#not what i had in mind but it ABSOLUTELY is now | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

e1dritchjackal0pe · 2 days

Text

𝕻𝖔𝖎𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝕺𝖓 𝕸𝖞 𝕷𝖎𝖕𝖘

Summary: You didn't expect that chasing after a bounty in the middle of the desert would lead to perhaps the most insulting and upsetting predicament of your entire career. But after being lead across barren land and scathing heat, you know that you're running out of time to escape.

All you can do is hope that you can beat the clock before your luck runs out.

Warnings: 18+ MDI! Canon typical violence; violence against reader (not by Cooper), depictions of gore and death. AFAB Reader, some fem pronouns used, PiV sex, unprotected sex, boot riding, oral sex (M!Receiving), deepthroating. Mild overstimulation, multiple orgasms.

Notes: 23.1k words. I lied and told myself that this was going to be a short story . . . two weeks later. . . Ended a little bittersweet, which was entirely unintentional, but oh well. Not proofread. A little bit of sweet Cooper but not too much.

The sun is a crippling thing, beating down on you with a stifling heat that nearly feels like a physical presence driving down and tugging on your limbs and the crown of your skull. Intent on wringing your strength and every drop of moisture from your body in its torrid grip. It's debilitating and the only thing that you could ever possibly compare it to is standing next the roaring flames of a bonfire, or maybe, from what you've heard, like opening an oven door and being blasted by the rush of the preheated air. But it's the weight of your tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth that really seems to wave your circumstances in your face. It feels like sandpaper; brittle and harsh, like one attempt at swallowing could cause the walls of your throat to grind and split along each other.

You remember specifically when your last drink of water was. A few casual sips taken from your canteen only a few hours earlier, close to thirteen now to be exact. You've been counting. Torturing yourself with each passing second and every weakened, slipping step. It goes by slow in your mind, dripping by like molasses, and the scorched, barren ground cracking beneath your feet and giving way to loose, lifeless sand just makes it all that much slower. But truthfully, it's the sound of their laughter that's really getting to you. The group of them chortling like a pack a wild dog's; coyotes giggling and gloating over a kill. You aren't sure what they're all joking about. Probably something twisted that would make your stomach turn if you paid it close enough attention, but you've been making an effort to focus your concentration on absolutely anything else. The crunch of the rock underneath your boots; the lonely, empty whistle of the low wind brushing across the ground; your own panting breaths. Even the gentle clink and jingle of the rusted handcuffs that dig into your wrists like a taunt.

You're not supposed to be the one in fucking cuffs, trudging across the desert with a bunch of lowlife criminals keeping you hostage.

In your defense, you were only expecting one, not four. It's a flimsy excuse. Even in your own eyes, but to be fair, coming by caps as of late has been difficult. And no caps means no food or water, and your supply of RadAway has become concerningly low. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to come by funds without murdering someone over it. It had made you a little reckless. Desperate honestly, and the need to get some actual currency in your palm, instead of scraps, had hung heavy on you. So when you had caught sight of some random wanted poster fixed behind the counter of a dingy hole-in-the-wall bar, you had all but jumped at the opportunity. He was low rung and inexperienced by all accounts. Just another random, petty man with a propriety for violence who had shaken down the wrong establishment. He wasn't anything special. There are thousands of others just like him, just as there always will be.

It was supposed to be a low effort job. You were planning on shooting him dead and taking just enough of him with you to retrieve your money. But what you hadn't accounted for was getting jumped by three (four technically, you did manage to kill one) other men when you confronted him. But they had been like ghosts, leaping out of the empty shadows of the night in the manner of creeping phantoms when you had approached the bounty with a loaded gun trained at his head. The cocky, gnarled grin that had stretched across his chapped lips should have been a big of enough clue to let you know you were on losing side of your fight.

But even now you aren't sure where they had even come from. You had been tracking your bounty for a couple days across the desert landscape, and not once had he met up with a single person. You hadn't heard a word of gossip about him running with any groups or raiders either. So imagine your surprise when the figures that had stepped from the dark had all been familiar. Familiar in the regard that you've seen the rough sketches of their faces pinned up along just about every business and dilapidated building in the Wasteland. Drawn out on rough parchment that declared them all wanted, dead or alive. The Silva Gang; a small band, but a notorious one. They've been making a name for themselves as of late, snatching up people in the cover of the night to sell them off to organ harvesters and sex slavers.

You aren't sure which of the two they have planned for you, but you aren't exactly psyched to find out. Regardless, if they have a buyer in mind, it'll be a wonder if you even manage to survive the trip there in your current condition. After you had shot down one of their members, made his head explode in a splatter of red and brain matter, they had all been quick to gang up on you. Knocking you to the ground to kick your stomach in with their steel toed boots until your lungs couldn't manage much more than a pathetic, airy wheeze. You had bit the inside of your cheek in the middle of the beatdown, tearing it open until iron had flooded the inside of your mouth and stained your teeth scarlet.

Every breath hurts. It's like your bones have been rattled loose, and you swear you can feel them wiggle with each sharp gasp, just barely held in place by the bruised sinew that binds it all together. All you can do is hope that there isn't any internal bleeding, but it's difficult to tell with the wound in your cheek tainting your mouth with a coat of blood. Though, if you can't manage to find a way to escape, then passing out from hemorrhaging might actually be a blessing in disguise. A mercy carried in on violent wings. But then again, the Wasteland has never been known for its mercy.

A brittle, whistling laugh breaks out with all the subtly of a gunshot. Though it sounds closer to a cough with the way that it sharply cuts across the atmosphere like cracking a bone-dry branch over your knee. It's about the only warning you get before the man strolling in front of you - your bounty - harshly tugs at the chain connected to your cuffs, jerking your joined wrists forward and forcing the rest of your body to follow in an ungraceful lurch. Your legs scramble to right themselves, weakly trying to balance the entirety of your body's weight on feeble ankles. For a split second you think that you might actually collapse and get a face full of sand, but you just barely manage to catch yourself on time, flinging a foot forward to get a hold of your equilibrium.

He doesn't give you proper time to gather yourself before he's nudging you along again with the chain, flashing you a nasty grin over his shoulder in a show of filed down teeth. You've seen the pictures of sharks before. A few years back when you had stumbled upon the old remains of a school building. You had meandered through the halls, searching for what little you could find, anything that might have been useful. For a moment your mind had wondered and wandered as you allowed yourself to entertain what the halls and rooms may have looked like all of those years ago when the paint wasn't chipping and brimming with radiation, even though you really had no basis to go off of. And you were quick to find yourself sidetracked, digging through old textbooks and sheets of homework. It was just some biology book, with wrinkled, stained pages and dust collected on the hard cover. There had been a chapter about marine animals: dolphins, fish, and the like. But what had really caught your attention was the drawling of a shark that had been in the corner. Particularly its teeth. Massive rows of lethal points designed to slice through meat and tear flesh. Underneath the depiction of the great white there had been some offhand little fact.

Did you know that you're more likely to die by bees than a shark?

But this shark, you're certain has taken countless lives; sank his teeth into human skin and gorged himself on their bodies. And you might just be next if you don't manage to find an opening soon. You aren't certain where they're taking you. How many more miles you have to cover on shaking legs and bruised lungs, but the longer they lead you the closer you're getting to a death sentence.

"What do you say, lovely." The voice jumps out with the pressure of a dead weight linking across your shoulders, pulling you close into the cradle of someone's chest. The stink that rises up to greet you is abhorrent; stale and putrid from weeks, if not months' worth of sweat and dirt and grime. You could choke on it. "You ready for a break yet? You look like shit."

A brief scathing glance upward reveals that it's the one that you had shot in the leg. Right in the artery. It would have killed him too if they weren't fortunate enough to be in the possession of a stimpak. He still has a bit of a limp in his stride, but now he's here to gloat. Squinting at you to combat the unrelenting glare of the sun with a crooked smile, his tongue reaches to slip across his teeth in an unsettling leer. If all the posters haven't left you astray then this would be the one that calls himself Vulture. A fitting moniker for a cannibal and a scavenger, you suppose.

You want to shove him off and flee. Even with the cover of your jacket still secure over your torso, his body heat feels like acid on your skin, biting and stinging. He has your gun on his hip, secure and snug within his holster. The silver steel of the handle glints like a taunt. Your fingers itch with the urge to slip around the familiar grip. To feel the heft of it in your palm and the recoil reverberating up your arm as you squeeze the trigger. But the chain pulling your hands taut and forward isn't very giving. Even if you managed to tug your bounty down by the tether in his hands and grab ahold of Vulture's gun (your gun), with how sluggish you are the other two would be on you in a blink. And then you really would be dead and left to bleed out on the parched ground and give it the only moister it's probably seen in decades.

Though you might have an opportunity soon. Reluctantly, you lift your head up and shift your focus from him to survey the horizon, and in your unsteady vision you notice a few buildings nestled close along in the distance. A weathered sign is fixed to the roof of one of the structures, declaring something in a mixed bold font. But what those letters spell you're unable to make out from the large gap of space, about a half a mile, give or take. But you think that one of them may be a gas station, based of the old pavilion posted out front; tilted and threatening to lean over on its columns.

"What do you say, Vernon?" The man with his arm still cinched around the back of your neck asks, shouting over his shoulder to look at one of the men walking behind you. "I say we give her a little break. She might collapse otherwise, and we wouldn't want the goods to spoil, now would we?"

He leans in low when he says it, wafting his humid breath over your face in a revolting puff. You don't even bother fighting of the grimace that crosses over your expression, letting disgust twist up your features into an offended sneer. But Vulture doesn't seem to be insulted in the slightest. If anything, you catch a glimmer of amusement pass through his bloodshot eyes in a mirthful wink. A part of you entertains lunging forward and sinking your teeth into the flesh above his cheek bone; letting the sun burnt skin there break underneath the weight of them to ease the way that his words sear across you mind like a brand. But you can't lose your head yet. So you keep your mouth firmly shut, teeth tucked behind your dried lips while you fantasize about gutting the four of them open from pelvis to groin.

You let them lead you across the desert floor, still guffawing and cackling over their perverted jokes and braindead banter. It still makes you nauseous how you've managed to let them get advantage on you and drag you miles across barren land. Humiliation settles in your gut like you've swallowed oil and salt. And despite your lethargic limbs and tender stomach, it's safe to say that your pride is the most damaged thing out of this entire situation. It's tart on your parched tongue. No respectable bounty hunter should ever be caught in a state like this. You can hardly even recall the last time a query has managed to get the upper hand on you, much less captured you in handcuffs and held you hostage. It's pathetic.

You can practically hear that grouchy bastard's voice berating you in that lazy, accented lilt. Chiding you for getting caught. For slipping up like some kind of rookie.

Well that just ain't like you, sweetheart, lettin' a coulpa shitkickers get the jump on ya.

But as harsh as the echo of his voice is, it does serve as a sort of comfort in a paradoxical sort of way. Like a soothing balm on a fresh, stinging wound. Bittersweet from the familiarity of it; sharp and smarting like a fresh bruise, but also dulcet and homey like the swaddle of a soft blanket. As big of a pain in the ass as he is, a part of you has to be curious how life has been treating him these past couple of months. You're sure he's fine. No matter how dire the situation, he always manages to survive somehow, whether that be by sheer luck or by the skin of his teeth, he always makes it out. He's older than you by decades; experienced in horrors and calamities that you would struggle to imagine. Still, sometimes you can't help yourself from being a little . . . worried. It's so nonsensical to be fretting over a man that has the blood of a thousand souls on his hands; who's just as hardened and unforgiving as the land he walks. Especially when you're the one with your hands fastened together by old metal, and the damaged taste of iron in your mouth.

Despite your hard exterior, you've always been a bit of bleeding heart deep down. And somehow, someone as brash and knavish as him has managed to worm himself past all your defenses and latched onto that tender little piece of your soul. He was purely competition at first. A rival. A thief is what he was. Then a reluctant acquaintance, and eventually a . . . tentative friend. A vulnerability, really. But you can't ever keep yourself from wondering about him. Even now, with a violent band of criminals crowded around you and guiding you like a twisted procession towards death or slavery, you can't fight of the impression of a smile that begs to lift at your lips. You have to contemplate the next time that you might see him. If you'll even have the opportunity to see him again, so's long that this doesn't go tits up and you end up dead on the ground. If he'll still smell with the subtle musk of the earth; the residue of soil staining his tattered duster, all damp and rich hidden underneath a layer of dust, and at times blood.

That bastard. That old, mean bastard -

"What are you over there grinning about?" Vulture queries, slipping his other arm up to clutch your jaw between his dirty fingertips, squeezing your cheeks close like an uncle with boundary issues would do at a family reunion. It has you mouth splitting into a snarl and the urge to bite is back again, like an itch on your gums. But you hold yourself back.

"I was imagining what your blood might look like on the sand," you snap, jerking your face from out of his tight grip with venom on your tongue. It nearly could have surprised you when a splitting white-hot heat erupts across the side of your face with enough force to swivel your head to the right, licking an electrical current down the back of your neck, but you were honestly expecting the strike. You draw in a deep breath, ignoring the way that your lungs rattle while you focus on keeping your legs steady. You can feel him when he leans in close again; you can see the hint of him in your peripheral vision too, a little blurry and unfocused from how close he is.

"Well, keep dreaming. Cause that ain't never going to happen."

You don't agree or refute that remark. Not even while you picture wrapping the chain lead hooked to your cuffs around his throat and watching the light dim from the pale blue shade of his eyes. It's then that you decide, even if they do manage to kill you today, you're taking at least one more of them with you.

You let yourself fall silent again, counting the soft tread of everyone's footsteps. The way that the dry, dead earth splits underneath the soles of your boots in a weary whisper. But you mostly try to think about all of the weapon's secured to everyone's person. The gun - your gun - cradled in Vulture's holster. The idiot had tossed his away earlier to swap it out with you own. And you're pretty sure that it had still had a few rounds left in its chamber. There's the handle of a small hunting knife peeking out from past the lip of your bounty's (Thatcher is his name) boot. You didn't see him brandish any other weapon when you had tried to corner him, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't have any.

As for the other two following closely behind, you know for a fact that the one called Vernon has a 10mm pistol, and the other's been totting around an old baseball bat with nails buried through the barrel. The nails are rusted, tinged red, but you're certain that the dusty, maroon and vermillion is old caked up blood and not just oxidation.

There are too many guns. Too many of them. And you're weakened from exhaustion and dehydration; sore from getting your stomach kicked in. Running as of now is entirely out of the question. But if you make it to the gas station you should be able to use it as cover. There should be counters in there, shelves and a backroom. All of which can be used as protection against you and them, and the possible spray of bullets. But if you aren't careful enough, the tight quarters can also be used to box you in and keep you trapped between the four of them. You'll have to be cautious.

The twin buildings ahead of you are much closer now, and you're able to make out the worn, crippled details of the ancient establishments much better now. Old remnants of a time long before yourself, left shabby and broken by harsh conditions and war. The paint is all chipped and sun faded on both the motel and gas station; the colors muted down into dusty, pale shades that are probably a far cry from what they used to look like. Windows are opaque with dirt, and some of the panes have been busted out entirely, making some of the curtains still hung above the sills to billow softly. There's an old Nuka-Cola machine posted out front of the station with bullet holes peppering its metal casing; and a long bordering piece of the of the pavilion's roof is hanging from the edge, creaking and trembling with the influence of the wind, groaning and squeaking sharply with each tremor. Like the cries of a wounded, wild animal.

Apprehension settles deep in the pit of your belly like a stone, and you can feel it prickling along your fingertips and toes. The presence of the four men walking along you is like a heat on your skin, searing and stifling. It makes you hyperaware of everything. The brush of your own clothes, the weight of their eyes burrowing into your body; the light, shifting sounds of the desert. It's putting you on edge, making your muscles longing to tense and lash out but you have to keep yourself collected and calm. If you were to act out prematurely or let your nerves get to you, you might just end up with a bullet lodged between your eyes.

Thatcher stops short of the threshold of the gas station, which is left wide open from the twin doors that seem to have been blown from their hinges. He pivots on his feet suddenly, turning to you with another one of his nasty smiles. "Lady's first," he coos obnoxiously. That's the only warning you get before he's jerking the chain a second time. This time is much harsher than the first, and it sweeps you off your feet in a rush that snaps your neck back. You don't even register yourself falling. It's the pain that washes over your knees and eventually your right side that your mind notices first. Blossoming over your flesh like boiling water, and you can feel the stinging tingle of fine glass shards burying past your clothes to poke at your skin.

The hiss of pain that slips past your lips is overshadowed by the boisterous laughter that rings out around you. The sound of it has hatred simmering along your chest and slipping up your jaw, making you clench your teeth together so tightly that a part of you distantly worries that they might break. A string of curses and pyrophanites are heavy in your throat, but you don't want to give them the satisfaction of openly swearing. To let them know that they're getting under your skin. You keep your focus forward instead, ignoring the way they all chortle around you while you scan the dilapidated space. All of the freezers and shelves have been picked clean and left like a discarded skeleton. They would give you ample enough cover to hide behind, but there's still a decent amount of space between you and the aisles, and you aren't sure if you'll reach them in time. The counter ahead might be your best bet. It's thick enough that it can block a decent number of debris and bullets alike. But there's only a small gap of room provided between it and the wall behind it, which would end up working against you if one of them manages to follow you and evade getting shot. And coincidentally, you only have four bullets left in the chamber. One for each of them.

You can't afford to miss.

You have to swallow back a groan when you rise up on your feet, lifting yourself slowly to properly collect your balance; building up the tension your muscles while anticipation and adrenalin run heavy in your veins. Their body language is all still relaxed and unbothered, and in their comfortability, Vulture has trailed close to you. Apparently insistent on sticking to you like a disgusting shadow, but for once in this entire journey you're actually counting on his close proximity.

Something almost close to excitement trails down your back, lashing a familiar buzzing fire down your palms; thrumming like a living thing. You can almost taste it too, sharp and prickling in your mouth, and you can feel your heartbeat pulsing along your tongue. It flutters in your chest like something wild and stirred; but not panicked. This is something you've done a million times. It's like breathing almost. Like your brain giving your body a command without you having to consciously tell it to; it's second nature.

You jolt forward like a blur, fluid and quick even with bound hands. And when your fingers slip around the grip of your gun it's almost peaceful, subtly warm and familiar within your grasp. But you remove it from Vulture's holster even quicker, and in a blink you squeeze the trigger. The burst of sound that rises out is deafening, making your hearing fade out and go dim. Vulture's head lolls back on his shoulders from the bloody crater that splits into his skull, driven there by the speeding bullet that lodges into the wall behind him. You're already pivoting on your feet before you can relish the sight of his body collapsing on the old tiles in a heap of dead weight. But your sense comes back to you just enough to hear the dull sound of him striking the floor when you raise your pistol up to line up the shot, training your weapon up on Thatcher, who looks like he's preparing to tug the chain again in the hopes of knocking you off kilter and ruining your aim. But you set the gun off with a single twitch of your finger, and just as his companion's had, his head swings back like he's been struck and a crest of red sprays from the back of his skull.

As soon as his hands go slack, you're tugging the chain from his grip, making it swipe across the floor like a wounded snake towards your feet. But you don't get a single moment to enjoy your freedom before a bullet whistles past your ear, splitting and hissing. It doesn't allow you time to return the fire before Vernon begins unloading his clip in your direction with an angry cry. And without any other options you move back to spring away from him, launching yourself across the floor on shaky legs; burdened and aided by both adrenalin and exhaustion, but your desire to keep yourself in one piece has you hurtling yourself over the counter. You knock over an empty rotating shelf as you go, and the chain drags behind you with a harsh, metallic drag, striking against the front of the counter as you slip over the edge and fall on the floor.

When you land, it's on your ass, and heat sears across your tailbone and trembles up your spine, but you don't give yourself time to dwell on the pain when a spray of bullets erupts around you, bursting through the air and eating up the bit of wall above your head in a scatter of fraying wallpaper.

"You fucking bitch, you killed 'em!" A voice shrieks, hoarse and raw in its distress. "You fucking killed them!"

Based off of the tone, you're willing to be that it's Vernon, and the near relentless flurry of bullets is definitely coming from the pistol he had hanging from his hip. He has to run out of rounds soon, and hopefully it'll give you an opening when he has to load up the chamber, which shouldn't be too far off. But you still have the other one to worry about too, with his stupid bat. It has you looking around at your surroundings for anything that may held you pick the lock of your cuffs, glancing behind you to check the empty cubbies built into the counter for an old paperclip or a bobby pin, but there's nothing except for dust and an old candy wrapper. There's another scathing swear on your lips, and you can't help but spare an aggravated glare up the water damaged ceiling; cursing the universe, or bad luck, or maybe even whichever god is out there. But you choose to take your frustrations out on the remaining raiders instead.

"Yeah, and I'm planning on you two being next!" You shout loud enough to be heard over the onslaught of bullets. They've got to have another gun at this rate, there's no other way. "I just hope you don't go out as easily as your friends did!"

It's then that you notice the fisheye mirror posted along the corner of the wall, just above the counter, giving you a clear view of the front of store and some of the shelves that stand along the right. But you're concerned with the two figures that are posted near the door, standing close to the fallen bodies of their partners. And sure enough in the other man's hand - Rocky? Rocco? You aren't entirely sure - he's holding a pistol up in the direction of the counter you hide behind, his baseball bat long forgotten and discarded on the floor near his feet.

They both have ammo pouches strapped to their thighs and cartridge belts strung around their waists. Your only saving grace might just be that the majority of the loops are empty of bullets, but between the both of them, there's still enough to be a problem. You've been counting the number of bullets that Vernon has blindly planted in his maddened onslaught. One, two, three, . . . He has a few more in the chamber. Four or five more, at least.

You should have a clear opening soon. And Rocco dares to creep forward, most likely in the hopes of coming around the side of the counter to close you in. Unfortunately for him, he was also taking it as the time to reload his pistol. Probably lured into a false sense of security while Vernon continues the assault with his own gun. His bullets should be running out shortly if your count isn't wrong, but Rocco will reach you by the time that Vernon's supply of bullets has been drained. It's an ill-timed assault on their part. Sloppy. You can hardly believe that they're the gang that's been ravaging the towns made from the remnants of old Los Angeles. The same gang that had trapped you in a pair of rusty handcuffs. This is going to be salt in the wound for years to come.

It must be the deaths of Thatcher and Vulture that's made them messy. But it is working in your favor, so you can't complain much.

You keep your eyes trained Rocco as he approaches, hand raised to slip another bullet into the cylinder. He curses when he drops it, fingertips probably shaking and slick with sweat and twitching from the rush of adrenalin and the deaths of his companions. It clatters on the floor, metallic and chiming, skipping over the tiles, sounding like a bell. You draw in a breath then, forcing your body to gulp in the stale air even though its hurts and sears around the edges; even while fire licks at your lungs, you never wince or remove your sight from the mirror posted along the wall. You keep your focus trained on their reflections; the even, calculated steps that Rocco takes in your direction, nearing closer with every movement. All the while Vernon continues to fire, gun blazing while he screams himself hoarse. And for a moment, one wicked moment, you worry that he isn't going to run out of bullets.

