#speaker: tommy

[mogai945]

on familial attraction

a few days ago in the liomogai archivists server, @radiomogai posted questions it wanted to elaborate on regarding familial attraction and afamspec. this post is essentially my personal responses and thoughts on the matter, as well as some extra thoughts sparked by what radio (cecil, specifically) said in response to me sending the document in the server. you can thank it as well for me posting this, since it encouraged me to do so :-) (smiley face with nose)

a few notes before we begin:

i went digging for previous discussions on the topic before forming my own thoughts on it; as you can expect, some of the posts i found were by deleted/deactivated blogs, or by users who didn't have their pronouns readily available on their blog. when this happened, i used they/them for those users; if you know their pronouns or if you are anyone who is mentioned in this post, please let me know your pronouns and i will update them!!

Family of origin - a less clunky manner of saying “non-chosen family”; family that raised you, be it blood, adoptive, foster, step, or what have you

Chosen family is used synonymously with found family here; I personally prefer chosen family because I made a choice to include them in my family, but this will vary from person to person and I feel it’s largely just different terms for the same experience

What counts as conformant with familial attraction?

[PT: What counts as conformant with familial attraction? /end PT]

That is honestly a fantastic question, and one that I honestly feel could spark a whole debate not even just within the MOGAI community, but within society as a whole. I’ve decided to do my research to see what people have said before, and then form my opinion on the matter, or adhere to someone’s definition if I feel it fits my thoughts on the matter.

From system-mogai’s post on various types of attraction [link]

[PT: From system-mogai’s post on various types of attraction [link] /end PT]

Originally posted on the 27th of November, 2018, or at least last updated then; reblogged to radiomogai on the 24th of October, 2020.

Familial/Fellowship = green + yellow

[PT: Familial/Fellowship = green + yellow. /end PT]

The first mention of familial attraction on the post is the list of colours commonly used to represent various types of attraction, I assume in flags and such. Not particularly useful, but interesting nonetheless; I’m unsure if this has stayed true throughout the years, but I wanted to mention it regardless.

Familial/Fellowship = experiencing familial attraction or desiring a familial bond (being physically close, living together, valuing the relationship more than others, emotional reliance, valuing their existence more than others, possible desire for a guide-like or guardian/grace attachment, friendship, valuing their opinion more than others)

A definition is the next mention, and I have… thoughts on it. While, broadly, I do agree with a majority of these factors, I take fairly major issue with a few of them too. This opinion is absolutely influenced by the fact that I’m, at least to some extent, a relationship anarchist, but I disagree with the idea that one has to value the relation, someone’s existence, or someone’s opinion more than others for the relationship to be familial. Different alters within our system will have different opinions on our parents, but I (Tommy) do consider the body’s parents my parents, even if not my parents in an emotional sense. With that said, I definitely do not value my relationship with them more than others, arguably most, nor do I value their existence or opinion inherently more than others’ existences or opinions. Admittedly, we have a rough relationship with the body’s parents, especially the body’s father, so we might be biased against them, but I feel my point stands nonetheless: I disagree with the idea that you have to inherently value a relationship more for it to be familial.

Familial/Fellowship: second sibling, second (parent term), any typically family-oriented term

This is what system-mogai offers as titles for those one feels familial attraction towards. I highly dislike “second [family-oriented term]” to be quite honest, it gives me the impression that chosen family is less than family of origin, and I just plain and simple disagree with that. When I feel familial attraction towards someone that isn’t biological family, I just call them the appropriate term/title, no “second” before it, but I admit that that might be personal preference. If I need to clarify, I say they’re my “chosen family [term]”, but most of the time I don’t.

So, this post did provide a definition, though not one I am super thrilled with. However, I am, again, a relationship anarchist, so the issues I take with the definition offered might just be the issues of someone who does not experience familial attraction in a conformant manner.

From watercolormogai’s post for a flag for familial attraction [link]

[PT: From watercolormogai’s post for a flag for familial attraction [link] /end PT]

Originally posted on the 25th of August, 2022; reblogged to radiomogai on the 8th of September, 2022.

familial attraction is attraction towards people that you see as family/who are your family/who you want to be your family, or the desire to be in a familial relationship with someone. while it is most common, you don't necessarily have to be legally/blood related to someone to feel that attraction towards them, and you don't have to feel that attraction towards people you are legally/blood related to. feeling less than the normal amount of familial attraction (or not feeling it "correctly", like if you don't feel familial attraction towards people you are related to but feeling familial attraction towards people you aren't related to) would be afam-spec

Okay, first things first, major shout out to watercolormogai for thinking of afamspec folks right out the bat when posting this flag and offering their definition. I imagine this isn’t something most coiners do right away, considering how much erasure I’ve seen of aspec folks in general.

That being said, I find that this definition is a fair bit vague in terms of what familial attraction actually is, but not to such an extent that it is noticeably more vague than other definitions of attraction types. One thing I appreciate is that it specifies that while it is more common to experience that towards folks you are legally/blood related to, it is not required. at the same time, later on in the same post they offer that same situation as an example of what afamspec may look like, while I would posit that it would be more akin to non-conformant familial attraction, but still familial attraction nonetheless.

From entropy-sea-system’s post for a definition & more in-depth discussion [link]

[PT: From entropy-sea-system’s post for a definition & more in-depth discussion [link] /end PT]

OP deactivated so I don’t know when this was originally posted; reblogged to radiomogai on the 31st of December, 2022

experiencing little to no familial attraction (Attraction related to closeness or connection that is familial in nature). May or may not include familial attraction to found family and/or given(natal/guardianship/adoptive/foster/etc.) family, depends on whether one wants to count either/both in their familial attraction. Some, whether afamilial, afamilialspec, allofamilial, or unlabelled, may experience familial repulsion or ambivalence. Can occur alongside negative experiences with familial bonds for some, but may not necessarily.

I bring this post up mostly because I feel like discussion of familial repulsion or ambivalence is rare, if at all held. While it offers little in the form of defining familial attraction beyond wanting closeness/connection that is familial in nature, the mention of familial repulsion and ambivalence is important for defining what non-conformance looks like; society does expect one to be comfortable with familial relationships/attraction, so ambivalence and repulsion are non conformant. For that alone, I wanted to mention it.

My thoughts and a conclusion to this response

[PT: My thoughts and a conclusion to this response /end PT]

I feel like what is typically considered conformant will vary depending on what spaces one dwells in. As such, I will offer a range of answers, ranging from more conservative ideas of what family is to a more progressive definition.

More conservative spaces will likely only consider family to be blood family. There will be an expectation that little to no people that aren’t blood related to you are considered family (this factor may differ across cultures). The dynamics expected between members of the family are naturally different depending on what kind of relation there is, but I’d say some degree of “respect your elders” motto would be held as important.

As you move into more progressive environments, all of these ideals, and likely others that I couldn’t think of, would become more lax. Non-biological families might become more “acceptable,” for want of a better word; I know I was brought up in quite a progressive environment, and I can think of a bunch of family friends that I called aunt and uncle and that I didn’t know I wasn’t blood related to until I was older. Having a strained relationship with your family of origin might become more acceptable, though, in my experience, even relatively progressive spaces tend to respond to that with some degree of pity, which annoys me, but that may be a personal thing.

That being said, and this might be a bit of a tangent, I still think that found/chosen family is rarely ever respected as family in its own right, especially when it comes to found/chosen familial relationships growing unhealthy. I know that I certainly felt, and still feel, a lot of guilt regarding cutting off someone I considered, and still consider, family, even though, by their own admission when we got back in touch, they were not acting as one should towards someone else. There’s a feeling that, just because you made a choice to include that person in your family, you can’t make a different choice later. I suspect this is likely to be because those that are drawn to the concept of chosen family, in my experience, are likely to have strained relationships with their family of origin, thus making that sort of action feel like quite a deep betrayal. But, again, tangent- chosen family on its own could be argued to be non-conformant, let alone cutting a chosen family member off.

In conclusion, what is considered conformant and non-conformant when it comes to familial attraction will vary wildly depending on how conservative or progressive the space you’re in is. In both cases, however, I’d argue chosen family is still considered fairly non-conformant, and even within spaces where chosen family is broadly accepted, I’d say that treating it as a relationship that one can leave is not widespread practice, which, in my opinion, is likely due to the fact that trauma and strained relations with one’s family of origin are common in such spaces.

Is it afamspec to experience familial attraction to only some of one’s family members?

[PT: Is it afamspec to experience familial attraction to only some of one’s family members? /end PT]

While others may disagree with me, I would say that it’s not inherently afamspec, but it can be. It depends on whether we’re speaking of family of origin vs chosen family.

When it comes to family of origin, I honestly don’t think it is. One cannot choose one’s family of origin, which means that sometimes there’ll be members within it that one is not familially attracted to. I don’t think that’s afamspec, I think that’s more so non-conformant familial attraction/expression.

When it comes to chosen family, however, I feel like it can be afamspec. I say can, and not is, because I don’t want to push labels onto anyone, and if someone experiences familial attraction to only some members of their chosen family, but doesn’t want to identify as afamspec, that is entirely within their rights and none of my business. With that disclaimer out of the way, I would personally consider it such, as, when one chooses one’s family, it’s also possible to choose to no longer include a given person in their chosen family. Of course, there exist cupiofamilial folks, which means that that doesn’t mean that the relationship inherently has to stop being familial, but that still falls under afamspec in my opinion.

Is it afamspec to experience familial attraction based on gender, given that the expectation is that it’s based on kinship ties and not gender?

[PT: Is it afamspec to experience familial attraction based on gender, given that the expectation is that it’s based on kinship ties and not gender? /end PT]

This one is another “it’s afamspec if the person experiencing the attraction wants to consider it such” case in my opinion. I wouldn’t consider it so, I would consider it akin to being biplatonic or homoplatonic, for example, where one has a preference, but one still experiences attraction, but, again, individual people may disagree with me and want to use the label to describe that experience, which is entirely within their rights and none of my business.

Is it afamspec to experience familial attraction only to those one is not biologically related to? If so, how does adopted and foster and step family play into this?

[PT: Is it afamspec to experience familial attraction only to those one is not biologically related to? If so, how does adopted and foster and step family play into this? /end PT]

I think this is, yet again, a “varies depending on the individual” thing. I think you could absolutely make a microlabel out of this, and some people would definitely identify with it, but I’m not one of them, and I’m not adopted nor fostered, and I do consider my step grandparents (the only step family I have had close relationships with) just grandparents, so I’m not sure I can really weigh in here unfortunately.

An addendum from discussion within the server

[PT: Some addedums from discussion within the server /end PT]

These are less structured thoughts, but, while discussing my responses and the topic in general, Cecil brought up the fact that one can feel familial attraction but not any particular kind of relationship fit it. While it hadn't occurred to me, I do agree that one does not inherently have to apply a specific label to one's chosen family relationship (parent and child, siblings, etc) for it to be familial; they can just be family.

I think that's it!! Sorry for the long post everyone, but i hope you do enjoy my thoughts, and I hope this sparks conversation within the community!! :-) (smiley face with nose)

[flavored-soda]

idk if anyone else really listens to metal or punk or alternative music in the fandom, but thats like the only music i listen to.

but i keep thinking about tommy being a goth or a punk when he was younger.

and because i’m me and filth is always on the mind: i keep thinking of fucking buck to like a motionless in white song. or working out to metal and buck just being like “yea please fuck me to this right now.”

[py6oto]

fish and chips

why are they called chips. theyre FRIES

slight volume warning... i think.?? it's not particularly loud audio, i don't think, there's just a lot of yelling. should i tag that? ill tag that. better safe.

this audio reminds me a lot of myself. fun pyto fact: when i was younger, i was eating eggs for breakfast as one does, and i like my eggs Salted. so i added salt, clearly.

it wasnt salt. it was sugar. i didnt figure it out, because, why would a bowl of sugar randomly be in the table? if there's anything in that bowl, it had to be salt. so i continously added sugar to my eggs and got confused when it only tasted sweeter.

i dont remember if i ended up eating them or making new ones.. . i think i did eat them, though

2023.08.13

[copias-juicebox]

me doing housework

[m3r1m4r5u333]

So my take on why Tommy calls Buck Evan...

I think it's because it bothers Tommy, that he's older than Buck. Because as much as he claims to find Buck "adorable"... That word is kinda telling, I think. It's infantilising. Puppies and kids are adorable! Calling your date adorable? Uhh.. It kinda just sounds like you think they're immature, wet behind the ears, less capable than you are.

So... Yes, Tommy is older than Buck.

Buck, the nickname? I think that to Tommy it just feels like a juvenile nickname. He prefers Evan because it sounds more mature, because Evan sounds like a grownass adult, a man. And Buck btw... is often used to describe a young animal. Older deers etc. are bulls, stags.

And yeah, Buck may not mind being called 'Evan' anymore. He has grown, maybe he now likes someone calling him Evan. Might be a nice change, someone acknowledging his maturity that way. As Eddie said to Buck after the lightning strike. Nobody is the same person from one day to the next. Buck doesn't need to be anything for anyone.

However... I do think the combination of 'Evan' with everything else that's going on, like Tommy calling him adorable... It does feel like trouble on the horizon.

Tommy... He's the guy who shows up to a 80's theme party wearing a henley.

And don't get me started on "he couldn't change, he was on call". C'mon, he was on car, nobody would rely on public transport when they're a firefighter on a call. He drank orange juice, he had a car parked nearby, he could have just taken a change of clothes with him to the party, and quickly changed his clothes if he was alerted to work.

Seriously, how many seconds does it take him to change a shirt, he has literally been trained to get dressed quickly, he's a firefighter!

