box? Oh, but the one you had already chosen paired so perfectly with your dress. Would anyone believe you if you said you had walked into a kitchen cabinet? Highly unlikely.

“Damn you, Robert Floyd,” you muttered under your breath, futilely smudging another round of concealer on your skin with your beauty blender.

You certainly hadn’t been complaining when your husband had given you the love bites the night before, too swept up in pleasure and your desire for him to have had the forethought to consider the impact his mouth was going to have on your attire for tonight’s big event.

Bob had returned only two days earlier from a three-month mission—the longest he’d been gone since your wedding—and he had been absolutely insatiable since coming home. Not to say that the two of you didn’t enjoy a very healthy and robust sex life, but these past two days had been something else. You’d seen a side of your sweet, mild-mannered husband that thrilled you in its passionate desperation. Just yesterday, he’d held you as a very willing captive in bed all day long, his lips and tongue tracing every curve and contour of your body, his mouth memorizing the taste of your skin.

Hence, the hickies.

At least the rest of them were scattered across your body in places no one else would find. It was just this pesky one on your neck.

Sighing softly, you took a small step backward and turned your head from side to side, surveying the work you’d done from different angles. From a distance, maybe people would think it was a birthmark? Or maybe if you wore your hair down, instead of swept back in the updo you currently had it pinned in, it would serve as a shield.

Or maybe you would just have to walk into the United States Navy Ball letting everyone know that Lieutenant Robert Floyd, the shy, meek WSO that so many people underestimated on a daily basis, enjoyed marking up his wife’s neck.

The Dagger Squad’s return had coincided with the Navy’s birthday, which meant that they had barely been home a couple days and already they were having to don their dress blues for the blowout birthday bash. Bob normally enjoyed attending the ball, but this time, he’d been looking for any excuse to get out of it.

“I just want to stay here with you,” he’d mumbled against your lips just that morning. “You’re the only one I want to be with right now.”

Maybe the hickies hadn’t been as innocuous as you thought. Maybe they had been a calculated attack on your husband’s part to convince you to pull the plug on your evening plans. The thought made you shake your head, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

Just then, you heard Bob’s voice reverberating through your small bungalow, the sound of his footsteps growing closer as he approached the bedroom.

“Sweetheart, do you know where I put my cuff—”

His voice trailed off as soon as he entered the room, which made you glance over your shoulder to discern the reason why.

He was half dressed, clad in his blue dress pants and a crisp white button down shirt, sans the missing cufflinks. But he no longer seemed concerned about that as he stood staring at you, his blue eyes blown wide behind his glasses. He was drinking in the sight of you like a parched man in the desert.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed out, his voice almost reverent.

“What?” you giggled softly, feeling your cheeks grow warm under the intensity of his gaze.

Bob just continued to stare, wordlessly appreciating you as his eyes raked you over from head to toe.

You turned back to your vanity mirror to figure out what it was that he found so mesmerizing. You’d been so fixated on hiding that hickey that you hadn’t even paid much attention to what the rest of you looked like.

Your hair and make-up were already done, the blush and lipstick you had chosen doing much to accentuate your features. You hadn’t wanted to get anything on your gown, so you were dressed only in your sheer silk stockings and the little chocolate-colored silk slip that you were going to be wearing underneath your dress. You had to admit that you did look quite good. And Bob always did love you in silk.

“Don’t get any ideas, Lieutenant,” you teased, batting your eyelashes over your shoulder as you leaned in closer to the mirror and carefully wiped at a small smudge of lipstick in the corner of your mouth.

“Oh, honey, do we have to go tonight?” Bob groaned, stepping further into the room and walking right up behind you, his eyes meeting yours in the vanity mirror as he rested his hands on your hips.

“Yes, we do,” you laughed, privately reveling in the feel of his large, warm hands pressed against you. “We told all our friends we would be there, and all your bosses are going to be there, too.”

“They know who I am,” he argued, ducking his head and pressing soft, languid kisses to your shoulder. “I think we’re well past the need for making good impressions.” His lips transferred from one shoulder to the other, leaving a trail of searing kisses in his wake.

“But it’s the Navy’s birthday,” you countered, trying not to waver in your resolve. “You love the Navy.” Your breath caught slightly at the end of that last sentence, but you were hoping he wouldn’t notice.

“I love you more,” Bob murmured, his lips now moving towards your neck. “Besides,” he whispered against your ear, lightly nipping at your earlobe, “the Navy’s had almost 250 birthdays. It won’t mind if I miss one party.”

“What about my dress?” you sighed softly, letting your head loll back against his shoulder as his hands began roaming over your stomach and thighs, his kisses against your neck and shoulders becoming more insistent.

“You can save it for next year,” he chuckled lightly, his broad chest rumbling against your back. “As beautiful as I’m sure you’d look in it, I think you look even more beautiful out of it,” he added in a low voice, his massive hands sliding up your body until they were gently cupping your breasts.

“Bob,” you moaned out softly, trying to scold him even as your eyes fluttered closed from how good his touch felt. “We shouldn’t. We’re going to be late.”

Your husband didn’t respond with words this time, just hummed faintly against your skin while he nibbled gently along your jaw, the veins in his hands standing out against his fair skin as he began kneading and massaging your breasts through the thin material of your slip. You’d always loved his hands—after his beautiful eyes and his kind smile, they were one of your favorite features on him.

“You’re not playing fair,” you giggled breathily, your toes curling and an all too familiar heat pooling between your legs as his hands continued to caress your body, one remaining on your breast while the other glided down along your side, tenderly stroking your stockinged thigh.

“I need you, sweetheart,” he whispered, burying his face in the crook of your neck and inhaling the scent of your perfume. It was his favorite. You always sent him with a bottle of it when he left on a mission or deployment so that he could spray it on his pillow and be reminded of you. When he arrived home two days ago after being gone for three whole months, the bottle was empty. “I missed you so much. Please.”

“Oh, Bobby,” you exhaled, reaching behind you and raking your fingers through his hair, mussing his neatly combed locks. “How could I ever say no to you?”

With that greenlight, Bob swiftly turned you in his arms so that you were facing him, your back to your vanity mirror as he crushed you against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you and his lips crashing against yours in a heated embrace.

Moaning delightedly into his mouth, you wrapped your arms around him, caressing the nape of his neck with your manicured fingers as his hands slid down your back until they were cupping your butt, pulling you even closer to him.

You felt the loss of him when he pulled back, your lips desperately chasing his even as he lifted those big hands of his to cradle your face, one thumb brushing across your bottom lip as he smiled down at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“What happened to us being late?” he joked, kissing the tip of your nose and then peppering your cheeks and jaw with tiny, barely-there kisses.

“My husband can be very persuasive,” you grinned, fisting your hands in the front of his dress shirt and turning your face upward, willing his lips to return to yours.

Bob chuckled at that, tenderly brushing a loose lock of hair out of your face. “Oh, sweetheart, I’ve been dreaming of this for so long. Just getting to hold you in my arms again. I never want to let you go,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours, just enough to send tingles racing up and down your spine, but not enough to satisfy the ache gnawing at you, deep inside. “Sit down,” he told you quietly, indicating your long-forgotten vanity stool with a short nod of his head.

Swollen lips still desperate for more of his kisses, you pouted slightly, but did as he said, slowly lowering yourself down onto the stool and staring up at your husband, wondering what was on his mind.

But then suddenly your tall, strong, handsome husband was sinking to his knees in front of you and all questions and coherent thoughts flew out of your mind.

“Honey,” he groaned out in a husky voice, burying his face in your lap and littering the tops of your thighs with hot, hungry kisses, his arms coming up to encircle your waist. “I love you. I love you so much,” he murmured, nudging the hem of your slip up slowly with his nose.

“I love you, too, Bobby,” you told him, running your fingers through his hair, tears pricking the corners of your eyes at the naked adoration you felt in every little thing he did and said.

Head still resting in your lap, Bob’s arms slowly began to slide back down your body, his fingertips tracing a hot trail down your legs. He loved when you wore silk stockings, his hands running back and forth over the thin, sheer material with a sense of awe. Shifting back slightly, he pushed your slip up so that your stockinged thighs were more fully exposed to him. He gazed at them for a minute or two, as if just wanting to admire their beauty, and then bent his head down, planting one kiss after another on each thigh, all in a neat row. His movements were slow, unhurried, purposeful. He was taking his time worshiping your body and he wanted you to know it.

After several minutes of kissing your thighs, Bob turned his attention to your knees, pressing soft kisses to the insides of each of them. And as his lips danced across your skin, his hands slid up and down the backs of your calves, gently massaging as he went.

“Bobby,” you breathed out, your fingers continuing to run through his hair as you bit your bottom lip, your back arching as you felt your nipples harden and desire pool and pulse between your legs.

“Have I told you lately how much I love these thighs?” he asked, his eyebrows rising as his glance turned upward towards your face, his mouth still skimming the insides of your knees, slowly moving higher. “I could happily spend the rest of my life between these thighs,” he sighed, lightly biting down on the supple flesh.

“Bobby!” you giggled, feeling your skin grow warm from his praise and from how turned on it was making you.

He evidently didn’t want the hickey that you still hadn’t managed to conceal to feel lonely, because he suddenly began a passionate assault on your upper thighs, kissing and sucking and biting until you could see the small red marks appearing, even through your stockings.

Letting out a low moan of arousal, you found yourself tugging on his hair, pulling his head up and dragging his mouth towards yours. Bob happily obliged, his strong arms wrapping securely around your body as he kissed you with a newly unlocked fervor. His long, calloused fingers found purchase in your hair and you couldn’t find it in yourself to care that it would completely ruin the updo you’d spent an hour styling. Your vision had tunneled to only him. He was the only thing that mattered right now.

When the two of you finally pulled away for air, panting and desperately running your hands over each other’s bodies, you couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of your lipstick smudged all over your husband’s face.

“I don’t know if it’s your color,” you teased, wiping your hand across his mouth and chin with an amused twinkle in your eye.

Bob laughed in response, but his blue eyes grew darker with want as he gazed at you, your skin flushed and hot to the touch, your own eyes wide and dark with desire, the lipstick practically rubbed clean off your lips.

“Oh, Bob,” you whimpered quietly, leaning forward and pressing your lips to his neck. Two could play at the game he was playing. You peppered kisses up and down the column of his throat, what was left of your lipstick leaving a trail of seduction in your wake. As you moved down towards his collarbone, you realized you had even left a smudge of red on the collar of his crisp white uniform shirt.

Bob’s breathing was growing heavier, more strained, and as you pressed your body closer to his, you could feel how hard he was for you. But it wasn’t until you began sucking softly on the pulse point just beneath his jaw that a tortured groan burst forth from his lips, his grip on your body tightening as he lifted you from the vanity stool and carried you over to the bed, carefully laying you down so that your head was resting against the pillows.