You might have to risk jumping out of cover and hoping that you aim is true while your hands are bound with metal and dragging a heavy chain. But then, like a blessing you hear it: the harsh, hollow click of an empty chamber. It's a dull sound, echoing across the confined space of the tattered gas station with a pronounced finality.

Click, click, click

He repeatedly presses down on the trigger like he might jostle loose a magic bullet and kill you with it. You hear him swear. A low, scathing, shit huffed under his breath. The sound of the empty gun is like a countdown, and you're quick to act before the timer runs out. With an aching pain in your gut and the taste of blood in your mouth, you scoot yourself across the floor to line your shoulder up with the edge of the counter. Rocco has just one more bullet to slip into the chamber of his gun before it's fully loaded, and he already has his quivering fingers clutched over the copper casing of a bullet, ready to drop it into the last empty slot.

It's like you're tugged forward on a string. Muscles twitching and lead by pure memory; instinct. You have your gun drawn before you pivot yourself around the corner on the point of your knees. You know where Rocco is standing. You marked his place in the mirror above. It's bleached behind your eyelids now; fixed across your mind like a picture. It's a blueprint, a set of instructions, and all you need to do is follow your body's orders.

The trigger is warm when your squeeze it. Rocco's head jerks up as he notices you, eyes rolling and a little frantic when he registers the glint of the gun in your hand. In that spit second, you see so much pass through his eyes: surprise, disbelief, fear, and finally, a fleeting shred of what might be angry acceptance. It's a look that you've seen on all of the faces of the people you've felled. The five stages of grief compacted into a singular, short moment before the killing blow lands. And the blow lands in his chest, puncturing a clean hole through the flesh and sinew and clipping his heart. His breath rattles. A nastier sound than the labored gasps that have been ailing you, and you can't help but relish in the wet noise of blood welling up in his throat.

The gun slips from his hand and clatters to the ground long before he stumbles back on weakened legs and collapses backwards with a death rattle. But you don't have any time to gloat. Vernon cries his friend's name in protest. Like it'll keep the blood in his veins if he does. And then his eyes are on you like a rabid dog's that's been crowded into a corner and is coiling to lash out. He doesn't even bother finishing up on reloading his gun before he tosses it like it's useless trash, and then he's lunging forward to cross the bit of space that's between you.

It has your body twitching to spin your focus onto him and shoot. But the abruptness of it all, the hindrance of the cuffs has your aim off by just a few inches, and instead of hitting his heart like you had intended, you miss your mark by a few inches and get his left shoulder instead. That was you last bullet. Your chamber is completely useless, and your pistol might as well as be dead weight. You try to right yourself. To shift yourself on your feet properly to launch yourself out of the way and behind the cover of one of the shelves, but you hardly make it more than a few scant feet or so before he's pile driving you to the floor with a violent snarl. The weight of him pinning in place is crushing. Digging your bones into the tiles and forcing the air from your lungs in a brutal press; squeezing a cry from your aching chest.

Your lips peel back into a feral sneer when one of his hands slip around your throat to wring the oxygen from your body. Your hips writhe and feet kick in some mindless scramble to shake him from you, but he might as well as be made of lead; fixed in place and unwavering. And for a horrendous moment your brain is reduced to an animal's. Wiped blank and clouded over with pure primal instinct. You hand claw up towards his face, desperate to feel flesh underneath your nails to tear, but he leans himself out of your reach with a caustic, demented laugh.

"You brought this on yourself," he hisses harshly and flexes his fingers to make you choke. You can feel your eyes roll towards the back of your skull; your muscles draw up tight when your lungs seize, empty and burning. Tears threaten to fall, prickling at your waterline while your brain fogs over in a suffocated haze, and for a brief, drifting second you wonder if this might be your final moments. But then you feel it. The pull of the chain tugging at your handcuffs. Tender around your wrists. And while he's distracted watching the life fade from your eyes, you slip your fingers around the groves of the chain, drawing up the metal links until you have it gripped tightly within your sweating palms.

You bare your teeth when you swing your hands up to launch the chain in the air. It cuts across the atmosphere with a heavy whoosh, and when it meets his cheek, it splits the skin underneath the force of it, parting his flesh with a rivulet of red. His head jerks on his shoulders harshly and his body twitches and tugs to the side from the sheer weight of the hit, but his grip around your neck doesn't so much as flinch. His free hand strikes out like a serpent, snatching ahold of the chain before you can strike him again and he pins it to his side, immobilizing your defense. And in some mad scramble your frayed mind catches onto the glint of red pouring from the hole in his shoulder. It guides you to lift a hand up to burrow your fingertips into the wound, pinching and tearing at the torn flesh until blood flows over your hand, all warm and damp.

The angry, anguished roar that he lets out could have been deafening if your hearing wasn't already tarnished and fading from the pressure of his chokehold. But instead of getting him to flinch away or weaken, somehow it makes him grip you harder. The sheer strength behind his fingers has your lips parting in a silent, tortured cry. It's here and now that you decide that your luck really must have run out. You suppose that the Wasteland can only do you so many favors before it comes to collect, and you've evaded horrors and troubles that would have shaken and killed the Devil himself. You were honestly just hoping that your death would be a little more honorable. A blaze of glory with fire and blood. Not delivered by the hands of some cheap raider. But you can't always refute the hand you've been delt - no matter how shitty it is.

You can feel your vigor and breath slipping. The blood rushing in your veins while your heartbeat pulses in the cage of your chest - all frantic and panicked in a hail marry to keep your body functioning while your lungs starve. Even with all of the adrenalin thrumming hot throughout your body, the exhaustion that tugs your limbs down is too great. It's like you've been dipped in syrup and glue and have been left to stick to the tiles like a rat caught in a trap. Your eyes roll again. Slipping back to focus past the sadistic grin curling on his lips; past the form of his head which has faded into a sort of silhouette. A dopey sort of smile blossom on your face when you catch sight of a stain marring the ceiling. Its shape is all random, made from a scattered assortment of moldy blotches that bleed into each other, made from shades of tan, and brown, and gray. It's nothing. Just stain on the ceiling. But if you squint your eyes a certain way, it kind of looks like a cowboy hat.

It makes you wonder if he'll miss you once you're gone. If he'll even notice that you're gone. That maybe, after a few more months or maybe even years, after fate or circumstance hasn't led you to cross paths again, that he'll realize that something has happened to you. That life has finally struck down the hammer on your head and snuffed you out. Maybe he'll look out ahead one day when the sun's brushing along the earth and painting the sky in searing shades of orange and red and rose in its descent and realize that you're well and truly gone. All you can do is hope that he'll think back on you fondly; that his deadened heart might actually miss you - if that is something that he's capable of. But the Wasteland is a vast place. It's so big that it can swallow individuals whole; get them lost in its sweeping landscapes and violence. It's so easy to forget people here. Family, lovers, friends can all get swept away and distant until they're hardly more than a mirage on the horizon. A ghost on the fringes of the mind. And maybe that'll be you. Just another ghost lined up alongside a thousand others.

And while you choke and sputter on your last remnants of breath you continue to stare up at that murky little cowboy hat on the ceiling with something akin to hope in your chest, taking the place of air. But he probably won't remember you at all, the asshole. He's too brash. Too guarded. The sharpness his eyes is always hardened and a little distant behind the sardonic glint in them. He's shown you parts of himself that others could only dream to know. Small pieces in the grand scheme of things. Like broken, trivial shards torn from a greater image. Hardly enough to make a full picture. But it still lets you see him a little more clearly. You've seen all the ugliness. The callous, indifferent brutality; the sarcasm and guarded emotions. He's a walking mystery. An impenetrable fortress. But every now and again you see a hint of the human underneath it all. The man, the movie star.

You can't believe that he's going to be your last thought while your lungs burn and draw up tight. His wicked, playful grin; the charming, languorous drawl of his voice; the gentle chime of his spurs when he walks. You can almost hear it over the wild roar of your blood in your ears and the relentless string of Vernon's swearing and gloating; repetitive and ringing and light. Like old useless coins jingling in someone's pockets. Almost musical in the rhythm of his phantom steps.

You always did like his walk. Always lazy and confident like a saunter.

When Vernon's head explodes like a ruptured balloon you think that you're imagining it. One second he's grinning down at you with his teeth bared and glinting, and the next his face seems to fracture. It erupts and cracks into tiny fragments and slivers like a dropped vase. But instead of water splashing out, it's sprays of warm, wet blood and chunks of brain matter. In your oxygen deprived daze, you're certain that you see a scatter of teeth soar across the air like nuggets of porcelain. The blood lands against your skin like the drops of a rare rainstorm. But it's still hot from the heat of his body, like something molten on your skin.

His torso wavers unsteadily, rocking and unbalanced from the sudden absence of its head, rolling back on its weakened spine like an old tower swaying in a strong wind. The debilitating grip around your throat slackens when the body finally gives underneath its own weight and topples over on the tiles in a bloody heap. The greedy, hoarse gasp that you draw in instinctive, but once you start, you can't stop. Not even when the air catches on your throat and threatens to choke you again with the twitching, painful coughing fit that wracks your body, clawing and itching at your lungs.

Clarity comes back to you slowly, nudging at the disoriented cloud that fills your skull like drugged stuffing. You shift onto your stomach with another long gulp of air, kicking at the corpses legs that lay across your own; and finally, it begins to feel like a cool balm inside of your chest instead of a fire. But the world is still sluggish. Muted and slow from your distress and you relax your belly on the tiles, suspending yourself on shaking elbows.

It's then you notice the figure standing in the open doorway. Your body coils up tight, sucking in a few more desperate puffs of air while you brace to fight again, even though your limbs are drained and quivering, and your stomach and chest ache and burn. But then you notice the little details of the silhouette. The worn brim of the hat, the tattered and torn edges of their duster, the relaxed and confident way they hold themselves. It has you thinking that you really are dead. That you passed away right on the floor from the pressure of the raider's hand around your throat. That he really did succeed in squeezing the life out of you. This must be some sort of deathly hallucination. Your mind playing tricks on you as pass out to the other side - into an afterlife or into nothingness, you aren't sure.

But then a tepid, clement wind brushes into the store, and it's perfumed with the scent of something earthy and rich and familiar: Soil. The figure tilts their head like a curious dog before they holster their gun against their hip. On the right side, just like it should be. He steps forward, and you can feel the weight of it pass over the floor in a gentle thrum; joined by the soft chime of a spur. Of the disk jingling and spinning in its rowel pin. He crosses the distance in a few calm strides with the metallic, melodic sound following each step, and pauses to consider you once there's little more than a foot of space between you and him just before he lowers himself into a crouch.

You watch his descent with a rapt, dazed sort of fascination, and you can feel the impression of a smile on your lips when the shadow made by the brim of his hat fades from his proximity. The familiar weight of his eyes surveying you is comforting, and the delirious grin on your face grows even more.

"You look like you've been dragged through ten kinds of hell," he observes tactfully. But you can't even manage so's much as a flicker of annoyance when the only thing you feel is pure relief. You want to greet him properly, like you usually do. Something witty or sarcastic, but your lethargic brain is about as useful as a bottomless bucket.

"I was just thinking about you," you blurt, and your voice is raw and shredded when it grates up your throat. You notice the way that his hairless brows perk up at the confession, and something amused passes through his eyes while he considers you from your gore-soaked place on the dirty tiles.

"Is that right?" He turns his head to scan the rest of the room, taking in the sight of the rest of the bodies that are strewn about like discarded toys. "Well, given the predicament I found you in, I'd say you need to get your priorities straight, sweetheart."

There it is. That damned pet name. Even though it's spoken with an air of derision, it always sounds so syrupy and sweetened. Cradled softly within his accented drawl like it's saturated with melted sugar. Even with your mind all muddled and scrambling to form a coherent thought, it's still lucid enough for you to register the uncomfortable thrum of embarrassment at the remark. But most prevalent is the sense of bewilderment that nudges up at you and breaks through all of the confusion and pain. You can feel your eyebrows furrowing on your head, openly showing your puzzlement.

"What exactly are you doing out here?" You ask around your cracking voice, drawing yourself up onto your knees with a ragged groan.

"That's no way to talk to someone who just saved your ass," he chides without any real bite. He rocks back on his heels just a bit, making the worn leather of his boots creak in a low protest. "I heard there was a bounty for the Silva Gang; a pretty hefty price is out for 'em. I just didn't expect to see Ezra Thatcher here. " His focus settles back onto you then, and the familiar, devious glimmer that shifts through his stare immediately has your hackles rising. "There's a pretty hefty price out for him too."

A snarl perks at your lips, and you can feel anger flaring in your chest; hot and searing around the bruising ache, and it singlehandedly douses out every bit of joy and relief that you initially felt upon seeing him. He appears to be nothing but amused by your apparent outrage. Not that he ever isn't. But you're sure that shackles still secure around your raw wrists only serve to cement his security. Plus, you don't look particularly threatening, all glistening with a layer of sweat, bags under your eyes while your lungs gasp and shudder harshly. But you're a little tired of this little cycle of yours. Ever since the day that you two have met he's been sweeping bounty's out from under your feet. Sneaking up like a shadow to rip out criminals from your grasp to take the prize money for himself.

"No!" You snap, lurching forward on the points of your knees to lean you face close to his. Close enough that if he still had a nose, it would probably brush against your own. "You are not taking another one of my bounties."

He doesn't answer you yet. He cocks his head again, slow and intrigued while his vision lowers to the handcuffs binding your arms. The smile that lifts at his rough lips is patronizing all in itself, but the way that he slips a gloved finger through the link of metal that secures your wrists together is just more salt on the wound. He tugs it lightly like he's testing its hold, checking to see if it'll give underneath the weight, but you know that he's really just rubbing in your current situation in further. Letting you see how well and truly helpless you are with your hands literally and metaphorically tied.

"I really don't think you're in any position to be making demands," he responds easily. "And considering that I just saved your skin, I'd say that it would properly suffice as payment."

You settle for rolling your eyes. An otherwise childish gesture, but as much as you want to argue, you know by now that trying to reason with him once his mind is set is about as successful as trying to have a conversation with a brick wall. It's a waste of air, and as of right now you're in short supply with how ragged and strained your lungs are. You're in no condition to be trying to pick a fight with someone as treacherous as the Ghoul. Sure, the two of you are . . . somewhat friends. But his sympathy and courtesy are a delicate thing, separated by an even weaker sense of resolve that often blends in with his cunning and brutality. Associating with him is like befriending a feral dog. He has his moments where he's cordial and even companionable. But those moments are few and far between. Borrowed time. At the end of it all, he's still wild. Corroded and shaped by the harsh, ferocious nature of his environment. Even when he's laughing and smiling, you know that he's really just baring his teeth. Waiting for a moment of weakness so that he can lunge for the throat and rip until rich blood flows, and he can drink.

It's like reaching your hand out to pet something vicious, even when you know that it can twist around and sink its fangs into your flesh; saliva dripping with poison.

He can see the defeat weigh down at your body, shoulders slumping as a part of you relents. His satisfaction glints in his gaze like an ember. Buring with the potential to become something greater; something roaring and consuming if need be. But there's no need for that fire today. You know when to give in. Even when it makes your pride curl up into something brittle and pathetic in the center of your chest.

"Take these damned things off at least?" You nudge them up as much as you can while he still has one of his fingers looped around the small metal rings. The pause that takes over is a little stifling. It's like all of the walls have drawn up tight, and for a second you dread that he might not answer. That he'll leave you to suffer in silence while he snatches up what he needs from the bounties and vanish off into the desert while you rot away in this damaged little gas station in the middle of nowhere.

"That very much depends on you. 'Sides, I kinda like you in these." He replies, tugging lightly on the cuffs with a glint in his eyes that could be considered dangerous, voice dipping down low like he's sharing a secret or reprimanding you for a sin you haven't committed yet. And you know him well enough to know that he's doing it on purpose, dropping his tone down into something smoky and warm. "Are you gonna behave?"

For whatever reason it has a smile perking at your lips again. It's soft despite the simmering affect that his voice has on you, rushing your body with a dull flutter of heat. The smile is far from beaming or broad, but you can still feel a delicate trickle of humor spread over you; peeking through the pain that riddles your body. "Come on, Coop. We're friends, aren't we?"

A huff rises from his chest, not quite enough to a laugh or a chuckle but close. "Didn't you shoot at me the last time we seen each other?"

You hum in agreement. There's no way that you can deny that accusation. That was roughly five months ago on the outskirts of Junktown, on what should have been another easy job. But it had been quick to go tits up when bounty hunters and desperate residents alike came scrambling and crawling out of the woodwork to get ahold of a single criminal; like a circle of starved animals stalking a wounded rabbit. And Cooper had been one of those animals. As dangerous and troubling as his presence had been, it did work in your favor with the other hunter's serving as a distraction and an obstacle for him to get through. Still, he had picked through the majority of them fairly quickly, and once the dust had mostly settled, he was free to turn his attentions onto you and the rambling lowlife that had been clinging onto your forearm - begging to be spared. He had even drooled on your coat while in the midst of his blubbering; hanging from you like a dead weight. So yes, you had shot at Cooper. Actually, he was being generous. You didn't shoot "at" him. You shot him. A light graze really, just along the thigh. But it had worked to waver his concentration just enough for the remaining hunters and armed citizens to sweep in and unintentionally give you time to flee the scene of the chaos with your sobbing bounty in tow.

So, you can't exactly blame him for being for being wary.

"And the first time we met you nearly put a bullet between my eyes. It was nothing personal, you know that." It's hard to tell what he's thinking with how unchanging his expression is. That amused edge is still heavy in his features and keeps you from seeing if he's willing or not. "Look, I'm tired, I'm dehydrated, and I feel like I've swallowed a handful of nails. All I want is the stuff that they lifted off of me, and one of the stimpak's they've got, because I'm pretty sure I'm going to start bleeding out of my ass if I don't. You can have the bounties. I don't care."

When he pulls in a deep sigh you nearly think that he might be ready to deliver one of his famous quips. Some sarcastic remark on how little he cares, or that it sounds like a personal problem. But you notice something subtle shift on his face, and you know his answer before he speaks. It has your body relaxing, muscles unwinding and going lax without you consciously telling them to.

"All right then, sweetheart," he relents and shifts up to rise on his feet. His eyes don't leave you once, fixed on you with an intensity that could make you breathless. Evaluating you and weighing your soul with a single casual glance. Always stripping you bare with the disarming hold of his eyes. "Better not do something you'll regret."

All you manage is a nod. Looking up at him from your place on the bloody, dirt coated tiles with a promise lodged in your throat. You must look sincere enough because he doesn't ask you for any verbal confirmation as he pivots his feet to survey the bodies again. It's only then that you manage to spit any words up, forcing the shape of them out with a soft breath. "I'm not sure where the key is specifically, but Thatcher's probably our best bet."

He doesn't respond when he strides across the floor in the direction of the fallen body, leaving you to stew and sit in silence. As soon as he's crouched beside the fresh corpse, he's rummaging through the pockets. Slipping back the layers of the dead bounty's coat to search the inner, built in pouches when the rest of his pockets come up empty. You stare at the expanse of his back with bated breath, tracing the shape of the rifle secured behind his shoulders and the way that his ragged coattails drape along the tiles as you wait. Suddenly the pressure of the rusted metal around your wrists feels so much tighter. Grating and stinging around your skin. It has you shifting uncomfortably, tracing the nails of your thumbs underneath your fingertips to distract yourself. And then, blessedly, he's lifting a silver key from the depths of Thatcher's coat and jingling it in the air like a trophy.

The relief that floods you could make you double over on yourself. But luckily, he's standing in front of you before you can give into the weakened sway of your spine and grabbing ahold of the cuffs to slip the key into its slot. You let yourself admire him. It's a little shameless, you know, but you also can't be bothered to care. You always manage to get swept away by harmless little musings. Tracing his gaunt features with your eyes while you try to reimagine what he looked like before . . . all of this. And even though you've caught a glimpse of his former self, before the radiation and the horror, you still always fail to properly imagine smooth, unblemished skin in the place of leathered, marred flesh. The nose that would have filled out the place where a vacant cavity sits underneath the ridges of his browbones, gapping and almost painful looking. At one time he had hair. He could have been a dark blond, or brunette, or maybe it was an auburn color, or black.

"Take a picture, darlin,' it'll last longer."

Despite the low register of his voice, it snaps you from your trance like a gun shot. You're forced to meet the hold of his eyes; attention held and stuck by the dark shade made in flecks of a light green and rich brown and amber. For a pause too long, you're left to sit with your words lodged in your chest as the cuffs around your wrists come undone with a metallic rip, and the absence of their harsh pressure around your tender skin is like heaven on your flesh. All light and soft, even while they sting dully. It's only then that you manage to speak as you shake your hands out in the hopes of knocking loose the rest of the pain that thrums through your wrists.

"Yeah, but I doubt it would compare to the real thing," you quip back. It's completely corny, but it doesn't keep a smile from perking at Cooper's lips even though you can see a hint of what could be exasperation in his gaze.

"Careful," he chides and lets the cuffs fall onto the floor with a clatter. "You'd give a lesser man idea's." And with that he's rising himself up again to shift around you. Stepping past your shoulders to analyze Vernon's body for anything that might be useful. You can't see anything with him sitting behind you, but the sharp sound of a knife being freed from its holster is enough to tip you off to his plans. Knowing him, he's probably inspecting to see whichever part of Vernon might be the plumpest to make some jerky out of the meat. The thought does have a grimace threatening to curl at your features, but you're able to hold it off. You've seen him carve strips and chunks out of people more than once, but the sight of it will never truly desensitize you.

But you've got scavenging of your own to do, and with a quick sweep of the floor your eyes land on Vulture's body near the entrance of the store; limbs strewn outward and skull bleeding in a crimson pool like some sort of morbid halo. But none of that is important. The only thing you care about is the backpack that's still clinging to his shoulders.

You try to mentally brace yourself before you lift yourself from the ground, but you're quick to find there isn't a single peptalk that could prepare you for the aching, bone deep throb of pain that lashes through your body. It's like you've been gutted at the atoms; cut open from your throat to your bellybutton. You think that you could actually sob, but the last, worn remnants of your pride keeps the water secured within your body as you limp over to Vulture's. He's only a few feet away from you. Eight at most, but it feels like an eternity passes before you're able to collapse beside him with a soft gasp.

His eyes are dull and faded now. Completely devoid of the violence and arrogance that had once lit them up, but no they stare at the ceiling; dead and unseeing. Maybe at one point, a younger version of yourself would have felt a twinge of guilt. Some sort of remorse, even though his death is more than deserved. But now all you feel is relief. Peace. It's like a drop in an ocean, but at least the Wasteland is devoid of one less asshole. One last violent soul who was even more guiltless than you.

Of course, he landed on his back, pinning the back underneath limp, spiritless weight. With a reluctant, tired sigh you grip ahold of his shoulder and forearm to start flipping him over. It takes a bit of effort, with the burden of his slack limbs and the searing pinch in your lungs and ribs fighting you in your endeavor, but you do manage to flip him. You're face twists up when you palms make contact with his chest, soaked and warm with a fresh coat of blood, but you swallow your complaints down. Once you get him on his side and shove, gravity does the rest of the work for you and his corpse lands face first with a blunt thump and you're quick to reach and slip his arms through the straps of the pack. You've got it free and stripped from his body in a manner of seconds and in your desperation you're quick to unzip the pack and hold it upside down to jostle its contents out, letting it all spill onto the tiles with a layered clatter. When you drop the bag, you're too engrossed in surveying the strewn jumble to fully register the thud that sounds out when you carelessly drop the pack on the floor.