So yeah he could have dressed according to the theme. He just didn't want to. He thought the theme costumes were above him. He thinks he's past that age, too old for costumes.

So that's why he calls Buck Evan.

Because he doesn't get silly fun, really. He thinks he's too old for nicknames, and theme costumes, and he thinks he's Buck's elder.

Because he hasn't been there to realize how much Buck has gone through, how much he has matured from where he started. He hasn't seen Buck help Eddie raise Chris, he hasn't seen the way Buck is always there for people to pick up the pieces and fix things when someone is in trouble. He hasn't seen Buck's responsible, mature side, has he?

Nope, he wasn't there to see Buck's growth, how wild he was when he first joined the team, how different he is from that Buck 1.0. So now he just sees the energetic, bubbly personality, the baby bi awkwardly stumbling out of the closet, like a Bambi on ice...

and thinks that Buck is adorable.

Like he's a child.

And.... I have a feeling that learning that Buck just trashed a hotel room suite with Eddie... will hardly make him rethink this impression!

[funeralcity]

damn i must be a genius

[i3utterflyeffect]

Sorry for my ignorance but im new to your blog.

What is a selkie? I have notice your call cursors like that, but i dont understand whats a selkie.

Sorry for bad english. Have a good day ^^

Selkie is a term i borrowed from a real legend! it's about humans who can become seals using seal skins. I use it for the Selkie AU because the legend inspired it and they still function similarly. it's just sticks and cursors instead of humans and seals with some slight tweaks to the legend!

[divinekangaroo]

Today’s debate: Arthur Shelby is a delicate precious flower who must be kept wrapped in Japanese silk in a bower lest his virginity be cruelly taken from him

Who will stand for the position of the affirmative? *John cautiously raises his hand*

Who will table the position for the negative? *a resounding silence interrupted only by Arthur making desperate muffled noises through the underwear gagging his mouth*

[filosofablogger]

100 Days Of Hell ... And More Mini-Snippets

Just a few of my thoughts today as I flip through the news … Republicans are so full of themselves.  Tommy Tuberville is not running for re-election in the senate, as he hopes to run for governor of Alabama.  Margie Greene is considering running for the senate.  Two of the stupidest Republicans in Congress seek to go higher 🙄 🙄🙄.   If the Republicans keep on licking the boots of the maniac in…

[mogai945]

my liomogai experience

[PT: my liomogai experience /end PT]

in the wake of how many posts we've seen lately in the mogai community about people speaking on their experiences with their labels, we thought we'd throw our hat in the ring and share our own experiences!! and, while a collective post will likely come at some point, that will also require a lot more time and in-system communication to coordinate as a collective, so in the meantime, i (tommy) figured i'd share my personal experiences with my identity!!

i'll try to keep this mildly organized by splitting this up into most of the sections that i have in my hoard!! as such, here's the table of contents (sadly with no hyperlinks to the respective sections, much though i wish that were possible on tumblr):

1) alderns 2) chronos 3) fictidomi 4) genders 5) hearthomes 6) hoarding terms 7) invianes 8) referral terms 9) systemhood: 9.1) roles 9.2) roleics 10) umbrella terms 11) xenonatures

lastly, a major shout out to @radiomogai's archive for being one of the most useful blogs in finding new terms!! tagging you also since i saw you want to be tagged in these discussion posts :-)

alderns

[PT: alderns /end PT]

original post: link terms i identify with: aldercustomize (link)

alderns are terms i am not very familiar with, but i do often wish i (or, primarily the body, since i can do this in innerworld) could shapeshift/change form. aldercustomize being the specific term i identify with stems, in no small part, from the fact that videogames are our main collective special interest, and specifically a special interest that we experience as foundational, aka a special interest that affects the very way in which we view the world and how we interact with it (which is its own rant; if there's interest in the various types of special interests we experience, i'd be happy to elaborate!).

because of this, shapeshifting taking the form of a character creation screen just... makes sense, in a way that other shapeshifting terms don't quite make sense!! it's also akin to making a picrew, if that makes more sense :-)

chronos

[PT: chronos /end PT]

original definition: link (couldn't find the original post itself; if anyone has it, please do send it to us!!) terms i identify with: littlebrotherchro (link)

like alderns, i'm not super familiar with this umbrella term, but this one is quite simple, and actually quite important to understanding a lot of other factors of my identity!! it stems primarily from my being younger in innerworld than the body is, as well as the fact that i ageslide fairly often.

this is one that i'm fairly sure i would have other labels for if i went looking specifically, but i have not yet!! thus, as it currently stands, littlebrotherchro specifically stems from the fact that i have a lot of relationships where i'm the younger brother, generally in my found family, and that's just- a role in a dynamic that i am very comfortable with, and feel is almost intrinsic to my self, in a way!!

fictidomi

[PT: fictidomi /end PT]

original post: link terms i identify with: pokédomus (link)

this one is quite simple, honestly: i want to live in the pokémon world!! if i were a bit more prone to self psychoanalysis, i'd guess it stems from it being one of my sources, as well as another collective foundational special interest :-)

genders

[PT: genders /end PT]

terms i identify with: too many to list them all rip

oh boy, okay!! so, as far as i'm able to remember, i've always had some amount of gender fuckery going on, but none of the, shall we say, "mainstream" labels ever fully fit comfortably. it's been... refreshing, to be able to say that there are a lot of genders that fit, and having multiple labels feels so much better than being constrained to just one!!

the majority of my genders are related to my interests!! this is due to the fact that my interests, especially the biggest ones like an assortment of videogames, art, music, dinosaurs, and bugs, to name a few, often feel inextricable from my self, so it follows that my gender is also highly affected by them :-)

hearthomes

[PT: hearthomes /end PT]

original post: link terms i identify with: pokémon hearthic

as i mentioned in the fictidomi section, pokémon is a collective foundational special interest for us. we've been playing the games since we were 9, and watching content relating to it since before that. at this point, it is, no exaggeration, impossible to separate my self from pokémon.

i interact with pokémon, be it through playing the games or hearing the osts or what have you, and i feel at home. this isn't where i'm from literally, i recognize that, but it is where i'm from on every other level. it's my biggest source of comfort and emotional regulation, and it's really important to me that people around me know this and know that... it's so insanely important for us. it's really hard to put into words, but i adore this franchise and its universe is my home.

hoarding terms

[PT: hoarding terms /end PT]

terms i identify with: gender inventory (link)

okay so, i don't think this is an official umbrella? but it is useful for me to be able to visualize how my genders are... placed, so to speak!! for example, my hoard is on a notion database, and i like to imagine it's a little gallery with various terms hung up on the wall!!

in a vacuum, however, it's a lot harder to come up with these imaginations, especially since i have very low visual phantasia. this is why hoarding terms are so welcome to me!! it's especially welcome in the case of gender inventory, since- well, i know how the minecraft inventory works!! personally, i experience creative gender inventory specifically :-)

invianes

[PT: invianes /end PT]

original post: couldn't find any :-( please let me know if you have it tho!! terms i identify with: invidreenk (link)

okay this one is very specific to this specific term: i just think it's so me for reals, you know what i mean? it's silly and not my most serious of terms, but i didn't want to just exclude it rip

referral terms

[PT: referral terms /end PT]

terms i identify with: transboy (link)

while i imagine this isn't the original post for this term, and i doubt there's an official coining post for this, it's important to bring up nonetheless!! this links back to what i spoke about in the chronosian section, where my age is very fucky due to plurality, and thus i feel more comfortable calling myself a trans boy!! transmasc is still comfy tho :-)

systemhood

[PT: systemhood /end PT]

roles

[PT: roles /end PT]

terms i identify with: autism symptom holder (link)

so, for this one i'll explain more so how i experience this role!! i'm prone to feeling the symptoms of autism more intensely or more often than others in my collective; this doesn't mean the others don't experience them either, but just that i feel them more and more often. additionally, i am noticeably worse at masking than the rest of us

roleics

[PT: roleics /end PT]

original post: link terms i identify with: cringeroleic (link); autismroleic (link)

i'll start by explaining my autismroleic experience, since it's, rather simple: i'm an autism symptom holder!

it does, however, link into my experience with being cringeroleic: i came back from dormancy about a year ago when we were working through a lot of internalized cringe culture and such. my role back then, and still to this day, though it's less of a priority, was to embrace being cringe, and work through our feelings on it that way. a lot of interests and behaviours that have gotten us labeled as cringe have stemmed from our autism, too, which is why i say the two are interlinked.

umbrella terms

[PT: umbrella terms /end PT]

terms i identify with: monachoric (link)

monachoric fits me to a t. it's similar to pokémon, actually, in the sense that being monachoric simply spreads across all my self, to the point where separating my self from monachoric is impossible!! i'm just a weirdo teenager with cringe interests (/pos, all of this is a good thing), there's no splitting my general sense of self from monachism

xenonatures

[PT: xenonatures /end PT]

original post: link terms i identify with: pokénatured (link)

and, finally, xenonatures!! shocking no one who has read this far (thank you in advance if you have!! i know this has been long), pokémon is embeded in my sense of self very deeply, naturally a xenonature themed after pokémon would go STRAIGHT onto my hoard

ending comments

[PT: ending comments /end PT]

thank you in advance if you read this far!! i didn't expect to have this much to say, frankly. i hope it was enjoyable to read, and i hope this can help other people describe their identities :-)

[leashybebes]

8x15 coda redux

after that, there's this. this is rough as hell, gang, and i don't know if i'll ever polish it up. i mostly wrote this on my phone in between pulling up weeds in the garden.

Evan cries on him for several minutes. His whole body shakes with it, and the sound of it tattoos itself indelibly on Tommy's eardrums, overwriting every other horror that's ever jolted him awake from a nightmare before. And then something happens that Tommy's only ever seen happen before in warzones and in the mirror, when he's had a white-knuckled grip on a hand basin, and an even tighter grip on the remnants of who he is as a person.

Evan pushes away from him, sits up, scrubs his hands over his face. His shoulders straighten, his back stiffens, his jaw tightens. He clears his throat and a different person looks at him out of Evan's eyes, made dull by the low light and the things that have happened. They've never knowingly worked a sanctioned scene together before, but he thinks this is what Evan must look like when he takes charge in the field.

In a croaky but remarkably steady voice he says, "I need you to go."

"Evan - " Tommy tries to protest and Evan holds out a hand.

"I need you to go check on Ravi and the others. Ravi first. Then Karen. If I'm not out in ten minutes, I need you to call Eddie."

"I - "

"Tommy." Evan's voice is flat, worryingly steady for a man who was so thoroughly falling apart a couple of breaths ago. "I'm telling you what I need from you. Do it, please."

Tommy does as he's told. 

He finds Ravi and Karen together, isn't sure what he says past Evan sent me. He borrows Karen's phone, his own having been confiscated somewhere along the way, and he counts down the minutes carefully while he keeps one eye on Ravi.

Once ten minutes have elapsed with no sign of Evan or Athena, he scrolls through Karen's contacts until he finds Eddie's number. He doesn't bother to calculate the time difference to El Paso. This isn't a 'wait until a civilized hour' kind of call, and he hates that he's the one making it. Not for himself, but for Eddie, for Evan. He doesn't think he's what either of them need right now.

There isn't enough time for it to be awkward between Eddie answering a call from Karen's number and hearing Tommy's voice.

"Fuck," Eddie says. "Who?"

"Bobby," Tommy tells him.

"Shit. How - how bad?"

"Eddie…"

"You're - you're kidding."

It's a reflex, Tommy knows that. Eddie doesn't think that poorly of him, whatever else he might think.

"I'm really sorry."

Eddie's voice is tinny when it comes next, like Tommy's abruptly been put on speaker. "I'm finding a flight. Everyone else?"

"Physically, yeah. They'll be fine. I think Karen's going to start laying out FBI agents if we don't get to a hospital soon."

"FB - Man, what the fuck happened?"

Tommy gives him as much of an overview as he can, then stops abruptly. There's activity at the main doors.

"Eddie, I gotta go. I'll get Evan to call you from the hospital."

"Okay. I'll be there late evening."

"I'll let them know."

Tommy sees - jesus christ - the body bag, Athena swept away in a huddle of uniformed figures and then catches sight of Evan. He's ramrod straight, phone in his hand, pointing at the screen as he goes toe to toe with someone Tommy's willing to bet has the authority to ruin all their lives. Well. Relatively speaking.

"One button, Major," he hears Evan say as he gets close enough. "You can throw me in whatever black hole you want after, but unless my people are released into medical care right now, one button is all it takes to send all this to the best, meanest investigative journalist on this coast."

"Firefighter - "

"Look at me," Evan says, quiet. "Look at my face and tell me I'm bluffing."

Under any other circumstances, it would be wildly attractive.

The Major turns, already radioing orders, and Evan's left alone for a second. The rigidity in every bone of Evan's body doesn't ease even a little, and Tommy walks up to him with the strange sense that Evan's not there, not in the ways that matter. Not that he's insubstantial, but in that he's too solid to be really real.

"What do you need me to do?" Tommy asks.

Evan, hands on his hips, looking over Tommy's shoulder, eyes moving like he's doing a headcount, so solid he might as well be carved of marble, says, "Come to the hospital."

Tommy goes to the hospital. 

Time passes in the strange expanding and contracting way it does after a loss. Tommy fetches coffees, hands out a vending machine's worth of snacks, keeps himself on the periphery. Once it's confirmed that Hen and Chimney are pulling through okay, once Evan is occupied with Athena's kids, he slips away to the bathroom, locks himself in a cubicle and sobs for five minutes. He can't believe - he can't believe - 

When he gets back to the waiting room, Evan's gaze zeroes in on him immediately, but it's a minute before he crosses the room to Tommy and looks at him intently.