His glasses were slightly askew, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the tent in the front of his uniform pants standing at attention as he gazed down at you with open and unabashed adoration.

You found yourself squeezing your legs together in anticipation as you stared back, your breath catching in your throat when he climbed on top of you, his nose nudging yours as he pressed your foreheads together, looking deeply into your eyes.

“Those were the longest three months of my life,” he rasped, his voice hoarse from both arousal and emotion.

“I know,” you whispered, reaching up to touch his cheek with gentle fingertips. It had been torture waking up to an empty bed every day these past few months. “But it’s over now. We’re together again. I’m right here.”

Bob nodded, tracing the outline of your face as if trying to convince himself that it was true. “You’re right here,” he repeated, dropping a soft, sweet kiss on your lips. He was quiet for a moment, then said, “And I need you so badly.”

Without further preamble, he began kissing his way down your body, paying particular attention to the spot you’d spent the better part of twenty minutes trying to mask earlier. It seemed you would just have to rock the hickey at this point—well, that or invest in a lot of turtlenecks.

You giggled softly as he kissed down your stomach, his light pecks tickling you even through your slip. But the laughter died in your throat the second he began pushing the chocolate-brown fabric up around your waist, his skilled fingers dipping inside the waistband of your stockings and ever so slowly dragging them down your legs.

Moaning softly, you tucked your chin and lowered your gaze to watch his every movement, noting the way he was careful with everything he did, making sure not to tear the fragile silk as he slid it off you, letting the light material flutter to the bedroom floor as he then focused his attention on the small scrap of material still hiding you from him, the brown silk that matched your slip.

He was careful, calculated in his every movement. He was taking his time with you. He was finally home, finally back where he belonged, and he wasn’t going to take a second of it for granted.

“Bobby,” you gasped softly, your back arching slightly as he began kissing his way up your leg, starting at your ankle. He repeated the same process on your other leg, tormenting you with his languorous movements. You could feel yourself growing soaked with need, burying your manicured fingers in his hair and tugging slightly to signify your impatience.

Bob chuckled lowly against your skin in response, the feel of it causing goosebumps to rise on your legs. His teeth scraped lightly along your inner thigh, and then he was soothing it with gentle kisses. His fingers began ghosting along the waistband of your silk underwear, the dark wet patch at your center only growing as you felt him so close to where you needed him.

“You’re so wet for me,” Bob breathed out, his breath warm against your core as his eyes widened behind his BCGs. You found it endearing, the way he said it. He always said it as if it was the most shocking discovery in the world. As if, even after all this time, he still couldn’t believe that he got you this aroused.

“Yes,” you nodded, reaching down to lightly touch his cheek. “You always get me like this. I need you, Bob.”

Your words lit a fire inside him and all at once he was pressing his face against your clothed core, breathing in your scent and allowing his tongue to gently tease you. You could feel him smiling against you when you let out a gasp of surprise, your hips bucking slightly at the feel of his mouth on you.

“I love you so much, sweetheart,” he whispered, pressing kisses to your hip as he firmly hooked his fingers inside the waistband of your panties and dragged them down your legs, tossing them so that they joined your abandoned stockings on the floor.

“Love you, love you,” you moaned as he pushed your legs open wider, settling himself comfortably on his stomach and getting to work.

Your husband’s tongue was a wondrous thing. The sweetest words dripped off it like honey, words that made you feel cherished and loved and known. It was a tongue that could take your breath away when he kissed you with it, those honeyed words still fresh in his mouth as he sought to communicate everything he couldn’t say with words alone. And it was a tongue that could make you fall apart and turn into a whimpering, writhing mess when he put it to use between your legs.

And right now, he was putting it to use.

“Bob! Oh, Bobby!” you cried out, drawing your knees up slightly as he licked a few firm stripes from your entrance up to that tiny bundle of nerves that he knew like the back of his hand. When you felt his hands come to rest on your hips, pressing them down into the mattress, you draped your hands over them, clinging to his fingers like an anchor.

He knew just what to do to get you going, just what to do to turn you on and make you feel like your body was singing. Half the time, you were convinced that he knew your body even better than you yourself did.

Right now, he was lazily tracing figure eights against you with his tongue, a warm-up for the intense pleasure that you knew was soon to follow. You continued to moan and whimper in pleasure, knowing that your husband loved it when he could hear how much you were enjoying yourself. Wanting to encourage him further, you removed one of your hands from his and pressed it against the back of his head, carding your fingers through his soft locks.

You were about to let out a noise of protest when he pulled back slightly, but it was quickly replaced with a sigh of gratification when he used the calloused pads of his fingers to spread you open, gathering your slick on his fingers and spreading it up and down. You could hear him sucking it into his mouth, a pleased hum rumbling from inside his chest, which only pushed you closer to the edge. This man was going to make you come and he had hardly even done anything yet.

“Taste so good, honey,” he mumbled against you, his midwestern drawl coming out thicker, which made you smile. That always happened when he was turned on.

Clearly he was starting to grow as impatient as you were because he dove back in, warm-ups forgotten, and wrapped his lips directly around your clit, sucking with all his might. When you cried out and arched up off the bed, he ran a soothing hand down your thigh, squeezing your flesh to keep you grounded. His glasses slid forward as he pressed his mouth more tightly to you, kissing and sucking and licking like his life depended on it.

You were completely incoherent at that point, reaching out to grip the bedsheets in white-knuckled fists as your husband brought you closer and closer to the brink of an orgasm. When he slipped two fingers inside you and began curling them gently, your mind went completely blank and you found yourself incapable of uttering any word other than his name.

It fell from your lips in an endless litany, your hips grinding against his mouth and your fingers digging sharply into his scalp. He didn’t mind in the slightest. In fact, your actions seemed to spur him on further, his fingers increasing their pace as his lips and tongue continued their joint attack on your most sensitive parts.

From the way he was gasping and moaning against you, you knew that he was turned on, too. That was another thing you found so incredibly endearing and so unbelievably sexy about your husband—he loved going down on you. There had been times when he had gotten off from that alone. And he was unapologetic about it.

“Just love the way you taste, sweetheart,” he often told you, a sheepish smile on his face as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “I love making you feel that good.”

Glancing downward, trying so hard to catch your breath, you realized that Bob was grinding his hips against the bed as he continued to devour you, and it nearly made you climax right then and there.

Between his ruined shirt and his soon to be ruined pants, you were going to have to get his dress blues to the dry cleaner ASAP.

“B-Bobby, baby, I’m close,” you keened, your eyes squeezing shut as the sensations of pleasure washed over you and coursed through your veins. “So close.”

Bob didn’t reply, just doubled down on his efforts, slipping a third finger inside you and circling your core with his tongue, not relenting until he felt your thighs begin to shake in that telltale way he recognized so well.

The white hot coil that had been tightening deep inside you was nearly at its breaking point, your cries of pleasure turning into breathy pants as you felt yourself teetering right on the edge, hardly able to breathe as your legs tensed up, trapping your husband between your thighs, just like he’d wanted. Both of your hands found purchase in his hair, your legs draped over his shoulders and your body bucking upward off the bed.

With a loud sob of his name, your orgasm exploded around you, stars dancing in your vision and your entire body trembling as the aftershocks coursed through you.

Bob held onto you tightly through it all, gently removing his mouth and his fingers as you became too sensitive, whimpering softly.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he whispered soothingly, collapsing beside you and taking you into his arms. “I’m right here,” he cooed, pressing gentle, tender kisses to your cheek, his fogged-up glasses bumping against your temple.

“Oh, Bobby,” you sighed happily, curling up against his chest and letting him hold you.

The two of you laid there like that for several minutes, lost in the haze of the afterglow. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

Then suddenly Bob was shifting slightly, moving to get out of bed, which had you clinging to him.

“Don’t get up,” you begged, kissing along his jawline. “Let’s just stay in bed.”

Bob chuckled quietly, adjusting his glasses. “What about the Navy Ball that you were so adamant about getting to?”

“I changed my mind,” you grinned, running your fingers over the buttons on his shirt. “Besides,” you added with a wink, “you ruined my hair.”

He laughed loudly at that, pulling you towards him and dropping a kiss on your forehead. “I’ll be right back.” he promised you, giving you a few more quick pecks before climbing out of bed.

Sighing softly, you rolled onto your back and twirled a lock of hair that had come loose around your finger. You weren’t sure where your husband was going, but you realized he must have left his phone in another room when you suddenly heard his voice coming from the direction of the living room.

“Hey, Phoenix,” you heard him saying. Even from the bedroom, you could hear the blush in his voice, could imagine him sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. It made you smile. “Change of plans. We’re not going to be able to make it tonight.”

There was silence for a moment, and you could imagine his frontseater teasingly giving him hell for ditching when the rest of the squad was being forced to attend after just getting back home. You laughed softly.

“Yeah, tell everyone I’m sorry,” he replied, his voice getting closer. You sat up slightly when you heard Bob tell Phoenix that he thought you were coming down with something.

It was quiet again as Phoenix must have been saying something, and then Bob was back in the room, standing beside the bed and grinning down at you. “Yeah, I think she’s got a fever or something. She’s just burning up,” he said, winking at you.

Giggling softly, you picked up a pillow and whacked him in the leg with it.

“I’ll tell her. Thanks, Phoenix. Have fun tonight,” Bob told her before hanging up with a chuckle. “Phoenix says she hopes you feel better.”

“Robert Floyd!” you laughed, whacking him again. This time, however, he caught the pillow in both hands and used it to pull you closer to him.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I needed to find a quick excuse,” he grinned, kissing you softly. Pulling back, he took the pillow from you and dropped it onto the bed, crawling back in beside you. “Besides, I really do think you’re burning up,” he teased, pressing a hand to your forehead.

“Oh, yeah, I do think I’m coming down with something for sure. I feel hot all over,” you smirked, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I guess you’ll just have to stay in bed all night,” Bob mused, his blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “As your husband, I think it’s only right that I stay, too, to take care of you.”

“Mmm, yes, I think that sounds like a very wise plan indeed,” you nodded sagely. “But, you know, you might as well get comfortable and take off all these clothes,” you went on, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt.

“Excellent point, sweetheart,” he replied, the two of you finally dissolving into a fit of laughter as you helped him strip out of his uniform and throw it to the floor, joining the pile with your previously discarded clothing.

The two of you spent all of that evening, and most of the following morning, in bed. It was just what the doctor ordered.

And when Phoenix texted you the following afternoon to see how you were doing, you were pleased to tell her that you were feeling much better.

[tip-top-cloud-surfer]

Endings and Beginnings - Rooster

Pairing: Rooster / Fem!Reader (Wife!Reader)

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Pregnancy, Second Person POV ("You"), No Physical Description about Reader

This work, all of my other works, and my entire blog are 18+ Only.