Your eyes scan over various items; a box of matches, an old watch, and a balled-up piece of tissue that reveals a morbid collection of teeth when it unfurls. But the most important is the familiar sight of a needle with a rusted gauge crowning the opposite end of the barrel. Your fingers are a little clumsy when you reach for it, slipping with sweat and fried nerves as they wrap around the chilled metal and wires. You try not to focus on the deep ache that wracks through your body when you shrug your coat from off of your shoulder, draping it low enough to expose the expanse of your arm.

It's with a shaky breath that you lift the needle up to your forearm and sink it into the tender flesh of your inner elbow. It stings when you inject it, flooding into your veins like a dull, white heat. You have to hiss through your teeth, trying to block out the pain until it finally gives into something soothing. You can feel the effects of the medication spread throughout your body like a balm, shifting a near unbearable discomfort into a faint echo of itself. The crushing sting around your throat melts into something soft and docile and the burning in your lungs is nearly doused out completely until your finally able to breathe without gasping and choking around your own breath. It's relief, finally. After hours - almost a day of pain and misery.

"You never did say how they managed to get you all caught up." Cooper's voice sounds out again, pulling your focus behind you even while you slip the needle from your flesh and let it drop to the floor. Though, you almost wish that you hadn't started listening in on him, because you can hear the sharp and tearing sound of a blade flaying through meat.

"I was only ever aware of Thatcher. The other's got the jump on me." It's such an awful excuse. You've known that this entire time. But actually, speaking it aloud - admitting it to someone else is entirely different. It tastes rotten on your dry tongue, and you swear you could gag on it.

"Made you look like a fuckin' fool, huh?" You can hear the delight in his tone. It's grating and acidic on your nerves, but you distract yourself with the dry feel of your mouth. It has you remembering faintly the way that the bag had thumped against the floor when you had dropped it, and with some new hope in your chest, you slip a curious hand inside the pack with some strange optimism that there might be some water tucked away inside. Your fingertips brush against something smooth and cool, and your brain distantly registers that it might be glass.

"You don't have to rub it in," you snap, gripping your fingers around what must be the neck of a bottle.

"No. I don't," he agrees, but it's all sarcasm and selfish amusement.

You pause in your current task, a bit of confusion and frustration setting over your face. "You said that you were tracking the Silva Gang. How long were you following us for?"

"Caught up to ya when y'all entered that canyon."

"That was about five miles back," you say with a scowl. Honestly you aren't sure how to take that little revelation, and it has irritation thrumming over your entire body and settling in deep.

"Yeah, it was," he confirms casually, and another wet slice rips across the air before his voice dips into something teasing. "Truthfully, I wanted to see if you'd try and make an escape attempt. Imagine my disappointment when you didn't."

"Asshole," you curse hotly with the rush of anger that flares over you, and you tug at the bottle, but it snags on the clothe lining of the pack, stubbornly staying fixed in its place. The wet sound of Cooper's knife slicing through another chunk of flesh rings out, all damp and soaked with blood. You nearly groan aloud; at your wits end from your dehydration and exasperation, but instead of openly lamenting about or turning your attention onto him, you focus that energy and wiggle the container free from the bag. When you finally work it free, the sound of liquid sloshing against the glass could be considered musical. If your body wasn't already wrung of all of its moisture, you could have drooled. So when your eyes and brain finally realize that the fluid contained in the bottle is a rich, dark amber, nearly brown in the shade, the disappointment that prickles at you and pulls at your limbs nearly feels like it could become a physical thing. Your muscles bunch up with the flaring urge to hurl the bottle across the room and watch it explode in a burst of glass and bronze and gold.

But defeat settles afterwards, dousing out the rage into a faint simmer, and it leaves you to stare at the bottle wordlessly. Your eyes scan over the faded label, probably once a clean, soft white now soiled and stained by years, if not centuries of dirt and grime. The words and artwork that decorated the sticker are now muted and completely incoherent, but you're certain that the liquid inside is a type of alcohol. Most likely a whiskey or bourbon based on the color of it. You shake the bottle lightly, absentmindedly watching as the fluid inside ripples and lulls against the glass, glinting and twinkling in highlights of gold from underneath the dimming sunlight that pours in from the threshold.

"Hey, Coop," you call and dare to look over your shoulder. It's an immediate regret when you see that he's tugged Rocco's pants down and has been slicing of generous strips of the dead man's thigh meat. A large pool of blood surrounds Cooper's feet, staining the tiles in a heavy red that taints the air with iron and fresh death. An inquisitive hum rises from the depths of his chest; a low rumble that seems a little irritated from being disturbed. He flicks off another ribbon of flesh with a quick, practiced glint of a knife and leans a little to place the dripping piece down onto the saddlebags he's sat beside himself; lined up along the rest. "Feel like sharing?"

It's then that he finally bothers to look up at you, forcing his eyes away from his task, and they're quick to gravitate towards the bottle of liquor that you now hold up in the air. You brandish it like he had done with the keys to your handcuffs, and the look that crosses over his face is answer enough.

"Well, shit," he grins, all sharp and a little teasing. "Pull my leg, why dontcha."

It took a little while to move all of the bodies over from the store to one of the rooms in the neighboring motel. Cooper had been able to carry the majority of them like they were a sack of potatoes, but that hadn't kept him from nearly leaving you drag Vulture's corpse all on your own; abandoning you to grip onto the corpse's feet in an effort to drag it across the burning sand. It had taken a good amount of glaring and the threat to leave the body out in the open for him to help you in lug it inside with the others, tossing it on the ratty rust colored carpet for safe keeping. By the time you're both finished up the sun has already dipped low in the sky until it's brushing along the shadowed mountains in the distance while you both tuck away in the adjoining room. Still fully decorated and furnished. Frozen in time from a past that's well beyond you with various pictures of cowboys on ranches and looking over sweeping landscapes from the saddle of their mounts are hanging on walls where the wallpaper is peeling and stained. There's even a landline phone on one of the nightstands and a water damaged Bible tucked away in the drawer.

But the air in here is stale from dust, almost cloying with the scent of mildew even with the glass from the windows blown out, allowing a soft, summery breeze to drift in and circulate throughout the room. It does nothing to chase out the dirt and probably mold. But it all becomes little more than an afterthought with the warm thrum of alcohol simmering through your system, making your fingers and toes feel as though they've been dipped into steaming water. You've only taken a few swigs from the bottle, but it already has the beginnings of a decent buzz stuffing your head. Granted you haven't eaten in quite some time. So it probably isn't a good idea to be drinking in the first place, but you're a little beyond caring right now. All you want to do is relax after the absolute disaster that these last fifteen hours have been. To forget it entirely, even if it's only for the night. Though you didn't manage much more than a few sips of the old alcohol before the burn of it had become too scathing and nearly nauseating, and you've long since passed up to Cooper who's downed the majority of it in nothing more than a few gulps.

A low groan erupts from across the room, drawing your attention over to its origin like a magnet to steel. It's low and raspy, and it has your fingertips curling in on the canteen you have clutched in your grasp, nails burrowing into the thick leather like it might distract you. But it's an awful diversion when your eyes are unable to tear away from where Cooper has slumped himself against the cushioned backrest of the old armchair nestled in the corner. The expression on his face could nearly be described as euphoric - or maybe that's just your own perversion talking. The sunken lids of his eyes are closed and nearly fluttering while he tilts his head back to let the liquor flow down into his waiting mouth. Some of it slips past his lips, trailing down the shape of his jaw to trickle across his throat in a shimmer of faint amber before it vanishes underneath the edge of shirts collar.

The sight of it could have made your mouth run dry, and suddenly you're even more thankful for the canteens of water that you had both managed to find on one of the bodies. It's shameful the way you watch him, and you can feel embarrassment prickle at your face in response. But it's even worse when his eyes open and pin themselves on you as he lowers the bottle away from his lips. There's something knowing in his glance. It's amused and a little too perceptive, making you feel as though you've been caught red handed, and it has a fresh coat of what must be guilt rushing over you. But you don't have any reason to be humiliated. You were just looking at him. You've done it a thousand times; this one wasn't any different.

Still the way that he watches you is stripping, like he's weighing you again and finds what he's discovered entirely entertaining. So when he finally drops his attentions down on the bottle cradled within his palm it makes you feel as though you can breathe clearly again.

"It's been about over two hundred years since I've had some of this," he remarks aloud, shifting the glass in his hand to watch the contents lap and sway inside. "Old Maverick's."

Your eyebrows perk up curiously and you shift slightly in your position settled on the dingy carpet as you consider him. "You can tell what type of whiskey it is? "

He nods just the slightest, letting you know that he's heard you even though he doesn't spare you as much as a glance; too caught up in his own thoughts and reminiscing to bother. "I had an old buddy that used to drink this like water."

You can't hold back the disbelieving huff that rises from your chest at the comment. It's odd, as small as the remark is, for Cooper to make any allusions to his past. He's always been so guarded in what he shares with you - with anyone. Even when he told you that he was an old movie star, he had said it so jokingly that you had assumed he wasn't being serious. That he was pulling your leg to try and make a fool out of you. It wasn't until about a year after he had shared it with you, that you had truly believed him. It was back when you were trying to make a purchase inside of some trader's cabin, staring at the withered face of an old man that was trying to highball you on a pack of ammo. The smarmy grin on his face had made irritation itch down your spine, and the urge to reach out and strike him on the nose had been strong. But it wouldn't have gotten you anything other than kicked out or shot at, so you had slipped your attention off of him and onto the old TV set that sat behind him on the counter. It was playing some vintage grainy film - long before your time when the air wasn't tainted and radioactive, and families sat around a dinner table to eat steaming hot meatloaf and talk about work, and baseball and the quality of their lawns.

It was the man on screen that caught your eye. He was doused under the monochrome hue casted over the film, which projected a deep shadow over his face from the brim of his cowboy hat. Though it had done nothing to dull the quality of the pleasing, dulcet smirk on he wore while he leaned against the wooden support beam of one of those old western styled buildings. A smirk that had been directed at a pretty starlet whose mouth was busy delivering some sarcastic remark at his expense. But it was his eyes that had really struck you. Even though it was impossible to make out their true shade - turned dark under the black and white pigment of the movie - the familiarity of them had given you pause. The snarky trader's rambling had faded into the background while you squinted at the screen across from you, trying to place a man that you weren't even sure that you had ever met before, and the smirk on his lips had grown into a large, mostly one-sided smile. The familiarity of it had your realization hitting you like a ton of bricks, all abrupt and a little disorienting.

He hadn't been joking, or mocking you with the tales of some past, fancy life. He really had been a movie star with his face drawn and printed across newspapers and gossip magazines. He had a mother and a father, friends, a lover. He might have even had a family of his own that dined with him and sat at his dinner table to gossip about baseball and the lushness of their house's front lawn when he wasn't standing behind a silver screen and dressed up as a cowboy. Or a marshal, like he had been in that particular film; hunting down criminals and fighting for the decency and virtue of the Wild West.

It's kind of ironic actually, in a dark and depressing sort of way.

Cooper's attention shoots up to you in the form of a glare from the sound of your amused, disbelieving snicker. You can see the defensive way his muscles coil underneath the cover of his coat, all bunched up like he might jump at you with his teeth exposed in a wicked snarl. "The fuck are you laughin' at?"

You shake your head softly, and you can only hope that you properly show your apology on your face. "Nothing. I just - I'm surprised you had friends, is all."

Luckily, he seems to catch the jest in your tone and the subtle tension that had been there melts back into his casual indifference. "And why's that now?" He asks, angling his chin lower as his expression shifts into something impish and mirthful. "You can't say that you haven't been at least a little bit enthralled by my boyish charm. "

"Boyish? There's nothing "boyish" about you." You nearly laugh again, but this time your reaction doesn't do anything to dull his own amusement. If anything, it seems to amplify it with that way that it seems to dance and glint in his unwavering stare.

"But I am charming?" He says queekily, and the rough ridge of his eyebrows lift with the question. "Come on, I'm sure this ol' ugly mug does something for you."

It always throws you a bit when he gets like this. Playful in a way that isn't violent or sardonic, almost soft - not that'd you ever tell him that. These moments are always few and far between, nestled between the gore and brutality of the Wasteland like something rare and delicate. This is when he lets you see a hint of the man he probably was once before, back when his concern was house payments and landing a role for an upcoming film. It's a type of humor and demeaner that's so different from the venomous delight and selfish sarcasm that he often indulges in, and it never fails to make a melancholic ache gnaw away at the pit of your chest. It's always a painful realization, that he had a life and loved ones at some point. He was a person who loved and was loved in turn, and now it's all gone. Scattered away and volatilized by the consuming rushing plumes of heat, and energy, and pressure. But you couldn't tell him that. Just how much sorrow and regret you feel for him. He'd lash out and bare his teeth. For him it wouldn't be sympathy, it would only be pity, and that's something that a man like Cooper just can't handle.

And you do like feeling the sharpness of his teeth against your skin, just for an entirely different reason.

"And what if it does?" It comes out easily enough, even though it's anything but unsubtle. The tone of your voice is too telling to be considered a joke, and the knowing look that crosses his face lets you know that he's caught onto the insinuation. The dark glint in his eyes is one that you've been pinned under more than once, yet it never fails to make a shiver shoot down the separate ridges of your spine; like an animal that's wandered to close to danger but isn't smart enough to flee. It's gone so quiet that you could probably hear a pin drop with the unhurried atmosphere around you slowing down into a sluggish but striking halt that makes it difficult to believe that the two of you aren't the only people left alive in a world so dead and violent.

"You sure you can handle this tonight?" His tone has taken on the low, graveled sort of edge. It serves as a warning, and it's only amplified with the way that his eyes glimmer from the receding sunlight that trickles in from the window in the shades of an ebbing gold and lavender, shining like the lethal cut of a blade or the barrel of a gun. It makes you feel frozen in place even though something molten licks through your veins and begins to smolder deep in the pit of your stomach. And you know what he's asking you, what he's cautioning you against. He won't be gentle, or sweet, or nice. Cooper is all want and greed. He takes and takes like something starved and gluttonous that's sole purpose is to devour and pick you down to the bone, all flayed open and quivering. But you don't want sweet, you just want him.

You could sit and tell him all the way's that you crave him, and all the things that you need him to do to you as proof of your desires, but you know that Cooper is a man of action and not words. If you really mean to prove to him that you need him to touch you, then you'll have to meet him halfway. It has you lifting yourself from the dingy mattress, making the springs groan and whine as you shift and rise to cross the floor. You could try to be sexy about it, swinging your hips enticingly to draw his attention in a performance, but you don't. He has to know that you're being serious, that this isn't a decision that you're making because of the stress or alcohol, but that it's something genuine and raw.

He watches you like a hawk as you approach, vision fixed to you like he might spring forward and snatch you if you so much as flinch. His fingers run across his thumbs, causing the leather of his glove to creak dully. There's a hunger in his gaze that should make you waver or reconsider your steps, but if anything, it only serves to have a dangerous rush through your body, fueling you with a risky sense of empowerment. It's like a drug almost, having one of the most dangerous men in the Wasteland looking at you like he could rip you apart and piece you back together again, all at once. Like he's going to break you with his tongue and draw blood.

You're close enough now that your knees almost brush along his. When you lift one of your legs to climb onto his lap, he's quick to place the bottle of whisky on the nightstand beside him before settling both of his hands your hips, gently guiding you sit up top him even while his fingertips flex and threaten to bruise your skin. He hasn't broken eye contact with you once, entirely zeroed in on you with the rapt, analyzing sort of focus, like he's trying to notice everything about you at once, searching for a vulnerability to make you malleable and pliant if need be.

You let your hands settle along his shoulders, feeling the smooth but worn leather of his coat underneath your palms, all buttery and warm from the tepid air and the heat of him. Almost as though it has a mind of its own, one of your hands sweep close to his neck and you glide the pad of your thumb across the textured skin peeking out from his button up's collar, all raised and slightly gnarled from radiation exposure. You've always wondered if it ever hurts him to be touched, if the brush of your hands along his skin might sting or prickle. But you suppose that he might be too dopped up to even register the pain that might come with the old burns and damaged nerves. A look of relief always takes over his features when he drinks that pale amber liquid from those chem vials. The chems that keep him from turning Feral; all drugged and dulled as the effects of it course through his body to soothe and suppress those mental and physical ailments. But even with the chemicals in his system, he is still able to feel you. This you know for certain. You've witnesses the influence that your hands have had on him before. You've reveled in how he's pressed into your palm and demanded more while his chest has risen in greedy, panting breaths.

And that's all you want. To see his control slip again while he grips your hair to bare your throat to him so he can scatter more bites along the delicate skin, breaking capillaries underneath the wet suction of his tongue and parting flesh from the pressure of his teeth.

"I know what I'm asking," you answer firmly, fully resting yourself on the support of his lap. "And right now, I'm asking for you to touch me."

A dangerous smirk breaks across his face; the kind that immediately lets you know that you're in for nothing but trouble. He cocks his head when he considers you, eyes glinting underneath the brim of his hat. "But I am touchin' you, sweetheart."

This is another one of the moments where you could probably slap him if you weren't already so taken with the charming mischief dancing in his stare, the honeyed drawl of his voice. It never fails to make you a little weak in the knees, and it's a crack in your armor that he never fails to exploit to the fullest. There's already a dim pang of desperation growing in your chest, but you won't dare to let him know that. It's always a constant push and pull in this little dynamic that you've cultivated with him - a constant state of cat and mouse. And unfortunately for you, you're typically the mouse. But every once in a while, if you play your cards right, you can get his claws to slip just the slightest.

You lean close to him, angling your head just enough to keep from nudging his hat from its perch but also close enough to brush your lips against his. They're rough against your own, rugged from the texture of his skin and a little chapped by the baren, harsh elements just outside the safety of the room. But the shiver that trembles down your spine is far from disgust. It's excitement, clear and burning; thrumming along your nerves like an electrical current. The scent of him only strengthens it, perfumed with the earthy musk of soil and smoky with leather, and there's whisky on his lips, spicy and wooden, and you long to taste it. But you can't be too hasty, not with him poised to strike and sniffing out even a hint of weakness.

You take ahold of the lapels of his coat, running your fingertips over the stitching worked along the edges as you lock your stare with his own. "Come on Coop, do we really have to do this tired routine, again? " You murmur it lowly while leaning in to nip your teeth along his ear, relishing the subtle salt of skin when it washes over your tongue. "Can't we just treat ourselves, and give in?"

The grip on your hips tightens just a bit and you can feel him sweep his thumbs over you, though its agonizingly dull through the material of your pants, making it almost impossible to properly feel the way he caresses you. And then his voice rumbles out with the pleasing lilt, dousing out the tiny flicker of hope near your heart. "Oh, call me old fashioned, but I've always been at the mindset that it's best to take these sorts of things real nice 'n slow."

He wants you to beg. To give in and whine. And pathetically, with the way that one of his hands slips around your front to tease and toy with the button on your jeans, it already has fissures breaking along your sense of restraint. It's such a small touch, but the graze of his knuckles gliding across your skin leaves something blazing in their wake, making kindling out of your bones and threatening to set you on fire. But in your defense, you haven't been in the company of someone in a good while. The last person that you had touched had been him, and that had been all of those five months ago in Junktown, tucked away in some shady back alleyway before you both turned on each other in favor of trying to snatch up the bounty. You had left the dingy passage with your back clawed up from the rough exterior of a building and your knees smarting and stinging, and those little scratches and bruises have long since healed and vanished.

But you don't want to break just yet. You want to try and hold onto those slipping, fraying little pieces of your pride for as long as you can, but this his deft fingertips are popping the button of your pants open and gripping the zipper to tug it down on its tracks with a sharp, metallic hiss. It has your breath catching in your throat, and the oxygen is all but siphoned from your lungs when one of his fingers softly plucks at the elastic band of your underwear. Like he might finally humor you and slip it inside to properly touch you. But that's such a foolish idea.

"You know, I think I've missed you," he muses against your throat. You can feel the vibrations of it softly reverberating along the skin and tendons there, sinking in deep and humming along your blood. "Have ya missed me at all?"

It sounds like such a genuine question, but the tone he's using is entirely too mocking and yet your clouded over brain wishes to give him an authentic response. It's right there on the tip of your tongue, a single, devout yes. But you snap it shut behind your teeth before it can escape. Instead, you settle for a strained maybe, that nearly hurts to say, a bitter half-truth that taste like chemicals and ancient coffee grounds.

"Don't be like that now," he nearly coos, all patronizing and falsely sweet. His face shifts, brushing the rough drag of his lips over the edge of your jaw as his free hand lifts to cradle your chin, guiding you to tilt your head and meet his eyes again. The leather covering his thumb glides over the shape of your bottom lip, while the colorful glimmer of his eyes captivates you and holds you hostage with shimmers of green and amber and rich brown. "I think you did miss me, my little hunter. "

You hate the heat and want that bleeds throughout your limbs and chest and trickles down from your spine to settle between the cradle of your hips. It nearly feels like a type of betrayal, that way that your body longs to give into him so easily, with nothing more than a few calculated touches and some honeyed words. And when he slips his thumb past your lips and into your mouth your mind nearly draws a blank, falling flat and fuzzy like radio static at the smoky taste of old leather. He flashes you that charming, crooked smile, and you're certain that you must look just as dazed as you feel. When you run your tongue along his thumb, brushing it along the stitching and seams, you see something spark in his stare, all starved and restrained like he's trying to keep himself from eating you alive.

"Why don't you get down on your knees and show me just how much you really missed me?"

Those words enter into your brain like a burning bullet splitting through empty air, piercing through the fog and stuffing packed into your skull abruptly. It draws all of your attention onto him, narrowing all of your senses down into a point to latch onto him. Even with the hunger and greed shining through his expression, you can still see a clear sense of patience showing through it all and it grounds you like a stream of warm sunlight cutting through the cover of heavy storm clouds. And despite his words, you know that he's waiting to see if you want to back out. Cooper is a lot of things: a murderer, a cannibal, and easily one of the most underhanded individuals that someone could cross paths with in the Wasteland. But if you uttered the smallest no or showed even the faintest hint of hesitance, then that would be that. You'd be back alone at your place on the bed, and he, sitting across from you while you both catch up on your lost time and exchanged stories and recite the past few of months in words and passing comments. But that's far from what you want right now.

You don't look away from him when you shift and slip down onto the floor, and his eyes trace you hotly when you settle between his spread open thighs and place your palms just above his knees. His warmth radiates through the worn fabric of his pants, soothing and grounding, but what really draws your attention is the familiar shape of his cock making a heavy impression against the hidden zipper. The sight of it alone has your mouth watering, and you swear that you can already taste him, all salt and musk and like a rough velvet against your tongue.