"Where'd you go?" he asks, and for a second, the hardness in his voice makes Tommy think he's mad. But it's not that. It's concern. Concern for Tommy, right now, of all times.

"Bathroom," Tommy manages. "What do you - "

What do you need, what can I do, please please please just tell me how to help you.

Evan reaches out and squeezes his shoulder.

"It's okay," he says. "I know he meant a lot to you too. You should sit down."

"Evan."

"Sit down," Evan says again. "Drink some water. Eat some terrible vending machine snacks. I need to go check on Athena."

Tommy does as he's told.

It takes a long time, but finally, Evan's ready to leave the hospital. Not before he's sent Ravi off with Maddie's house keys to get stuff for Jee Yun and take it to the Lees' place, not before he's had a long phone conversation with Hen's mom, not before he's organized rides for everyone else in their rag-tag group who wound up at the hospital, not before he's worn himself to the bone. But eventually.

"I'll drive you home," Tommy says.

Evan nods, eyes on his phone screen. "Eddie's going to take an Uber from the airport. I can't get hold of Bobby's brother, but I'll keep trying while you drive."

"Okay," Tommy agrees. He doesn't know this guy. He doesn't know this version of Evan - he knew there was steel at the core of him, but he doesn't know this version where everything else has been stripped away.

When they get to Evan's house, he still hasn't managed to get Bobby's brother on the phone, but he's left a calm, even-toned message asking him to call. 

The house is almost unrecognizable from the last time Tommy was here - fully unpacked, fully Evan's in a way that feels startlingly strange. Evan unlocks the door and heads straight for the linen closet, starts putting covers on spare duvets and pillows. Tommy trails after him, helps him make up the bed in the spare room, feeling like he's on the other end of a string tied to the pin in a hand grenade.

"Evan," he says, when the room is done.

"I need to - " Evan starts.

"I think you need to sit down," Tommy interjects.

"No," Evan says, not mad or even loud, but unquestionable. "No, I don't need that."

Tommy feels like he's being turned inside out, like all the things Evan must be feeling are being transferred over to him for want of anywhere else to go.

"Evan," he says again, like it's the only word he knows.

"No. B-Bobby said they would need me. And they do. So I don't need to sit down. I need to - I need - "

"Did he say anything else?" Tommy asks.

It's a risk, but not a huge one, he thinks. In the unlikely event it's a no, Tommy gets an unexpected addition to the list of authority figures he wants to fistfight in an afterlife he doesn't think exists. 

Evan blinks at him for a moment, then looks away. 

"I'm going to do some batch cooking for Athena and the kids. You can help, or you can go to the store, or you can just go."

"Evan - "

"What, Tommy?" The snap in Evan's voice sounds like it hurts. "What do you want me to say? This isn't about me."

And that's just - that's just the wrongest thing Tommy's ever heard.

"Of course it's about you."

"No - " Evan says, pulling out his phone again and scrolling like a message from Bobby's brother will have appeared, despite the fact that he's cranked the ringtone up, and the house is a silent as - well.

"It's about you too. Evan, just stop. What else did Bobby say?"

He's prepared for that's none of your business, he's prepared to be shoved aside, he's prepared even for Evan to throw a punch, although that seems vanishingly unlikely. Whatever else Evan is right now, whatever emotions are running the show, he's Evan.

He's not prepared for the way Evan's face crumples, for the way the phone drops from fingers that seem to have gone nerveless. They were already close enough that when Evan pitches forward, it's directly into Tommy's waiting arms.

"He said - he said - he said he loved me," Evan says, and, well. Tommy feels like that probably went without saying for a lot of years, and he can't imagine how it must have felt to have it said right there, like that. Evan's not crying, but he is shaking, like everything is catching up to him all at once.

"He did," Tommy says. "Of course he did."

"No - Tommy - he said I'd be okay. But I'm not - I'm not - I'm not okay."

"Of course you're not."

"But they need me."

Tommy takes a breath, feels like he's inhaling broken glass. "They're not here. You can be not okay with me."

Evan shakes his head against Tommy's shoulder, tries to pull away. Tommy doesn't let him.

"E-Eddie'll be here soon."

"Yeah," Tommy says. "So let's be not okay until then."

Evan takes a shuddering breath in. Lets out a single sob that shakes his whole body. Weeps.

[rcmclachlan]

The Least Vulnerable Spot 8x16 spec fic

In which I ask the ultimate questions: under what circumstances would Tommy not attend the memorial procession for Bobby? Also, how silly can I make this?

+

Buck has never considered himself to be that guy, but when a man hands you the viral antidote he stole for you, kisses you on a rooftop backlit by the sunset while a couple of Sikorsky UH-60s hover threateningly, and whispers "Here's looking at you, kid" before ushering you through the rooftop door so you can save your family while a bunch of stone-faced Army guys advance, you tend to have an expectation or two. Like, that he'll pick up his fucking phone when you call. 

He's left so many voicemails and sent so many texts to Tommy's phone over the last four days that he's pretty sure Verizon has his account flagged, but he thinks Petrea, his account rep, would understand if he explained that his ex-but-maybe-not-ex-boyfriend flew in like a superhero and then ghosted him when Buck needed him the most. She might even dig up a Jilted Before Your Father Figure's Funeral discount for his troubles. 

It's been a week since they held the procession for Bobby, and not even Buck showing up at Tommy's house the night before and pounding on the door for an hour while shouting that he was yellow-bellied (partly true), a traitor to the 118 name (mostly true), and a lousy lay (bold-faced lie) could make the little coward show his face. 

So he's done. He is finished with Tommy Kinard and his massive amounts of baggage that would make even Briggs & Riley close up shop, and he's proving it by leaving one final voicemail that isn't influenced by his sadness over Bobby's death, the stress of the last couple of weeks, or by how much Tommy's abandonment has hurt him. He's going to be a rational adult about this. He's going to be the bigger person.

".... This is all to say that I hope you have an amazing life, Tommy," he says into his phone speaker. "I hope it's filled with love and support, and it's meaningful and fulfills your soul. And I hope you fall in love with a beautiful, kind man who treats you right, and I hope you get married and stay together for fifty blissful years, and then I hope you wake up from the coma to realize it was all a dream and you're all alone, because apparently that's what you really want! And I know you were quoting a movie on the rooftop, and you know what? I'm not going to even look up which movie it was! Look at me, kid, or whatever it was you said!"

Buck misses the days when he could snap his phone shut to hang up, because stabbing end call twenty times until his finger actually taps the button just doesn't give him the same kind of satisfaction. 

Panting for a moment, he pushes all his anger and pain into a little lockbox in the back of his mind, shuts the lid, and takes a breath. Then he pockets his phone and looks up to find everyone in the station frozen, staring at him like he just performed a magic trick or saw a bug on the wall and didn't identify it out loud.

"What?!" he snaps at all of their slack-jawed faces. "Never seen a rational adult before?"

Out of nowhere, a hand lands on his shoulder like a jump scare, and he startles back so hard he almost throws an elbow into Acting Captain Henrietta Wilson's wrinkled nose.

"Hey, Buckaroo," Hen coos. The expression on her face would be more at home on someone who's been tasked with single handedly cleaning up a nuclear meltdown. "Maybe we should put our phones in our lockers so we're not distracted by our very confusing situationships. At least until lunch time when I can escape to Rosetti's to get a break from it."

Buck doesn't whine and he definitely doesn't stamp his feet. "Yeah, but what if he calls?" 

"You know, he probably would just to tell you the quote is actually Here's looking at you, kid," Hen admits. 

"I don't get it. Who's looking at me?" Buck mutters, giving his phone the stink eye before looking up. "What are you doing out here? I thought you were doing paperwork."

Hen shrugs with her entire face. "Well, I was, but when you started wailing I thought another raccoon got caught in the vent fan again, so."

For someone who got the job under the worst set of circumstances imaginable, she looks completely at home in the role, the way she always does. Buck's trying like hell to be happy for her, and he is, deep deep deep down, but he'll be the first to admit he hasn't been handling it well. Yesterday she'd brought in a tiny potted succulent and put it in the upper left corner of what was now her desk where a framed photo of Athena, May, and Harry once sat, and Buck accidentally knocked it onto the floor. And accidentally stepped on it. Twice. Accidentally.

She'd stared at him until he started to sweat, then said flatly, "You're buying me two more."

"Yep," he'd agreed. There's now a bigger succulent on the desk and a bushy lemon lime maranta on the windowsill. 

Whatever she sees on his face makes her roll her eyes, but she puts her hand on his shoulder again and says, "Okay. You get thirty seconds. Lay it on me."

Buck blinks. "Really?"

"Twenty-nine now," Hen says.

Damn, that's generous. Eddie only gave him ten before he tapped out. 

Squaring his shoulders, Buck lets it all come tumbling out: "I thought this meant something! He threw in with us again and kissed me on the roof and said whatever he said and it was supposed to mean something! You don't just bail after that! He was supposed to be here! He was supposed to support me at the funeral! He was supposed to be there for me at the procession and then fuck the sadness out of me afterward! I had a plug in and everything!"

"Time's up," Hen breaks in, a look of abject horror on her face. 

Buck throws his hands up. "That had to only be twenty seconds at most."

Hen's eyes dart down to his hips, then back up to his face. Her glasses magnify them, so they look bigger and wider than usual. She looks like one of those Precious Moments figurines his mom used to collect. "You had a—Buck, that procession went for a full mile."

"Believe me," Buck grumbles, shifting to try and escape the chafed ache that refuses to go away. "I'm well aware. Serves me right for going with the biggest one I own, but, like, I thought Tommy was gonna—"

"Aaaand we're done." Hen executes a perfect about-face and marches in the direction of the admin offices. 

Buck calls after her, "Bobby would've heard me out!"

"Bobby would've jammed pencils in his ears!" Hen shouts over her shoulder. "Which is exactly what I'm about to do!"

This is exactly what he means when he tells Dr. Copeland that no one ever listens to him. 

He's about to go see if he can corner Chimney somewhere with limited escape routes when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. His heart gets caught up in a dizzying storm of excitement, dread, and grim satisfaction, because he knew Tommy wouldn't be able to deal with the idea of Buck not looking the quote up.

But when he takes his phone out of his pocket, the incoming call isn't from Jaw of Gibraltar ❤️, but Lucy Donato.

Sighing, he takes the call. "Uh, h-hey Lucy—"

She cuts him off immediately with a curt, "Look, don't think I'm not grateful or anything. We all are. Not being forced to listen to sad James Ingram songs day in and day out has been wonderful, but it's been two weeks already and we need our lead pilot back."

"I—what? Lucy, I hate to tell you, but—"

"Tell me precisely zero details about how dick drunk you are, Buckley," Lucy says flatly. "Just tell me when you're letting him go. Cap's getting antsy and Baxter's been on call for so long that his wife is ready to kill him and turn his body into mulch."

Buck stares at Engine 2 until it blurs. "You... are talking about Tommy, right?"

"No, I'm talking about the other dipshit I work with who committed domestic terrorism because your asshole is a Disneyland attraction." Buck makes a face but doesn't correct her. Tommy once likened sex with Buck to riding Big Thunder Mountain for the first time. "He's missed like four shifts. Any more and Cap is gonna have to, like, make some calls. Where the fuck's our pilot, Buckley?"

"He hasn't been in at all?" He echoes faintly, a sinkhole opening in his gut. 

Lucy makes a sound of disgust. "Frankly, I can't believe they dropped your charges. You're way too dangerous to be allowed among the general populace."

The Army colonel who swanned into Chim's hospital room like he expected them to scatter like roaches had taken one look at all of them and scoffed. "Every fiber of my being hates what I'm about to say, but I can't handle another phone call from Sergeant Grant, so: on behalf of the United States government, we're dropping all federal charges for everyone in this room. If I see any of you ever again, I will throw you into a hole so deep it'll make the Kola Borehole look like something a kid dug at the beach."

Except not everyone was in the hospital room that day.

Buck squeezes his eyes shut. "Hey, so I need to call you back."

"Wait, Dana wants to talk to you."

With a yelp of pure terror, Buck stabs his phone until the call ends, then immediately calls Jaw of Gibraltar ❤️. It goes right to voicemail, like it's been doing, and now Buck is pretty sure he knows why.

"Heeeeeeeey," he says through a grimace. "So, uh, I need you to ignore all the other voicemails and texts I sent you. Um, it's entirely possible the reason you haven't been picking up my calls might be, uh, sort of my fault, but just think: someday when we've been married for fifty years, we'll probably still be laughing about this whole thing."

Inbox full, the automated voice cheerfully tells him.

Cringing, he calls Athena.

+

Buck has never actually seen a federal prison—Jamestown was a regular prison, and he didn't have enough time to stop and take it all in—so he's not sure what to expect, but when they fly over Victorville Medium-Security Federal Correctional Institute, he's surprised to see it looks more like an army base than anything. 

The pilot who picked him, Athena, and LAFD union lawyer Bernadette Kaine up from Harbor One—and that had sucked, because the entire Harbor crew was standing on the tarmac giving him the evil eye as he boarded, and while Dana didn't physically drag her thumb across her throat he could see the same sentiment in her blank expression—didn't actually introduce himself, but his name was embroidered on the arm of his flight suit. 

"Your last name is 'Goodenough'?" Buck had asked, grinning. "'Pilot Goodenough'? Hopefully your flying is a lot better than your name suggests!"

Pilot Goodenough stared stone-faced out the windshield and said, "We might hit turbulence during the flight."

And they did, but oddly only whenever Buck unbuckled his belt. The last time Buck went to get up, Athena threatened to shoot him.

When they land, Colonel Whatshisname is there to greet them, and he looks both exhausted and furious to see him and Athena again. 