Summary: It's Maverick's retirement party but Rooster's far more concerned about you, his pregnant wife, than anything else.

A.N. Rooster is retired in this story and it's set a few years after TGM.

Edit: Part 2 is now out!

Master List

Maverick was officially retiring from the Navy. Or finally, depending on who you asked. The Hard Deck had been cleared out for the party and several generations of naval aviators, active and retired, and their families were spread out around the space. Drinks were poured continuously, there was pizza and snacks and even a cake with a Tomcat on it for later.

“Are you sure that you’re okay to be here?” Rooster asked you softly, grabbing your hand.

“I’m fine,” you assured your husband. “Just pregnant.”

“Very pregnant,” Hangman added, causing Rooster to glare over at him. Phoenix whacked Hangman on the arm your behalf, causing the blond to huff and complain. “What? It’s true!”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, squeezing Rooster’s hand. “I’ll sit down if I need to and there’s plenty of water and snacks that I can eat.” You released his hand and nudged him in the direction of Maverick, who was chatting with a few pilots his own age. “Go, mingle. Shoo. It’s a party. Party.”

“Only if you promise to let me know if you need to go home or to the hospital or—”

“—Rooster, I’m fine. The baby isn’t coming for another two weeks. Now, go. I think Mav’s been trying to subtly introduce you for an hour now.”

“Keep an eye on her for me,” Rooster told the others before heading over to Maverick.

The newly retired pilot was all smiles as he chatted with his old friends. But as soon as Maverick spotted Rooster walking over, he quickly moved to pull him over to the older crowd of pilots.

“She finally kicked you over here?” Maverick asked, referring to you.

“Apparently, I’m hovering too much,” Rooster joked with Mav.

“Well, it’s a perfect time to reintroduce yourself to everyone.”

Maverick gestured around the half-circle of former naval aviators. Slider, Hollywood, Wolfman, Chipper, Sundown, Merlin, and Viper all nodded to Rooster and Rooster shook their corresponding hands. It had been a long time since he saw any of them, what with the whole paper incident, but Slider still dragged him in for a noogie like he was eight-years-old.

“So, you were Maverick’s RIO in that whole business?” Merlin asked, referring to the mission.

Even though the mission was still highly classified three years later, the fact that Maverick and Rooster had barely made it out alive wasn’t. Well, that and word got around when an old smashed up Tomcat was unloaded off of a carrier.

“How was that?” Merlin continued.

“Most terrifying experience of my life,” Rooster responded, half-joking, half-serious.

“I understand completely,” Merlin mused, causing Maverick to smile and shake his head.

“That’s not why you turned in your wings, is it though?” Viper asked with a knowing expression.

“No, no,” Rooster replied immediately. “When I got married and my wife and I started to plan for having our family, I decided that I wanted to be there for every step. And I didn’t want her to worry about me coming home at the end of the day. So, I finished up my service requirements and retired.”

And, well, for a kid who lost his father to the Navy, Rooster’s reasoning didn’t raise a single eyebrow. Every naval aviator knew the risks involved in their line of work and while technological advancements helped decrease training accidents and fatalities, they were still always a possibility.

He wouldn’t—couldn’t—let his child learn about him from pictures, like he had to with his own father.

“And Maverick says that you’re switching to commercial?” Wolfman spoke up.

“Yeah, I have one more test to take and then I’m ready to fly, but I probably won’t start until we’re settled with our baby,” Rooster explained, nodding along.

“Your first one?” Viper guessed with an all-knowing smile.

“How could you tell?” Rooster inquired, earning a chuckle from the other fathers in the group.

 “You got that look in your eye.”

“Not too different from the rookies at flight school,” Hollywood added with an amused smile.

“It’ll pass eventually, but the first one always gets you jittery,”  

“Being a father is like learning how to fly—utterly terrifying at first, and there’s definitely a learning curve to it, but once you’re up there and you’ve leveled out, you won’t even remember what it was like before you learned in the first place.”

“I keep telling him to relax. He’ll be a natural,” Maverick spoke up, squeezing Rooster’s shoulder.

Rooster glanced through the crowd to check on you and found you sitting at one of the tables with your feet propped up on the opposite chair. You looked calm, but uncomfortable—though you’d told him that ‘nearly nine months pregnant’ and ‘comfortable’ did not go together no matter the situation.

“But speaking of, I should probably go check on my wife,” Rooster replied, his nerves and ‘Mother Hen’ tendencies, as Hangman called them, shining through.

“Of course.”

“Don’t let us keep you.”

“It was an honor to meet all of you again,” Rooster offered in goodbye, before checking on you.

The retired naval aviators watched him go and then turned to Maverick.

“God, he looks just like Goose,” Slider replied quietly.

“And with the mustache and the Hawaiian shirt too,” Wolfman agreed, sharing looks with the other retired naval aviators.

“Yeah, he does,” Maverick stated softly, watching Rooster weave through the party. “Just wait until you see him at a piano.”

Rooster slid through the crowd over to the back tables. You were still sitting with your feet propped up, a full glass of water in front of you, and your usual easygoing smile on your lips. Bob, Phoenix, and Hangman were keeping you company and spread out around you.

“You alright?” Rooster asked, walking to your side.

“I’m fine. Just wanted to sit down for a little bit. Baby Bradshaw seems a little excited about the party,” you stated, your hands resting over the swell of your bump. Rooster placed a hand under yours, where Baby Bradshaw tended to kick for the last few days. “How’s Mav doing?”

“I think he’s enjoying himself a lot. He hasn’t seen his old TOP GUN buddies in a while, so it’s nice for them to all come out to see him.”

“Well, Penny can be very convincing when she wants to be,” you mused with a smile.

Wordlessly you moved Rooster’s hand to the side, where the baby was pressing on you. Though you were growing tired of being pregnant, you didn’t think that you’d ever get tired of the way that Rooster just flipped a happy switch whenever he felt your baby.

“What are you all doing over here?” Rooster asked, turning back to the others.

“Actually, we’ve got a poll going about the baby,” Bob explained to Rooster.

“What are the votes?”

“I think it’s a girl,” Phoenix declared confidently.

“Which means that it’s a boy,” Hangman stated, just as confident.

“You only said that after you found out that Rooster and I think it’s a girl,” Phoenix retorted, causing Hangman to shrug his shoulders.

"So what?”

“I think that it’s a boy too,” you offered up. “The way that I’m carrying says that it’s a boy.”

“It’s not an exact science,” Rooster pointed out.

“No but call it mother’s intuition.”

“I guess I can’t argue with that.”

“God, you’re so whipped,” Hangman grunted, earning an elbow to the side from Phoenix.

Rooster and you ended up leaving the party among the first wave of people—mostly elderly and people with small children. But not before you received a whole bunch of random baby gifts from all of the people who missed your shower a month earlier.

“Do you want a hot bath when we get home?” Rooster offered, glancing over at you as he drove home.

“Maybe,” you sighed, shifting in your seat.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just uncomfortable. Nothing either of us can do for that.”

“You want more of that tea that Penny got you then?”

“Yeah, maybe that’ll help,” you murmured, leaning back in your seat. Your hands rubbed up and down your bump, trying to soothe yourself. “I think that Baby Bradshaw just got a little overexcited about meeting everyone all at once. But maybe some tea and a bath will help.”

“Coming right up,” Rooster assured you.

You pulled into the driveway and Rooster walked around to help you out. Usually, yo would just push his hand away and insist that you were more than capable of getting yourself out of the car, but this time you happily accepted his help.

“Are you sure that you’re alright?” Rooster asked worriedly.

“I’m fine,” you replied, pecking his cheek. “Just slow.”

Rooster walked with you to the front door, keeping a protective arm around your waist. You walked into the kitchen and Rooster instantly moved to heat up some hot water for your tea. You leaned on the countertop, just looking completely uncomfortable with your existence.

“I’ll grab the bags out of the car and then I’ll start your bath,” Rooster promised, pressing a loving kiss to your forehead.

“Thank you.”

Rooster jogged down to the car and gathered whatever bags were sitting in the trunk. He left the go bag in the car, just in case, before heading back into the house. He wasn’t even completely through the door when he spotted you waddling towards the stairs.

“I’ll run your bath, babe, just sit and relax.”

“I’m not going to take a bath,” you called back, moving up the stairs slowly.

“You need help?”

“No, I just need to change.”

“Oh, okay,” Rooster replied, setting down the bags.

“Also, don’t walk through the kitchen yet,” you warned him, grunting a bit as you walked.

“Why?” Rooster asked, moving to stand at the bottom of the stairs.

“There’s amniotic fluid all over the floor and I haven’t gotten a chance to clean it up yet.”

“Amniotic . . .” Rooster trailed off before the realization hit him like 10 G’s all at once. “Babe!?”

Part 2

[stargirllanaa]

Happiness is a butterfly

Warnings: Dark!Rafe, toxic relationship, abusive relationship, domestic violence, manipulation, rafe is a narcissist, rafe is not nice

Summary: based on the Lana Del Rey song ‘happiness is a butterfly’ you and Rafe go to a party, and things don’t go as planned.

A/N: first time writing in a whileeeee and first time writing Rafe ahhh… please be kind lol also I definitely recommend listen to the song while reading

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You didn’t even want to go to the party in the first place; you wanted to stay in and hang out with your boyfriend, but that wasn’t enough for him; nothing was.

The first issue was your outfit, more specifically, your top. When your boyfriend sent you the ‘here’ text, you quickly finished applying your lipgloss before rushing down the stairs and out the door as quickly as possible, remembering how mad he was at you the last time you kept him waiting more than 5 minutes.

Approaching the truck parked in front of your house, you opened the passenger door. Rafe, preoccupied with his phone, glanced up when you entered. As he took in your outfit, his expression remained neutral, leaving it difficult to gauge his emotions.

“You look nice,” you said with a smile.

“Mhm.” he looked you up and down before looking at the road.

Your face instantly fell, and your anxiety started to rise; you knew something was off; you started analyzing yourself, looking for something that could have made him upset. You opened the vanity mirror, and when you looked at yourself, you could see your eyes were slightly glossy; you were tearing up. You took a deep breath and tried to calm yourself; you didn't want your tears to spill over and ruin your makeup.

As he continued driving, you just looked out the window; you didn't try to start another conversation after he had just dismissed you. When you looked at him, he gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles lacked color.

He broke the silence with a loud and dramatic sigh.

“I don't know who you're trying to impress with that shirt..if you can even call it that,” the blonde said, sounding very irritated.

You quickly looked down at your shirt, feeling insecure already.

“But you look like a slut.” he spat out as he looked back at you, waiting to see how you would react.

You didn't expect those words at this moment, but it was nothing new for Rafe to say things he knew would upset you.