His head tilts and the action has the brim of his hat casting a soft shadow over his sunken eyes. "Get on with it then, it ain't gonna take care of itself," he remarks, a little condescending. His brows perk upward when he speaks, and the rumbling edge that his tone has adopted as anticipation and electricity singeing over your limbs and fingertips. And it has your hands lifting forward like they've been drawn up on a string, all impulse and instinct driving you forward to start working on the buckle of his belt and then the clasp of his gun holster. You're a little impatient when you slip the leather strap through the metal ring, with your movements all a little hurried and the amused huff of laughter that rises from his chest has you openly glaring up at him. The way that he casually meets your scowl nearly feels like some kind of challenge. There's an unsaid taunt in his eyes when you pinch the zipper of his pants between your fingertips and tug it downward over the metallic tracks.

That smug smile is pressing at the corners of his mouth, growing wider and threatening to show teeth when you impatiently tug at his pants, hooking your fingers into the belt loop to try and shift them down his waist. But it's only when you shoot him a pointed, unamused look that he finally lifts his hips to help aid you in your efforts and allows you to drag his pants down around his thighs. It's almost a little surprising when his cock springs from his pants, half-hard and already leaking a few drops of precum. Of course, he isn't wearing any underwear.

You can see another taunt rising up in his expression, probably at the ready to leave his mouth and mock you, and that wicked glint in his eyes is more than enough to have you leaning forward with the desire to finally have him speechless. A challenge for sure, but you're determined. You take ahold of him in the grip of your palm and drop your jaw open to lick up the length of him. He's warm along your tongue, just as textured as the rest of his damaged skin, but it isn't unpleasant in the slightest. The taste of him spills over your palette like salt and a little musky, and the familiarity of it has you eager to take more of him. You hardly give yourself time to adjust to it before you slip the head of his cock past your lips and work more of it down until your nose brushes along his groin, and you can feel the weight of him press along the back of your throat until water threatens to well up in your eyes.

You hear hiss sharply through his teeth over the haze in your skull and the obscene sound of your tongue and mouth gulping around him wetly. His thighs clench and flex underneath your palms, hips twitching like he might already start thrusting until you're gagging around the thickness of him, so it surprises you when he holds himself back. His impulse control is such an unpredictable thing that seems to revolve entirely around his terms. Usually, he's intent on seeking out his pleasure. Not to say that he's entirely selfish - he always makes sure to leave you a breathless, boneless mess, no matter if it's an impromptu quickie behind a random building or an entire night spent on top of the roof of some old, dilapidated diner with the stars scattered above while coyotes cackle and yelp in the distance (that won't be a moment that you forget any time soon). But he's more than a little self-serving, and that often translates into sex. Particularly when getting head, he enjoys fucking your throat until tears are pouring down your face and you have to remind yourself how to breathe.

But he's being gentle, almost - something that you never would have associated with a man like Cooper. Though there's no other way to really describe it when he slips on of his hands over the side of your face, curling his fingers near the nape of your neck and gliding his thumb across the swell of your cheek. It's how you touch something that's delicate; made of porcelain or glass, and it might shatter and crumble if it's handled too harshly. It makes your heart ache and long for something that you weren't even entirely sure that you wanted from him.

Maybe he's sudden display of uncharacteristic sweetness is just his way of extending a sense of control to you after the sorry state that he had found you in, all clinging to air and bloody with a hand around your throat. It's such a simple thing really, but in a world as greedy and stripping as this one - from a man as selfish and ruthless as him, it almost feels a little vulnerable. And maybe it is a little stupid how a simple touch has a tender gash opening inside your chest, and a small barrage of emotion welling up to the surface and threatening to spill out. It doesn't help that you can feel his eyes on you when glide your mouth over him, all heavy and unwavering when you trace the subtle veins that trail across his length with the tip of your tongue. And even with the chaotic torrent of emotions that are trying to bubble up to the surface, you can't help but to delight in the way that his hips twitch and roll upward to meet you when you bob your head down on him.

It's all sort of pathetic. The flurry of admiration and want that pools in the center of your gut and pours downward in rivulets of liquid heat to settle in the apex of your legs, where you're already certain that you're wet. And when you dare to look up, glancing through the tears that blur your vision and cling to your lashes, you have to all but slam a door shut on every single one of those dangerous little feelings, packing them up tight and shoving them deep down when you meet the weight of his stare. His head is leaned back against the back rest of the chair, threatening to nudge his hat from the crown of his head and his lips are already parted to release quiet puffs of air that rise and fall from his chest.

It's dim. Sort of blink and you'll miss it, but you swear that you can nearly catch a kind of glazed over glint to his eyes. Like if he allowed himself, the pleasure could take him apart. It has the warmth smoldering within you fuming into a licking, desperate heat that feels like it could devour you whole. The expression on his face has you mind flatlining into something thoughtless until all you're nothing but impulse and want. You need to see more of that look. To watch the pleasure overcome him until his voice stretches out into rumbling sighs and fucked out swearing.

It has you doubling your efforts. You lift one of your hands to twist it over the girth of him, adding to the stimulation when you lap at the head of cock and take his balls into your free palm. The low, almost strained fuck that you get in response is like a reward, brushing a shiver down your spine like fingertips and you can feel your cunt clench around nothing. It has a whine slipping from your chest, nearly choking you when you take more of him into your mouth and the walls of your throat flex and ripple over the girth obstructing your airway.

A dazed, bewildered moan escapes you when one of his hand grips you from its place around the back of your neck and guides you up until you only have the flat of your tongue against the head of his cock, catching the beads of cum that trickle from the slit.

"Easy there, now," he warns lowly. "Wouldn' want you to hurt yourself, now do we darlin'?"

The saccharine implications of his words and the subtle mocking of his tone has a conflicting set of responses rising in you. A part of you preens underneath his attentions and the other bristles from the taunt. In a small act of defiance, you halt the stroking of your fingertips from his balls and drop your hand entirely from him in favor of slipping it underneath your pants and the elastic band of your underwear. You can't help but to think him for unbuttoning your pants earlier when you nudge them downward until they glide along your clit in tight circles, spreading sparks and heat across your nerves and you mouth drops open even further into a drunk gasp. "Maybe that's what I want," you reply, even though your voice is already a little raw.

"Well, with way you're touchin' yourself from just suckin' dick, I'd say you'd like that," he rumbles softly with that sharp grin on his face. You can see the lust and delight burning in his eyes when you lick against the head of his cock and eagerly swallow the taste of him - too shameless to even register a shred of embarrassment at his taunt. It feels like your body might turn itself inside out when he grips ahold of his length just above your own hand; stroking himself and making the leather of his glove creak lowly when he guides the tip across your lips to smear them with spit and cum like perverted sort of gloss. "Oughtta grab those cuffs you were in earlier. Bind you up nice 'n tight and use you up until there's nothing left. . . If only I could remember where I tossed 'em."

It's disgusting how the thought excites you. It should be abhorrent. Something you should shy away from or openly reject considering that you had just been cuffed and dragged across the desert only a few hours earlier, but it only has something burning and heavy filling up your skull again. It threatens to sweep you under, clouding you mind over like a haze and the scent of him only intensifies it, all earth and dust and leather and salt. It's enough to have your mind twisting up and fraying around the edges until it might become completely useless. It makes it difficult to notice the impression of his hand slipping back around your neck again, digging into the tender flesh of your nape to guide your mouth back onto his cock.

You yield underneath the nudging pressure of his hand easily, allowing it to coax you downward until your throat is flexing and swallowing around his girth; saliva slipping past the suction of your lips to drip and coat him in a way that's entirely filthy. But you welcome and bask in it completely, relishing in how it aids you when you begin to work your hand back over him, syncing it up with the drag and glide of your mouth.

The hinges of your jaw are already beginning to ache a bit, straining from how he stretches your jaw wide to fit between your lips, but you still have absolutely no desire to stop or take a break. You can hardly even focus on the dull throb while you sweep your slick fingertips around your clit, flooding your veins with molten lust and endorphins. And it isn't long until you're rolling your hips against your own hand, and it has you almost completely pulled under, enraptured by the weight of and taste of him in your mouth and the pleasure you have building between your thighs. It makes you completely helpless. All caught up and moaning lowly around his girth when you sweep your tongue along the head of his cock in each upstroke before you glide your head down until he nudges the back of your throat.

"You know, I never did give you permission to start touchin' on yourself like some cheap slut," he comments, all casual and sardonic, but you can still a sweetened edge to his tone. A little too sweet honestly. It would have concerned you if you weren't already hazed over and unbothered, but you should have taken it as a warning, because he's suddenly shoving one of his legs between your thighs and rudely grinding the toes of his boot up between your thighs. The pressure of it crushes against your knuckles and forces you to remove your hand from your pants to try and evade the sting of pain that spreads along your tendons and the back of your hand. It has you split in your reactions, and in your confusion, it has an almost melancholic whimper bubbling from your chest at the loss of your fingertips while you also glare up at him through the blur of tears from you place on the floor. Though, you can't imagine that you seem all that imposing with his dick completely stuffed in your mouth.

The smug grin that he sports is confirming in that little assumption, and the arrogant glint in his eyes has a little trickle of irritation skipping down your back. "Don't worry, now. You've caught me a generous mood," he says, much too composed even when a soft groan rumbles from him at the wet glide of your mouth. "I'll play nice with you; just this once."

And then he's pressing his boot up against the heat of your cunt. Even with the layers of your pants and underwear still secure around your hips, the friction and weight of it against you is exquisite. Your eyes nearly roll back at the feel of it as you get caught up in the fire and burning, liquid honey that scolds and eats at you bones and flesh. The fit of your jeans is loose enough that it has the seam of them dragging along your clit, and it's only amplified by how he nudges the firm leather of his boot against you. It has your hips twitching and rolling over him mindlessly; your body instinctively seeking out pleasure before you have to consciously tell it to.

It all already entirely too much and too little. You can feel the creases in the leather along the top of his boot pressing underneath the material of your clothes, firmly grinding against the wet heat of your cunt in a way that's almost mean. A sob rises in your throat, begging to slip free but the gentle press of his hand on the back of your head keeps you pinned in place as he rolls his hips to work himself into your mouth. It's obscene, the way that you can hear yourself, whimpering and moaning weakly around the ceaseless thrusts of his cock; the sloppy, wet glide of your spit slipping past your lips and tongue.

You should be ashamed of yourself. A bounty hunter reduced to a mess with your knees digging into the dingy carpet while your mouth and hands are full of someone who should only be a rival. A threat to your survival and lively hood. But you know damned well that even if you weren't currently blowing him like you'd been paid for it that you could never bring yourself to see him as such. Cooper - even with as infrequent and unplanned as your interactions always are - has been the only constant in your life. The closest you've ever come to a friend or anything of the like. Everyone else is dead and gone. Killed off by time, circumstance or bad decisions. Ever since that night in the Mojave when you were both strangers with nothing more than the driving force to survive and the need to claim the same bounty there was an intrigue there. A morbid sort of curiosity that comes with leaning over to admire the depth of a canyon and wondering what it might be like to just dive in, and like a glutton for punishment you had been unable to resist the call to it. You had flirted with danger every chance that you had gotten; nearly each time you had crossed paths. He's been a sort of shadow in your life ever since. Always looming in hanging in your peripheral vision, even when he isn't close. Always present, despite being miles and months apart.

Maybe that's why you always end up on your knees or on your back whenever you cross paths with the ghoul. Not that you're complaining. Especially not now with fire searing at the base of your spine and settling deep inside the cradle of your hips. It has your cunt clinching around nothing, begging to be filled while you desperately roll them against Cooper's boot in a fruitless attempt to nudge yourself close to the edge that seems to rise and fall and extend out in front of you with no end in sight. You swear you could sob. And with the dim groans and rumbling breaths that nearly pant out of Cooper's chest he seems to be getting just as worked up as you. But you can feel his cock pulsing along your tongue and his thighs tense and clench, signaling that he's about to reach the precipice that you're helplessly dangling along.

You can hear him whispering over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears; hushed praises and snippets of "that's it - just like that." His head is still lolled back against the rest of the chair, chin tipped upward, and lips parted while his eyes are all lidded and dark and threatening to slip shut while he watches you. It's almost lethal, how gorgeous he looks like this. Just a little glazed over with pleasure, but still coherent enough to have a hint of that smug smile pressing at the corners of his mouth. Despite his viciousness; all jagged, rough edges and scathing sarcasm; gaunt and worn features crafted by the Wasteland, there's a brutal sort of beauty about him. A kind of repartee and charm that you don't find in many anymore, and you can still see a faint reflection of that suave, chivalrous move star in that smile of his. Even if it's just a vague ghost. A faded reflection of something - or someone - who's dead and gone and buried.

You like those old glimpses of Cooper that you've seen. The star that graced the silver screen and entertained and enraptured the masses with his gallant declarations and witty one-liners. That old version of him seemed kind with a sort of virtue and gentleness glinting in his eyes. Something that you're always unable to find reflecting in Cooper's gaze now that centuries of war and violence and bloodshed have carved him into an entirely new being. One that has to fight and tear and kill to survive. But you like this version of him too. Maybe just as much, skeletal features, jagged edges and all. You can't tell him that. Not when you can hardly admit it to yourself. Not when the revelation could tear apart this delicate little friendship that you've curated with him throughout the years.

But you can show him as best as you can. As best as he'll allow. And you'll pretend that every tough of your fingers, the stroke of your palms and the brush of your tongue along the salt of his skin is completely detached, even while it digs and cracks at some pathetic little piece of your soul.

You swivel your tongue along the head of his cock, lapping at the precum that's collected there as your work both of your hands along the base of him. You're desperate to taste him, to feel him pulse in your mouth as that long, guttural groan slips from his throat, and his thighs twitch and shudder. Just the thought of it has your hips working against the firm shape of his boot with even more fervor, shooting electricity throughout you with each grind along your clit. It already has your stomach clenching, muscles seizing up tight in the preparation to squeeze every ounce of ecstasy from your body.

You're both right along the edge, you can feel it. The anticipation of it has that smoldering, debilitating wave rising over you and cresting up higher with every roll of your hips. You can feel him throb in your mouth, only seconds away from coming. It has your body twisting up tight, moaning wantonly around the length of him while you eagerly await the rush of cum to spirt from his cock. But that's when the guiding hand on the back of your hand suddenly grips ahold of your hair, grabbing it tight to use it as leverage to pull your mouth from his length with a nasty pop just as your orgasm sweeps over you like a burst of fire and smoke. It forces you to make eye contact with him while bliss and heat ravages every ounce of you and your mouth drops open in a silent cry.

He doesn't even wait for the bliss and pleasure to subside or for you to get your bearings before he's all but lurching forward with a quickness that's frightening. You just hardly catch the dark, starved glint in his eyes before he's on you and sweeping you up from your place on the floor with a jarring speed. Taking you into his arms as his rough lips meet yours in kiss that's mostly teeth, and then he's backing you up, guiding you towards something that you can't see and nearly dragging you in his urgency while his hands grasp the back of your neck and hip with an iron grip. The ferocity behind it has you moaning, all wanton and depraved when he licks into your mouth, tasting himself and biting at your lips with the ardor of a man possessed. Your hands are everywhere they can reach, sweeping along the expanse of his chest and shoulder, slipping up his neck and knocking his hat free from the crown of his head to land somewhere forgotten on the floor.

He follows you down onto the support of something soft yet firm when the back of your knees hit what must be the edge of the bed, making the old springs squeak and groan in your shared weight. When he speaks next, it's nearly mumbled against your lips, grumbled out between the sharp, starved nips of his teeth. "You're too pretty for your own good," he drawls, breath tasting of whisky and salt. He pulls back just enough to look at you, supporting his hands on either side of your head as he wedges himself between your thighs. "I could just eat you alive." He dips his face into the crook of your neck and biting into the tender flesh there just harshly enough to sting. It's just enough for you to think that he might actually follow through with it and eat you alive; sink his teeth into you while you're vulnerable and dazed to lick your blood from his lips. It should disturb you that you wouldn't really mind it. But then his voice speaks out against your ear, thick and slow like molasses. "I think I'll just settle for fucking you."

That's when he starts shoving your pants down your thighs, shifting back enough to peel them down your legs roughly. When he reaches your boots, he doesn't bother with any sort of finesse or tact, he just starts tugging them from your feet and tossing them like he's being timed for it and is running behind. It has you worried that you might slip from the bed and your fingers sink around the old comforter to try and stay latched on as he finally pulls your underwear and jeans free from you, digging your nails into the stitching sewn into the blanket like it might help you stay put. But he's on you with all of the fervor of a wild animal, eyes blazing even in the dark that's fallen over the room.

You're completely enraptured while you watch him slip two of his fingers between his lips, biting into the tips of his glove to tear the leather from his hand before spitting it out somewhere on the mattress. But even with the entirety of your focus zeroed in on him it still takes you by surprise when he reaches down and swipes his fingers along your cunt, spreading you open to glide one of his knuckles along your clit. It has your back bowing and your mouth dropping open in a silent scream from the pressure of it. You're still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and your nerves feel as though they've been zapped with an electrical current. It has you hissing through your teeth, your breath snagging in your lungs while your body writhes and jerks like it isn't sure if it wants to squirm away or lean closer to his touch.

"You're fuckin' soaking," he gloats openly with a shameless grin.

"Cooper - I don't know if I ca-"

"You can," he insists. His voice is coated with a layer of satisfaction and perhaps even humor, but there's still an edge of patience to it despite the boastfulness. It almost seems like enough to center you, quieting your thoughts down in to dim background noise. But it's the brush of his lips along your own that truly silences everything, drawing you attention onto him when he licks into your mouth, still tasting like whisky. It's almost enough to distract you from the tight circles he draws around your clit, forcing a broken whine from your throat when he replaces his fingertips with his cock, smearing your cum along his length in filthy, teasing glides.

Now you find yourself pulling him forward, slipping your hands around the back of his neck and hooking your legs around his waist to tug him closer even though you're still too sensitive; lit up like a live wire from his touch. It has you gasping into his mouth, nipping your teeth along his bottom lip like you might be the one to eat him alive this time, and the pleased rumbling sigh that rises from his chest feels like a reward all in itself. For a moment everything is all soft. Placid and unrushed despite the frantic, zealous edge to it. Like you've been drawn into a hushed pocket of time. But it's just as dangerous as it is gentle. Begging to lure you into a sense of comfort and adoration that you can't afford to succumb to. An adoration and comfort that you know that a man like the Ghoul will never be able to give- the vicious, maverick creature that he is.

Loyalty in the Wasteland is a liability just as much as it's an advantage. It's the people you cherish the most that cut the deepest. They slow you down and keep you tied. A death sentence for a world so violent. It makes your time with him limited. Always borrowed until the seconds tick down to zero and either one of you slink away until you cross paths again weeks or months later. After tonight you aren't sure when you'll see him next. If you'll ever see him again. There aren't any guarantees in this life, and at any moment your days could be cut short. A single bad decision or one bad move and your breath could be snuffed out like a weak fire on a short wick. You aren't sure how much longer you have left, but here and now it's safe to pretend that there's more waiting for you. That he won't slip away into the night as soon as the rush has worn off and the tension has ebbed from your bodies.

It's the drag of his cock slipping over you harshly that snags you from the chaotic scatter of your thoughts, forcing your attention to snap onto him abruptly. The look in his eyes fixes your focus onto him like it's magnetized. There's a weight and fervor burning in them that leaves you completely breathless, pinned underneath his gaze and left malleable and wanting. But the smug, calculating glimmer to it should have tipped you off that he's planning something, because it's the only warning you get before he's notching the head of his cock at the entrance of your cunt and shoving himself into you in a single thrust.

Your jaw drops in a silent cry as your walls stretch to accommodate him. Your hands scramble for purchase, clawing and clinging to the leather of his coat, slicing along the material and probably leaving visible marks along the tanned hide while you try to hold on and survive the wild pace that he's set. He's driving into you with a sort of ardor that already has your back bowing, driving his cock into you with debilitating strokes that punch the air from your lungs each time he bottoms out. You feel like you've been set on fire, all tingling, burning nerves and electricity rippling up your spine while he splits you open on his length.

It's stupid how easily he always reduces your mind to a useless pile of mush. But no matter how many times you wind up underneath him or on top of him, he always manages to strip you down to your basest levels. And the way that a bout of low, guttural groans slips from him with each thrust has you squirming even more, meeting his rhythm with the roll of your hips. You feel the sound of him more than you hear him with his breath puffing against the crook of your neck and reverberating along your chest as he mouths along your throat with the sharp scrape of his teeth and the soft brushes of his tongue. The sounds echo along the room are filthy, filled with the sharp, repetitive squeak of the mattress's springs and the wet slap of skin on skin. It's all a little filthy. The unrestrained way that he fucks into you, the tender bruises that he's leaving along your neck - like he's trying to leave his claim on you. Like he wants to carve a place for himself inside of you that no one else will ever be able to fill. Making you a wreck and mess just for him.

The buckle of his belt has become pinned between both of your bodies, and the chilled brass and silver rubs against your clit with each and every thrust. But it's the bumps on the plating that really make you twitch, almost forcing your body to tighten and clench around his girth with each deep drag. It has you gasping in seconds, clinging to his shoulders like the support of them underneath your palms might save you.

Sharp, warbling moans split across the air, and it takes your sluggish brain a few moments to register that it's your own voice that's whining and sobbing. You can feel your lips moving, the shift of your tongue in your mouth but you can hardly comprehend what you're even saying. It could be anything from rambling pleas to cries of Cooper's name, but you can't be entirely sure. Not when your body is already coiling up tight, muscle seizing and your abdomen bunching up while that familiar surge of smoke, and fire, and ecstasy rises up to take you over and apart.

It has you entirely conflicted, mourning the thought of already reaching the end and what might happen afterwards, but your body also craves the release. It has you staring up at the ceiling while you cling to him, darting your vision along the cotton webs and dust that sticks to the surface like it might stave of the wave of bliss that threatens to pour over you. But he must be able to tell that you're resisting somehow, because of course he can.

He nudges his head back from its place along your throat, and his bare hand rises to grip your face between his fingers. Stroking along your chin and your lips as he stares into your lidden eyes with a sharp grin. "Come on now, sweet girl, what'er you holdin' back for?"

It almost sounds rhetorical in your dazed out state, but honestly, you couldn't answer him properly even if you wanted to. The way that he pistons himself in and out of you gives you no breathing room to form a coherent sentence or even so much as a word. Your tongue is useless in your mouth, and it leaves every little motion that you make nothing more than instinctual. Driven by pure impulse and bodily desire as you scratch your nails along his back and cry out into the dark. And it's now that you realize that you are indeed saying his name. Whispering it out brokenly alongside wild, broken cries of rapture.

One particular thrust from him brushes along that devastating spot inside of you and it has your spine arching in almost painfully and you toss your head back with a noise that's close to a sob. Like a feral animal drawn to a weakness, he's unable to resist the exposed collum of your throat and suddenly you can feel the wet, hot heat of his tongue laving along your neck. No doubt feeling the scattered thrum of your pulse and blood beating wildly and coursing throughout the veins underneath your tender skin. The damp drag of it continues upward until glides up to the edge of your jaw where he nips and bites with his teeth like he might sink them in deep and gulp down the rivulets of red that would pour from the wound.