"Sergeant Grant," the colonel acknowledges through gritted teeth, ignoring Buck entirely. "It's such a pleasure to see you again."  

Athena simply crosses her arms and stares him down, which is impressive to watch, considering the guy's like 6'7". He's shriveling under her scrutiny before Buck's very eyes. 

"Colonel, it appears you forgot something," Athena says, lightly and terrifyingly.

"Someone," Buck interjects, with nowhere near the same impact.

Colonel Whatshisname sighs, looks heavenward at the departing helicopter as though he'd like nothing more than to flag Pilot Goodenough back down to take him away, then beckons them all inside.

When they get to whoever's office the colonel commandeered, Buck is almost completely distracted from why they're there by the sheer amount of rubber ducks that clutter up every flat surface in the room. No two are the same. There's even a little viking duck, complete with a mace. 

"Can I—" Buck starts slowly, inching his hand toward a duck that looks like a firefighter.

Colonel Whatshisname sits down at the desk, hard. "No."

"That's fair."

"Colonel Spade," Bernadette begins, opening her worryingly bulging briefcase. "I'd like to begin by thanking you for your ti—"

"Colonel, you know why we're here," Athena cuts in, taking the seat on the other side of the colonel's desk. She has to clear a path through all the ducks lined up at the edge so she can rest her clasped hands there. "When the charges were dropped for the members of the 118 involved in the incident, LAFD pilot Thomas Kinard's charges should have been included."

At that, Buck moves to stand menacingly at her shoulder like an attack dog, although the colonel doesn't look all that impressed at the display. If anything, he gets a look on his face like he'd just swallowed an assassin bug. Specifically a North American wheel bug. 

"Normally, I would agree with you, but Thomas Kinard abused his military rank and previous clearance to gain access to a secure government building, steal proprietary assets from a lab that could have caused great harm to the population of Los Angeles, and physically assaulted personnel on his way out," Colonel Spade snaps at her. "There was no way we were letting any of that go."

"Assaulted?" Athena lifts a brow. 

"That's awful," Buck rasps, pressing his thighs together. "Like, how many people and what did he do to them? Like, were there concussions? Broken bones? You can go into detail, I'm not squeamish."

The thought of Tommy fighting his way to get to Buck is so disgustingly hot that he might pop a woody in front of Athena, their lawyer lady, a visibly upset military man, and three thousand ducks. Still not the worst place he's ever been turned on.

"Without Kinard, we never would've gotten the antidote in time to save all those people," Athena says, and yanks her chair forward a little, away from Buck. "The people you deemed collateral damage in the fallout of the release of the CCHF virus."

"No one could have predicted Dr. Blake would go rogue," Colonel Spade says easily, with hate in his eyes. "This is hardly the fault of the—"

Suddenly, Bernadette sits up, and it feels like someone's put a spotlight on her. Buck kind of expects her to break into song or something, but what happens is actually so much better.

"The day Dr. Blake stole the virus, her employment was terminated, effective immediately, and yet security didn't walk her out of the building, which goes against all federal mandated safety protocols," Bernadette says, all smiles, practically glowing. "The lab—property of the U.S. government, if I remember correctly—was entirely unsupervised, which gave Dr. Blake the unfettered opportunity to tamper with the virus, speeding up its incubation period without authorization. Or, perhaps she did have authorization and the government failed to disclose this. Tell me, what else is going on under our noses that the government isn't telling us?"

"Try to disappear the brave people who risk their lives to do the right thing, apparently," Athena answers pointedly. 

"I thought you were a union lawyer," Colonel Spade says through a visibly clenched jaw. "What do you know about federal pharmaceutical law?"

Bernadette's smile goes sharp. "I dabble."

Colonel Spade looks, for lack of a better word, murderous. He's probably one smarmy comment from grabbing the nearest rubber duck and bludgeoning Bernadette to death with it.

But Buck has never been able to help himself. "Is this a bad time to mention my ex-girlfriend is an investigative reporter?"

Athena drops her head into her hand. "Buck."

"I'm just saying!" He crosses his arms, trying to puff himself up the way some animals do when they're faced with a predator. "It sure would be a shame if an anonymous tip about all this landed in her lap."

Colonel Spade squints at him. "Are you threatening me, Firefighter Buckley?"

"You're trying to bury Tommy to save your own ass," Buck growls. "Yes, I'm threatening you."

Wordlessly, Bernadette reaches into her briefcase, which looks like it's seriously ready to bust open at the seams, and slides over a packet of paper to Colonel Spade. The colonel snatches it up and starts reading, and the longer he does, the paler he gets.

Finally, he lowers the packet and stabs Bernadette with his eyes. "Where did you get this?"

"I play mahjong with your ex-wife every Sunday," Bernadette says, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "She sends her regards. Well, she actually sent the tip of her blackmail iceberg. How is your new wife, by the way? She graduate from college yet?"

Eyes wide, Buck looks at the colonel, who's got the swallowing wheel bugs look on his face again.

After the most awkward ten seconds that Buck's had to endure since Eddie crashed his and Tommy's pizza date, the colonel folds like a bad row of mahjong tiles.

"Fine," he says with a sigh, then glares at Bernadette. "And no, she's a junior."

Buck picks up a rubber duck with sharp teeth like a vampire. "Gross."

+

The colonel washes his hands of them by pushing them onto two enormous guards named Weekes and Kluger, who are basically human trees. 

When Kluger gets his orders to take them to cell 58, he droops like a wilting plant. "Hey, you're not here to, like, take Kinard to Gitmo, right? It's just—he's really cool. He's got the wildest stories."

"Dude figured out what was wrong with my car just from listening to a video on my phone." Weekes grins, then leans in to whisper conspiratorially to Buck, "it was the alternator."

"I offered to introduce him to my sister," Kluger says as they board the elevator, and he's either oblivious to Buck's glare searing a hole in his head or is just flat-out ignoring it, because he continues blithely, "but he said he doesn't like girls. Which is cool. I'm down with the rainbow, you know? So I told him about my cousin, Martin."

Buck makes a politely interested noise, but it mostly sounds like he's biting straight through his tongue. Athena elbows him hard enough to bruise his spleen.

"And what did he have to say about Martin?" Buck asks. Meanwhile, every bone in his body is vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear.

Kluger doesn't seem to be aware that the head is going to burst into flames any second now. "He said he was flattered and that Martin was hot, but he's already got his heart pinned on someone on the outside."

Buck relaxes with a pleased smile.

"Yeah, except whoever it is left him in here to rot," Weekes adds.

"T-That's unnecessary and completely untrue," Buck lies, trying to sink into the floor so he won't drown in shame right in front of them. 

Thankfully, the elevator comes to a stop at the 5th floor, and Buck pushes his way out to gulp some fresh air. 

He's not sure if being on the 5th floor is a good or bad thing. Tommy was charged with domestic terrorism; what if this is the domestic terrorism floor? What if he's neighbors with neo-nazis? What if he'd been jumped by a faction in the shower and took a beating and has spent the last few days pissing blood and breathing through broken ribs and cursing the day he ever picked up Chimney's call about needing a pilot for an unauthorized rescue? 

What if he regrets ever meeting Buck?

But before Buck can ask Kluger for a bucket to throw up in, they come to a stop in front of a cell marked with the number 58, and Buck forces himself to look inside.

Apparently the question Buck should've been asking was what if Tommy's lying on his bed playing paddle ball while he mouths along to whatever 80s hip-hop song is playing on a little radio? Because that's exactly what Tommy's doing.

"I gave him the radio," Weekes says proudly, reaching out to knock on the glass door. Tommy looks up without pausing his game. The ball keeps thwacking against the wood.

"He's so good at that," Kluger says, starry-eyed. "He beat Officer Amino last week and that guy's won tournaments."

"Is it Girl Scout cookie season already?" Tommy asks cheerfully, then effortlessly twists the paddle so the cord wraps around it. He tucks the ball in. "Sorry, I don't have my wallet on me."

Buck shoves Kluger aside to practically press his nose to the glass. "We take IOUs."

As soon as he sees Buck, Tommy brightens, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stands, stretching with a groan, and then walks over to the door. Even in the bland blue jumpsuit, he's stupid hot. Helplessly, Buck puts his palm against the glass.

"Nice of you to stop by," Tommy says with a teasing lilt, pressing his own palm to Buck's, and Buck swears he can feel the heat of it through the pane. 

"I was in the neighborhood," Buck teases back. "Figured I'd pop in."

"I won't lie, I've been dreaming about you showing up for a conjugal visit." Tommy looks away from Buck's face to squint at everyone else. "Although you guys weren't there."

At that, Athena cracks a smile and says in an odd voice, almost twangy, "You stupid mullet head, he beat you with nothin'."

Tommy perks up and doesn't miss a bit, drawling, "Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand."

Before Buck can ask what the hell they're talking about, someone shoves him aside with surprising strength. He's a little surprised to see it's Bernadette, who he kind of forgot about, but she's clearly the only one who remembers why they're here because she raps on the glass and says, "Mr. Kinard, my name is Bernadette Kaine and I'm here to take you home."

"We're here to take you home," Buck amends. 

Tommy looks at Bernadette for a long moment, head tilting like a puppy hearing a noise for the first time and gaze narrowed, and then snaps his fingers. "Hey, I know you! I sent my paperwork to you the last time I stole a helicopter."

Sighing, Bernadette nods. "If you do it a third time, I get a free sundae."

"What do I get?" Tommy asks.

"Permanent incarceration and possibly the death penalty."

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Tommy mulls that one over, then gives a decisive nod. "Sounds about right."

+

The helicopter ride home is spent mostly with Buck plastered to Tommy's side while he fills him in on everything he missed. Tommy's devastated to hear about Bobby. He offers Athena his condolences over the open mic, then curls his hand around his headset speaker to murmur apologies into Buck's ear. 

"I wish I'd been there for you," Tommy says, and the words ease some kinked cable inside Buck he hadn't known was there. "I'm sorry I wasn't."

"I'm sorry I forgot there were consequences to your actions and left you to the mercy of the Army," Buck says, pressing his forehead to the jut of Tommy's jaw. "I just assumed everything was taken care of, and I… kind of thought you were ghosting me."

At that, Tommy snorts, wrapping an arm around Buck to hold him impossibly closer. "Evan, come on. You don't kiss a man like that and quote Humphrey Bogart and then ghost him. I'm an asshole and a coward, but I'm not a monster."

Buck winces. "Uh, yeah, when you have a second, can I see your phone?"

"What for?"

"It's better if you don't know," Buck says. "Completely unrelated, but you don't have a code for your voicemail, do you, and if so, can I have it?"

Tommy snickers and presses a kiss to Buck's temple. "How bad did it get?"

"Well, I taught Chim the word 'motherfuckface', so you tell me," Buck admits, cracking a grin when Tommy laughs out loud, but he has a hell of a time trying to keep it up. Finally, he gives up the ghost and tucks his face against Tommy's, eyes prickling hot with guilt. "I'm so sorry. I should've known. I should've known. Never in a million years would you have bailed on the funeral. It should've been my first clue that something was wrong."

Tommy snugs him in close and says quietly, barely audible over the rotors, "To quote an incredible man who drives me up the wall: 'it seems there's a lot we don't know about each other.' I'm glad you know I wouldn't have left you in the lurch like that, but there's a lot more… there's a lot more about me that you should know. That I… well, not exactly want you to know, but that I will tell you. Willingly. Well, not exactly willingly, but—"

"Y-Yeah?" Sniffling a little, Buck pulls away just enough to be able to look up at him. "What are you doing Saturday?"

It wins him a smile. "Vivisecting myself for you, apparently. And maybe burgers afterwards?"

Grinning, Buck snuggles shamelessly back in. "Actually, I wanted to make Bobby's famous lasagna for you. I think I've finally nailed it down. Then you can nail me down."

But before Tommy can respond, Athena breaks in over the line and takes a baseball bat to the moment. "Change the subject. Now."

Swallowing hard, Buck nods and pastes on a smile that doesn't scream 'I'm chubbed up a little in my jeans and I'm trying not to make it everyone's problem.' He coughs a little. "So, uh, who's Humphrey Bogart? Does he have a podcast or something?"

Tommy turns to Athena. "Actually, thanks, but no thanks. Take me back to prison."

[astroellies]

imgonnagetyouback (prologue)

chapter one here!

ellie williams x reader

moving somewhere new was never easy. especially in the apocalypse. and especially when you think your crush despises you.

warnings! villianization of cat (i’m sorry). ellie and reader are around 16 in the flashbacks, 18 in the present day. loser reader. loser ellie. miscommunication trope. useless lesbians. slight rivals to lovers. substance/alcohol use. this is kinda just background.

TWO YEARS PRIOR

your parents had been saying for weeks that jackson was finally getting close.

weeks of ten hour hikes, followed by sleeping bags and hard ground or moldy mattresses. weeks of hunting for your meals and eating them burnt. weeks of soggy socks and mosquito bites.

when your parents had heard about the possibility of refuge they didn’t put much thought into leaving the qz. they packed you and your stuff and headed towards wyoming.

what they didn’t think about was the absolute shit show that would stop them from completing their journey.

hordes and infection took them out. now you were left, alone and helpless with no idea where the fuck you were.

a week ago you had manage to find a supermarket to hideout in to sob into your hands and accept death. your food and water supply were nearly depleted. days were getting colder, even if you found game to hunt and a water source you couldn’t fight off the cold with just the clothes on your back.

you curled into the fetal position in a corner of the building. wallowing in self pity and grief, you had no way of getting yourself out of this one, so you cried again.

light muffled voices came from outside of the building and you froze. you strained your ears but couldn’t make out what the voices were saying. you weighed your options, do you reveal yourself and beg for help? or stay put? what if they were enslavers looking for more workers? your mother had told you about large groups that forced their captured to work to the death.

you decided the the latter. you held your breath as the voices got closer. you heard a thud against the boarded off doors to the store. then another and the doors gave way.