“Why wouldn't you say something when we were at my house?” you questioned him as your eyebrows furrowed together and your heart rate increased.

The only Cameron son rolled his eyes in response to your question and looked back at the road as you approached the party.

“No one has time to wait for you to go back inside, change, and come back; I told you to be ready at a certain time, but you decided to wear that, not me. Why should I be punished?”

You scoffed in response; you couldn't believe his selfishness and rudeness.

“Are you serious?” you genuinely asked him. “So you have an issue with my shirt, but you also have an issue with me wanting to change it?”

“You're putting words in my mouth,” he said evenly without even looking at you as he pulled up in front of his friend's house.

You wrapped your arms over your stomach and shook your head in response.

“I want to go home.” you quietly murmured.

“What?” He snarled before putting the car into park.

“I want to go home,” you repeated, this time with more force.

“I'm not taking you home because you decided to dress like that,” he stated

The tension in the air was palpable in every moment of silence.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and looked around for something to cover yourself up with; Rafe was making you feel so insecure. Your eyes eventually landed on a navy blue polo sweatshirt on the back seat floor. You picked it up and pulled the sweatshirt over your head.

“Is this better?” you asked him in an annoyed tone.

“I guess,” he said before unbuckling his seatbelt, exiting the car and slamming his door.

He was still visibly upset, and you didn't know what to do; there was nothing you could do; he was mad at you for your choice of outfit, so he would do everything he could to ruin this night for you.

You exited the car and quickly followed behind him as the two of you approached the front door.

“Are you gonna act like this all night?” you asked with concern and annoyance.

“Like what?” he said, rhetorical to her in a sarcastic manner.

“I'm not dealing with this,” you said before turning around and walking towards the road.

As soon as you faced away from him, your tears spilled over; you hated when he got like this; you knew there was no way to change the way this night was going. So why even try? You just wanted to go inside, drink, have fun. You just wanted to dance with him, but you couldn't remember the last time the two of you danced together, and when you thought about it more, you couldn't even remember the last time you were happy.

“y/n!” He yelled, following behind you quickly.

He grabbed your arm roughly and pulled you with him, not back toward the party but near his truck.

You trashed your arm, trying to pull it out of his grasp, but before you even realized it, the two of you were behind his truck.

Rafe spun you around to face him but didn't let go of your arm; he started smirking when he saw your tears. He was sick.

“Youre so dramatic,” he spat, moving his grip on your arm around your waist. “Always fucking crying,” he continued.

“Maybe because you treat me like shit,” you spat between tears,

“Yeah…” he trailed off, “ because I'm always the bad guy... like you didn't leave the house looking like you were trying to get fucked by every guy at the party.”

“I didn't even want to go to the fucking party!” you shouted at him as tears rapidly plunged down your face.

“I-” Before you could get any more words out, The sudden impact echoed through the air as a sharp slap landed on your face.

“Who are you talking to?” he hissed.

Time seemed to slow for a moment as the stinging sensation registered. Your head turned with the force of the blow, and a shocked expression washed over your features.

Your hand reached to touch the reddening skin, fingers brushing over the tender area as if confirming the undeniable sting. You knew Rafe was a bad boyfriend, but you hadn't expected him to put his hands on you.

When your tearful eyes looked back up at his blue ones, he didn't seem to have any emotion, anger, sadness, or even regret.

He took a step back from you.

“I think you should get an Uber home.” the blonde said before leaving you outside and returning to his friend's house.

And that's exactly what you did.

As you sat in the back seat of your Uber, you couldn't stop the tears from falling down your face, the sobs from leaving the back of your throat. That was the coldest thing Rafe had ever done to you, and he had done a lot. Even when you tried to think of anything else, the smell of his sweatshirt you wore was reminder enough. You didn't want to go to the party; you just wanted to dance with him.

[askinkiskarma]

we need jealous neteyam

say less bestie.

synopsis: When Neteyam sees you talking to a touchy Metkayina man, he feels the need to remind you and the rest of the world who you belong to.

wc: 3k words

warnings: filthy smut (p in v penetration, fingering, oral - f receiving, squirting, edging, creampie, slight praise kink), slightly mean!neteyam, jealous!neteyam, softdom!neteyam, 18+ minors DNI

na'vi words used: Atan - light (also known as my favourite nickname ever - see illicit affairs for more), tewng - loincloth

a/n: thank you anonnie for the request bc fr i've needed jealous!Neteyam in my life and this came at the perfect time. this HAD to be done as part as the cardigan series. i don't make the rules, i just abide by them, but you don't have to have read it to understand any of it, this is just a nod for my OG besties x

Neteyam had impeccable control over his emotions. Everyone thought so. Everyone said so. The best of both Neytiri and Jake, he was a picture-perfect warrior through and through. Calm and collected in the face of danger, able to stop and analyse every move 3 steps in advance, able to gain perspective in every situation, able to think impartially, able to maintain perspective even in the harshest of circumstances. 

That was normally. That was normally, but now, as he was watching you smile at the Metkayina Olo’eyktan’s right hand, as he was watching his hand brush the soft lapis skin only he should ever know the feel of, Neteyam felt like a bull in a ring, and the man was tauntingly dangling a red cloth in front of his face. 

Neteyam assumed the whole damn clan understood you were his… you came to the reef people together, didn’t you? You were holding on to him when you first met the chieftain and the Tsa’hik. He thought it was pretty fucking obvious. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he needed to work harder to make sure people knew who you belonged to, who owned your heart, your soul. Your body. 

His mind was empty as he stalked towards the pair of you, a mission on his mind and a frown on his face. His mouth was tight and his eyes hard as he grabbed you sternly by your arm, and you jumped slightly at the contact, but immediately relaxed as your gaze settled on his beautiful navy body only to again stiffen as you took in his demeanour. He was pissed at you. Neteyam didn’t get pissed often. In fact, you think the last time was almost a year ago, back in your clearing in the forest. Not only was he pissed, there was a darkness about him, so atypical, so different.. so fucking hot. 

You smirked, and you feel butterflies burrowing through your stomach and escaping through the rest of your body, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He was jealous. Neteyam was jealous. You haven’t seen Neteyam jealous since he thought you fucked his brother, in a time that felt like a different life ago, and heat was quickly spreading in your womb at the memory of that kiss, your first kiss, so intense, so passionate, so raw. The grip he had on your arm was so tight it was restricting blood flow to your fingers, which prickled painfully, slowly going numb. 

Oh, this is going to be fun…

“Atan, who is your new friend? I don’t think we’ve met.” His low voice was serious, deadly, not an ounce of his normal, good-natured tone. 

“This is Azao Te Soaspxaì Kuvay'itan. He is chief Tonowari’s right hand man. A mighty warrior.” Strike one. You knew you were pushing your luck, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. In fact, you knew pushing your luck now meant getting fucked dumb later, and that was enough motivation for you to egg him on. 

“I feel like you two should talk. You might have a lot more in common than you think.” You couldn’t help the slight amused tone in your voice, couldn’t help the small squeal you had to conceal as a cough as Neteyam’s hand was leaving painful purple marks on your now numb arm. His eyes were boring holes in the side of your face, and you also couldn't help yourself from turning around and raising an eyebrow at him. Strike two. A low rumble emanates from deep in his throat, and both your and Azao’s eyes snap to your mate, who is holding it together with barely concealed wrath. 

“That… sounds great." Azao's tone was uncertain as he spoke. "Your dad mentioned you were one of the youngest Omatikaya to pass your Iknimaya and Uniltaron. That’s very impressive. We can definitely talk more, once I am done with your beautiful sister here.” 

Strike three. 

“Ah, Azao. Neteyam is not my brother. He’s my mate.” You moved subtly, so as to put your body in between the poor man and Neteyam’s, and you felt his chest heaving with each deep breath as it stood flush against your back. Azao’s rude awakening would have been hilarious to witness if it wasn’t for the fact you were genuinely worried for his life. You couldn’t blame him for his mistake. You always referred to the rest of the Sully kids as your siblings, and aside from your obvious human features, that you shared with Lo’ak, Kiri and Jake, you and Neteyam had a distinct resemblance to each other, such as your deeply-contrasted stripes covering your face and your whole body, so much more pronounced than most other Na’vi’s, even your siblings'. 

“I -, I- I thought you said the Toruk Makto is your dad.” You pushed a lock of hair that fell in front of your eyes and scratched the top of your head, laughing awkwardly. 

“Yeah. It’s… complicated.” 

“Azao.” Shit. Neteyam’s tone was a blaring warning sign, and you dug your feet more firmly on the ground, using your body as a shield. His hand travelled down onto your own, that he grabbed forcefully. His other hand went to the nape of your neck, that he caressed with barely-there touches, and you shuddered under him. You needed him. Now. 

“If you will excuse us, my mate and I have to talk.” He didn’t wait for the Metkayina man to answer before he ushered you away, and you turned as best as you could, waving your new friend goodbye. 

Neteyam didn’t stop until you reached a portion of the island that was uninhibited and covered in trees and shrubbery, and soft green moss. You didn’t manage to get a single word out before Neteyam’s long, beautiful fingers wrap around your throat and squeeze, knocking the air out of you. Without warning, his lips crash into yours feistily, and his tongue pushes past your lips, hungrily exploring your mouth, and you moan into him, desperate for him to do the same to your needy, sopping cunt. He pushes your head back by the throat, and gives you a warning look, one that should deter you, but instead makes you pant with untamed desire. 

“You like playing with fire, don’t you, Atan?” he squeezes again, until you whimper and the world starts to slowly fade around you, and the whimpers turn into pathetic moans as he releases his grip and the rush of oxygen makes more slick pool in your now already-damp loincloth. 

“I’m your brother now, am I? Is that what people think, is this what this tribe thinks?” 

“Neteyam, who cares what they think?” 

“I obviously haven’t done a good enough job in making sure people understand who you belong to.” his hand takes hold of your jaw, bringing it up to look in his eyes. “Who this face belongs to.” His other hand moves down to trail over your body, from your neck to your collarbones, to the swell of your breasts, to the curve of your waist until it reaches your tewng, that he skilfully unwraps and lets fall to the floor, and you whimper slightly as the breeze hits your now uncovered core. His slips his hand in between your thighs, tracing your folds, thumb circling your clit lazily, and you jerk slightly, but he holds you in place with a firm grip on your hips. “Who this pussy belongs to.” 

He tilts his head slightly and licks his lips, still eyeing you like how a predator eyes his next meal. “Let’s look at all the offences, shall we? First…” he says as he pushes your thighs apart and inserts a slender digit into your drenched core. You gasp at the sudden stretch and try to push your head back, which he prevents with his unrelenting grip on your face. He tsks with a languid shake of his head. “No, Atan. You will look at me.” he starts a slow pace of his finger, continuing to pump in and out of you while his thumb motions draw more insistent, and the pressure in your core builds, enough to make you pant, not enough to feel release, aching for more, more stimulation, more of him in you.