"I can feel you fuckin' squeezin' me," he groans raggedly, now staring into your eyes. His glimmer faintly in the final scraps of light that trickle in from the twilight. Searing and gleaming like the vision of some sort of otherworldly entity that's come to take you in the night and drink you of all of your vigor and affections; leaving him incomparable to anyone else who may touch you.

You try hard to bite back the scathing fire that's ripping across your nerves and atoms like something molten and consuming, but your body is yielding to it despite that fact that you don't want to give in yet. You don't want this moment to end. You aren't ready for the quiet that may come afterwards. The way that you'll have to pretend to be indifferent and unaffected when he begins to buckle his belt and holster before he disappears into the dark. And you'll be left to wonder if he's alive or hurt as he trudges across the barren earth in search of the thrill of a fight, and the gore-soaked glory that comes with it. But even with all of your fears and anxieties looming in the back of your mind like unwelcome phantoms it's too difficult to stave off the bliss scorching at your flesh and rushing alongside your blood. Not when he's holding you so closely, and the scent of him hands heavy in the air like leather and rich soil. Not while he's still holding your face in a grip that could almost be taken as soft with the sensation of his bare palm cradled against your skin. It's warm and intimate.

You can hardly see him anymore with the final traces of the sunlight having finally wanned behind the distant mountains, but you can still make out his silhouette above you. You can still feel him, firm and real and present; you can hear his breath and words in the hushed, heavy atmosphere. It's such small things. Little minute details that hurtle you closer to the end. It makes you latch on to him with even more fervor, hitching your legs around him tightly and digging the heels of your feet into his lower back.

"Quit holdin' yourself back," he it urges in a snarl against your lips like a devout prayer, like an addict asking for absolution or another fix, and the hot coil in your gut burns hotter. "Let me fuckin' feel you. Just let go for me - you can let go."

That's all it takes for the band to snap and the waves to crash down on you in an unforgiving torrent. Everything in your winds up tight simultaneously as a rush of an almost violent sort of euphoria tears throughout you and leaves your lungs gasping for even a shred of oxygen. You're certain that you might be screaming. Your throat feels raw enough. But it's difficult to make sense of anything while stars dance across your vision in a flurry of burning white like you've gone lightheaded and might faint. And you might would have if not for the support of the ragged mattress underneath you or the grounding weight of Cooper above you, still driving himself deep inside you with heavy, practiced strokes as he chases after his own release.

The aftershocks of you twitch throughout your body, forcing weak sobs from your empty lungs as the pleasure melts back into that electrical sort of overstimulation. It makes you weakly lift up your head to bite into the leather draped over his shoulder as your body bears down on the girth of his cock to wring out his pleasure. And the ragged string of curses and loud, guttural groan that breaks out across the room is quickly followed by the flood of warmth that spreads throughout your cunt, stuffing you with his cum with a few more uncoordinated thrusts before he collapses on top of you.

The hush that falls over the room is almost jarring now- a complete juxtaposition to the desperate pleads and blissful sighs that had filled the space just moments before. You can still smell the scent of sex in the air, all tangled up with the fragrance of tobacco and leather that always clings to him like a kind of cologne. It seems so bittersweet now. And when he pulls out of you - the both of you hissing lowly from the sensitivity that it brings - you expect to hear the familiar metallic chime of him slipping his belt through its buckle so that he can right himself to leave.

But he doesn't do that.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he huffs and rolls over onto his back with a ragged groan, situating himself next to you before he curls one of his arms around you to guide you to lay alongside him. Your head is cradled along his chest, allowing you to listen to the wild, steady thrum of his heart raging underneath all the blood and bone while you both pant and collect yourselves. It brings a comfort and fondness to you that you still know is stupid to entertain, but it's so damn easy to give into. Everything with Cooper is always so damn easy with him even though he's as difficult as they come. And you suppose that's what's made you so helplessly stuck on him. How easily you've been lulled into this relationship with him, this cat and mouse game; the constant, simultaneous state of both confidant and rival. It's isolating and welcoming all at once. Despite being such an infrequent presence in your life, he's also managed to become such a permanent fixture as well. The mere thought of his absence always leaves you completely lost, and you aren't sure how to deal with that.

"You should try and get some shut eye," he mumbles, and you swear that you can feel the brush of his lips against your forehead, much too gentle and delicate for a man so rough. It has a smile threatening to break across your face and suddenly you're thankful for the darkness, and the cover it provides. The last thing you need is for him to taunt you for going soft, even though you certainly could do the same to him with the way that he's got you curled against his chest. But for once you don't have the urge to ruin with moment with sarcastic quips or well-meaning insults. You want to stay here forever. Even though you know it's impossible to remain paused in this moment with the delicate, cooling desert air gliding into the room to brush along your bare skin like a lover's fingertips.

For once in this hellscape, everything is quiet. Intimate and peaceful. But just like always it's all on borrowed time. And come a few minutes or maybe hours, if you're lucky, Cooper will lift himself from the old bed and slip into the dark to claim whatever poor soul manages to catch his eye. But here and now, you can play pretend. You can imagine that when you wake up in the morning, while the horizon is blossoming with the golden hue of the dawn, that he'll still be here to greet you with that honeyed drawl. It's a fool's dream. But dream you do.

#the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #cooper howard smut #the ghoul x you #cooper howard #fallout x reader #fallout

293 notes · View notes

damiansgoodgirll · 2 days

Text

i knew i had to make a part two so here we go

damian priest x reader

here’s part one if you missed it - what i always wanted

what i always wanted pt. 2

“is everything okay?” rhea knocked on the bedroom door for the fifth time in two hours. you locked yourself in the room when you found out that you were pregnant. you didn’t want to see anyone as your mind was racing and you weren’t thinking straight.

rhea knew something was wrong. you never locked yourself in before and even when you were too sad to talk, you were always available in case rhea needed you.

so yes, it was weird for her to have you locked in a room.

“y/n please…can you say something?” she asked again, desperate. you knew well that she was capable of tearing the door down.

“uhm…can i please stay alone rhea?” you were sitting on the bed. the pregnancy test still in your hands.

“no”

“rhea…”

“no, let me in or i’ll break the goddamn door!”

you didn’t want to argue anymore so you simply unlocked the door and let her in, leaving the pregnancy test on the bed.

“so what’s going on?” she asked before eyeing the bed and seeing the test laying on it “no way…is it…is it positive?” she asked and you nodded, tears in your eyes again “is it damian’s?” she asked again and once again you nodded.

she knew the answer. she wanted you to confirm it.

“he doesn’t know yet right?”

“he doesn’t have to know rhea!” you almost screamed.

“don’t you think that he’s gonna find out eventually…” she said, sitting on the bed next to you.

“i don’t want him to know…he’ll get with me again just for the kid and i don’t want that, i absolutely don’t want that! it was pretty clear he didn’t want to raise a family with me but i know he will be feeling guilty if he knew he left me pregnant and alone…” you said, tears falling from your eyes “he’s the only man i’ve ever loved but i can’t force him to be with me…”

“do you think he doesn’t love you anymore?” she asked and you slightly nodded “oh girl…you couldn’t be more wrong…he’s broken without you, i see it everytime we are training together, he can’t stop asking me about you…he wants you back but he’s too scared”

“that’s why we broke up in the first place rhea! when i talked about a possible pregnancy he took a step back, being too scared to even have that conversation with me! i - i don’t know if i can handle a pregnancy without him but i don’t want him back just because of this…” you told her, rhea understanding your position.

“you two need to meet and talk. like real fucking adults. he would never back up from this, not only for the baby but because of you, he loves you, he wants you back, he’s sure you hate him and he rather be a ghost in your life that having you telling him that you hate him, you two need to meet. right, fucking, now” rhea said and even if her words shocked you a bit, you knew she was right.

“i’m texting him…”

“good! i’ll leave you alone, i’m going out for a few hours, need to do groceries, text me if you need me here okay?”

“okay” you smiled at her.

you composed a little, drying your tears and fixing your make up a little, at least to look presentable.

damian swore he missed a heartbeat when he saw your name popping up on his phone. you wanted to meet him at rhea’s place and he couldn’t wait for it.

he almost ran to his car when he saw the text message.

not even twenty minutes later you heard a knock on the front door.

taking a few deep breaths you stood up to open the door.

“whatever happens, it’s me and you little bean” you whispered and smiled softly touching your belly before letting him in.

“hey…” he slowly greeted you.

“hi”

“how are you?” he felt awkward. like he didn’t know what to say.

“i’ve…i’ve been better…”

“yeah…” an uncomfortable silence before he started talking again “so, you wanted to see me?”

“yes…there’s something i have to tell you, why don’t we sit on the couch?” you asked and he nodded so you led him into the big living room.

he sat in front of you, his eyes never leaving your face.

“y/n…i’m…”

“no damian, please, let me talk…it’s really important and…uhm, well, it’s something you have every right to know…” you said, never meeting his eyes.

“okay…”

“damian i’m pregnant.”

silence.

an awkward and uncomfortable silence.

“you…are pregnant” he repeated and you nodded “and it’s mine” he said. not asked, he was sure that the baby was his baby.

“i know you didn’t want that and i…”

“i love you y/n” he interrupted you “i never stopped loving you and the day we broke up was the saddest day of my life…i can’t believe i’ve even been so stupid to let you go…that’s the biggest mistake i’ve ever made” you were speechless “i want a family with you, i want our house to be full of kids…” he slowly got up and knelt in front of you “i want to wake up to our baby crying because they’re hungry, or because of a nightmare…i want to hold them while they are sleeping, i want to have a family with you, i’ve been too scared to admit it to myself, and for that i let you go and lost you…”

“you could never lose me damian…”

“i lost you the moment i broke up with you…” he says crying a little.

“you hurt me, a lot…and it will time to forgive you but i can’t live without you here, i love you so much damian and i missed you so bad these past weeks…”

“i love you, i want you back and i’ll fight through hell if i have to” he said making you smile.

“what about the baby?”

“i want this, i want this y/m, i’m serious…i want to have a cute little family with you, i want to be a dad, and i know you’ll be an amazing mom, i just know it…” he sat back on the couch next to you, taking your hands into his bigger ones “let’s do this, let’s have this baby together, cause i ain’t leaving you…”

you smiled, thinking about how you missed him and now that you had him again.

“let’s go back home” he said and you nodded, having him to lead you back home.

the little home where you will be growing an amazing family together.

123 notes · View notes

beenbaanbuun · 2 days

Note

okay okay so question, has san been informed of the relationship dynamics in the house? i’m assuming he knows about matz and darling but was he pre warned about darling and yeo? bc i just thought about it and image they just kinda forgot to mention that they have a bestie with benefits situation, so second nature for them, and then randomly one day san walks in on darling and yeo going at it. the poor guy is 1) startled bc no matter what scenario that’s awkward but 2) he potentially thinks that darling and yeo are doing something wrong. so now he’s left to figure out if he should say something to matz or if that’s just way above his pay grade. idk why this whole scenario is so funny to me but it is. poor sannie😭

san was 100% not prewarned…

of course he knows abouts hwa and joong and the weird pink thing that follows them around like a little puppy, but yeosang and darling?? he’s clueless!

so i’ve mentioned before in this post that sex between the two of them is technically banned unless mommy and daddy are there to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand. it just so happens that darling is a little brat and yeosang will do anything to make her happy (even if he won’t admit it) and no one ever said a little head here and there wasn’t allowed… if darling wants to suck yeosang off, it’s not technically against the rules, right?

and that’s absolutely what san walks in on one day…

the dining room door swings open, startling you as you push yeosang’s cock to the back of your throat. you gag around it, immediately pulling off of it to cough your lungs out. you’re half expecting to hear hongjoong scoff at the two of you before commanding yeosang get on the floor too, or perhaps seonghwa to give you a disappointed sigh before getting you to crawl to him. instead all you hear is a tray clatter to the floor.

“what the—”

“san!” yeosang cries, hands flying to his dick to cover his achingly hard member. he nudges you with his knee, trying to get your attention, but you just hit his thigh; can’t he see you’re choking on his dick? “we weren’t doing anything!”

you nod through your coughs, agreeing that you definitely weren’t breaking any rules. what san doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

“you weren’t— yeosang, she was sucking you off!” the butler practically screeches. yeosang hushes him harshly in return; the other members of the house definitely do not need to know what transpired between the two of you. “are you— do they—” san takes a deep breath to calm himself, “is this allowed?”

silence fills the room, neither you or yeosang wanting to answer that question. as much as the two of you like to pretend that anything other than actual penetration is allowed, you both know that it really isn’t. if either of your lovers caught you like this, you’d both be punished more severely than you ever have been before.

san swallows thickly, the worst case scenario filling up his mind. but you seem so in love with them? how could you even consider cheating on them with yeosang? he’s just supposed to be a cuddle buddy, isn’t he?

he should tell someone, he decides. after all, his bosses would be fuming if they found out that he knew about this. the last thing he wants is to get fired from the best paying job he’s ever had. he takes a step back to the door, preparing himself to sprint upstairs to hongjoong’s office.

“where are you going?” yeosang warbles, eyes going wide, “are you going to tell hongjoong? please don’t tell hongjoong…”

“well i—”

“san, no,” you say, voice gravelly from the effects of having a dick shoved down it. from your position on the floor, it feels like you’re begging him. perhaps you are; he supposes it won’t be pleasant for you if your lovers find out you’re cheating on them. “please, they’ll be so mad.”

“i need to—”

“it’s not like it’s actual sex,” yeosang tries to reason, “just small things; it barely even counts!”

“it’s still wro—”

“it’s not wrong, per se,” you whine, “they were just too busy to watch and we were both horny…”

“i don’t ca— wait, what?” san pauses, the cogs in his brain turning as he mulls over your words, “you mean to say you two are allowed to do this?”

you shrug.

“they’re supposed to watch but sometimes they’re busy and it’s not like we ever take it further than this!”

and suddenly, san doesn’t care anymore. he shakes his head, a heavy sigh leaving his lips. it’s his fault for digging, he supposes, but he wasn’t quite expecting for it to be a whole voyeurism thing rather than a cheating scandal. it serves him right for sticking his nose in places it doesn’t belong.

“no,” he mumbles, “this is above my pay grade… weird fucking family.”

#ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #matz x reader #yeosang x reader #opposites attract universe #ateez smut #poly ateez x reader #poly ateez smut

120 notes · View notes

sugoi-writes · 3 days

Text

Lucifer Morningstar x Reader - Aftercare

Some silly, Luci aftercare... because I need to practice other characters during my hyperfocus-time HAHAH

MDNI... Y E E T 🦆🐤❤️

For the nth time that morning, you partner was able to bring you to paradise. Your eyes fell closed as your head lolled to the side, breathing ragged. You couldn't produce a coherent thought as your arm came to lay across your eyes. Your core felt almost numb from the overwhelming stimulation, and for a moment, you felt you lightheaded from your efforts.

You trembled and whined as your body calmed down from your quick death, Lucifer's movement slowing down before ceasing all together. You shivered as you felt dexterous fingers and spaded tail leave you, almost tasting the grin that was sent your way.

He blinked for a moment as he heard quiet, steady breathing, your arm still obscuring your eyes. Lucifer drew impossibly close to you, lifting your arm," Honey~ Honey~? Don't tell me you just fell asleep~" He teased, voice as sweet as the petname he uttered to you. Only to you.

"Honey, that was... WOW. Good job, baby," Lucifer said, breathless and awkward as he ran his other, clean hand through his sweaty hair.

"That was perfect. ABSOLUTELY perfect..."

You snorted as you stirred from your impromptu slumber, blinking sleepiness away from your eyes," Wh-what...? No, no, I'm... I'm good. I'm fine. I can keep going--" You ramble, your tone unconvincing as your eyes fluttered again. The angel hovering above you laughs, patting your abdominals gently. You jolted from the stimulation, but relaxed when the touch brought comfort, not pleasure.

You felt your blood run ice cold as your mind caught up to his words, eyes throwing themselves wide open.

"Sweetheart, you can barely make eye contact, let alone keep your eyes open. I think we're done for now. But maybe once I'm back, we can get back to what we started?" You sighed as your arm was moved aside, kind fingers threading through your fussy hair. When he looked at you like this, he almost mistook you for his own kind. He took in the sight of your hair fanned out across his pillow; a sensual imitation of a halo...

Lucifer was absolutely smitten with the sight.

"Oh... oh fuck you still have work, don't you?"

Lucifer presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead, fingers stilling momentarily in your hair," You know it never truly stops, sweetheart... but, I won't be out for long. A few visits, an appointment with Asmodeus... then I'll be back for the rest of the day," Lucifer comforted, his lowered voice reverberating off of his own ribs. The tone made your legs clench together; Luci chuckled at the flattering sight. You whined as the sensual tone of his voice made your mind wonder again, biting your lip to stifle a groan.

"Easy, Tiger... I've got to get ready now. But I'll be back for you soon, okay? Why don't you roll over? We'll need to change the sheets and get you into the shower, too..."

You groan in protest, your legs kicking momentarily. You were imitating a petulant child beautifully; truly, you should have been an actor. Lucifer found your little fit adorable, sitting up on shaky thighs," C'mon, babygirl... One, two... three!" With arms that felt like gelatin, Lucifer rolled you onto your side successfully. He stood up, about to remove the blankets... until he spotted the mess you made. His face flushes suddenly, a nervous smile on his face at sight of the arousal puddle," O-Oh boy, you... yeah, you're definitely tired after all of that."

"...and dehydrated...," you added, your voice slightly hoarse from overuse. Lucifer rolls his eyes, making quick work of the sheet while he worked around you," Honey, let's face it, you always are. Squirting all over hands just makes it worse~"

"Was that your first time, y'know... doing that?" Lucifer asked, meek and unassuming. He wouldn't be surprised either way. You nod, your cheeks still burning with embarrassment as Lucifer had you make eye contact. Your chin was cradled by the same fingers that pleasured you, making your heart beat wildly.

You groan, embarrassed by his words as you cover your face. Lucifer raises a brow at you and tries not to rub it in. He moves to your side of the bed to help you to your feet. The both of you groaned at the mutual effort, Lucifer rubbing at his arms while you braced your back. The both of you felt your age wash over your bodies again...

Lucifer wiggles his brows at you, making you groan in playful distain. He avoided your playful, sloppy hands as he came behind you. You didnt protest as he gently guided you towards the bathroom, a slew of kisses being pressed to your hunched shoulders.

"B-By someone else, yes... that was... NEW."

"Well, lucky for you, that's not the first time I've done that for someone~ And it won't be the last time you do that, either~"

You nearly fall on your ass at the implications of his words, your heart nearly stopping for the nth time that morning. Lucifer is immediately apologizing and coming to your side, throwing your arm over his shoulder. When he's able to get you walking again, he continues.

"You're washing the sheets if you make me do that again...," you groan, stumbling towards the shower and tub with tired legs. Lucifer smirks as he turns the hot water on, patting your back," A worthy exchange to watch you come undone. I'd do laundry for the rest of time to see you do that again~"

"Alright, alright, I'll stop~... but I mean it. We're trying that again later~"

You nearly tackled Lucifer into the shower, the both of you laughing while you did you best to get cleaned up (and not worked up again). While Lucifer was nearly late to his outings, you soaked in the comforts of his shower, hugging yourself. You tried not to get too excited as you cleansed yourself, your mind wondering just what Lucifer would do next time to make you see the stars again...

#lucifer morningstar #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer magne #hazbin lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer x you #lucifer x y/n #gahaha #hah #so sorry if this is rusty #its hard to pull away Alastor but i NEED TO TRY MORE #M O R E #please enjoy!

114 notes · View notes

georgeclarkesgf · 2 days

Note

Hi! Pleeeeease can we get some soft george smut? Xx

oh absolutely lovely <333

need you | george clarke

"i need you," the words were mumbled against george's lips almost as soon as he walked into the flat, "please."

just those words had him turned on. which is how he'd found himself in this position; you straddling him, fingers tangled in his hair. not that he minded. it hadn't even taken half an hour since he'd stepped through the door for you to get him into bed.

"george." you whined, needing something more.

"yea?" he teased, fingers rubbing soft circles on your waist under your shirt, a knowing smirk plastered on his face, "what is it my love?"

"please. i missed you." you pouted at him as he kissed your lips.

your hands that were in his hair moved to the shirt you were wearing and pulled it over your head, your naked chest now on full display.

george couldn't help but stare, or as he'd put it, admire. he could never get enough of you, and he made sure you knew it every time; always taking his time with you and making you feel special.

"so pretty." he groaned, hands moving up to cup your breasts, softly massaging them and rubbing his thumb over your nipples.

several hickeys were marked onto your breasts and collarbones and it was good, but it wasn't enough. so you decided to take matters into your own hands and rid yourself of your shorts, george watching your every move.

you got yourself comfortable on the bed and spread your legs, showing him just how how needy you were. a wet patch was visible on your underwear, having been turned on for way too long.

he bit his lip, hands moving up your legs until they reached your underwear, fingertips ghosting over your clit. "need me that bad huh?"

"so bad baby." you pleaded.

george gently circled your clit over your underwear a few more times before he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pulled them down your legs. a gasp left your lips when his fingers ran through your folds, collecting your wetness and teasing your entrance.

"so wet for me. want my fingers baby?" you nodded your head, desperate to feel them inside you.

two fingers slipped inside you with ease and you cried out, the feeling almost overwhelming already. he moved up your body, hovering over you, pressing his lips against yours with a sense of urgency to try and muffle your moans, not knowing who was home.

"want you to come on my fingers." he whispered in your ear and placed a soft kiss underneath it.

his fingers sped up, curling to hit the perfect spot inside you, thumb attaching to your clit once again. your breathing quickened and your back arched into his chest, feeling like your whole body was on fire.

"i'm gonna cum george. fuck." but he already knew, from the way you clenched around his fingers to the way your breathing sped up, he knew.

the coil in your stomach snapped and you choked out a moan and a cry of his name, george not even bothering to try and silence you.

as you calmed down, you were met with george grinning wide at you, trying to contain his laughter.

"what?" you breathed out, still struggling to catch your breath.

"you're loud." he chuckled.

"oh shut up," you covered your face with your hands, growing embarrassed, "don't laugh at me or i won't let you fuck me."

george has never shut up so fast in his life.

a/n i rewrote this so many times, i hope it’s okay for you lovely!! <3

89 notes · View notes

purple-babygirl · 2 days

Text

in the far corner of the forest VI

Pairing: Orc!Bucky Barnes x human!f!reader

Word Count: 7,498 (my excuse is this is the last one)

Summary: For the longest time, the kingdom has used Bucky as their number one fighter, forcing him to win their wars for them. The only thing he asked for in return after he was done was that they give him a wife, and they did. They handed him the orphan he picked on a silver platter; it wasn't like anyone would miss her. It would've been perfect if she actually wanted to be there though.

Warnings: 18+ content, smut, dirty talk, oral (m receiving), female masturbation, so much cum, cum swallowing, Bucky is a lil filthy, multiple orgasms, pregnancy.