“see, ellie, i told you that would work.”

“yeah, yeah. just check for supplies, tommy is gonna to be pissed if we’re not back soon.”

from your spot you couldn’t see the the speakers of the voices. both girls. they sounded young, your age.

“mmm but i like being alone with you.” said the first girl. you could heard the voice drop, low and sultry. gross.

the footsteps closer to you now. you swallowed hard, trying your hardest not to move.

the second girl half scoffed, half chuckled, “seriously, cat, we need to get back so-” the voice cuts as the girl rounded the corner and made eye contact with you.

she clearly wasn’t expecting anyone, infected or otherwise, in here. she has a baby face, cheeks still round and wide green eyes. her chest rises and falls in quick breaths, trying to see if you’ll attack. you stay curled up on the ground.

“ellie you okay?” the first voice gets hers closer then comes up behind the girl, ellie, and says, “oh fuck.”

“i’m not infected!” you say, panicking. they have guns and you really, really don’t want them to shoot. “i- i can prove it!” you’re pulling your clothing to show them you’re clean.

“ellie, what do we do?” cat asks.

ellie has been staring at you the whole time, but she seems to snap out of her daze when she hears her name but doesn’t pull her gaze away from you, “uhh…we take her to tommy.”

“you alone?” she asks.

“yeah, yes.”

she nods then she raises her gun at you, but her finger isn’t on the trigger. “get up.”

you scramble, throwing your backpack over your shoulder and standing on wobbly legs.

“are you armed?” ellie asks.

“just a knife. it’s in my bag.”

“give it to me.”

you hand her the knife and she swallows. no one knows what to do next.

“um…cat you lead, i’ll…i’ll follow to make sure she doesn’t run off.”

cat nods then turns her gaze to you, looking you up and down, “this way.”

the three of you hike, you don’t know if ellie is still pointing her gun at you, but you’re too scared to look back and upset her. so you take in the girl in front of you. a teenager, she was probably a year older than you at most. she has short black hair and you can see tattoos on her arms peaking out from under her jacket.

you follow cat into the suburbs, old rickety houses and some completely collapsed. she leads you into a fenced off yard of one of the houses and you find a middle aged man and a teenage boy.

“tommy! we found a girl at the supermarket. she says she’s alone.” cat yells out.

the man, tommy, and the boy turn towards the three of you. “she hurt?” you know he isn’t just asking if you have any scrapes or bruises, the real underlying question is is she infected?

“no, she’s clean.” cat says, and looks back at you.

tommy looks at you and points with his chin. “what’re you doing out here alone?”

all the attention turns to you and you suddenly feel very small. “my parents had heard rumors about a town, jackson, somewhere out here so we fled from a qz. they uhm…they’re dead now. i was staying in the supermarket.”

all three of the teens turn to tommy, gauging his reaction.

he’s quiet for a long while then says, “jesse, grab the horses. you can come with us.”

you panic, you don’t know these people or their intentions. what if they were slavers your parents had warned you about? or raiders? or cannibals?

“what? where are we going?” you should have lied, should have told ellie you didn’t have any weapons so you could run and hide, curl into the corner of the supermarket and die.

“you’ll see.” tommy hops onto his horse and holds out a hand to pull you up. you look around and the others have all mounted their horses as well. you don’t see that you have much of a choice you you take his hand.

the group rides for a while, all you see is forest and abandon buildings and your heart is racing. who are these people? is tommy their leader?

you’re starting to feel as though they don’t know where they’re going either when you crest over a hill. in the distance a large fence closes off building from the rest of the world, and inside the walls of the fence you see lights.

“is this-”

“jackson.” tommy says, waving a flag above his head, “we don’t let many new people in. you’re lucky.”

when you entire inside the gates you stand off to the side, waiting for the group to put their horses in the stable. the town is different from anything you’ve seen before, it looks like the movies from before. kids run around the town freely and people are laughing. it’s nothing like the qz.

ellie is the first out of the stables. she approaches you from the stables and hands you your knife.

“sorry if we scared you earlier, we’re just cautious of newcomers. i’m ellie. and here’s your knife back.”

“no it’s okay! i mean, this place is fucking insane i get why you’re protective of it.” your fingers brush her palm has you take your knife and butterflies erupt in your stomach. she’s got the cutest mole under her left eye that scrunches up when she smiles.

she’s quiet, as if debating what to say, “i came here a couple years ago, if you need someone to show you the ropes let me know.”

“okay! thank you.” you feel your face warm.

“ellie, we gotta go! we’re going to be late for movie night.” cat comes out of the stables.

“sorry i have to go. i’ll see you around?” ellie says, rubbing the back of her neck.

“yeah!” you say but she’s already turned, walking towards cat. as the two walk away throws a cold look over her shoulder.

the next few months were a blur. lots of questioning from maria about how your parents had heard of jackson and what their intentions were. how they died. then assimilating you into the community. maria often partnered you with jesse, dina, ellie, or cat for patrols. she made you tag along to their hangouts, she told you they’re good kids, most of them had been in your situation once too.

A YEAR AND A HALF PRIOR

it had been six months since you arrived in jackson. winter was coming to a close and it had been gloomy for weeks with no sign of the sun coming out anytime soon.

dina sits across from you in the mess hall, picking at her bread and soup. her and jesse were on a “break” again and she wouldn’t stop talking about how he was ignoring her on group patrol today. you had stopped listening a long time ago.

“anyways! we’re having a bonfire tonight just outside the gates, you should come!”

“i dunno,” you push your heel into the ground, dina had been almost overly welcoming to you when you first arrived in town but you weren’t sure of the others. it just felt like you were bugging them when you tagged along. “who’s gonna be there?”

she lists off people on her fingers, “me, of course, jesse,” she rolls her eyes but continues, “cat, ellie, some others”

you let out a puff of air “why do you say her name like that, dina?”

“because it’s literally so obvious you have a massive crush on her.” she says like it’s common knowledge. maybe you weren’t as subtle as you thought.

“i do not!” you feel your face heat up and you hide your head in your hands.

dina laughs, “yes, you fucking do! you actually listen to me when i talk about her!”

“ugh stoppp. i don’t!” you whine.

she just gives you a look.

“i don’t!” it’s a lie and you know it but you couldn’t handle dina teasing you in front of ellie or the others.

“i’m serious, though. you should come,”

you sigh, “fine, i’ll go.”

that night after dark you meet up with everyone at the northern gates.

nights were still frigid, you pull your coat tighter around you.

“is this everyone?” you ask dina.

“yeah. anddd i stuck into the tipsy bison to get us something to keep us warm.” she winks and pulls the top of a bottle from her back.

“dina! we’ll be in so much trouble if we get caught!” you look around to make sure no house lights turn on.

“we won’t! ellie and i used to throw full on parties at a campground a few miles south. this is nothing.”

you give her a pointed look and wait for jesse to finish opening the gate.

the group makes a hike into a spot on a lake just outside of jackson. there is already a pit for the fire and jesse and ellie get started on lighting it. ellie’s got her hair back in a low bun, pieces around her face falling out. her cheeks and nose are rosy from the cold.

her eyes glow with the light from the sparks, “got it!”

you end up perched on a log between dina and ellie.

“dee, you got any on you?” ellie asks.

“only if you say please.” dina says, already reaching into her bag.

“pleaseee.” ellie flutters her lashes dramatically.

“eugene rolled it and everything.” ellie reaches across your body for the joint, as she retracts her arm it brushes against you and you hope no one notices you freeze up in the dark.

ellie takes lights it then takes a hit, “ah, i was wondering why it looked so nice. you always fuck it up.”

“i do not!”

you giggle and shake your head. the two fought like sisters.

dina pushes you with her shoulder, “you smoke?”

“uh, no i don’t…i haven’t before.”

“oh my god are you serious? do you want to?”

“i guess…i’ve just never had the chance to.”

ellie plucks the blunt from cat’s hand as she brought it towards her own mouth.

“ellie!” she yelps, annoyed.

“cat she’s never smoked before, let her take a hit.”

you look at ellie’s outstretched hand and up at her eyes. she gives you a playful squint, almost daring you to take it from her.

you slowly bring the joint to your lips and suck in but the smoke gets stuck in your throat and you cough so hard your eyes fill with tears. “what the fuck!”

everyone laughs. everyone except for cat, who stares you down. her eyes flicker between you and ellie and lock on yours. you turn away, her gaze too intense.

jesse throws you a bottle of water, “take in easy.”

the rest of the night is filled with giggles. dina shares stories of how joel walked in on her and ellie hotboxing ellie’s garage.

jesse checks his watch, “i hate to be a downer but it’s getting late and some people have patrol in the morning.” he looks at ellie and cat.

“yeah, yeah grandpa, we can head back now.” ellie grumbled.

the group disperses while ellie and jesse take care of the fire and dina picks up her bottles. you stand off to the side, facing jackson, waiting for dina to come back. you hear footsteps approach and look to find cat. she stands next to you, facing out towards the town.

“hey.” you say, giving her a close mouthed smile.

“hi.” she crosses her arms over her body, mirroring your own posture.

“tonight was fun.” you feel a bit awkward, she’s lingering but her presence isn’t comforting like dina or ellie’s.

“mhm.” she turns to look at you and leans in, “just so you know, you’ve been making ellie really uncomfortable with you staring problem but she’s too nice to say anything about it.”

you feel your heart drop down to your ass. you didn’t think she had even noticed your glances, let alone be upset by them.

“what? i had no idea, should i apologize?” you look behind you, ellie’s laughing and shoving jesse away, playfully calling him a dick.

“no, but i’d really appreciate if you stayed the fuck away from my girlfriend.” she says in and overly sweet tone. she looks back to the others.

“guys c’mon it’s late!” she says, already making her way back towards jackson.

ellie rushes to cat’s side and gives her a kiss. you try not to flush with embarrassment, you didn’t mean to upset her.

dina falls into step with you. “you okay?”

“what? yeah.” you laugh, it sounds forced and unnatural, “just tired.”

she side eyes you, “okay, weirdo.”

[gutsby]

Hating Game

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Celebrating your dad’s birthday at the yacht club becomes damn near unbearable when Joel Miller brings a date along too. Jealousy and hate sex ensue.

Warnings: 18+. Food fight turned hatefuck (don’t ask). Cockwarming and semi-public sex on the bridge deck. Oral (m! and f!receiving). Daddy kink. Dirty talk. Age gap. C*mplay. Katoptronophilia. Orgasm denial. One risqué Viagra joke. Drinking games. Descriptions of vomiting. Joel cockwarming you while smoking a cigarette <3

Word count: 12.8k

Read on AO3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

"Can ya try that one more time, sweet pea? For daddy?"

You can. Try, anyway. Controlling your tongue while he’s buried so deep inside you is a far harder task than expected, though. Especially when he’s so still.

Joel sees it. Feeling a twinge of pity, he leans over your body and digs his hips even deeper—not thrusting, but still granting a modicum of friction as he takes another drag of his cigarette. The hot, heavy throb of his girth pulses like your own fucking heartbeat, and your eyes roll back.

An orangutan on roller skates would’ve had more grace.

A grizzly bear in hibernation might’ve been more lively.

A fucking cross-eyed octopus reciting Shakespeare would’ve been less strange, alarming, and painfully awkward to see than your father’s best friend the week after he’d railed you senseless in the front seat of his car.

Joel Miller had shown up with a date, for Christ’s sake.

Of course, you’d been three cocktails deep and playing stack cup with a random group of gentlemen on the bridge deck at the time, but that was almost immaterial. This was your dad’s fifty-first birthday party—one of the rowdiest nights the Austin Yacht Club had yet to see—and yeah, you planned on getting belligerently shitfaced on Dirty Shirleys and obscene amounts of catered food.

You’d never thought to bring a date of your own, though.

That was just distasteful and crass, all things considered.

Presently, you slammed your ping pong ball to the tabletop and watched it make a wide arc over your cup.

“Fuckfuckfuuuuuck,” you whispered low as the man four spots down made it in, and the man after him bounced the ball straight into his own on the first go. He moved the tall, swaying stack of red Solos immediately to your right, and you knew from the jump you were fucked.

Tommy Miller was a master at stack. You could already see the sly smile on his face from the corner of your eye.

Just as Mötley Crüe gave way to Hall & Oates on the speakers overhead, Joel’s brother crammed his stack of cups over your own and made a smug, triumphant bow.

“All you, kid,” he grinned and slid the second to last cup in your direction.

You could’ve cursed his whole bloodline, Joel included.

There was no way in hell you were getting stuck with death cup again—the last, cruel punishment for the loser of the game a mix of three different types of liquor, soda, and a spritz of Natty Light. Filled to the brim and waiting to be downed by whoever didn’t sink the final shot.

You squared your shoulders and locked the fuck in.

Bounced the ball once. Twice. Christ, this was hard. The man to your left was struggling too, but he seemed just as determined and twice as skilled, and you were pretty buzzed. A second later, he made it in and, of course, slid it right back to Tommy, who was practically overcome with laughter.

“MILLER! MILLER! MILLER!” Men were not creative when it came to chants. Or beating fists on furniture.

“Quit shakin’ the shit!” Tommy roared, tapping his ping pong ball deftly onto the table’s surface.

You blinked a few hazy, anxious thoughts out of your head and tried with everything in you not to miss this shot. The instrumental bridge of ‘Maneater’ was sinking its teeth in your soul and taunting your nerves to no end.