“First, you knowingly let another man flirt with you, and you call him a mighty warrior in front of me, knowing full well what it would do to me.” 

“Second…” he inserts a second finger, scissoring you open, and the mewl you release does nothing to deter him, nothing to stop him. “You raise your eyebrow at me. You know what happens when you raise your pretty little eyebrows at me, Atan.” 

“Neteyam, ple- ah! Please!” 

“No, baby, you don’t get to ask for favours now. I’m not even done yet.” 

“Third,” his last digit sinks into you to the knuckle and his three long, slender fingers stretch you out like a fucking dream, filling you in the way you craved and needed, moving at the pace he knew would get you to fall apart around him. “You allowed him to think that we’re brother and sister. You let him think he had a shot at fucking you. You let him touch your skin, run his fingers down your arm.”

Your breaths were shaky and shallow as you shook your head, as you tried to obey him, tried to focus on keeping your gaze on his, on keeping yourself together, but you couldn’t, not when it felt so good, not when the pressure in your abdomen was so tight it was about to explode all around you and all around him. And he didn’t want you to keep it together. He wanted you to suffer, and suffer you did when he pulled out of you as you were on the edge of coming on his fingers. 

“Argh - fuck!” You felt frustrated, and tears started to prick at your eyes, the emptiness you felt in your womb taking a toll on you. He knew your body better than you did. He’s had so long to learn it, so long to study it, and much like the any other challenge Neteyam tackled, he aced, he became the leading expert in what buttons to push to get you to come, and what buttons to push to drive you to the edge of insanity. 

“Does it feel good? You wanted this, right? Wanted to piss me off? Well, Atan…” he removes his hand from your jaw and moves it to your chest, which he pushes softly until you take the hint and move backwards, and he helps you onto the ground, caressing your body as he does, a gentle reminder that he loves you, that he would never purposefully hurt you, that he knows that there is a fine line between pleasure and pain and that, while he’s walking it, you would give into him like you always did, because in the end, he always made it worth your while. 

“Consider me pissed off.” 

His hands move from your ankles upwards, massaging your thighs with each stroke, with each inch traversed, and you almost relax under his touch, the feeling soothing and reassuring, like the calm before a storm. You allowed yourself the respite of closing your eyes and melting on the ground, with rushes of need overtaking you once more. You let out an inadvertent squeal when his tongue licks your pussy from your entrance to your clit, that he sucks on eagerly, making you entire body convulse under him, making you grind on his face, and he lets you, allowing you to coat his lips, chin and nose in your arousal. He continues to do it until you’re ready to come, then stops, once, twice, three times. You have tears running down your face and small, pathetic sobs escaping your lips. 

“Why’re you crying, baby? Hmm?” You just whine in response, shaking your head spastically. His mouth closes over your hips and abdomen in several spots, leaving marks and hickeys that you knew everyone will be able to see, including his family. “Neteyam… we share a tent with your family, fuck!” 

“Atan, I don’t care. It’s obvious I haven’t made it clear to the people of this clan that you’re mine. Mine. It’s time I rectified that. I won’t apologise for marking you up, everyone should know you’re taken.”

He continued his endless, slow, torturous onslaught throughout your whole body, until you had bruises everywhere, until they were as prominent as the little bioluminescent stars adorning your body, until they were battle scars that you would wear proudly, that you would show off enthusiastically, because fuck, you were his. You have been his since the moment you were both born just a couple months apart and you’ll be his your whole lives. You loved nothing more than being his. 

When he reaches you neck, the sucking turns into soft, peppering kisses, and you melt into his touch, cooing slightly as your hands reach over to stroke his hair and push it back behind his ears, that twitch backwards in response. 

“You’re mean. But I love you anyway.” 

“You were mean first, Atan. And I love you more. Don’t forget that.” You let out a breathy scream as his canines sink into your neck, and you can almost taste the metallic tang of the blood as it makes its way out of your body, as it coats your mate’s tongue when he laps at it like a starved man. 

“You’re mine.” He kisses you, roughly and you moan into his mouth as the mixture of your slick and blood on his tongue, in your mouth, makes you dizzy, tightens the coil in your womb once more. 

“I’m yours. All yours.” 

“Every curve, every moan, and every quiver belong to me, and only me.”

He makes quick work of his loincloth that he tosses carelessly by your side, and you can’t help the breathless moans that escape you once his tip prods at your soaked entrance, your cunt throbbing in anticipation, praying that this time, he’ll let you finish. Once. At least once. You push into him impatiently, making his length slip into you more and he growls lowly at your mishap. 

“Move another inch and you won’t be coming tonight.” 

Incoherent whimpers are all you are able to contribute in response, and he starts slowly sinking into your needy cunt, the stretch almost unbearable, but oh, so necessary. You can feel his tip grazing your cervix as he bottoms out and his breath hitches in his throat, a frown on his beautiful face as the pleasure takes over him. It takes a while, but eventually his eyes open and you are overwhelmed at their beauty, at the glimmers of light and forest green in the expressive, golden orbs, the one you knew by heart, the one that you dreamt of at night, that were the lights that guided your life, just like you were the light that guided his. 

“You drive me crazy, Atan. I can already feel you squeezing me. You always take me so well, don’t you, baby? This pretty pussy was made for my cock. Mine.” 

You nod enthusiastically, hoping that by doing so he’ll forgive you and fuck you until you passed out, the way he always did back in the forest. You missed falling asleep with him still deep in you, his cum dripping down your ass, hidden from view in your favourite cave or your clearing, where no one else could find you, where it was just you and him, forever and for always. 

“Do you want it, baby? Want me to give it to you?” 

“Yes! Yes please, oh my God, please!” 

He smirks and tilts his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes. 

“Yeah?” 

You whimper, frustration taking over you once more. His smirk widens into a full devilish smile and he pulls out slowly, only to ram back into you so hard you get knocked back from the sheer force. 

“Beg.” 

“Please, Neteyam. Fucking hell, please, I’m begging you, move! I need you to fuck me, I need your cock so badly, please!” 

You felt his groan deep in your soul, electricity running down your spine, pooling in your abdomen, sending sparks everywhere in your body and when he started a rough pace, slamming into you ruthlessly while his balls continued to slap against your folds, while his pelvis put pressure on your clit, it didn’t take long for the pleasure to become overwhelming, didn’t take long for all the orgasms you were denied to catch up with you. He didn’t stop once you came all over his cock, but maintained the same pace until you were shaking and feeling the desire build up yet again, even stronger than the first time.

“Remember whose dick you’re about to squirt on the next time you think of pulling this shit. Let go, Atan. Come for me.” 

Another testament to how well he knew you, his words immediately drove you to your release, gushes of liquid spilling out of you as you squirted on him, dripping down his balls and your ass and making a mess out of the ground beneath you. 

“Let’s see Azao get near you again when you spend the next week with my cum dripping down your thighs. With my smell all over your perfect body.”

And with that, he comes in you, thick ropes of cum painting your walls, that he fucks back into you, using his cock like a plug to make certain you’re marked, certain it’s not going anywhere for the time being. 

Neteyam had impeccable control over his emotions. But just like with everything else in his life, you would always be the exception to his every rule, the one that had absolute power over him, the one that owned his heart, body and soul. The only one. 

“So… do you like getting fucked by your brother, Atan?” 

taglist: @samiiistarss @fanboyluvr

[r11k4]

The Beauty~

caption; Neteyam, a simple Navi native, destined for great things to become a great leader for his clan and follow the reins of his father to make him proud, but above all he was forced to have the same mentality as his mother... especially regarding humans, but for once he wants to break the rules... causing him to fall in love with a fragile human… (Neteyam x Human, female reader) 18+

warnings; (all the characters are adults, Age up) neteyam is crazy about the reader totally in love, almost obsessed, sexual and aggressive (like hate-sex almost rape and size kink… almost breeding kink) scenes and the ending will be a little sad at first but in the end it will be happy!

Info; This story was created taking inspiration from a Disney film "Tarzan" (so if you don't fully remember the film, go and see it because it’s beautiful, specially I use the name Clayton)

Neteyam when he was still a newborn, knew well that he had to be an excellent example for his family, especially for his brothers, so he tried his hardest to be the best just like his father, regarding his mother, he had to try in every way to think like her, to be exactly perfect for them.

every day of his childhood, he had to constantly train to become an excellent archer warrior, because sooner or later he would have to take his father's place and consequently choose a woman for his entire life… by the time he turned 25, he already had enough experience, he was respected and loved by everyone, many women wanted to be with him, all of them wanted to spend at least one night of sex with him… but Neteyam didn't want any of this, he was interested for other things… or at least, for a certain person.

being now responsible and old enough, he was allowed to be on patrol or simply hunt alone, and that's where I meet a beautiful little thing... a little fragile human together with her scientist father and a soldier… name something like Clayton… charged with protecting them… when he saw them for the first time, he didn't understand their language at all, except a few words at most, but he didn't care, for him seeing your adorable face was the only thing that mattered.

• Neteyam's point of view;

I had been trained to be very attentive, just like a warrior and hunter, while I was observing those humans, concentrating moreover on the little human, I noticed that she had stopped to draw a flower, but in the meantime a Thanator was silently approaching, most likely for a meal, you noticed it and ran away as fast as you could and he started chasing you… just as he was about to take you, I pick you up bridal style and before walking away, I growl showing my canines marking the fact that you were my prey… but it seems that by doing this the animal became more enraged and I instinctively use the bow hitting it straight in the head and then not listening to your pleas to make you come down, I position you on top of a large trunk, you, frightened, move away from me and I get even closer making you slam against the bark of the tree.

“oh… please don't get so close to me…” I heard your voice, you seemed embarrassed and uncomfortable, you looked down trying in every way to avoid my gaze, but in response I grabbed your chin… I began to caress your face, admiring your soft skin but above all your adorable facial features.

but you, seeing these unwanted attentions, you push me, you start yelling at me and I couldn't stop grinning, amused to see your impression, you were even prettier… I took advantage of the distance, wanting to introduce myself…

“Neteyam”

“sorry… what?”

“Neteyam!” I said, touching my chest, indicating that that was my name.

“ohh I understand…”

“Ohh I understand… me, Neteyam! you, Ohh I understand…” I say happy, knowing your name, but you start laughing, saying;

“Nono, my name is Y/n… you Neteyam, me Y/n” when I heard my name spoken by your lovely lips, you feel the lips from my stomach… I instinctively say your name softly, as if it were a sacred name

“Y/n…”

“Yes, exactly…”

after this, we hear a shot, I hear your lovely voice calling me again, pointing to something and then saying a name, after which I decide to accompany you towards the noise and leave you there, and then hide, not wanting to be noticed especially because I was thinking of the words of my mother, that humans are despicable beings...