A/N: aaaand our story with our favorite orc comes to an end. I've certainly had a lot of fun writing this one and I loved you reading it even more. Thank you to every one who has been here since the beginning I love you with my whole heart. also if you see this, please wish me good luck on finding a job, your girl is broke and too weak for the streets. please enjoy xx💜💜

“I wanna talk to you about something,” she said, her gaze nervous as she set down a mug of green tea for Bucky on the dining table.

He was reading a bit while she finished up the kitchen work and he didn’t ask for tea, which meant she wanted something and was probably bribing him. It definitely made him curious to know what she was going to ask for.

Life with Bucky was an absolute dream. Their relationship was stable and solid and she thought it would be a good time to finally tell him about everything that has been occupying her mind lately.

“Is it that I need to lose weight?” Bucky teased, gesturing to the green tea before him.

“Bucky,” she whined, “I’m serious!”

Bucky laughed, “okay, okay,” he put the book down instantly, “I’m all yours, sweet thing.”

She smiled timidly, “promise me not to get mad.”

“I promise?” Bucky said, unsure what to think of this conversation.

What did she do?

“No, like, say the whole thing…”

“I promise not to get mad?”

“Thank you.” She sighed.

“What is it, my love?” Bucky held her hand in his, rubbing the back of it gently.

“I— umm I know that women working is frowned upon in our kingdom, but— um—”

“First of all, that’s just a human thing. Our females can do whatever they want. Second,” Bucky brought his other hand to her cheek, “you can talk to me, little human. Don’t be afraid. What is it that you want? Be sure that I’ll make it happen.”

She sighed again as she briefly leaned into Bucky’s touch before pulling away, “please don’t say no.” She pleaded.

“I have to know what you want first.” He chuckled lightly.

“Remember when you said that Sam and Sarah liked the strawberry jam I made?” She asked, chewing on her lower lip.

“Yes, and we’ve been their jam suppliers ever since.” Bucky laughed, holding his tea mug to take a sip.

“You also liked it, right?” She tilted her head anxiously.

“I loved it.” Bucky licked his tusks seductively.

She blushed, biting back a smile, “and— and the girls back at the orphanage would always tell me they liked my jams too.”

“As they should.” Bucky nodded, boosting her confidence, making her smile.

Gods, she loved him so much.

“So I was thinking maybe… maybe I could try and sell them?” She finally said the words, her voice hushing by the end of her question as she gauged her orc’s reaction.

“Sell them?” Bucky asked, setting his mug down.

She nodded, nervous again now that he didn’t seem to like the idea very much.

“Like in the market?”

“Yes.”

He stayed silent for a beat, a frown forming on his face as he thought about her request.

She put her hand back in Bucky’s, “if you say no, I won’t bring it up again, but—”

“I’m not gonna say no, sweet thing. I’m just worried,” Bucky said lowly, appearing to be deep in thought as he squeezed her smaller hand in his.

“Worried about what? I have saved money for everything! You would always give me a lot of money before we go out to the market and I’ve saved most of it. You’ve already gotten me everything I needed, so I didn’t really spend much. You don’t have to worry about buying materials! I know they would give us the fruits for a cheaper price if we buy in bulk—”

“Little human, that’s not what I’m worried about, and I’m not about to let my wife start her business with her savings. Your money is yours.” Bucky interrupted firmly, shaking his head at her.

She smiled warmheartedly as she hugged her orc’s hand to her chest, “then what are you worried about?”

“I’m worried about the people in the market. We don’t know how they would react to you putting up your own stand in there. There are no women there, sweet thing. As you said, it’s frowned upon.”

“There is Martha, the jewelry lady!”

“Yeah, but have you seen any other female besides Martha?” Bucky gave her a sad smile.

“No,” she mumbled, disheartened at the thought that she might not be able to bring her small business idea to life.

She knew that Martha was only working because she was a childless widow and the stand was originally her husband’s. She was the only one left to inherit and run it or else she wouldn’t be able to afford food.

“I’m not saying we’re not gonna do it,” Bucky brought her gaze to his by her chin, “but I can’t not worry about you.”

“I know.” She dipped her face to kiss Bucky’s palm, “what are we gonna do?”

“If a jam stand in the market is really what you want, then I will support you all the way until your booth is standing high in the middle of that market.”

She smiled fondly before feeling anxious once more, “what if the men in the market don’t like it?”

“Then they can take it up with me,” Bucky reassured her, his chest puffing involuntarily as he imagined having to fight for his wife.

“I don’t want any trouble, Bucky. I don’t want our peace to be disturbed. I don’t want you to have to fight again, at all.”

“At least then I’d be fighting for something I actually care about, and someone I’m knees-deep in love with.” Bucky sat her on his lap, his blue eyes gazing into hers.

Heat rose to her cheeks and tears to her eyes before she pressed her lips to Bucky’s, “thank you, my love.”

“Copycat,” Bucky teased, “you got nothing to thank me for, little human. I got your back. Always.”

“I’m still grateful,” she pecked his lips, “and even if I don’t end up having a stand in the market, your support will forever be enough for me, Bucky.” She gave him a passionate kiss, trying to convey her feelings through it.

She couldn’t believe how lucky she had turned out to be.

How many human husbands would support their wives’ dreams like that? How often were women even allowed to think about doing something for themselves or being financially independent in this kingdom?

She slowly slid off her orc’s lap and down to the floor, making Bucky tilt his head.

“What are you doing, sweet thing?”

“You promised you would teach me,” she said, her voice small as she let her hands massage up Bucky’s thighs.

“Oh, you feeling brave tonight, little human?” Bucky asked lowly, eyes growing dark as she brought her hand to his cock over his pants.

She nodded even though she internally had no idea what to do, but she was trusting her desire and Bucky’s guidance.

“Get your orc’s cock out then,” Bucky instructed, making her pussy clench before her eager fingers started pushing his pants down, revealing his big cock to her eyes.

Her hands hesitated, reaching for his length before withdrawing and looking at Bucky for help, shifting on her knees.

Bucky got up from the chair and she looked at him worriedly, afraid she had turned him off with her reluctance.

He returned to his seat after a second, pushing the pillow he brought with him under his wife’s knees as he helped her get comfortable.

She smiled gratefully at how loving and attentive Bucky was. He had his cock out but all he cared about was that her knees weren’t hurting on the wooden floor.

Gods, she got lucky.

“You can touch me, sweet thing.” Bucky encouraged softly.

She mustered up her courage and finally let her fingers wrap around Bucky’s cock. Well, try to wrap around his cock.

He was too big for her to be able to wrap her hand around him and it made Bucky’s cock twitch, seeing how small her hand was compared to his size.

She couldn’t believe she had managed to take all of him in her pussy every single night for the past week.

She had to use both of her hands before simultaneously squeezing them around her orc’s cock like he had previously shown her; it was the only thing she knew how to do.

Bucky’s jaw went slack as he threw his head back at the simple touch, “move your hands up and down, little human.”

“Like that?” She asked as she slowly followed the instructions.

“Yes, yes, oh fuck yes,” Bucky moaned, wrapping his hands around hers, pumping himself harder with her hands.

She watched as Bucky closed his eyes in pleasure, deep groans leaving his chest and pre-cum the tip of his cock because of her touch.

She wanted to ask permission but her instincts moved faster than her mind as she cautiously let her the tip of her tongue swipe against the head of Bucky’s cock, aching to know what he tasted like.

And oh did he taste good; a bit musky, a bit salty and a bit of something she could only identify as Bucky. It was addictive and she wanted more.

Bucky jumped above her, his cock jerking in her hands as he opened his eyes at the tiny lick he felt her give his cock.

“Was that the wrong thing to do?” She asked, unsure of her moves, “I thought it was okay for me to put my mouth there?” she hesitated shyly, suddenly embarrassed of her neediness.

“It is. It is more than okay, my love. Please do it again,” Bucky begged, his hand coming down to cup her cheek, thumb stroking her skin adoringly as he brought her face closer to his cock.

He was sure she and her innocence were going to be the death of him, yet at the same time, he couldn’t wait to ruin her; make her his dirty little cock slut of a wife.

She tentatively let the tip of her tongue lick against the head of Bucky’s cock again, keeping her eyes on him.

Bucky groaned, his abdomen tensing as he felt himself already close.

He couldn’t believe how embarrassingly ready to burst she had managed to have him every time she touched him or as much as moaned for him. He could go for hours before, but with her it was like she knew exactly which buttons to press to get him drooling and leaking for her, and yet, she didn’t. Not at all, really.

She gave a bigger lick, letting herself savor her orc’s taste this time, moaning as she put her mouth on his tip, suckling ever so softly.

Bucky was huge and getting him inside her mouth like she felt she wanted to was going to be a challenge, but she wasn’t one to back down from challenges. Not anymore.

She was going to make Bucky feel good and she was going to do it with her mouth.

She could barely get the tip past her lips and it was already too much for her untrained mouth. Tears gathered in her eyes when Bucky involuntarily jerked his hips forward, making her gag on his cock.

“I’m so sorry, my love—” Bucky quickly pulled out of her mouth, worry written all over his face.

“Don’t be, Bucky. I— I kinda liked it.” She confessed, heat spreading on her cheeks.

“Oh, you liked choking on my cock, little human?” Bucky teased darkly as he pumped himself and she nodded shyly.

“Can I try again?” She asked, voice small and timid.

“All yours, sweet thing.”

She put her mouth back on the tip, feeling proud of herself as she managed to properly suck on it without her teeth getting in the way.

Bucky’s cock was so big and it was certainly testing for her to take another inch into her mouth but she did it, softly moaning on her orc’s length as she tasted more of his precum on her tongue.

“Keep using your hands, little human,” Bucky instructed, her mouth feeling heavenly on his cock.

She listened right away, her hands pumping up and down the inches she couldn’t yet fit into her mouth.

“Good girl,” Bucky groaned wantonly, “you’re so good for me, sweet thing.”

Bucky’s encouragement made her want to do better, to do more for him.

She pulled off of him for one second, taking a long breath as Bucky watched her with hooded eyelids.

And when she was ready, she opened her mouth as wide as she could, taking half of Bucky’s cock down her throat all at once.

“Gods, fuck!” He exclaimed, barely holding himself back from lurching over and shoving the whole thing down her warm wet throat as his hand flow to cup the back of her head.

She kept one hand on Bucky’s length as the other moved down to touch her own heat.

The sounds coming out of Bucky, his taste and the way his cock was making her drool as she choked on it were driving her up the wall with need.

She has never touched herself before and she didn’t know what has gotten into her as she slipped her hand down her panties, trying to imitate Bucky’s touches on her clit. Her fingers couldn’t compare, but she was throbbing, every sound that left Bucky’s chest vibrated in her clit; made her ache needily.

Bucky was turning to putty in her hands and it was the hottest thing she has ever witnessed.

She whined on Bucky’s cock and it made him open his eyes, realizing that she had now one hand only pumping him as the other disappeared under her dress.

“Are you touching yourself, little human?” Bucky chuckled breathily, making her whine in embarrassment.

Yet, her hand rubbed her clit even faster.

“Is sucking my cock making you all needy, sweet thing? Hmm? Can’t be around this fat cock without aching for it?”

She moaned in agreement, basically gurgling on Bucky’s fat cock as she forced herself to take another inch of him down her throat, making him grunt.

“Atta girl!” Bucky shouted in pleasure as he started to move in and out of her mouth, her allowing him to give her a little more of his thick cock every time he would slide back down her throat.

She continued breathing through her nose and circled her clit faster, feeling herself get closer to her release as her lower stomach tensed and tightened.

“Relax that throat for me, little human. There you go, good girl.”

Bucky was holding her head with both hands now, trying not to crane her neck back too much as he angled his hips just right for the tip of his cock to hit the back of her throat.

She gagged harshly and Bucky pulled out to give her a chance to breathe, “take your time, sweet thing. Doing so good for me,” he reassured, rubbing her back lovingly as she coughed and heaved.

“Again,” was all she said before she took his cock back in her mouth all the way down her throat that her nose was almost touching Bucky’s abs.

She let Bucky fuck her throat again, grateful for his gentleness as his balls hit her chin with each thrust.

“Fuck, you’re too good to me, sweet thing. So pretty taking my cock all the way down your throat like that.”

Bucky knew the exact second she came as her whines hummed on his cock while she let her orgasm take over. Her jaw went slack in his hand and he took the chance to quicken his pace, chasing his own orgasm.

“Fuck, little human, you’re a natural. Taking me so well— ahhh fuck. Just like that.”

Bucky almost roared as he came down her throat, smirking appreciatively as he felt her swallow around him, spluttering a little as he slowly pulled out.

He couldn’t be prouder of how hungry for his cock he had managed to make his little human as he watched her swallow every drop she could before the rest of Bucky’s cum ran down her lips, chin, neck and dress, his cock still throbbing at the sight of her covered in his cum; willingly claimed.

She let her butt touch the pillow underneath her knees as her body sagged, gasping and trying to catch her breath.

Her jaw was hurting like a bitch but she didn’t care. She has made Bucky lose it with her mouth and her mouth alone.

She suddenly felt her face go hot as the hand in her panties reminded her of what she had done while sucking her orc’s cock. She took her hand out of her underwear, quickly hiding it behind her back as if that would make everything she just did disappear.

Bucky laughed, putting his pants back on before cupping her cheeks as he got down on his knees before her, “what did I say, little human? Never hide from me.” He took her hand out from behind her back and brought her fingers to his face.

Bucky obscenely smelled her fingers, closing his eyes at the scent of her before wrapping his lips around them, lewdly moaning as he tasted the remnants of her juices on them.

Her face burned up as her lust was sated, leaving shyness to gnaw at her cheeks.

“Did— did you like that?” She croaked out, her voice hoarse, as he finished sucking on her fingers, desperately wanting to change the subject.

“Oh, sweet thing, I loved it.” Bucky smiled, satisfied and amazed by her, “you almost sucked my soul out of my cock there, little human.”

She giggled, blushing.

“And you touching yourself while giving me head? Damn, sweet thing! Who would’ve known?!” Bucky teased, making her sigh and hide her face in her hands.

“No, no, little human, it’s a good thing,” he laughed, taking her hands in his, “it was so fucking hot.”

“Really?”

Gods, how were her eyes still so innocent after what she had just done to him?

“Really.” Bucky smiled, kissing her knuckles.

“Thank you for letting me do it, Bucky, and for guiding me,” she said sincerely before throwing her arms around his neck, hugging him as she released a happy sigh.

Bucky just couldn’t wrap his mind around how perfect she was or how blessed he was.

She was thanking him for agreeing to ravish her with his cock. Truth was, he was the one who should thank her every day just for being his.

Bucky, the half-orc, seemed to have found and claimed jackpot.

“Thank you, little human.” Bucky turned his head to kiss her hair, “thank you for everything.”

True to his word, Bucky had done everything in his power to make her dream come true. He worked hard to get her a permit from the kingdom for a new stall in the market, using his previous status in the army to get them to sign and stamp those papers as soon as possible.

He had also designed and built her stand all by himself, making sure to make her a smooth counter for her elbows and real sturdy shelves to hold her jam jars.

And he knew exactly what he was going to engrave on the sign for her tiny shop.

Meanwhile, she and Sarah were browsing the nearby markets to pick a fruit supplier with which she could be comfortable. They had managed to find a kind old man who always had a display of the seasonal fruits in his shop. His fruits were ripe and fresh at all times and they had come to a fair agreement regarding the prices and the monthly supply they would need him to provide.

Then it was time to shop for utensils and Sarah had insisted on dragging Sam along for that one because there was no way the two women could carry that much stuff on their own. He left Bucky to continue working on the final touches on the stand and reluctantly joined the ladies.

She was the happiest as she picked new pots and sauce pans with Sarah as well as the cute little glass jars she would need to put the jam into.

Her life was coming together and she couldn’t be more thankful for everything and everyone she had.

She had an amazing husband and supportive, kind friends; a little family to call her own other than the one that had abandoned her long ago.

The group tried their best to haggle the prices on everything because she didn’t want Bucky to have to spend too much, seeing that he had insisted on paying for everything.

“I’m not negotiating, it’s either the price I asked for or we won’t take anything from you!”

Her head snapped up, dropping the ladles she was browsing when she heard Sam ‘haggling’ with the seller.

She had found things here that she couldn’t find anywhere else and she really liked them. Why was Sam sabotaging her shopping plan?

She grabbed onto her favorite pot as she walked over to the siblings.

“Sam, what are you doing? I’ve already picked like a billion things,” she whispered to the man, afraid that he was ruining a good bargain.

“Watch and learn,” Sarah whispered back to her with a reassuring smile, “you’re right, Sam. Let’s go. Thank you, we won’t be taking those. You can put them back, thanks.”

Her mouth was wide open as Sarah forcefully took the pot out of her hand, setting it down and grabbing her, dragging her to walk away.

“Guys, what are you doing?” She scream-whispered as they kept walking, leaving everything that she had carefully hand-picked behind.

“Okay, fine, wait!” The seller called for them before they could get too far, “you can have them— I’ll give them to you at the price you wanted!”

She looked at the Wilsons with an impressed smile and they smiled back, raising their eyebrows simultaneously as if to say “told you so”, making her laugh.

When they were finally done with everything they needed, they had made Sam carry most of the bags as she and Sarah waltzed back to a more feminine shop.

When they were finally done, Sam wanted to run back to his and Bucky’s shop before they could buy anything else, but he was carrying way too many things so he only made both ladies laugh as he looked like a pregnant penguin hoping over to the truck.

“You look happy. Did you get everything you needed, my love?” Bucky asked with a chuckle as she excitedly wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek as soon as she entered the shop.

“Yes.” She nodded with a smile, pecking her orc’s lips.

“Were these guys any help?” He nodded to the siblings, teasing them.

“We can hear you, you know!” Sam yelled from the supply closet as he set the last bag inside.

“Sarah and Sam were great help.” She softly slapped Bucky’s chest, “I don’t know what I would’ve done without them.” She smiled at Sam gratefully before running to hug Sarah.

“Anything for you, bestie. I’ve been around boys for too long and I’m so glad I get to have a fellow woman around here now.”

She giggled as Sarah hugged her back, imagining how lonely it must have been for her to only be surrounded by males.

“Hey! We’re great company!” Sam said, waving a finger at his sister.

“Sure you are, Samuel.” Sarah nodded until Sam had turned his head away, “I swear if I didn’t work here I wouldn’t have forced myself to put up with all the burping and farting.”

She chocked on a laugh as both Sam and Bucky glared at Sarah before she decided to dissolve the ‘tension’, “okay, okay, let’s eat!”

She got out the food she had prepared for everyone, chuckling as she handed Sam his meal after he made grabby hands at the wrapped box.

“Bucky, leave it for now and come eat,” she called for her husband when he saw he was too busy working down a plaque of wood.

“Almost done, sweet thing,” he mumbled, still focused on what he was doing.

Bucky looked like a masterpiece with his hair back in a low bun and the tip of his tongue out, hanging on a tusk as he fixated on the work at hand.

She couldn’t help but walk over and wrap her arms around him from behind, lovingly kissing his back.

The orc stopped his movements, smiling when he felt her tiny mouth press kiss after kiss to his back.

He turned around to face her, encasing her in his strong embrace as he leaned down to kiss her sweet lips.

“Your food is gonna get cold,” she whispered against Bucky’s lips.

“Let it get cold,” he said before deepening their kiss, holding her by the back of her head to bring her closer.

“Some people are trying to eat over here!” Sam shouted with his mouth full as Sarah playfully made gag noises.

Bucky groaned as she shyly pulled away from his lips, making her laugh when he whispered “I hate you” to Sam.

Things at the market have gone exactly like Bucky has feared.

It was her very first day, her stand was in place like Bucky had put it and she and Sarah were organizing the jars on the shelves as the men watched them with scowls.

She tried her best not to care. The wooden sign saying “Sweet Things” on top was shining in the sunlight and with it her smile.

Everything was going smoothly until both she and Sarah left the stand for a minute to go get the rest of the boxes off of Sam’s truck.

It was just one minute but it was enough for those who didn’t want her there to make it known.

When she came back, her glass jars were all on the ground, smashed to pieces, the jam she had spent last night making staining the gravel.

She was speechless, hurt and confused at some people’s ability to be so venomous and mean.

She saw Cole holding as many jars as he could in his arms, sighing when he saw her, “I tried to stop them. I’m so sorry.”

She felt her chest tighten as her eyes welled up.

“Don’t let them see you cry,” Sarah whispered in her ear as she could see tears gathering in her lash line.

“I would never,” she replied strongly, setting the box in her arms down on the counter of her booth with a clenched jaw.

“Who did this?” She asked, her voice loud and powerful.

She got no answer so she decided to provoke whoever had done this into coming forward, “so what you’re manly enough to smash down jam jars, but not so much when it comes to owning up to it?”

“We all did it!” The man from the clothing stall shouted.

“Yeah, we don’t want you here! Women weren’t made to work!” The man from the key cutting stand continued.

“And who decided that exactly?” She yelled back to them, hands on her waist rebelliously.

“It’s just how the world works, sweetheart. Work just isn’t for women,” the man from the clothing stall replied with a challenging smile as he gestured to the broken glass by her feet.

“Oh, it isn’t? That’s weird! Because last time I checked, women worked their butts off all day long cleaning, cooking, and taking care of children at houses that aren’t even their own just to go back home at the end of the day and do it all over again for free while you sat on your lazy asses!”

Everyone stood there stunned, her response crushing them into silence. None of them could remember the last time a woman had dared use such a tone with them, let alone use curse words in her speech.

“But it’s fine when women don’t get to take the money for their work, right? Women can work as long as you receive their pay money each month, no? They’re allowed to work as long as their money isn’t their own and their dignity is kept under your shoes, aren’t they?!” She lashed out, surprising herself, Sarah, everyone around and a very impressed Bucky, who was standing at the end of the market as she let her voice get loud, talking back to men.

He just thought he would stop by, unable to keep his worry at bay. And when he heard the men’s voices get loud in her face, he thought he would intervene; defend her, but his little human didn’t seem like she needed any defending. Not one bit.

She was putting those assholes in their places all by herself.

“Lower your voice, woman! Or have you been around that savage brute of yours too much that you’ve forgotten how to properly speak?”

“Hey!” Bucky barked, stomping over to the man who had dared disrespect him and his wife, his fists already balling.

“Oh you’re gonna come for my orc now?!” Her shout stopped Bucky before he could punch the man’s nose off, “where were you again when my orc was fighting for this kingdom? Where were you when he took it upon himself to keep everyone here safe? Oh, wait, right! Sitting on your lazy ass!”

“How dare you talk to us like that? You think you get to be this audacious because you let a half-orc bed you?!”

“Watch your tongue when you’re talking to my wife,” Bucky snarled in the man’s face before she gently held him back.

“At least he knows how to take care of a woman!” She said proudly, “my orc is more of a husband to me than any of you pathetic wimps could ever be to your women!”

Bucky couldn’t help the warm smile replacing his scowl at her words. He couldn’t believe she was defending him like that, saying such words about him, in the middle of the market.

“He treats me like a queen. He has never laid a hand on me and when he makes me scream, he makes me scream for all the right reasons.” She growled, looking the rude man right in the eye as she stressed every word in the end of her sentence.

The man swallowed hard, her words clearly hitting him where it hurt.