You took the ball, swallowed hard, watched the cup, and flicked your wrist, at last, from a singularly perfect angle.

The ball was a millisecond away from making it in.

Tommy Fuckstick Miller managed to stack you first.

A chorus of obnoxious, wholly drunk howls rang loud in your ears, and suddenly, the attention was back on you, the unhappy victim of the game’s most gruesome drink.

You didn’t hesitate. You pinched your nose and guzzled from the cup before the torment could go on any longer.

You did well at first.

Opened your throat like a pro and cleared it down to the last fourth of the drink, to the point where you could see the slick white bottom side of the cup clear as day.

Your mouth had just flooded with the final draught of death cup when a familiar guitar riff caught you off guard.

You weren’t sure why it had to happen that way, but after being forced to listen to the song some five thousand times on your road trip with Joel, the tenor of Billy Joel’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard to you now. Grating. Nauseating.

Vomit-inducing.

Swiftly, you ran to the nearest railing and lost your last drink—and your whole dinner—over the side of the boat.

You yakked into Lake Travis like you never had before.

And, just as that stupid, forever-tainted song surged on, you heard footsteps approaching. A moment’s pause. Then a hand on your back. Patting gently and, seconds later, lowering a cup of water to the side of your head.

Your face was still dangling upside down off the yacht. You didn’t want to be touched.

“Go to hell, Tommy,” you muttered.

“You first,” he said, chuckling.

You didn’t sit so much as slump back onto the deck with your head in your hands. The whole boat had gone sideways in your mind, and Tommy’s outstretched arm looked more like a bubbling lump than a friendly gesture.

You groaned at the sight of the cup and shook your head.

“I’m alright, okay. I’m good.”

Then, when the cup didn’t waver:

“Can they change the fucking song already?!”

Tommy cocked a brow and squatted down next to you. He set the water aside.

“Got a problem with dad rock or somethin’?” he smirked.

You shook your head no—it wasn’t the music that was making you sick but the man Tommy called his brother that made you wanna vomit again. The thought of that man tangled up with a svelte brunette who looked fresh off the cover of Sports Illustrated when he couldn’t even be bothered to shoot you a text after the condom broke last week. Like he just didn’t give a shit if you were alive, dead, or pregnant with his child. Unfortunately, you had nothing more to throw up, and your eyes were on fire.

Tommy slung an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side. Took a handkerchief out of his pocket.

“No more Dirty Shirleys for you, young lady,” he chided, dabbing lightly at the tears that had trickled out.

“No more men for me,” you grumbled quietly.

You couldn’t see it then, but you could feel him trying not to smile. He tugged you closer.

“Boy trouble, huh?” he said, “Whose ass needs kickin’?”

Your brother, actually. Curb stomp that fucker, please.

You shrugged instead.

“Some guy from school.”

Tommy nodded, waiting for you to elaborate. When you didn’t, he just assumed you wanted to keep it to yourself—which you did—and squeezed your shoulder softly.

“Well…you know you’ve got your dad, me, and Joel to beat the shit outta any guy, any time, any place, right?”

You wished it were that simple. You wiped your nose and nodded all the same.

“And…” Tommy started again, working slow to get you back on your feet, “Most guys your age don’t know their ass from their fuckin’ elbow, honeybun. Don’t take it too personal if he’s dumb enough to lose a gem like you.”

The corners of your lips twitched slightly at his words. Almost smiling by the time he had you up on your feet.

“Thanks, Tommy.”

“Anytime, kiddo.”

You might’ve rolled your eyes when he pinched your cheek, but the water he held back up for you to drink looked far too appetizing, and you knew he meant well. You took the cup from him and started to chug.

Again, you’d almost made it through the whole refreshment when a sound threw you off. Abruptly.

“Where have you two lovebirds been?!” Tommy chirped.

You lowered your water and almost regurgitated again. Bile jumped up in your throat, and you just narrowly managed to keep it all down with a cough and a sputter.

Joel and Ms. Centerfold were at the far end of the deck.

Joel was tucking his dress shirt back into his pants.

Are you fucking kidding me?

“Gettin’ nasty on her daddy’s yacht? That’s bold,” Tommy cackled, nudging you playfully.

Your face was bloodless. Every last ounce of pretense and decorum had spilled out with your dinner, before, and now you were just staring at Joel blankly. Numb.

You watched him shove the last clump of his shirt under the waistband and straighten up slightly. The woman at his side flashed you and Tommy a blinding white smile.

“Might say the same for you,” she called back. She seemed to be eyeing you both with a half-curious look.

Tommy made a face as if to say ‘yuck—what the fuck?’ and threw his arm around you again, shaking you lightly.

“She’s like my little sister, Ashton. You’re fuckin’ gross.”

Little sister. Nice. Like a knife twisting inside your gut.

If Joel took any notice of the comment, he didn’t show it. He just stood there, dull and impassive as a loaf of bread. Every coarse lineament of his face was unreadable—just as bleak, bland, and uncaring as the eyes staring out of it. Then he fished around in his back pocket and pulled out his lighter and a pack of American Spirits. He passed the latter to Ashton and leaned over to give her a light.

Throwing yourself off the boat seemed like the most logical next move out of anything available to you.

That’s when you knew you were off your shit and needed to leave the bridge deck—immediately.

“Need a drink,” you mumbled, starting off the other way.

Tommy was hot on your heels, following fast after you.

“That’s— that’s actually the last thing you need, I think, sweetie. How ‘bout some lemonade?”

“Can you spike it with bleach?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Tommy followed you down the staircase straight through to the galley, past the throngs and pockets of partygoers crowding the main dining area. Hitting the bar was a bad idea—wait staff knew you well enough to sense when you were utterly trashed, sad, or both—so you slipped toward the wine cooler and quickly sidestepped Tommy.

“No! No way. Nuh-uh.” He was still trying to block your access to the fridge when you grabbed hold of the door.

“Hair of the dog, Thomas.”

“That’s not a thing. That’s— you just projectile vomited off the deck, dude. You need a breather.”

You stopped just long enough to let Tommy pry you off the refrigerator handle and back to the kitchen island. You were pissed off, sure, but also not nearly prepared for another drop of alcohol if you were being honest with yourself. Your head was still spinning when you sat down on the counter.

Once you were settled, Tommy got to rifling through the cabinets, and you pressed a hand to your forehead.

“So how long’s that been going on?” You couldn’t help it.

“Wha- oh, Joel and Ash?” Tommy hummed from deep inside a cupboard. He came out with a small blue box.

You winced at the nickname. Watched him go from the pantry to the sink, fill a glass halfway, find a spoon, and tear the box in two, along with a couple chalky tablets.

“They’ve been…weird.” The sentence was punctuated with a pinch of his brow and a frown. He started stirring.

“Weird how?”

Your feet were dangling over the edge of the island; you pretended to gain a sudden interest in a smudge on the toe of your shoe.

“Weird like…I don’t know,” Tommy tossed the spoon in the sink and turned back to you. Holding out the cup, “They’ve been ‘friendly’ for years—Ash is a coworker of ours—and Joel swears it’s nothing more…but I dunno.”

He ended his speech again with that weird intonation and grimace, like he wasn’t so sure if he believed what he was saying himself, then shook his head and shrugged. He watched you take a sip of the Alka-Seltzer and urged you to get the whole thing down. It tasted like shit.

“Christ, that’s salty,” you coughed.

You didn’t want to keep going, but Tommy tipped the glass back in your hand and made you finish.

“It’ll help with your stomach,” he said before strolling over to the caterers’ fridge to look for bland food options.

“So if they’re not a thing, why’d he bring her here?”

You didn’t care what Tommy thought of your questions. He knew you were eager to hear the tea in any situation.

You watched as your friend procured a hand of bananas and some bread. He gave the fruit to you and took the bread over to the toaster, where he dropped in two slices. You couldn’t quite tell if he was contemplating an answer, didn’t want to spill, or hadn’t heard the question at all. He snagged a plate and a butter knife while you peeled apart your snack, silently dying to know the truth.

At length, Tommy shrugged. Again.

“‘Cause Joel’s a goddamn drama queen and doesn’t know what he wants, I s’pose,” he said.

Ain’t that the truth.

Then, after a minute:

“Had his panties in a wad ever since he went to Boston.”

You stiffened hearing that. You couldn’t pretend to be invested in your shoe scuff, the floor, or the food in your hand any longer. Your eyes flitted up to Tommy to see if his expression had shifted any.

It hadn’t—he was just looking for strawberry jam.

“You hitched a ride home with him then, didn’t you?” he asked casually.

You swallowed and nodded. You watched Tommy retrieve the two freshly-warmed pieces of toast that jumped up to greet him and, having found the jam he wanted, slapped them both on a plate and lathered them up. You muttered a quiet ‘thank you’ as he slid them over.

You were almost too scared to ask more questions, but you knew you had to find out. About Joel, Ashton, anything Tommy might’ve gleaned about your trip home from Boston. You found you could hardly sit in one place and had to step off the counter to eat your food.

“Joel’s been, uhh…how do Gen Z’s say it? Trippin’ balls?” Tommy reached for a banana himself and started in.

“Tweaking,” you corrected him.

“Tweakin’, yeah. Joel’s been a real fuckin’ tweaker lately.”

“In what way?”

“Just…shuttin’ himself in is all. Wouldn’t talk to me or your dad or anybody for days after he got back. Didn’t show up for our monthly Bingo matchup at Mando’s—and he hasn’t missed one of those in almost six years.”

You pursed your lips, equally mystified. You knew just how seriously your dad and his friends took those games—how rare it was for Joel to turn down any opportunity to drink, play Star Wars-themed Bingo, and shoot the shit with his buddies over Coors Light and cheese curds. You took another bite and waited for Tommy to continue.

“And there’s— there was this…thing he— I dunno.”

Suddenly, it seemed your friend had lost the power of coherent speech, and he was rubbing the back of his neck, flashing a half-sheepish smile, and shaking his head. Contemplating whether he should share something with you and ultimately deciding against it.

You raised both eyebrows.

“What?”

“Nah, it’s dumb, really.”

“Tell me.” You took a far-too-large bite of your banana and had some trouble getting it down.

“Well, he…” Tommy trailed off, shifting his gaze from yours to take a look at his own shoe, for a second, “When me and your dad were riding with Joel to a work site…we, uh…found a box of Plan B in his glove compartment.”

Half-chewed banana and toast almost flew across the room while you spluttered and choked and just barely managed to cover your mouth to keep it all in.

“Right? Threw me for a loop, too,” Tommy grinned as you beat your chest with a fist and fought to keep yourself breathing, “Your dad damn near had a baby when he picked that little box and those booty shorts up himself.”

When he what?! You wanted to scream, just picturing your straight-laced, conservative father flipping a Plan B box between his hands, in shock, and then…your shorts—when the fuck had you taken your shorts off again?

Right, when you were busy trying to scoop some more of Joel’s jizz from your cunt as he raced you both to CVS.

Good times.

You held your hair back and leaned over the sink, spitting two more chunks of banana and bread down the drain. Tommy reached around behind you for the spigot and filled another glass with water as he tried not to laugh.

“Easy, now,” he said, patting your back like he’d done for you before, “Joel didn’t happen to mention this lady friend to you now, did he?”

“No,” you choked. You wiped your mouth clear of any spit and food residue and slowly blinked down into the sink, feeling an old wave of nausea begin to settle over you. Accepted the new glass of water from Tommy and hoped he wouldn’t notice the tremor in your hand as you did.

The man seemed completely oblivious. Still standing close behind you, Tommy rubbed circles in your back and leaned a little closer.

“Death cup really got ya, huh?” He smirked, and you realized then that he very much was like an older brother. This whole situation with Joel was fucked on so many levels and would be fucked tenfold if Tommy ever found out.

You turned around and felt yourself steadied between two warm, broad palms—‘Wanna sit? Lie down?’—and then you were shaking your head, reaching for another banana and trying like hell to seem semi-composed, though every neuron in your brain was firing away at a million miles per second and your legs were feeling like scrambled eggs.

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

Suddenly, one of Tommy’s hands had moved up to brush a few strands of hair from your face, and you felt your skin radiating raw heat. A deep-seated anxiety, too.

He’s going to find out—what if he already knows?

What if Joel tells Tommy?

What if Tommy tells dad?

Your mind was reeling, on fire, still working in earnest to find something to tell your friend to say you were fine, just dizzy, and definitely not fucking his big brother.

Your brain was drawing blank after blank after blank.

Just then, a clatter sounded nearby. Both of you jumped.

When you shot a look to the source of the intrusion, you nearly folded into Tommy from secondhand humiliation.

“Nice hands, feet,” the younger Miller called over to Joel, who was currently trying to recover the dozen-odd pots and pans he’d knocked over at the threshold of the room. You stared at the two in a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and disgust—the latter reserved exclusively for Joel.

You set your drink down, held your hand over your stomach, and pretended to head for the bathroom.

“Be right back,” you muttered, brushing past both men.

You knew you wouldn’t be back at all if you could help it.

Still clutching your banana in one hand and your raucously churning tummy in the other, you climbed the galley stairs fast to get back up to the bridge deck. You almost tripped over both your heels trying to make it up the steps so quick, desperate for solitude and quiet.

Another hair metal hit from the ‘80s was playing overhead, but fortunately, the deck was free of people. You stumbled over to one of the catering tables, looking helplessly for something that might settle your belly, but no, this sickness was coming straight from your head—from that insufferable munch of a man, Joel Miller.

You gingerly approached the railing behind the table and prepared yourself for another round of dry heaving.

You rested both elbows on the metal, looked out toward the dark, glassy water beneath you, then hung your head in abject defeat. You slid your tongue across the roof of your mouth and waited for the vomit to come.