But definitely not my Y/n, she is not evil.

After that day, I always came to see you, to see what you did, what you discovered... what you even loved or liked, I wanted to know everything about you, I had gotten to the point of learning your language, I liked the way you committed yourself. to make me understand things, I felt like I was reliving the same moments as my parents when they first met…

but my feelings increase more and more every day, until I develop desires, harmless at first and then become dark, wild... so exciting and contrasting... full of sex.

you couldn't understand how much frustration I had because of you, every damn day, after being at your place, I had to constantly lower my thong and try to calm my erection, constantly masturbate using some of your stolen panties, imagining it's your little hand , or even better, your sweet pussy, which holds me, forcing me to never let you go... I can’t live like this, not anymore.

• reader's point of view;

I was in my camp, more precisely in my tent, arranging some books and CDs and then putting them aside to show them to Neteyam when he would come, when suddenly I hear footsteps behind me, I discover that it is the protector paid by my father, named Clayton, smiling at me mockingly… what he wants now?

he gets dangerously close to me, pushing me against the table and making me tilt, so as to show my ass on display, he bows towards my figure, mostly towards my ear, whispering;

“listen to me carefully darling, I need that fucking native in custody, and above all he needs to show us where the fuck Jake Sully is... if you don't cooperate I'll have to take strong action by killing your boyfriend... we don't want this... do we?”

I try with all my strength to move away from him, I start to get agitated saying;

“no please, don't hurt them, I will do everything I can, I promise! but please don't kill him...!”

he jerks me to the floor and then says out loud with a huge smile on his face;

“well then hurry up and do something, because time is running out darling and I won't be patient later”

• Neteyam's point of view;

finally the night has arrived, I approach your tent slowly, hesitating at first and then I enter, my tail starts wagging excitedly at seeing you in your maximum splendor... this evening you were more beautiful than usual…

I was about to speak to say hello, but you run towards me, hugging me suddenly, receiving this unexpected emotional contact, my heart starts beating faster thinking about how cute and fragile you were... so small...

I return the hug and to lighten things up I say with a laugh;

“what's up ma sevin did you miss me?”

you pull away from me slightly, to look into my eyes and you slowly come closer to me, and unexpectedly kiss me on the lips softly, but I wanted something deeper, so I try to take control…

the kiss becomes more and more passionate and deep, I guide you towards the mattress making you lie down and I start caressing you, exploring your body, like your breasts, so swollen and hard… I start to taking off your crop-top but you stopped me, saying my name;

“Nete… wait…”

“Yes gorgeous? Tell me…”

"Please don't hate me for what I'm about to tell you... I love you so much, I tried to protect you..."

I was quite confused, I caress your face and smile sweetly at you, saying;

“ma sevin, I could never and I mean never, be angry with you, I love you so madly… tell me what's wrong”

“the rda is back... they want to hurt you Nete! they want to harm your family... your people! Please…"

“It's impossible, the RDA left a while ago... I don't understand…”

“Nete, I collaborate with the RDA and Clayton is Quaritch's right-hand man... I wanted to tell you straight away... believe me but I didn't know how..."

I couldn't believe my ears, the woman I loved collaborated with that monster... that damned bastard who almost killed me and risked hurting my family... I instinctively turn away from you disappointed…

“No Nete… please”

“ma Y/n how could you do that? I trusted you... I can’t believe this…”

“Please don't say this... I never wanted to hurt you... I love you, I will do everything I can to help you... I promise you that"

I close my eyes making an almost resigned and sorry sigh, in response you take my face in your hands trying to make eye contact with me, but I was still too hurt…

“Please Nete… look at me…”

I slowly look at you with my eyes half closed from anger and disappointment because of you, in response seeing your eyes full of tears, I then decide to kiss you forcefully, throwing you back on the mattress and I put myself on top of you, trying not to crush you with my body…

I didn't give a damn anymore about your pleas about not tearing your clothes off, but I do the opposite, forcefully taking off the last shreds of your clothes to throw them somewhere, I start savoring your sweet skin, leaving hickeys all over your body…

“Nete… please…”

“shut up you little bitch, you've done and said enough already, now let me proclaim my prize…”

after saying the last sentence, I lower myself towards your stomach and then towards your sweet pussy, I couldn't wait to taste it... without wasting time, I get closer, giving a light kiss to the clitoris and then I start licking the inside with a ferocious but slow movement, trying to understand your weak points and make you enjoy yourself more…

“N-nete! I can’t…”

in response to your moans, I move away and spit on your pussy and then continue licking it again… just as your moans were starting to get louder, I pull away abruptly, not making you cum…

“n-no… why you stopped… please continue…”

“Oh really? You want more? but you don't deserve it... you acted like a bad girl, I have to teach my woman good manners... don't you think?”

impatiently, I stand up slightly to undo my thong, letting out my cock, already nice and erect and dripping with a bit of pre-cum… in response, seeing me naked, you let out a sigh, making me point out that you too were almost as impatient as me… without even waiting, I position myself between your legs, taking my erection to bring it closer to your wet pussy, I slowly enter, and then start to move deeper…

“N-nete… wait… y-you are big!”

“I don’t fucking care, you can take it”

the thrusts got harder and faster, your voice got louder and hiccups, I loved seeing you in this state, just for me, but I knew I wouldn't last much longer…

“come on baby, your walls tighten around my cock, I know you're about to cum... do it for me"

without you saying anything, you did what I asked with a moan, then after two thrusts, I poured myself inside me, and then whispered to you:

“you will no longer run away from me, indeed, you will now be the mother of my children… right ma sevin?”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 11: The Innocent Can Never Last]

A/N: Below are your guesses…let’s see how you did!!! 🥰😘 Only 2 chapters left 🥳

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Wake Me Up When September Ends” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.3k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“You could have gone to California with them,” Rio says as he flips open the fuel cap of a black Nissan Frontier, parked in the driveway of a two-story brick house on National Avenue, not far from where Route 95 branches north of Winnemucca like an artery from a heart.

You squint up at the cumulus clouds to avoid meeting his eyes. You keep thinking you’re going to cry and have to suffocate it, drown it, slit its throat. “I didn’t want to.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Sweat runs in rivulets down his face as he slides in the semitransparent siphoning hose, the one with the little pump on it that Jace had when you found him in Iowa. Aemond gave this to Cregan; he kept the hose without the pump for himself. A small, curious sacrifice. You are fanning Rio with a magazine, Bow International. You had grabbed it thinking of Daeron, then remembered he wasn’t here to give it to. “Jesus Christ, it’s so fucking hot…”

“Djibouti was hotter.”

“Djibouti had a beach. And an air conditioning unit in every window.”

Cregan is waiting by the Tahoe and leafing through a guidebook he found at the Maverik gas station. Ice is lying on the ground and panting beside him, her shaggy grey coat filthy with dust and sand. “The town was named for Chief Winnemucca, who was born in the 1820s in what would later become the Oregon Territory. It either means ‘the giver of spiritual gifts’ or ‘one moccasin,’ depending on the interpretation.”

Rio says: “Damn Cregan, you can read?”

Cregan frowns down at the guidebook with feigned regret. “I really wish Trump had built that wall.”

Rio guffaws. “Cregan, man, I told you. I was born here!”

He continues: “Winnemucca was a stop on the transcontinental railroad.”

“Great. Let’s get that up and running again.” Rio groans as he squeezes the pump on the siphoning hose with increasing frustration. “Absolutely nothing. Not a drop.”

“We probably have enough to get to Denio Junction,” you say gingerly, knowing he’s suffering. It has to be over 100 degrees.

“Yeah, and what if there’s no gas there? How the hell are we going to get to Adel, Oregon?”

“We could walk if we have to.”

“85 miles? In heat like this?”

“In basic training we had to run—”

“We had water in basic training, Chips!” he snaps; and Rio never snaps. “And real food, and corpsmen for if we passed out, and also there were no fucking zombies running around eating people, remember that part?!”

You stare down at the dirt. You can’t cry; you can’t waste the liquid.

“Wait, no, no, no, I’m sorry.” Rio lifts your chin so you aren’t able to hide from him. “I’m…you know…I should already be there. I could be in Odessa in six hours, I could be with Sophie and the baby before sundown, and instead we’re stuck here in the desert and I’m thinking…what if what should take hours ends up taking weeks? What if when I get there, I’m too late?”

You nod, you understand. Out on the road, Cregan keeps his face buried in his guidebook, trying to be polite and pretend he can’t hear you.

“And, I’m also thinking…” Rio says, soft and low. “That I don’t want to be the reason why you miss out on a chance at happiness when the world could literally be ending.”

You gaze up at him, dejected, pathetic. “I can’t handle any virgin jokes right now.”

“I know. I wasn’t going to make one.”

“I didn’t want to go with them to California,” you lie. And then a truth: “And I would never leave you. I promised.”

Rio smiles. “You promised not to let me die alone, and I don’t plan on dying. You’ve gotten me most of the way already.” He glances towards the Tahoe. “I think Axe Boy would have rather stayed with them too. When he was asleep last night I heard him mumbling something about Helaena.”

Cregan? Helaena? Interesting. “Aemond doesn’t want me.”

“Oh, come on. You know he and his one eye are sobbing into a can of SpaghettiOs right now.”

“Be nice,” you murmur morosely.

“Why? He can’t hear me,” Rio says. “Look, Aemond’s fucked up. And of course he is. He went from learning how to save lives and deliver babies to watching his friends die horrible, preventable, completely meaningless deaths. That’s gotta suck. It sucked for me, and I barely even knew them, and no one expected me to be able to do anything about it. Aemond’s the one people trusted to protect them, and he couldn’t. So why would he be able to protect you?”

I never wanted Aemond to protect me. I just wanted him to take me away from here, even for a minute, even for seconds, one hushed stolen moment at a time. “I wish I had said something different back in Battle Mountain.” I wish I had told him I love him. But I didn’t, and now it’s too late.

“You deserve to have the whole wholesome normal family thing, the husband and the kids and the warm fuzzy holiday traditions. I know you’ve always wanted that.”

“If I choose the wrong person, I’m going to end up alone and miserable. And I’ll turn into a monster like my mother.”

“Hey,” Rio says, like he’s ready to fight you. And then he uses your real name, something he’s done maybe five times since you met him, just like you almost never call him Bryan. “You will never be like your mother. Okay? It’s not possible. You don’t have it in you. You’re not a parasite, you’re not mean.”

You want to believe him. “Okay.”

Then Rio chuckles. “Actually, you’re going to end up like my mom. Living in the middle of the woods, making your own soap out of goat milk, growing weed and knitting sweaters.”