She smiled victoriously, “now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a jam stand to run and if any of you as much as thinks of pulling anything like this again, my husband here will have the rest of the kingdom hear your screams for a change.” She warned fearlessly, her gaze running over each and every seller in the market.

“For all the right reasons.” Bucky promised, harshly squeezing the man’s shoulder in his flesh fist.

She giggled, nodding with a wide grin before walking to the truck to get the sweep she had packed beforehand.

“Now I know why you insisted on bringing that with you!” Sarah laughed in amazement.

She laughed with her best friend as they both walked back to her stand where a very proud Bucky was still standing guard.

It was sad that she had expected such actions; that she expected that someone was going to try and destroy her work, but she was still glad they did it early enough for her to set them straight. She now had a place in that market, and she wasn’t leaving any time soon.

Once she reached the booth, Bucky took the broom out of her hand and threw it to Sarah, settling his hands on her waist.

“Hi,” she smiled, finally able to properly greet her husband, slipping a loose strand of hair behind his pointed ear.

“Hi,” Bucky replied fondly, leaning her back in a tender dip, making her laugh before he claimed her lips in a passionate, lingering kiss in front of everyone watching.

They had lost themselves in the kiss so much that when they finally pulled away, Sarah had finished sweeping away the glass, Cole helping her get rid of the shards so that they wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Bucky grunted when he noticed Cole standing there, the man shivering under the orc’s intense gaze.

She squeezed Bucky’s hand in hers before giving Cole a grateful smile, “thank you for everything you’ve done, Cole. We appreciate it.”

“No need to thank me,” Cole blushed, “it wasn’t right what they did.”

Bucky snarled, teeth and fists clenched as he silently told the man to back off.

“I’ll— I’ll be by the flowers if you guys need me,” Cole said hastily, practically running out of Bucky’s face, the orc’s gaze following him until he was gone.

“Bucky,” she said, shaking his hand in hers, “he was just helping!”

“We don’t need his help,” he growled, still angry that another man was able to offer his wife help before him.

“I don’t and will never need anyone but you,” she told him, getting on her tiptoes to peck the orc’s frowny lips.

“Promise me not to talk to him again,” Bucky grumbled like a kid on her lips, refusing to let her kiss him.

She shook her head with a smile, “I promise.”

“No, say the whole thing.”

She laughed aloud, hiding her face in his chest, “I promise not to talk to Cole again. Happy?”

“Very.” Bucky finally smiled again, kissing her properly.

The next few days were very busy for both of them. She was trying to build herself a good name in the market and Bucky had this huge bulk order of chairs and desks for the new school. It didn’t help that Sarah was helping her with her jam stand because that meant that Sam and Bucky had to get everything done on their own.

She and Bucky barely saw each other all week, meeting only on the bed to exhaustedly fall asleep in each other’s arms at nights. They couldn’t even have breakfasts together because Bucky would be up and out way earlier than her.

Which meant he never saw her during her morning sickness.

And as much as she craved Bucky’s care, she was still happy in a way that he wasn’t here for the daily puke because that meant she could surprise him with the news she so bad hoped to be true.

She had told Sarah when it happened for the third day in a row, unable to keep her happiness or nervousness to herself.

She was probably pregnant, with Bucky’s baby. All the signs were there and she couldn’t be more contented.

They didn’t tell anyone, but today during lunch time, Sarah was accompanying her on her visit to the midwife just to make sure before she went ahead and broke the news to Bucky.

And when the midwife had confirmed hers and Sarah’s suspicions, the whole world couldn’t contain her happiness if it tried.

She was carrying Bucky’s baby inside of her. She was making a family with the orc of her dreams!

She was too excited that she wanted to just run to the shop and tell Bucky right away, but no, this had to be special. As special as the news itself.

And that was how she found Sarah and herself walking towards Cole’s flower stand.

“You’ll ask for them.”

“Why me? I’m not the pregnant one!” Sarah argued, stopping.

“Please, Sarah, you know I promised Bucky,” she whined, giving her friend the best puppy eyes she could pull.

“I’m sure Bucky didn’t mean that literally! He just didn’t want you flirting with the man.”

“Oh believe me, he meant it literally.”

“Still no.”

“Please, Aunt Sarah,” she begged, rubbing her flat belly.

“Ugh fine, but only for the sweet orcling inside of you!”

She giggled, giving Sarah a hug before they continued walking to the flower stand, “thank you, Aunt Sarah.”

“Good afternoon, Cole,” Sarah started, “we’re gonna need one of you freshest—”

“Mom!” A smaller voice called out, making Sarah turn around at once.

“AJ! What are you doing here, boy? Where’s your brother?” Sarah asked worriedly.

“He fell down— we were just playing soccer—” AJ stuttered, scared of his mom’s reaction.

“Where is your brother?”

“He’s at the infirmary. The doctor asked for you…” AJ replied faintly, his head down in shame.

“Oh my— I’m so sorry. I need to go.” Sarah told her as she ran with AJ out of the market.

“It’s okay, go. I’ll come with Bucky later to see how he’s doing,” she replied with a worried nod.

“So,” Cole broke the silence and only then did she realize that she has been standing there by his booth watching Sarah and AJ leave for at least 30 seconds.

“Oh— well…” She fumbled with her hands, not sure if she should talk to him.

She knew she promised Bucky, but this was kind of for Bucky too, and neither she nor Cole were flirting, so what was the harm?

“I need your freshest forget-me-not, please.” She gave the man her order with a polite smile.

“You got it.” Cole nodded before kneeling down to fetch her the prettiest, most alive forget-me-not plant she has ever seen, “how about this gal here?”

“She’s perfect!” She smiled, almost jumping in place because she could see Bucky’s face when she gave him the flower with the news she had.

She was too busy paying for her plant to notice Bucky watching her from a distance or notice him leaving at the sight of her smiling while talking to the one man he made her promise not to talk to.

“You came back early!” Sam commented upon seeing his friend reenter the shop less than 15 minutes after he had left.

“Yeah, couldn’t find her. Probably went to lunch out with Sarah,” Bucky lied, setting his packed food down before picking up his axe.

“We don’t need any more wood—”

“I don’t care.” Bucky stormed off to the lumberyard, ready to take his feelings out on the dead trees.

“Those chairs aren’t gonna make themselves ya know! I’m not a machine!” Sam yelled after him but it all fell on deaf ears.

Bucky was angry.

He just wanted to have a sweet lunch with his wife, but instead he was welcomed by a scene from his worst nightmare.

Did she do that all the time? How many times has she broken her promise to him? Was it because he was busy those past few days? He thought she was busy too; he didn’t know it could be affecting her that much…

But no. She wouldn’t do that. She promised him and Bucky trusted and trusts her.

Bucky shook his head as he stopped in his tracks, turning around as he flipped his axe in the air. He trusted his wife.

He wasn’t going to be that husband because they were not that couple.

When Bucky had walked back to the shop, she was there, waiting for him with her heart pounding in her throat.

He wanted to take the frown off his face, but he couldn’t do it fast enough.

“Where’s Sam?” He wondered, trying to hide his feelings.

“He had to go to Sarah and the boys. Cass got hurt while playing.” She explained in a hurry, the news she actually came for pressing on her.

“Bucky, I need to talk to you,” she said before she could change her mind, nervousness etched all over her soft features.

Bucky’s heart sank. Was she leaving him?

“I wanted to wait until we got home, but I couldn’t wait!” She smiled, eyes lighting up as she spoke.

Okay, maybe she wasn’t leaving him. She wouldn’t be this joyful about leaving him, would she?

“Is everything okay, sweet thing?” Bucky asked, becoming nervous himself.

She took his hand and led him to his chair before making herself comfortable on his lap with a bag in her own.

Yeah, she wasn’t leaving him.

“I wanna confess something first.”

“I’m listening,” Bucky said, his voice strained because he could guess where this was going.

“I broke my promise to you today, but only today, I swear. And I’m sorry,” she held his hand in one of hers, eyes begging him not to be upset with her, “I had to speak to Cole.”

“Really? You had to? Why did you possibly have to speak to Cole?” Bucky snapped, unable to control his anger.

“I understand why you’re upset and I’m so sorry.” She squeezed his hand to her heart, “I asked Sarah to do it for me, but AJ came and got her because Cass got hurt and so I had to ask Cole for this.” She brought out the potted forget-me-not, “all on my own”.

“If you wanted blue flowers you could have asked me and I would have planted millions for you,” Bucky mumbled, shaking his head.

He was happy that they had a healthy relationship where she felt safe enough to come and tell him about this, but he wasn’t happy with what she was telling him.

He could be a farmer!

“That would’ve been too late and too early at the same time.” She shrugged with a small grin.

“Little human, you’re not making much sense right now.”

“Forget-me-nots take from a month and a half to two months to grow. It would’ve been too late for me to tell you the news I got them to tell you and too early for—”

She got up and set the plant on Bucky’s desk before resituating herself on his lap with her dress up so that she was straddling him.

“It would’ve been too early for the baby to come.”

“What? What baby?” Bucky asked dumbly, his brain short circuiting at the news.

“I’m pregnant, my love,” she whispered, her eyes tearing up.

“You’re— you’re pregnant?”

She nodded, tears rolling down her soft cheeks, “I’m pregnant.”

“With my baby.” Bucky pointed to himself, making her chuckle.

“With your baby.”

Without introductions, Bucky pressed his lips to her in a kiss so passionate that it left her dizzy.

“Our baby,” Bucky whispered on her lips, cupping her cheek as he put his forehead to hers, letting his tears run.

Bucky’s flesh hand moved to caress her belly, “you have given me everything, sweet thing. Everything.”

“I love you, Bucky.” She wiped her orc’s tears before wrapping her arms around him, burrowing her face in his neck, breathing in his calming scent.

“I love you even more, little human.”

“We’re gonna have an actual little human soon and the name won’t be exclusively mine anymore,” she joked, chuckling on his warm skin.

“You will always be my little human,” Bucky told her seriously, bringing her gaze back to his, “we’re just gonna have a littler human.”

She laughed aloud as Bucky wiped away her tears.

“We’re gonna be so happy, aren’t we?” She asked with a big smile, her heart full.

“Yes, we are.” Bucky promised, sealing it with another kiss.

“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me,” she told Bucky the second they broke the kiss, making him smile like an idiot.

“Ditto.”

“Oh my gods, you’re so human!”

Bucky laughed with her before asking “forget-me-nots?”

“Yeah, I didn’t want you to forget about me between the hills of chairs and desks and they could also symbolize a sense of permanence, commitment, and familial bond. It was in one of the books you got me when we first got married.” She pretended to flip her hair away as she spoke confidently.

Bucky smiled, her words reassuring his heart more than she could ever know. She didn’t say when you first took me or when they first sent me, she said when ‘we first got married’.

She had fully, lovingly accepted Bucky and this marriage and it was time for Bucky to accept it all himself, too. It was time for him to accept that he was loved and chosen and cared about by this woman in his lap.

“I could never forget about you, sweet thing.” Bucky kissed her forehead, silently thanking her for way more than just a potted plant.

“I got you something else.” She rummaged through the bag, bringing out an amethyst male ring.

“What’s that one for?” Bucky asked, looking at her fondly.

“That’s for protection, so you wouldn’t hurt yourself while working again,” she told him with a smile as she slipped the ring on his flesh finger.

Bucky looked at her, all the love in the world held in his stare, “thank you, little human.”

He kissed the ring on his finger and after it her lips.

She loved Bucky and that was the only truth he needed to believe in.

Bucky loved her and that was the only fact that mattered to him.

She and Bucky were expecting their first baby and that was the only reality any of them wanted to live.

Tag list:

@harrysthiccthighss @tinystudentfirepurse @lavendercitizen @tumblin-theworldaway @pretty-pop-princess-hs @lilymurphy03 @idontwannagomrstarkk @glxwingrxse @littlelioncub43 @mathletemadison @canned-rootbear @pandaxnienke @loveisallyouneed1125 @floral-recs @littlemoonkiller @hallecarey1 @vespasianphantom @vicmc624 @winters1917 @ionlyeverwantedtobeyourequal @blkmystery @millercontracting @trappedwriter @am-3-thyst @obsessedwithquinn @sydnielauryn @alittlerayof-pitchblack @olipiaa @peterparkersgirl-blog @buckybarnessweetheart @thealyrs @colorfulbluebirdpainter @stuckysgirl27 @ihavetwoholesforareason @princess-bee0 @pastel-noah168 @steeph-aniie @buckitostan @onthr-dream @sapphirebarnes @123iloveyou456 @ciaqui @lindasweetie @justherefortheficandsmut @xxdiaqiaoxx @morgthemagpie @wintrsoldrluvr @goldylions @serendipitouslife90 @sebastians-love @leelee1234love @tiedyedghoulette @saint-marvel @helenaellie @onceithough @raynelbabe @a-very-fictional-girl @justabeluga

144 notes · View notes

eurydia · 2 days

Text

I requested a Cameo from Glen McCready of Zevlor accepting a romance with Tav during the celebration. I cried! I'm so happy, I also lack the words to fully express how much I love this. It fulfilled my dream of romancing Zevlor, a dream I think I share with many others here ❤️ Transcript and more thoughts below. Artwork mentioned at the end: [Home] [Lord Byron poem only]

“Hello Tav. Hello Christine. I understand you would like to hear Zevlor accepting a romance at the celebration. Well, how would that play out?

As you know I am, and have always been, through some work of fate or some curse, or some magical interference, I’ve always been unromanceable. And yet, standing before you now, in the firelight, I feel…feelings I’ve never felt. Never dared imagined I would feel. I lack the words to fully express all that is within my heart but there is a poem I’ve always loved by Lord Byron. “She walks in beauty” and for me it describes you more perfectly than I could ever dare hope. And it reads like this:

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

Now, before my courage ups and flees, I beg you: kiss me.

How was that? It’s hard, it’s hard when the character is not romanceable but I did my best. And your artwork is stunning. Absolutely stunning. Thank you for sharing it. Take care, and remember, should you ever need it, you have family in Baldur’s Gate.”

...

I did not expect him to quote a poem at all. I love poetry, it's how I started my writing journey, and they hold a special place in my heart. This made me very emotional. I'm over the moon right now!! I have this hc where Zevlor usually doesn't verbalize what he wants. He puts everyone else above himself, and his own needs are an afterthought. So for Glen to play him as begging for a kiss from Tav? My heart is full. Overflowing with love for Zevlor and Glen for playing him so perfectly 😭❤️

#bg3 #zevlor #glen mccready #baldurs gate 3 #tavlor #zevlor bg3 #zevlor x tav #someone hold meee this is everything to me ❤️!!#i must draw something inspired by this!! i'm screaming!!

90 notes · View notes

lemotmo · 6 hours

Text

I don't often do this, because I try to avoid discourse in fandom and sometimes you just don't vibe with a character. It happens.

But I keep seeing these horrible and, quite frankly, very wrong and disrespectful takes on Eddie Diaz' character. And I can't just sit here and ignore them anymore.

I cannot and will never understand why people don't like Eddie.

I've read some posts and comments earlier about people disliking Eddie and... really? Eddie is boring? He doesn't get interesting storylines? He's just a prop for Buck and his storylines?

Are we watching the same show here?

Eddie is, by far, one of the most interesting characters on 911. The man has had one trauma after the other piled up on him, but still he keeps going. Why? Because of the one thing that matters more to him than life itself: Christopher.

As a single mother myself, I can relate. The struggle to want to give your child everything, to do everything for them, even if it comes at the cost of your own mental and emotional well-being? It is very real. I cannot tell you how many times I end up crying to myself at night, blaming myself because I wasn't able to stop the outside world from hurting my son. And you have to do it all by yourself as well. There is no one there to share the burden with, to share the heartache with. It's tough and it's real.

Eddie's storylines are intricate and nuanced and based in reality. They aren't necessarily the biggest and loudest storylines, but they still matter to people who can relate to him. People like me.

Now, 911 is guilty of showing a lot of important Eddie moments from someone else's point of view. That is true. Especially Buck's POV. The shooting comes to mind, even a part of his breakdown and more recently Eddie's friendship with Tommy. He made a bro-friend and seemed so happy and carefree, but since we saw it from Buck's POV, we can't fully trust this image.

So, I think that is why some people see him as just a prop in Buck's story. But it's much more complex than that. Buck stepped inside Eddie's world without complaint. He helped him out from day one by introducing Eddie to Carla. For the first time, Eddie is no longer alone in life. There is someone there who understands him and his love for Chris. He can safely rest and trust that Buck will be there to step in if necessary. He actually went ahead and put it in his will. Eddie loves the way that Buck loves his son. And the show is still using that bond to date. We saw Buck and Eddie in conversation about Chris, Buck talking to Chris, Buck being jealous of Chris thinking Tommy was cool...

I don't know what the future will bring for Eddie, but I desperately want and need him to be happy. And yes, I do think the narrative will eventually lead him to Buck. His happiness has always been intricatelly linked to Christopher. The way they keep weaving in Christopher in Buck's storyline? The way Eddie keeps being inserted in Buck's bisexuality storyline? These are some of the many reasons that give me absolute certainty that Buddie is in the works.

In conclusion? Just stop hating on Eddie Diaz folks. It's not a good look on you.

#eddie diaz #buddie #christopher diaz #evan buckley #eddie is no one's storyline prop #he is his own person #and I'm very proud to say that he is my favourite 911 character

88 notes · View notes

heytheredelulu · 2 days

Text

I Gotta Take This.

Bucky Barnes x Female Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1k

ALL OF MY WORK IS 18+

C/W: Language, Bucky sends a dickpic, reference to his beautiful cock 😏, implied sex

It was becoming increasingly more difficult to pay attention to the mission briefing the longer Bucky Barnes continued to undress you with his stupid, blue eyes from across the room.

‘Stop staring at me, weirdo.’ You text him from beneath the table, turning your attention back to Steve and Tony before either of the men standing and addressing the room had the opportunity to catch you on your phone.

You weren’t surprised when the device buzzed against your thigh no more than thirty seconds later.

‘It’s hard not to stare when I keep imagining you naked’

Motherfucker.

‘Keep it in your pants, Barnes.’ You text back quickly, shifting in your seat to keep your phone obscured. You glance back up at him to where he sits across the long table in front you, his head bowed slightly as he reads the message, a devilish smirk beginning to stretch across his face.

Oh goddamnit, you know that look.

Your eyes flit back down to your lap in anticipation just as the notification pops up for a new message. You open it and immediately fumble, nearly dropping your phone as you quickly try to close out of the photo he’d just sent you of his hand wrapped around his thick and angry cock. You were so focused on trying to ensure Nat and Clint seated opposite you hadn’t seen the picture that you hadn’t realized how indiscreet you were being until Steve cleared his throat.

“Everything okay over there?” He asked, raising an eyebrow and crossing his muscular arms over his chest.

“Ye- Yeah. Yeah. Fine.” You reply, your voice an octave higher than normal and you notice Bucky stifling a laugh from across the table.

“Right, let’s refocus then.” Steve says sternly, turning back to the screen behind him. As soon as the super soldier’s back is to you, you whip your phone back out, typing frantically.

‘What the hell is wrong with you!? Do you just keep dick pics on deck for your convenience?’

You watch Bucky grin as he leans back in his seat, fingers moving swiftly across his screen, before slowly raising his head back up to pin you under his intense gaze as your phone vibrates yet again.

‘Empty conference room. Down the hall. Make an excuse.’

You blink a few times, staring at the message in disbelief.

He’s out of his mind. There’s no way you’re going to-

‘Now.’

This man would be the death of you.

You scoot your chair back and stand up, drawing the attention of every Avenger in the room.

“I’m so sorry but I have to take this phone call.” You lie, avoiding their stares by looking back and forth between the door and the phone in your hand to feign urgency.

Tony scoffs. “Now? It can’t wait?” He asks with clear annoyance in his tone.

You shake your head, walking backwards towards the door. “It can’t. It’s important. I have to take this.” You repeat, pretending to pick up the call while you tilt your head to pin the phone between your ear and shoulder. “Hello?” You ask absolutely no one as you slip out the door and into the hallway.

Bucky manages a solid two minutes of impatience, leaned forward in his seat and bouncing his leg while the team deliberates on if they should wait for you to return or continue without you, before he stretches, groaning dramatically.

“Well, seems like she’s gonna be a while.” He states, standing up and rolling his shoulders. “I’m gonna go take a leak.”

“The old man can’t hold his bladder?” Tony mocks, tipping back in his seat and kicking his feet up on the table. Steve rolls his eyes and shakes his head, walking over and shoving Tony’s feet back onto the floor. “Keep your feet off the table.” He grumbles, taking a seat in the empty chair next to him.

“I’m sorry, do you have a problem with me kicking my feet up on the table I paid for?” He asks sarcastically. Steve doesn’t reply, only mumbling under his breath as he leans forward on his elbows.

“We should get back to the meeting.” Bruce suggests, setting his tablet down and removing his glasses. “We still have a lot to cover.”

“We can wait, she’s probably finishing up her phone call by now and it doesn’t take but a minute for Bucky to run to the bathroom.” Steve responds, drumming his fingers against the table top.

Natasha stifles a laugh and Clint elbows her hard in the side. “Ow! Seriously?” She asks, turning to glare at him.

Steve raises his eyebrow. “What’s funny?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m just thinking they’re both probably going to be gone for a while.”

Tony leans his head back, rolling his eyes and letting out a groan and Steve looks between him and Natasha before frowning. “No, they should be back any minute.” He says, his expression growing puzzled.

Natasha can’t hold back her laughter any longer and Clint slumps forward, dropping his forehead to rest on the table. “Captain clueless over here.” He mumbles against the wood.

“Okay, what am I missing?” Steve asks, growing frustrated.

“I’m pretty sure they’re fucking.” Natasha replies, struggling to keep a straight face at Steve’s naivety.

His eyes widen and he sits upright in his seat. “Language!” He stammers, looking at her in disbelief. “And that’s just- that’s definitely not-“

“It definitely is.” Clint interjects, lifting his head and tossing his arms up. “I mean, come on. It wasn’t even subtle.”

“What? No, she said she was taking a phone call and he said-“ Steve begins to argue but Natasha’s laughter causes him to trail off as he furrows his brows and crosses his arms.

“I got this.” Tony says, tilting his head up towards the ceiling. “J.A.R.V.I.S.?” He asks aloud.

“Yes Mr. Stark?”

“Can you do a sweep of our empty offices?”

“Just a moment.”

Tony gestures his hand vaguely as he looks at Steve with his eyebrows raised.

“Movement detected in conference room B.”

Tony smirks, giving Steve a smug expression before addressing J.A.R.V.I.S. again.

“Let me guess, Y/N and Barnes?”

“That would be correct, sir.”

A/N: Yeah, idk. This is just popped into my head and I needed to bring it to life. I typed it up in a whole five minutes so I apologize for any and all mistakes. 🫣

Taglist (Taglist is open):

@badbunnybabygirl01 @suz7days @truthfulliarr @lilacka @writtingrose @samsgoddess @loveisallyouneed1125 @vicmc624 @millercontracting @wildernessflora @mydorkyboys @blackhawkfanatic @honestlywork @ladyvenera @cavity-exe @ihavetwoholesforareason @km-ffluv @shortnloud @mrs-katelyn-barnes @somnorvos @22rhianna2006 @fanfictionreaderfan @misshale21 @angelbaby99 @deans-spinster-witch @kezibear @acornacreacure @wintrsoldrluvr @terry2227

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #marvel fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #bucky barnes drabble

145 notes · View notes

livingformintyoongi · 2 days

Note

Yoongi and yn: friends.