The only thing that followed were footsteps.

Heavy, thunderous sounds making their way up the stairs.

“Stay back, Tommy. Please.” You raised a hand to the man approaching softly behind you, not turning your head, “That Alka-Seltzer stuff didn’t work for shit.”

“Shoulda stuck to water, sweet pea.”

That made you pivot.

Not a quick tilt of the head or a twist to the side, but a full-fledged 180-degree spin on your heels, hand to your gut, what-the-FUCK-are-you-doing-here turnaround.

You stared ahead and felt sicker than you had all night.

Then, pointing one crooked, accusatory finger his way without thinking, you hardly knew or heard what you were saying before the words came out. It sounded a little something like, “Joel, you goddamn fucking idiot.”

Joel didn’t flinch.

In fact, he seemed supremely unfazed.

He just held your fuming gaze and frowned.

“You tryin’ to fuck my little brother or somethin’?”

Your hand had closed around your banana on the table before his words had hung in the air for even a second. You flung the fruit full-force at his head, enraged.

Unfortunately, you were drunk and your aim was shit. Your yellow boomerang-like weapon of choice barely made it within three feet of its target before it glanced off a light fixture and struck the ground with a thud.

Accuracy be damned, you weren’t quite done.

“You left the fucking Plan B out for my dad to find?!”

Just when Joel tried to answer, or perhaps hurl another accusation in your direction, you stuck your hand in the closest catering tray you could find—a serving of green peas, as it was. You lobbed a handful at the man as he started to draw closer, and this time, you managed to land a pretty hefty spray. Joel only rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t leave it there—you did,” he retorted.

“My shorts, too?!”

You grabbed another fistful of peas and threw it. Joel was able to dodge it right before making it to the other end of the table. He gripped the edges of the wood in both hands and stood stern—imposingly—opposite you.

“Your shorts, your fuckin’ problem, sweets.”

Just when you reached for another green pea projectile, he surprised you and made for the tray right beside it.

Shortly, a glob of garlic mashed potatoes struck the front of your dress and slid slow, almost sluggishly down the pristine pink silk fabric before falling at your feet. Joel’s aim was evidently much better than yours.

You brushed what chunks of food you could get off your chest and pinned him with a wide, incredulous look.

“You’re a Grade A fucking asshole, you know that?”

“You’re a bit of a shithead too, potato tits.”

“FUCK you!”

“Already DID!”

You would’ve flipped the whole table if it were in your power to do so. Would’ve toppled all the tables, kicked the chairs, took a lighter to the curtains and sent the goddamned yacht down in flames if you had to—that was how much you despised the man in front of you.

Instead, you threw your hands up and stormed off.

“Maybe I will fuck Tommy!” you barked as you started toward the stairs, “I’ll fuck your brother’s brains out, and you can screw Ashton all you want, how ‘bout that?”

You’d made it about two feet before Joel grabbed hold of one of your wrists and yanked you back. You didn’t hesitate to throw a gruff—and ultimately fruitless—punch that hit him square in the chest. He didn’t budge.

“You don’t mean that,” Joel sneered. He shook your whole frame with one simple flick of his forearm.

“I’ll tap your whole bloodline like a keg, Miller. Try me.”

Again, you tried to shake him off, but the hand only constricted around you tighter. Then it was walking you backwards, slowly, almost carefully, until your back was to a wall and your eyes were searching his, angry as ever.

“You’d break your daddy’s heart with that one,” Joel said just above you, voice lowered considerably.

“Yeah?” you challenged, “Maybe if I was less of a shithead I would care what my dad thought. But I’m not. So I won’t.”

“Wasn’t talkin’ about your father, darlin’.”

Joel was good.

He was an insufferable ass and he was good.

Then you remembered the radio silence over the past seven days and the fact that he may or may not have fucked someone else earlier that night—possibly right where you were standing—and he lost all appeal real quick. You shoved him hard in the chest once more.

“Don’t play that shit with me. You, of all people—” You made as if to read him the riot act but cut yourself short, deciding it wasn’t worth your time explaining human empathy to a man who believed bootcut jeans and all things Ely Cattleman were peak fashion, and just learned what ovulation was last week. Then, sliding along the wall and trying to head to the stairs again, you felt Joel’s leg slot between your own.

“What did I do?” he said, curious.

Before you could answer, his thigh had stirred in place, grazing lightly over the spot the hem of your minidress had exposed to him. You ignored it.

“Doesn’t matter,” was your non-answer.

Joel seemed intrigued by the ambiguity and only lowered his head to get closer to yours—‘Then why’re ya so mad you’re throwin’ dinner food at me, darlin’?’—puffing warm breaths on your neck and only smiling when you flinched back. He took your response as a cue to keep pressing, both figuratively and physically.

“Just wanted attention or somethin’? That what it is?” Joel’s voice was as saccharine as it was taunting, words paired with a hand circling light across your thigh. He wasn’t moving in, and it was tearing you to shreds inside.

“Fuck your attention, and fuck you, Joel.”

Words hardly reflecting how you felt internally.

Swiftly, then, the hand at your leg was raised to your face—cupping it with a bit more force than you expected. Joel’s grin stretched even wider.

“Attention and discipline,” he mused aloud, “Two things dad never gave his little girl growin’ up, I see.”

Before you could reply, he was squeezing your face even tighter and nodding his head, as if already anticipating your answer. Then, somehow lower, “Such a filthy mouth on her, too. Never knows when to keep it shut and how to be polite to someone who fucked her so nice already.”

You might’ve whimpered if you didn’t also want to throat punch the motherfucker and knee him in the balls. When Joel started stroking your cheek, you groaned instead, and you hoped he would hear it as chagrin, not arousal.

“I can help with both of those, y’know—” His thumb rubbed a little harder, and his leg moved up. You pressed your hands flat to his thigh to keep him from teasing, but the man would do no such thing to oblige you. In fact, he just shifted his leg back and forth…and back, again. A ripple of bliss from the friction sparked low inside you.

“I can give you attention, and I can scrub that mouth clean if that’s what you really need,” Joel continued, “Just say the word, darlin’.”

“Fucker.” That was your word.

And it worked well enough for Joel.

In the next instant, he had you half-carried, half-dragged across the deck and thrown onto the table where you’d lost that dreaded game of stack. Solo cups still littering the surface, and puddles of beer soaking in through your dress, you made a sound of disgust and tried to thrust yourself up, just to fail. You squirmed and swatted at the man standing in front of you, who easily kept you pinned to the surface with one palm laid calmly on your belly.

He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and retrieved his lighter and cigarette pack.

“Someone could catch us,” you hissed, helpless, unsure of what else to say to show you weren’t giving in just yet.

Joel lit up in four seconds flat. He sucked in a breath.

“I roped off the stairs coming up,” he replied.

He what?

You moved back, slowly, on the surface when Joel worked a hand to his belt buckle, and you heard half a dozen plastic cups fall to the floor behind you.

You would not be his date’s sloppy seconds—ever.

Joel yanked at your thighs and pulled you back to be straddling his hips, shrugging his pants down; you couldn’t bear to keep looking when he lowered his briefs.

He took another drag and eyed you hungrily, happy to see you all sprawled out and pretty before him. The tight fabric of your dress had cinched over your hips and left you bare to just panties, making him grow even harder.

“Joel.”

He worked his dick out of his pants and moved the head to trail slow along the seam of your barely-clothed cunt. Even through the lace, he could feel how wet you were. He notched the tip at the space where your panties had parted just slightly to the side and felt your arousal pool even wetter around the end of his member. He grunted.

“Joel, I—”

“Daddy’s gonna give ya attention, sugar. Hold still.”

You couldn’t. Wouldn’t. You splayed your fingers over the hand that was trying to guide his cock into you and clenched your jaw—every carnal fibre in your being telling you not to do what you were about to try anyway.

“You fucked her didn’t you?”

Joel flicked the ash off his cigarette, “No.”

“You brought her here.”

“Had to.”

Your face was flushed and likewise flooded with smoke, curling slow from Joel’s lips before it painted the air an opaque, muddied grey above you. You wriggled your hips away from his, and for once, he didn’t try to stop you.

“I saw you tucking your shirt in. Tommy said you fucked!”

“Tommy’s about one fry short of a Happy Meal, honey,” Joel puffed once more, “He’s always sayin’ shit like that.”

Incredibly, he’d managed to use about a dozen funny words in that old Texas lilt and still say so little to actually answer your question. When the pinch in your brow told him you weren’t quite satisfied, Joel let out a sigh.

“Ash spilled pebre on my shirt. I had to change.”

Oh.

“And you—” you started.

“—have no fuckin’ right to know, one way or the other, because you’re the one who said we’d just ‘fuck and forget it,’ remember?” Joel interrupted, reminding you of your own curt words from your Bronco boning session.

Again, you tried to speak and found yourself spoken for, Joel carrying on as casual as ever as he sucked the last life-breath from his cig and stared you down, cynically.

“Your dad’s the one who made me bring her tonight. Said I seemed ‘down’ since the last gal I fucked wasn’t around—I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was his daughter—and here we are,” Joel smiled, wryly, and flicked his cigarette into the lake. You would’ve liked to tell him littering was a crime that trashed us all but refrained.

You were too busy staring at his lips, wondering why he hadn’t kissed you yet. You reckoned all the pea flinging, swearing, and swinging might’ve played a small part.

At length, Joel slid a new American Spirit out of its pack and wrangled you back to his hips as he lit up again.

“Happy?” he said, after a beat.

You weren’t sure whether to nod or cross your arms. Beckon him in with both hands or kick his bunched-up pants, belt, and boxer briefs away altogether and keep the bratty act going. You didn’t like being wrong.

At any rate, it didn’t matter. He’d called you on your bluff.

Still smoking, still smiling, still happy as a clam at high tide, Joel pressed his length straight up to your folds and watched you squirm on the wood underneath him.

“Gonna listen now?” he hummed.

“Uh-huh.”

Good, his wretchedly deep brown eyes seemed to say. Good that you were here, good that you were spread wide and supine beneath him, good that you’d gone all soft and pliable under his touch and were watching him now with a look that said you’d let him do just anything.

Good that he could fuck you.

Great that he wasn’t planning to—not fully, anyway.

Joel wasted no time taking your answer in the affirmative to slip past your panties and push deep inside your sweet cunt. When your walls stretched and cried all around him, he sighed and gripped your legs even tighter. He gritted the cigarette between his teeth and brought your ankles to rest over his shoulders, sinking in even deeper. Then he had to hold steady inside you and keep you flat on the table in front of him, and just when you whined to fuck me now, Joel, fuck me right now, daddy, please, he stilled. He took a big, long drag and didn’t move an inch.

He’d teach you some discipline one way or another.

“Joel, please,” you groaned again, hands bracing the table to start fucking up and down on his shaft, before he put a stop to that fast and held you firmly in place, “Please, Joel, I need you so fucking bad, daddy, please.”

Joel tapped his ash to the side and ignored your pleas.

He felt your walls contract around him and tried not to grunt. He focused instead on the smoke overhead.

“Wanna say that nicer?” he asked, deadpan. Then, staring expectantly down at you, while you flushed and struggled to stay still, “Keep that mouth a little cleaner?”

Fuck, did he have that father-figure tone down to a T.

You laid there before him and almost forgot his cock was wedged inside you for a second. He seemed so sincere.

“I wan— want you to move, daddy, I-I-I don’t know how else to say i— FUCK!” Your pussy spasmed around him when the tip of his pubic bone grazed your clit. That squeaky clean mouth of yours was nowhere to be seen.

“Mhmm,” Joel nodded anyway, pretending to be observing your behavior as he might for a clinical trial. Like he was testing a new drug, not his dick inside your cunt, practically clenching in Morse code around him.

“Can ya try that one more time, sweet pea? For daddy?”

You could. Try, anyway. Controlling your tongue while he was buried so deep inside you seemed to be a far harder task than you could’ve ever expected, though.

Joel sensed it. Feeling a twinge of pity, he leaned over your body and dug his hips even deeper—not thrusting, but still granting some modicum of friction. The hot, heavy throb of his girth pulsed inside you like your own fucking heartbeat, and your eyes rolled back.

“Fucking shitsucking DICK BITCH CUNT! FUCK!”

Sounding every bit the uncouth novice in a COD lobby chat circa 2009, you knew you didn’t have the faintest hope of earning Joel’s strokes now. You hated yourself for it—and Joel, too, for subjecting you to such cruel and unusual punishment for just needing to fuck him hard.

You were desperate and heated. Five seconds away from yanking your sex off of his and going to town with your own fingers, you felt a palm press down on your tummy.

Damn Joel and his super-sized hands.

You could barely breathe, much less pry yourself off.

Joel was quiet and calm. Stuffing you full and puffing away at his cigarette the whole time. He smirked.

“Ain’t that difficult, honey,” he said, hardly losing his will or his sympathy when you shot a raw glance his way, “Stay still on this cock and ask daddy nicely, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”

He could tell by the look in your eyes you couldn’t stand to play nice—but needed to cum. He watched you swallow your pride, soften your eyes just a bit, and when you felt you might implode from all the feeling, whined,

“Please make me feel good, daddy, please, I need it.”

Joel breathed and eased back just an inch, lowering his hand to thumb softly at your clit. You keened.

“That’s my sweet girl.”

Still just rubbing that bundle and looking down while you came unraveled, Joel thought you perfectly sublime. He’d kill to keep you there like that, eyes rolling and skin soaking the table beneath you both in sweat and arousal. He stared down at the place your bodies were connected—a sliver of his cock visible and soaked with your juices—and he felt a wave of desire crest over his mind. Panting, quietly, he brought one hand to your hip and kept the other working furiously over your clit, trying to ignore the urge to rut inside you. It was self-discipline for him, too.