You smile wistfully. “I have no idea how to knit. I want to build things.” Then you remember something from when you were fishing on Lake McConaughy in Nebraska. “Aegon said I look like someone who knits. Whatever that means.”

“It means you’re from Kentucky.” Then Rio asks, tentative: “So…what do you think about Aegon?”

This seems random. “He’s cool. I like him, obviously. He’s, um…I don’t know how to describe it. He’s so sad but so warm. It’s impossible to feel nervous around him, which is nice.”

Rio nods, giving you a teasing smirk. “Alright then.”

“Why?”

“Well I was just thinking that if he grows up a little more, he might be good for you.”

“Rio, he’s thirty.”

He bursts out laughing. “So give it another decade and he’ll finally be baby daddy material.”

“I’m sure he’ll be preoccupied with his drug dealing and brothel empire by then.”

“You aren’t even the tiniest bit intrigued?”

“I’ve never really thought about him that way.” And there’s another dimension to it that wouldn’t occur to Rio: Aegon is an addict. You know what it’s like to have to depend on somebody like that. You would never allow yourself to fall in love with him, not the way he is now.

Rio sighs and pivots. “You want me to give you a baby?”

Now you’re giggling. Of course, he’s not serious, just like he wasn’t serious when you were trapped on that transmission tower together back in Pennsylvania. “Stop.”

“I’m super tall and charming, and I was a great electrician back when electricity existed, and I have luscious curly hair that you can readily observe since the U.S. Navy isn’t around to make me shave it off anymore.”

“Sorry, I don’t reproduce with Enrique Iglesias fans.”

“You are so racist, and yet I’d still be willing to help you out with a sperm donation. I’d blindfold myself and struggle through it somehow.” He’s grinning, but his dark eyes are kind. “As long as I’m alive, you will always have a family. And Sophie gets that. Her parents were fuckups too. That’s why she’s so close with mine even though they’re insane.”

“They’re exactly the right kind of insane for the way the world is now.”

“Remember when my dad went through his ‘wifi gives you cancer’ phase and would only communicate with me via Republican-president-themed postcards?”

“The Ronald Reagan one was neat. So many eagles.”

“Truly an excessive amount of eagles.” Rio goes for the porch. “I guess we’ll scrounge whatever we can inside and check the rest of the cars on the street before we head north.”

“I ain’t seen any others without the fuel cap already open,” Cregan says from the Tahoe, dispirited but trying not to show it.

“If we end up having to walk, we’re going to need water or Hawaiian Punch or something. A lot of it. Maybe we can find some of that Pedialyte stuff Aemond got for Jace when he was sick.” Rio pounds one closed fist against the front door. “Hey! Anybody home? We’re looking for supplies. Not trying to cause any problems. If somebody’s in there, just give a shout and we’d be happy to keep moving.”

You’ve followed Rio up onto the porch. “If there’s no water inside, canned fruit will work. You can drink the syrup for hydration, and all the sugar gives you calories.”

Back by the Tahoe, Cregan is leaning down to pet Ice. She’s still panting hard, foamy saliva dripping from her muzzle. “Y’all, we gotta get moving,” Cregan says. “Princess needs to be back in the truck with the AC, and I don’t want to waste gas by letting it idle.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re working on it.” Rio kicks the door once, hard enough that you hear the wood split near the hinges, dry and cracking. He backs up to prepare to give the door another blow, which is all it will take. Then there is a muffled voice from inside the house.

“Get the hell off my property!”

Immediately, you are stunned by the boom of an explosion, shards of wood flying like shrapnel, the steel barrel of a shotgun jutting from the fresh hole in the center of the door. Rio is scrambling off the porch and dragging you with him. With your free hand, you grab your M9 from its holster and begin shooting before the man inside can fire again, before he can kill Rio or Cregan or you. Your bullets pierce through the blackness of the gaping wound in the front door. You hear shrieks of agony; you see flecks of blood painting the wood. Now there are people shooting from the second-story windows, and you feel the wind of bullets clip by as Rio pulls you towards the Tahoe. The engine starts; Cregan is already in the driver’s seat. You return fire until your M9 makes only small, hollow clicks when you pull the trigger. And by then Rio is shoving you into the truck.

“Go, go, go!” Rio yells at Cregan the second he crawls in behind you and slams the door shut. Cregan swerves away from the curb and barrels down the street, tires squealing, gunshots still ringing out from the house. Ice is barking franticly.

“Rio, I’m out,” you say, terrified.

“What?”

“Bullets. I’m out of bullets.”

“We gotta go,” Rio concedes. There are scratches on his cheeks from splinters of wood, sweat turning from clear to blood-tinged pink as it drips down onto his shirt. “We gotta get out of Winnemucca. If we have to walk, we’ll walk. At least there’s no one north of here to worry about for a hundred miles. Not living and not dead either.”

From the backseat, you glance over at Cregan. “Oh my God, Cregan, you’re hurt.”

“I know.” His right forearm is covered in blood. It’s a graze wound, but deep; when he turns the steering wheel, you can glimpse the white of bone as his shredded muscles open like a mouth.

“You need stitches!”

“Oh yeah?” Cregan replies as the Tahoe bumps over corpses in the street, bodies mummified by the wind and the sun. “And which of you two would be better at that, you think?”

“We’ll get supplies to patch you up,” Rio says, peering out the window, searching for someplace to stop. “And enough food and water to last us through the desert. Right there, hop on Route 95, and we’ll find a store at the edge of town before we’re in No Man’s Land.” Cregan jerks the wheel; the Tahoe veers onto Route 95 heading north. Boarded-up houses and graffitied overpasses and gnarled bristlecone pine trees and lifeless traffic lights and looted storefronts pass by in a blur.

You turn to Rio. “What if those people try to follow us?”

“It’ll only take five minutes.”

“Rio…”

“We don’t have enough to drink. If we get stranded in the desert, we’ll die. I’m not dying out there. I didn’t cross 3,000 miles to drop dead just a few hundred away from Sophie.”

He’s right. There’s no other option. North of Winnemucca is a wasteland, a boneyard. “Okay,” you surrender, helping him look for stores. “But we have to be quick.”

“I can be real quick, baby. You’d know that if you took me up on my very selfless sperm donation offer.”

Cregan raises his eyebrows; you can see his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Y’all have a mighty strange relationship.”

Rio is pointing. “Right there, Riverside Grocery & Liquor. Let’s give that a try. Cregan? You see it? By the Taco Bell.”

“Of course you’d be attracted to Taco Bells,” Cregan says as the Tahoe zigzags across the parking lot, but his voice is woozy. Blood pours from the gash in his arm. What if the bullet severed a major artery? What if he’s bleeding to death?

You ask: “Cregan, do you feel okay?”

“I’m alright. Don’t you worry about me, Miss Chips. You got enough worries already.”

“You don’t look alright.”

His eyes meet yours in the rearview mirror; they are fearful. “I think I need to get pressure on it.”

“We’ll take care of you, buddy,” Rio says. And as soon as Cregan shifts the Tahoe into park, Rio is out the door and striding into the small grocery store, his Remington 12 gauge in his hands. It’s unloaded, but still good for blunt force trauma. The glass of one of the front doors has been shattered. Rio steps inside, his boots crunching on broken glass. You are right behind him; Cregan lifts Ice with his uninjured arm so she can get inside without cutting her paws.

Harsh desert sunlight streams in bright enough that you can see reasonably well, dusk or dawn instead of midday. The air tastes like dirt and decay. The shelves of alcohol have been picked clean, but cans and bottles and cardboard boxes have been left strewn haphazardly around the rest of the store. There are several circular racks of souvenir t-shirts: horses, mountains, pine trees, I was a buckaroo on the Cowboy Corridor, #DesertLife, Straight Outta Winnemucca. You yank a white shirt with a rattlesnake on it off its hanger and tie it tightly around Cregan’s bleeding forearm, closing the ragged ends of his wound.

Ice is whining and nudging at Cregan. “There’s one in here,” he warns.

“Yeah, I got it,” Rio says. She staggers out of the stockroom hissing and growling, the flesh on her face almost completely gone, her exposed skull stained with clotted blood, her teeth chattering. Long strands of blonde hair hang in patches from the back of her head. She is wearing a red vest with a nametag on it. Once upon a time, her parents called her Jasmine. Rio strikes the zombie with his Remington so hard it is decapitated, and the corpse crumples to the filthy tile floor as its head rolls over towards the cash register. Then he slings the shotgun over one of his shoulders and begins shopping.

Cregan is tall enough to see the tops of shelves where items have been missed; he pulls down bottles of Snapple, Gatorade, Yoohoo, Jarritos soda and stuffs them into his backpack. You are on your hands and knees sorting through the debris on the floor, everything coated with a layer of dust and sand. You find cans of mandarin oranges, boxes of graham crackers, tuna pouches, and packets of Tylenol. Cregan will need them. He needs more than that, but you can’t give it to him. You’ve never been to medical school. You grab more souvenir shirts to use as bandages later.

Maybe there are doctors in Odessa.

Rio says excitedly from the other side of the store: “Chips, they got Cheddar Whales!”

Maybe there’s a life worth living in Odessa.

“Just hurry up so we can go.”

“Yeah, yeah…” He’s filling his arms with boxes and bottles, making a lot of noise. Ice is pacing and whimpering, panting like she can hardly breathe, drooling gluey strings of saliva. The grocery store is an oven. Cregan pops open a can of Arizona iced tea and pours it into her mouth to be gulped greedily down. Still, Ice’s yellow wolfish eyes dart around the room, vigilant, rattled.

“I think there’s another zombie,” you say, watching her. You reach for your M9 before remembering it’s unloaded.

Cregan replies: “Sure she ain’t just overheated?”

Somewhere close, less than a mile away: gunshots out on the streets of Winnemucca.

“Ready, kids?” Rio says, his arms overflowing, half a Slim Jim hanging out of his mouth like a cigarette.

“Yes sir,” Cregan agrees. The t-shirt you knotted around his forearm is splotched with crimson, but the bleeding appears to have slowed. Fragments of glass shatter as he crosses through the doorway and out into the parking lot, carrying Ice as she struggles and barks.

Rio pauses as he passes one of the other t-shirt racks, circles of metal that gleam like halos. He’s rearranging his supplies so he has a free hand to grab a shirt he likes. There are more distant gunshots outside, and the squealing of tires. In the parking lot, Cregan is starting the Tahoe.

You say distractedly, noticing an empty Twizzlers wrapper on the floor and thinking of Jace: “Rio, let’s go.”