They are playing truth or dare (the spicy kind, but ALL VERY CONSENSUAL!!!!!) with some friends at this pool party (note: they are all in swimwear).

Their friends know they like each other so they dare Yoongi to kiss her inner thighs, and yn to kiss his happy trail.

Next round they ask him to kiss her 🍒 and her to put her hands inside his swim trunks and stroke his 🍆 (again, ALL VERY CONSENSUAL!!!!!!!!)

She gets very horny by it so she excuses herself to one of the rooms and Yoongi follows her, they have a bit of a talk about what happened back there and he tells her that he was left wishing he could finish what he started and she tells that she can finish it now. He uses some of that 👅 technology with her and then fucks her silly (Yoongi is kind of obsessed with readers big🍒,she is older by 1year)

When they are done, their friends are waiting for them outside laughing and saying that their plan worked

thankyouuuu 💕💕💕💕

Pool Party

a/n: This is literally the longest thing I've ever written lol. I had quite a lot of fun making it, hope you liked it ^^. Sorry it took me so long, I wanted to make the dividers for this request myself, mostly because it takes me a long time to find one I like for the shots. Here is a photo of Yoongi and Reader's swimsuits, so that you have a clear picture of what they are wearing. warnings: a kind of semi public sex (?, Big dick Yoongi, Reader is a year older than Yoongi, blowjob (f gets), a little praise kink, Yoongi and reader throw in a joke or two during sex, unprotected sex (please don't do this, always use a condom), drunk sex. wc: 4.7k

"What did you say?" you looked at Soyeon, feeling your heart race at her comment.

"Did I speak too softly? I'm sorry," she smiled that Machiavellian smile you knew so well. They always meant trouble, "I told Yoongi to kiss your inner thigh, is that a problem? Because if it is I can take back the challenge" she pointed to a bottle of vinegar next to her, "you can always have a shot of vinegar in return".

You looked at Yoongi, both of you looking slightly uncomfortable with the idea, but not exactly because you didn't want to. Yoongi was dying to bite your thighs, and you were dying to feel his lips against it, the problem was the situation. You didn't want him to kiss your inner thigh on a dare.

You sighed in defeat, hoping that would make everyone think you didn't want to do it. None, with the exception of Yoongi, believed it.

"You don't need to do it if you don't want to," Yoongi muttered, taking the bottle of vinegar, trying his hardest not to grimace.

"Wait!" You snatched the bottle out of his hands, tossing it to Taehyung, who had no problem catching it. "I absolutely refuse to let you drink that shit, Yoongi."

Everyone fell silent, staring at you.

"Do you need me to spread my legs?" you looked at Yoongi, blushing heavily as you realised how bad that sounded, "Because of the challenge, obviously, it'll be a lot easier that way."

"Sure" he looked away from you, shaking his hair with his left hand.

You couldn't help but be even more embarrassed to see that Yoongi had also blushed at your answer. From now on you will keep your mouth shut until the game is over.

"Alright, stop making us wait, the night is long, but not forever" Soyeon shouted, laughing softly as she watched you and Yoongi move around rather awkwardly.

How was he supposed to kiss the inside of your thigh? Should you stand up? Lie down? Lean back a little?

In the end you opted for the last one. You waited until Yoongi was in front of you before you leaned back, supporting yourself with your forearms. You grimaced as you felt the small stones on the floor bury themselves into your skin.

"Are you really comfortable with this? I don't mind having a bit of that stuff." Yoongi grabbed your calf, lifting it just enough so that you could rest your heel on his shoulder.

You discreetly licked your lips as you felt your mouth suddenly go dry. Yoongi had no idea of the power he had over you, and that pleased you as much as it frightened you.

"It doesn't bother me, really, it's just a stupid challenge anyway". You nodded quickly, trying to let the gesture imply that you didn't really have a problem with the situation, because you really didn't.

"Good" you smiled as you watched his shoulders relax. He gently caressed your calf, bringing his mouth close to your leg.

For a second you completely forgot that you were in the pool of Jiah, one of your best friends, surrounded by all your other friends, who were pretty focused on your interaction. Everyone was sick of the tension between the two of you, seriously hoping that in this game one of you would take the next step.

He moved down until his nose brushed against the inside of your thigh. You felt a shiver run down your spine, and had to bite the inside of your lip to keep from gasping when Yoongi placed his lips against your skin. You mentally crossed your fingers, hoping he hadn't noticed the sudden spasm you felt from the touch of his lips on your leg.

It felt good. You wouldn't tell him.

"I thought you would never finish," laughed Jiwon, taking a sip of his beer, she shared a knowing look with Soyeon, but both you and Yoongi were too distracted to notice, "It's my turn to ask someone to do the next challenge, right?

Jungkook, her boyfriend, nodded fervently, grinning from ear to ear. He seriously thought the next challenge would be for him, and would involve something like what you and Yoongi just did.

Poor fool.

"Yoongi, stay there," her smile grew even bigger as Yoongi turned to see her with a slight frown, "I need you right there for my challenge," she muttered, drinking what little was left of her can and passing it to Jungkook. He was quick to take it and exchange it for a completely full one. She didn't finish speaking until Jungkook opened the new can for her. "Kiss his happy trail," she murmured, taking two straws and slipping them into the beer can.

"You want me to do what?" you looked at Jiwon, choking on your saliva. She definitely hadn't just asked you to do that.

"You heard me perfect, don't play dumb, I know you're not" she laughed mockingly, or maliciously, you weren't sure, both seemed like perfect words to you to describe the horrible way she had just teased you.

You looked at Yoongi, noticing how he also seemed surprised, and quite embarrassed, by the challenge Jiwon had given you.

"You know, it's kind of like an eye for an eye, it's pretty much the same thing he did for you, I don't see what's so hard about it." She extended her beer to Jungkook's side, waiting for him to take some from one of the straws she'd put out earlier. You hated how quiet she looked, so comfortable with her bunny-faced boyfriend. You'd get your revenge for this.

"Fine," you grunted, glaring at Yoongi. You crawled on your knees until you were face to face with his abdomen. You regretted it almost immediately as you felt the stones scrape your knees. This was all Soyeon and Jiwon's fault. They were terrible friends. Awful.

"Uhm, Noona, I..." muttered Yoongi, stumbling over the words.

You looked up, seeing his face. It was red, too red, from his cheeks to his neck and ears, his lower lip trembling slowly, as if he was trying to say something and his nerves wouldn't let him speak. There were no words to describe how cute you thought this boy was.

"I'll make it quick, don't worry" you tried to smile at him, not wanting him to notice how nervous you were too. When was the last time you did this with a man? You didn't really remember. You tried to push the thought out of your head, pushing your hair aside.

Yoongi for his part had no idea what to do. You were on your knees in front of him, wearing a bathing suit that showed off your figure too well, and you had just arranged your hair as if you were about to give him a blowjob. He really wanted you to give him one right now.

His whole body trembled as he felt your fluffy lips kiss his lower abdomen. They felt so good, so soft, so wet. He couldn't help but wonder if you were wearing that strawberry lip gloss you always carried in your handbag. He always wanted to taste your lips with that lip gloss on. He'd want to taste them with or without.

He clenched his hands at his sides as he felt your mouth barely brush against the elastic of his swim trunks, he wanted so badly to grab your hair and shove his cock in your mouth. It was a shame that there were 12 other people here watching. If it wasn't for that, he would have done it without a second thought.

"Ready" you muttered, sitting back down on the floor. You took a big breath of air as discreetly as you could. You were starting to get hot. "Easy, isn't it?" you smiled at Yoongi.

He smiled back at you, sitting down next to you, just like you were before Soyeon started with the odd challenges. "Easier impossible.”

It had been two hours since Soyeon and Jiwon had done their challenges. Everyone was much drunker than they were then, and as the rounds progressed the challenges had become more and more intense. Jungkook and Soomin had to separate Jimin and Soyeon at some point in the night.

It was now two forty-five in the morning. The vinegar bottle was still full, and none of you had any intention of emptying even a drop. Perhaps that was why Yoongi did not hesitate to accept the challenge Jungkook had given him a few seconds ago.

"I'm only supposed to kiss one?" he muttered, looking at Jungkook with dilated pupils and slightly flushed cheeks. You thought he looked really cute drunk.

"Unless you want to kiss both of her breasts, yeah, just one," he laughed teasingly, resting his chin on Jiwon's shoulder. They had gotten that way after Namjoon dared Jungkook to do a "private" dance for her.

"Fine," he nodded. The alcohol had given him all the courage he'd lacked the previous times.

You looked at him with drunken eyes, probably looking the same or worse than him. He didn't seem to care, so who cares?

He bent down to your height and grabbed the sides of your waist. You gasped as you felt his cold fingers brush against you.

"You're cold," you muttered, frowning at him. Your features trembled a little as you saw a mischievous smirk on his lips.

"Sorry, I promise my lips aren't as cold... probably" he whispered against the skin of your breasts. You shivered slightly without being able to help it.

He followed the challenge just as Jungkook had said, he only kissed one, but you didn't expect him to kiss it in such a lascivious way. You even gasped as you felt his warm tongue brush against the cold skin of your breasts. You felt so embarrassed as you remembered that your friends were watching this.

"Ready" he murmured, watching as the skin he had kissed glowed in the moonlight. He felt so proud of himself.

"My turn," exclaimed Taehyung excitedly. You turned to look at him, grimacing as you saw how his gaze was fixed on you. You hated everyone in this room, everyone was participating in a conspiracy against you. "Y/N."

"Taehyung" you raised your eyebrows, staring at him. You were sure it wouldn't be that bad, it shouldn't be.

"I want you to touch Yoongi's dick," he gave you that shit-eating grin he only gave when he knew what he was asking you to do was a load of shit.

You had to take a second to process what he just said.

"You want me to touch his cock?" you furrowed your brow in confusion, why was he asking you that?

He nodded with a big smile, "Under the bathing suit, if you do it on top you must drink half a shot."

"You're shit, you and everyone else," you pointed at them all, snorting, "except Soomin, Yoori and Hobi, you are too good for this world, and this group."

"Wait, are you really going to do it?" Suddenly all the drunkenness went out of Yoongi. You were going to touch his member right at this moment, you had never done it before, not even in his wildest dreams (he never got to the foreplay part, his brain always skipped that part).

"I don't plan to drink vinegar, Yoongi" you looked at his crotch and then his face, "Or do you want me not to?".

"No, it’s okay, that must taste awful" he mumbled quickly, watching every move you made.

A lump formed in his throat as he watched your hand move closer to his lap.

"Okay" you moved a little closer, trying to get your hand past the waistband of the swimsuit. It was not lost on you how his abdomen tensed at the feel of your fingers.

Your hands were also terribly cold. He seriously tried not to let you notice how good it felt to feel your fingertips run delicately over his pelvis.

You tried not to look at his face as you lowered your hand. You felt too nervous to do this. You wanted to look on the bright side of the situation, maybe this would help you get along much better in the future.

"Where-?" you interrupted yourself with a gasp, turning to look at Yoongi with your mouth open.

He too turned to look at you, just as red and surprised as you were.

"What? what happened?" Soomin, whose eyes Taehyung had covered so she couldn't see anything, spoke in confusion.

You wanted to answer her, you really did, but how the fuck were you telling her that you had just touched the biggest dick of your life? And that wasn't even erect, what did Yoongi eat to have a member like that?

"N-nothing" you mumbled, pulling your hand out carefully. Now you would never look at Yoongi the same way again. You definitely wouldn't think of him the same way. Neither of him nor of his member. "I'm going to go lie down, I'm a little tired" you excused yourself, getting up and walking as quietly as you could inside the house. You knew that if you were still there you would be given stronger challenges than you had already been given.

You walked to the guest room, one of the many in Jiah's house. You always stayed in the same one, you even had a change of clothes in the closet. You were very grateful for that right now.

As soon as you opened the door the sound of footsteps behind you made you stop. You turned to see who it was. You were a little surprised to see Yoongi standing a few steps further than you.

"Noona" he mumbled, hesitating a bit on whether to move closer to you or not.

"Yes?" you cocked your head slightly, waiting for him to say whatever it was he wanted to say.

"Do you think we could talk? It'll be short, I promise."

"Sure" you smiled at him, hoping it really would be something short. You needed to tend to yourself soon. Your crotch was starting to ache.

He nodded his head by way of thanks, moving the remaining steps to stand next to you. It didn't take him long to enter the room you were going to stay in.

You closed the door once you were inside, you hated having the doors open. You stood watching him from there, you were quite confused, but you knew Yoongi wasn't one to ask to talk to someone for anything, so you waited patiently.

"I wanted to talk about what happened downstairs" he mumbled, sitting down on the edge of the bed you would be sleeping on today.

"Did you feel very uncomfortable?" you grimaced, scratching your neck nervously, "I'm seriously sorry, I wasn't-".

"I want to continue," he interrupted you mid-sentence, glaring at you. You had to lean against the door to keep from falling.

"Continue?" you whispered, watching as he gave you that mean smile again that he had put on a few minutes ago. He stood up again, moving close enough for you to feel his breath collide with yours.

"Don't you want the same?" he moved to your shoulder, kissing the bare skin.

You closed your eyes instinctively, letting out a barely audible sigh. You brought your hands to his waist, grabbing his black shirt with white sheets. You crinkled the fabric between your fingers as the kisses on your neck began to get messier. It felt so good.

"You smell so good" he whispered next to your ear, his hands snaking around your waist until they reached the bottom of your bathing suit. He didn't hesitate to fiddle with them, making as if to reach under the fabric with his hands.

You growled under your breath. "I don't like being played with, Yoongi."

He chuckled softly in response, lowering his hands until he reached your thighs. You squealed as you felt him lift you off the floor and carry you in his arms to the bed.

"Good, then there will be no games," he said as he pulled his shirt off over his head.

You dropped your gaze almost instantly. You loved Yoongi's body so much. He wasn't thin to an extreme level, nor was he overly muscular. He had just enough and just enough, and that was what you found most attractive about him. That and his skin.

You always thought his skin was perfect for marking or biting. It was so white and sensitive, so inviting.

"Red looks so good on you" he murmured, taking your leg and lifting it. As soon as he was the right distance away he kissed your calf. His other hand took over caressing your other leg.

His kisses went up until they reached your inner thigh. Right at the point where it all started. Yoongi licked his lips, looking at your swimsuit. "May I?"

You nodded quickly, biting your inner lip as you watched him start to pull down the bottom of your swimsuit. You couldn't help but moan softly as you felt the cool air hit your core.

Yoongi paused for a moment, taking his time to observe your femininity. He was quite surprised by the fact that he wasn't doing anything yet and you were already wet. He ran his fingers around your entrance, gathering your juices and spreading them around your entrance.

You curved your back a little, closing your eyes tightly as you bit your tongue. You weren't the only ones in the house, you couldn't make a sound.

You listened as he let out a mocking laugh. "Noona, are your moans usually loud? why are you covering your mouth? Most must know we're fucking in the guest room anyway, don't you think?" he moved his face closer to your entrance, smiling as he watched your pussy clench around nothing.

"Shut the fuck up and do something" you growled, grabbing hold of the first thing you could find. Well, actually you just used that as an excuse, you really wanted to grab onto his hair.

Yoongi shrugged his shoulders and listened to you. He stuck his face between your legs and, just as you asked him to, he put the horseplay aside and started fucking your pussy with his tongue.

The scream you gave had probably alerted everyone in the house to what was going on between the two of you.

You covered your mouth as fast as you could, pulling with all your might on Yoongi's hair. You'd heard he knew how to use his tongue well, but you didn't think he'd be so good at this. The son of a bitch deserved a prize in honor of this.

Yoongi's tongue touched the exact spots that made your whole body tense and tremble at the same time. It was so overwhelming and addictive at the same time. You tried to lift your hips to feel him closer, but his hands held you in place with just enough strength not to cause you harm.

"Yoongi" you gasped, closing your eyes tightly, "you’re so good at this."

He only answered you with a grunt that caused your whole body to stir in place. He liked being complimented by you much more than he thought he would, the fact that his cock got even harder just hearing you say how well he was doing it gave him an idea.

"Faster" you moaned, tugging on his hair. This was so much better than any one-night stand you'd had in the past.

You frowned as you felt his tongue flick out of your pussy. You thought you were going well, you were enjoying it, he seemed to have been enjoying it, or at least you felt that way with the way he had just eaten you.

"Why did you stop?" you murmured, watching him stand up straight as he wiped his chin covered by your games with his wrist.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't find it sexy.

"Spread your legs."

You nodded, still confused, but ready to accept whatever he was going to give you. Except you weren't as ready as you thought you were.

He took off his bathing suit, leaving it somewhere in the bedroom.

It was inevitable not to see it, I mean, how could you not see that thing?

Yoongi laughed as he noticed that your eyes were fixed on his member. "Scared?" he said teasingly, kissing your collarbone.

"Oh, yeah?" you replied with obviousness, looking at him with raised eyebrows, "I really don't give a shit about boosting your ego, but man, that thing seems to have a life of its own, I'm surprised you're surprised I'm scared of it."

"I'm trying to be serious here" he laughed softly, lining up his member at your entrance.

"Yeah, I'm serious too, you know? Besides- Oh my god" you moaned, slapping Yoongi's back.

He thrust his member all at once inside you, did it hurt? A little, did you like it? Absolutely. You were more than sure that never, with any other man, had you ever felt so full. You could get used to this feeling.

Yoongi took both your legs, putting them around his waist. "I'm going to start moving, okay?".

You nodded barely, taking a deep breath. You wanted to keep all your concentration on not moaning as if your life depended on it.

Yoongi, on the other hand, wanted to make you scream loud enough to let the whole neighborhood know you were fucking. Or at least that's what you thought he thought when he started ramming you roughly.

"Y-yoongi, wait" you gasped, clinging to his back. You'd probably leave some nasty scratches. "I-if you do it this hard I won't be able to..." you bit your tongue as you felt his tongue start to play with your nipples. He seriously wasn't going for teasing.

"Stop holding back" he murmured, pulling on your left nipple hard as his tongue and teeth tended to your right nipple. You hadn't even noticed that he had removed the top of your bathing suit. "I want to hear you moan my name, why don't you? Everyone here wanted us to end up like this anyway, I don't see what the problem is in letting them know I'm fucking you."

When he noticed that you were willing to keep quiet to maintain your dignity in front of your friends, Yoongi didn't hesitate to make his onslaught faster and harder, enough to make the bed move and the backrest hit the wall.

Whether you groaned or not, one of them would notice what was happening just by the sound of the bed.

You were going to kill Yoongi after this.

You let your head fall on the sheets of the guest bed. You hesitated a bit at first, but decided to listen to Yoongi, he was right anyway, it was your friends who wanted this to happen, now they couldn't complain.

As soon as you stopped holding your moans, Yoongi started to get even more out of control, as if that were possible. He grabbed your waist with one hand while with the other he continued to amuse himself with your breast, smiling as he noticed that they were big enough to not fit in his hands.

You whimpered as he bit your nipple and pulled hard on it. You couldn't help but squirm under him.

"Yoongi" you moaned in his ear, clinging to his back as if your life depended on it.

"Yes?" he murmured against your chest, starting to suck on it and leave little kisses around your nipples.

"I... it's... I don't know if I can..." you growled under your breath as you realized you couldn't finish the sentence even if you wanted to. Every time you finished a word, Yoongi gave you an even harder thrust than the last.

He smiled, lifting his face to come face to face with you. "Are you close?" he whispered against your lips, lowering the hand he had on your waist to your femininity. It was only enough for him to touch your clitoris for your entire body to tremble and melt at his touch. "Don't worry, I got you."

You sighed, looking up at Yoongi. He was enchanted by the sight. He'd dreamed of this a lot before, but to have you under him with your breasts bouncing and glistening from sucking them earlier, to see you with that look that screamed out in leagues that you were having the best fuck ever, your pussy clenching his cock every time he tugged or sucked on your nipples. This definitely far surpassed your imagination.

"I'm going to-" you moaned loudly, closing your eyes tightly. Yoongi had rammed against your G-spot too hard, and you seriously regretted that. He wasn't going to let it go, you noticed as you saw his teasing gaze fix on yours.

Just as you thought, Yoongi kept hitting your sensitive spot, increasing the speed of his thumb on your clitoris. At this point you weren't even straining to close your mouth anymore, you were hesitant to even be able to do so. You felt Yoongi's cock start to twist inside you and smiled to yourself. You were glad you weren't the only one reaching her limit.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful" he growled in your ear, quickening the pace of his onslaught as his gasps and hoarse moans grew louder. "I waited so long to be able to fuck you, I dreamed of this so many times."

Yoongi gave a low moan as he felt you squeeze his cock too hard, "I-if you do that I won't be able to take much more" he murmured, brushing the sweaty hair off his forehead and looking up at you.

You laughed between gasps, hugging his neck, "It's okay, I got you" you smiled at him, repeating the same words he had given you earlier.

It only took those words and the sight of your smiling face to make Yoongi come inside you hard, pressing his hips with yours until absolutely all of his cum came out of his member.

You came soon after, moaning softly as you felt yourself finally reaching your long awaited release.

You both stayed in each other's arms for a few minutes, waiting to come down from your euphoria.

"I think we're going to have to change the sheets" you laughed softly, stroking Yoongi's lower back.

He nodded in agreement, leaving a soft kiss on your collarbone. "I'll go get a towel to clean you up, wait here," he said softly, pressing a kiss to your lips. It was sweet and slow, and you liked it so much you came within an inch of begging him to stay and forget the stupid towel. You weren't able to.

Yoongi came out of you gently. You both groaned before the sensation. You were starting to miss the way his cock felt inside you. He grabbed his bathing suit and carefully put it on, leaving the room but not before you checked the hallway. He didn't want to open the door and have someone see you in that state.

He went downstairs and walked to the closet where he knew Jiah kept a couple of towels and sheets. He took the opportunity to pull out some clean ones.

"Yoongi, you're here" Soomin approached him. She was bringing two glasses of strawberry juice. He was still touched to see how she totally refused to drink alcohol at parties just so she could bring Taehyung home safe and sound. "I thought you wouldn't leave the room after all the fuss you made."

Yoongi felt his whole face light up beyond belief. He totally regretted asking you moaning out loud.

"Here," she extended one of the glasses in his direction. Still a little confused, he took the glass with his free hand, "She must have a bit of a dry throat, ask her to drink some," Soomin smiled kindly at him, taking her purse and pulling a pill out of it, "I don't think you want to have children at the beginning of your relationship."

He felt a tightness in his chest as he thought about what Soomin said. The beginning of a relationship... It sounded amazing to him.

"Thanks, I owe you one" he smiled back at her, hurrying up the stairs to come back to you. He smiled internally at the thought that this would be the first of many nights together.

Materlist.

80 notes · View notes