“Hold up, this one has an elephant on it—”

The hand juts out from below the rack and seizes his ankle, claws up his legs, rips and tears at him, grey flayed flesh and screeches from rotting vocal chords, something that used to be a man or a woman and is now only a monster, half a body, nothing from the waist down but shred of black necrotic muscle, skin, intestines, too close for Rio to push away, already clinging to him like graffiti on concrete, like a pair of stainless steel dog tags hanging from his neck. Without thinking, without hesitating, you are across the store and trying to get it off him, screaming as your fingers rake through disintegrating gore, so deep you can feel the zombie’s ribs like rungs of a ladder, trying to get a grip on it, trying to kill it. Now Cregan is back with his axe and he’s hacking at the skull as best he can without hitting Rio, and Ice is barking, and Cregan is yelling for you to get away before you’re bitten, but you don’t listen, you don’t care; all your life you were homesick until you found homes with Rio thousands of miles from where you were born, and if he’s gone then so is the only place you’ve ever belonged. There is a surge of blood, hot and metallic, rot and iron in the air, and you don’t know whose it is.

He can’t be gone. If he’s gone, who am I?

An arm hooks around your waist and drags you backwards, so roughly you lose your breath for a moment and cannot fight them; over your right shoulder, you see a hand holding a Glock. Aemond pulls the trigger and the zombie falls to the floor, a mangle of decomposition and exposed bones, because wherever the others ended up they found bullets and gasoline…and then they came back for you.

Aegon is stumbling over the rubble that litters the floor to get to Rio. You can hear Daeron and Rhaena’s voices out in the parking lot, and the blasts of Rhaena’s Ruger, the revolver she once didn’t know how to use. Cregan is trying to help Rio up, but he can’t stand. He is slumped against bare shelves and holding a hand to his throat, where he’s hemorrhaging from a gaping, ragged wound, torn arteries and lacerated veins. He’s been bitten, but his transformation won’t take long. He’s bleeding out. His dark eyes are on you, and beneath the glassy sheen of catastrophic blood loss is disbelief and fury and grief. He will never see Sophie again; he will never meet his child.

Your voice is a whisper, a phantom. “Bryan…”

“It only takes once, right?” he says, weak and guttural, already fading, blood on his lips. Then his eyes drift to Aemond. “Get her out of here.”

“No!” you shriek as Aemond pulls you towards the door, his arms locked around your waist, his lips to your ear as he begs you to come with him, that you have to leave, that it’s not safe here, that Rio doesn’t want you to see what has to happen next. Aegon is sobbing as he touches Rio’s face. Cregan bows his head; but he’s already looking at the Marlin .22 that hangs by its leather strap from Aegon’s shoulder. “No, I promised, I promised! I promised I wouldn’t let him die alone!”

“He’s not alone,” Aemond tells you, and he doesn’t let go when you struggle, when you scream. Burning sunlight floods over you, and you are in the parking lot. Rhaena and Daeron are shooting down zombies as they lurch towards the grocery store, drawn by the commotion, the symphony of the dead and dying. Luke is using a siphoning hose to fill the Tahoe’s tank with the remaining fuel in the Ford Expedition. Helaena is moving their supplies into the Tahoe, weeping softly to herself, her long ghost-pale hair flowing in the desert wind.

The racks, you think, you remember. You can see Helaena shining the flashlight into your eyes like you’re back on a living room floor in Iowa. I forgot to remind Rio to check under the racks. And now he’s gone.

You’re screaming that it’s your fault as Aemond forces you into the Tahoe, and you don’t care what anyone says to you: Luke trying to tell you that’s not true, Rhaena swearing that you’re safe now. There is a gunshot from inside the grocery store. Your heart and lungs have turned to iron like the anchor of a ship, cold and still and heavy, unmovable, unbearable. You cannot breathe through your sobs; you cannot see, cannot speak. You curl up on a seat and wish you were dead. All your life you have been compelled by a blind belief that there are better places even if you cannot imagine them, that sometimes when it feels like the world is ending the only way out is through. For the very first time, you want to give up. You want to let all the poisons of this earth seep into your bloodstream until they stop your pulse and everything goes quiet, quiet, quiet.

Aemond is pouring bottles of water over you so he can wash away the blood and sand and gore. He is searching your skin for bitemarks. People are climbing into the Tahoe and a key turns in the ignition. The wheels are spinning; shadows fall over your face through the windows as you sail beneath overpasses. You hear voices but not words. You feel Aemond’s hands on you and do not flinch away.

Someone is putting pills in your mouth and telling you to swallow. “What is it?” you ask.

“Tramadol,” Aegon says. “It will take you somewhere else.”

And it does, this poison he doesn’t know you are starving for; it erases the future and the past until you don’t exist, you never have, and this is a relief.

~~~~~~~~~~

Glimpses through fogged vision, disjointed flashes like dreams: Aemond cleaning and suturing Cregan’s arm, Helaena’s fingers threading through Ice’s shaggy grey fur, smoke from smoldering Marlboro Golds billowing from Aegon’s lips and out through an open window, coyotes watching the Tahoe pass from the shoulder of the highway, mountains and barbed wire, clouds and useless power lines, land that turns from flat and vast and vacant to steep hills thick with pine trees, so many they block out the sun.

You are dimly aware that the Tahoe is stopping frequently, long lulls to hunt for gasoline in small towns, one gallon here, three gallons there, discussions over which routes to take as Aegon scrutinizes his map. Aemond is always with you, coaxing you to take sips of Gatorade and nibbles of Ritz crackers, feeding you spoonfuls of chicken noodle soup straight from the can, and each night when you fall into numb unconsciousness in a dead stranger’s bed he sleeps on the floor in case you need him, and eventually you do. You jolt awake from a nightmare, not death but cursed immortality, a bite he missed somehow that turned you into a monster, into a murderer, your raw skin and muscles sloughing off your bones.

“You’re fine, you’re fine, look at your hands,” Aemond says, taking your wrists and holding them gently. “No bites. You’re going to be okay, I promise. Hey, hey…” He cradles your face, he pleads for you to believe him. “I swear to God, you’re going to be okay.”

“It should have been me,” you whisper in the red glow of the candlelight. “I don’t have a family that would miss me if I was gone.”

“Yes you do,” Aemond says fiercely; and it takes your drugged, horrorstruck mind a moment to realize who he means.

The next day the Tahoe runs out of gas, and you know this because Aemond wakes you with a palm resting lightly on your forehead and an apology sighed through your hair. “What’s wrong?” you murmur.

“We have to get out and walk for a while. Can you do that?”

You force yourself to sit up, blinking at him. “Where are we?”

“Kingvale, California. In the Sierra Nevada Mountains.”

“We’re going to the beach house,” you realize.

“Yeah,” Aemond says, smiling a little. “Yeah, we are. We’re going home.”

On Donner Pass Road, following in the centuries-old footsteps of doomed westward migrants, someone always walks with you as you shuffle along in a daze. Aemond tells you about California, Rhaena reads aloud from Mockingjay, Ice licks your knuckles, Aegon talks endlessly about golf and yachting even when you can’t respond. His burned leg is still bandaged, but healing, and he’s found a Converse sneaker a few sizes too big to wear on his left foot; Aemond treats and wraps his wounds each morning and night, and Rhaena observes and takes notes so she can learn how to do it.

One afternoon just north of Beale Air Force Base, Daeron sneaks a Marlboro Gold out of Aegon’s backpack when no one is watching and lights it as he lingers in the back of the group. Aegon smells the smoke immediately and whirls, runs to him, snatches the cigarette from between Daeron’s lips and stomps it into the pavement.

“You’re not going to be like me!” Aegon shouts at him in the middle of the road. “Goddammit, you’re going to be safe, and you’re going to be happy, and you’re going to know that people care about you because I’ll break your fucking arm if I ever see you smoking again. You don’t get to poison yourself. You’re going to live to be a hundred years old. Got it?”

“Got it,” Daeron echoes, startled, petrified; and then Aegon hugs him, hanging on for a very long time.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is midnight in Meridian, a miniscule town founded in the 1850s on the banks of the Sacramento River, a relic from a time when travel meant ferries and railroads and wagon trains. Here, well outside the state capital, there are no sounds except the breeze through the trees—blue oaks, sycamores, willows, white alders—and the hoots of owls. The house is old, built in the 1950s or 60s, creaking steps and a screened-in front porch where Cregan and Daeron are playing Uno while keeping watch. The moon is new and invisible. The stars are bright.

Aemond appears in the doorway of your room. You are on the edge of the bed and staring at the wallpaper, flickering candlelight and scenes of galloping horses. Aemond is not letting you have any more Tramadol. He’s also not letting anyone load your Beretta, although you saw a box of 9mm bullets in Helaena’s burlap messenger bag. Maybe he’s worried you’ll try to shoot yourself. Maybe he’s not too far off.

He closes the door, crosses the room, and sits down on the bed beside you. In the firelit quiet, Aemond says: “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to help you.”

“I can’t stay here. Take me somewhere else.”

At first, he doesn’t understand what you mean. Then you reach for him—for a life raft, for something to tether you to the earth—and the lines of your palm press against his scar, flesh he stitched back together himself, proof he can heal people, a reminder of how temporary any of you could be. Aemond lays his hand over yours and closes his eye, holding you there against his face, feeling your warmth and your forgiveness, your need to be close to him in a way that is suddenly so uncomplicated. There is no fear left in you. Perhaps there’s nothing left at all.

Aemond kisses you, and there are blooms of golden light through your darkness like what you call lightning bugs and he says are fireflies. You are entangled on the bed together, and all the sounds still ricocheting in your memory—screams, gunshots, bloodlust, hunger, anarchy—fade until they cease to exist. He is touching you, and you can feel lost pieces of yourself returning to you like rain soaking through parched earth, faith and resolve and desire. And now, and now…

Now Aemond is taking you far, far, far away, to bottomless blue water you can drown in, to where Diego Garcia lies marooned in the middle of the Indian Ocean, to the sun-glinting waves off the coasts of Chinhae, Corpus Christi, Key West, the Horn of Africa. He is between your thighs, and you want him through the pain, a razor-sharp fullness that seems so immaterial and so fleeting; and you lie to him over and over again because if he knows he’s hurting you he’ll stop, and in this world one cannot assume there will be second chances. Aemond stills once he’s inside you, giving you time to adjust but also overwhelmed by the intensity of it, his hands in your hair and trembling all over, kissing your face as the pain bleeds away and leaves a shade of craving you’ve never felt before, something deep and indistinct, something intangible like a spell or a myth. You move first, rolling your hips with a slow, cautious rhythm, and only then does Aemond follow you. It’s in his voice, in the reverence of his hands, in his iris like a clear secretless sky; you have taken him far away too.

“I love you,” Aemond says afterwards as his head rests on your belly, your fingers tangled in his damp hair and your skull hushed like calm seas. “And I can’t pretend I don’t anymore.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to.”

And in the morning, there is something different about the world: a hopefulness that makes you want to wake up, a radiance like moonlight on the wave crests of the Indian Ocean.