He wouldn’t let you know that yet, though.

He crushed the cigarette between his teeth and kept still.

“Ya like that, sugar? Like daddy stuffed inside this pussy, makin’ ya beg real pretty for me?” His husky Southern drawl ran like molasses off his tongue, thicker now when he was balls-deep and half-drunk off your cunt.

You watched his mouth, intrigued, and saw a long line of spit drip deliciously from those pretty, stubbled lips of his to your lower ones, making the spot more filthy and warm as your fluids mixed together. Still, Joel didn’t move a thing more than his thumb—but the sounds from you both were growing louder and more desperate.

The gentle squelch of spit, sweat, and arousal running all down your pussy, paired with those noises you made when you were feeling this good and squeezing him tight, was enough to send Joel straight over the edge. Now he didn’t have the strokes or any motion to focus on before him, just you—he flicked his cigarette away the second he sensed you were getting close yourself.

“Sweet little thing,” he cooed, still rubbing in circles, “How’s my baby feelin’?”

You clawed at the table beneath you and knocked your head back once or twice on the wood, humming a quick, ‘Good, daddy, good’ in the most hoarse and pathetic voice you’d ever used, and Joel smiled. You hadn’t cursed out loud in a minute and seemed to be taking his touches well. He’d have to give you some form of reward.

Gently, Joel pulled back and made a shallow thrust inside you. Both your body and his jolted with pleasure.

“FU—n stuff, fun stuff,” you hissed, trying hard to mask the expletive.

In truth, Joel was struggling too. Just one stroke inside you and that coil inside him was about ready to burst.

“Fun, huh?” he teased, keeping his motions down to quick pistons as he laid his palms flat on either side of your head, “Daddy make ya feel fun-ny, does he?”

“Yeah, he does, he— ah, SHIT right there, right there!”

Evidently, he’d found your G spot.

Joel stilled inside you as soon as the foul word escaped.

You whined. Loud. Almost tempted to burst into tears.

“Nononono, that doesn’t count, Joel! That doesn’t—” Your voice was shortly supplanted by a whimper when the man went back to thumbing your clit, hips rendered still once more and cock wedged deep inside your core.

“What’s it gonna take to make you behave for me, huh? Do I have to talk to your daddy again?” Joel seethed.

You shook your head quick and felt him circle your clit even harder, more punishing now. Your body craved the friction from his cock but could barely contain the words that were coming out now. You pinched your eyes shut, feeling your orgasm creeping closer and closer, and whimpered gently, desperately, ‘Fuckfuckfuuuuuck.’

Whether it came down to making terrible plays at stack cup or getting your clit torn apart by Joel’s thumb, you simply could not keep the filthy language at bay.

You weren’t going to listen, that much was clear.

Joel had no choice but to make you learn a different way.

So, prying his fingers and his cock from your cunt, he reached across for your hips instead—pulling you off of the table and pushing you down to the floor, at his feet.

He smoothed a palm over the top of your head and fisted your hair in one hand, his cock in the other, and brought his hot, swollen, slick-coated length within an inch of your face, stroking fast.

Your gaze flitted from the sight in front of you to Joel’s eyes, back and forth, stunned and in utter disbelief. As you felt your own climax crumble and recede from you at once, the sound jumped up your throat before you could stop,

“What the FUCK is your problem, Joel?!”

“There it is,” Joel just flared his nostrils as he jerked himself above you, “There’s that nasty fuckin’ mouth.”

He pulled your head even rougher and tipped your chin back to meet the scowl on his face. Pleasure had almost swallowed the man whole, yet his expression scarcely betrayed a trace of it, eyes cold and jaw clenched tight.

“If that mouth can’t be good for me, can it open real wide and show me how a dirty slut does it?”

You were beside yourself. Holding his gaze like a bomb might go off in his brain any second—something you’d be happy to see—you scowled as well. Begrudgingly, and knowing Joel wouldn’t ease off of this punishment until he’d made you pay for your language, you nodded.

“What’s’at?” Joel snapped, stroking himself even faster, “What do ya want me to do, sugar?”

You gritted your teeth and silently wished they were crushing his balls to powder between them.

“Want…you…to cum…on my face.”

“Little louder, sweet pea, can’t hear ya from up here.”

The sound of his palm working over his cock again and again, shimmery and slick with your arousal soaking it, was almost too much to bear. You watched, forlorn and silently boiling with rage as Joel stared down at you, as merciless as he’d ever been. Mocking, almost, it seemed.

“Want you to…cum on me, please.”

“One more time, darlin’,” Joel pressed, pupils blown wide with desire, “Be real sweet and say it one more time f—”

“I WANT YOU TO CUM ON MY FACE, YOU FUCKER.”

That sparked the first real smile on Joel’s lips you’d seen in a while, and then he was watching you cockily, nodding.

Before you could even think to blink, stand up, or storm off again, you felt a fat, sticky-wet glob of warmth hit your cheek. Then another. Then another. Then another. You winced and flinched back, but Joel held your head in place, in front of his cock, and gripped you firmly as he unloaded rope after rope of his cum all over your face.

By the time he was finished, your skin was glistening. Coated in the stuff and still blinking through strings of the hot, sticky mess as Joel stood over you, chest heaving fast as he pumped himself through his release.

Must be fucking nice.

When the downpour had slowed to a trickle, two thick fingers swiped at a dollop of cum on your cheek. Then, wordlessly, they moved down to your mouth.

“Open,” Joel commanded.

You’d barely parted your lips a quarter of an inch when he pushed both digits inside. Swirled them around in your mouth and made sure to cover every soft, wet contour and crevice before pulling out with a pop.

He wiped at your other spend-streaked cheek and repeated the action, plunging his fingers in and out of your mouth to make sure you cleaned him thoroughly. This was more of an act meant to tease than anything else, you knew, almost demeaning in the way he stood there and nodded his head while murmuring, ‘’Atta girl.’

You hated how much you liked that stupid show of dominance—and, even worse, how good he tasted.

Joel brushed your tongue with another fingerful and watched you bob your head in time. He hummed his approval and scanned your face for any spend left over.

There was a lot. He paused, as if considering something.

“Drop ‘em.” Joel motioned to the straps of your dress.

You did as he said and pulled both bands down at once. When your breasts spilled out of the fabric, you watched Joel lower his gaze and, fixating on the spot you’d just exposed to him, take two—no, three—careful fingers to collect the remainder of himself and spread it downward.

Joel took his cum and smeared it all over your tits.

He was equal parts meticulous, gentle, and gratuitous in doing so, and he took pleasure in every second.

With a heavy-lidded, glossy gaze trained unwaveringly on your chest, Joel rolled each nipple between forefinger and thumb and fell into a trance. Rubbed you up and down every inch he could find and groaned at the sight. Glazing your skin all over with him and savoring it.

You couldn’t deny the feeling of being marked in a way so degrading, dirty, and adoring at once had a dizzying effect on you, too. The look in his eyes, and the soft brush of his fingers, almost quelled your rage entirely.

Almost.

When Joel pulled your spaghetti straps back into place—and you, in turn, back onto your feet—you yanked away. Forcefully. While Joel straightened up, silently cursed his bad back, tucked his dick in his pants, and started to reach for your waist, you jabbed the fastest, fattest, fuck-your-whole-family middle finger in his face and took off.

“Honey—”

“Don’t.”

“But I—”

“Have some goddamn fucking nerve.”

You’d nearly made it to the staircase again, heels turning to start down the first steps, when Joel sidestepped at lightning speed and blocked off your passage. All you saw then was the front of a starch white dress shirt and a light patch of chest hair peeking out from the highest button, crowding your vision, moving in time with every manoeuvre you tried to make around him. He smelled like sweat and fresh citrus. Perhaps a hint of vengeance.

You wouldn’t meet his gaze when he grabbed your face. Tried to shrug him off when he made as if to pull you into a hug—‘Are you off your shit?! Are you?! People are right downstairs’—and Joel just smiled. Grinned like a jackass eating briars, about five times too smug for his own good, and drew you into his chest by gentle turns.

You weren’t sure why you recoiled when he kissed you.

Hell, you’d done it a dozen times before—albeit a bit more frantically, in a way to say ‘I need to fuck you’ when words just wouldn’t suffice—but this one was different. Deeper. Joel was gripping both sides of your face and still grinning as he kissed you, feeling your muscles slacken some and your frame meld gently into his.

You hated it.

“I missed you,” Joel murmured between kisses.

Hated him.

“How’s my baby been, huh?”

Oh, you know, just waiting. Hating you a little. Hoping we didn’t inadvertently create a baby ourselves, courtesy of your prehistoric condoms.

“I missed you.” Gently. Again.

You tensed in his hold when his lips trailed down to your neck. You felt a low flutter. It was like your feet had been glued to the floor and your tongue left wholly immobile; you let Joel caress, kiss, and whisper down your skin like every cell beneath his touch wasn’t seething en masse.

Your stolen climax. Broken condom. Close call with your father and Tommy. Radio silence ongoing for days.

You couldn’t wrap your head around any of it, or him, or how grossly inconsistent the man’s every move upon you now seemed to be with the way he’d acted all week.

Joel slowly descended your body.

“Like I said, honey…you fuck with my head,” he said soft against your dress, then your legs, then the space in between them.

“Makes two of us,” you grumbled back.

You braced your weight against the railing over the stairs just behind you when he slipped your panties to the floor. Then he tucked them snug into one of his back pockets and brought his face to your wet, aching core.

“Discipline doesn’t come easy, does it?” It sounded like something trapped between a question and a declarative coming out from the side of Joel’s mouth.

Fortunately for you, he didn’t try to clarify which of the two he meant, or do much else at all except eat your pussy from that point on. He kissed your thighs, gripped them tighter, then wedged his face between them while you held fast to the metal behind you. You stifled a moan when his tongue traced over the seam of your cunt.

You didn’t have to like the man to love what his mouth could do for you, you silently reminded yourself.

Love it you could—and would. Without shame.

Granted, you were still sensitive as all hell from your last almost-orgasm of the night, but Joel knew how to work his lips and tongue around it. He swiftly lapped between your folds, teased a finger at your hole, and wrapped his warm lips around your clit to suck once or twice, and you were damn near ready to spiral in seconds. You fisted the soft salt-and-pepper hair at the top of his head and rutted your hips in short, shallow motions against him.

“Good girl,” Joel crooned, welcoming each thrust with another swirl of his tongue, “That’s my sweet baby.”

“Joel.”

You traded expletives for the simple repetition of his name, not wanting the pleasure to stop. Joel hummed and sucked and held your legs around him even tighter.

You sighed, almost whined, and dug your fingertips into his scalp, feeling your climax building quick inside you.

Joel’s mouth was working faster, sucking harder, drawing smaller and crueler circles, lapping eagerly against your arousal and giving it everything he had, it seemed, to work you up to your release. He grunted when you yanked hard on his hair but didn’t stop.

In fact, the bastard just kept trying to talk you through it, fluid movements of his own tongue and lips be damned.

“Doin’ so damn good for me, sweet pea, keep goin’.” There was an apology in there somewhere, working hard to atone for the orgasm he’d denied you right before.

Four more flicks of his tongue and a gentle endeavor to pump his fingers in and out, again and again, right above that soft, spongy pad of pleasure deep inside had you teetering over the edge of a cliff.

You tore your gaze from Joel for a second, preparing for that sweet and lusty consummation, when your head turned to the side just slightly. You almost groaned.

Your own hot, flushed, and fucked-out reflection was the first thing to greet you in a sliver of a mirror on the wall. Just beneath you, as you could’ve expected, there was Joel—kneeling between your legs with his chin tipped up, beard coated in moisture and pleasure and warmth. You weren’t sure why the sight from this angle had such a strong effect, but something about the full view of your bodies in motion gave your stomach a pinch. A burn. You ogled the glass and made a sound audibly higher in pitch than a whimper as Joel suckled and tongued at your clit.

You came just like that—gripping the rails, fisting his hair, rutting your hips, and staring implacably at that mirror.

When Joel resurfaced, you were still fully transfixed.

Gawking at how fucking nice he looked between your thighs. How filthy it all was to be seated on his face and cumming for his tongue while the rest of your father’s dinner party mingled blissfully unaware downstairs.

When you saw Joel rise, you jerked your head back.

You weren’t sure why it felt like being caught, but it did.

Just as you began to murmur some half-assed apology his way, you felt hands on your hips and a rock-hard bulge at your rear as Joel spun you round in front of him.

He shoved you flush against the mirror so your tits were pressed up to the glass. He gave you a quick once-over.

Slid the straps of your dress off your shoulders and shimmied the fabric down your chest, once again.

With your breasts splayed out in front of you and your hands pressing hard on the mirror—as if letting up the slightest bit might send you straight through it—you tried to crane your neck. You felt the sticky squelch of cum and fresh spit painted over your chest, muddying up the glass with every movement you made. Your chin dug deep in your shoulder as you cocked your head to the left, eyes searching for Joel’s behind you.

You heard the clink of a belt, followed by a rustle of fabric. Then a hand slamming close beside your head on the mirror, while another worked industriously to free his cock from the confines of his trousers once more.

“Joel,” you breathed, still tender from your climax.

“Hm?”

He was gruff as he rubbed and smacked your bare ass with his cock. Let it rest on the soft, fleshy shelf between you two and teased his length over that space.

“Did someone take his little blue pill today?” you teased.

“Fuck off.” You saw a flicker of a smirk in the mirror.

No way Joel Miller was getting a full-fledged erection twice in the same ten minute span. That shit didn’t happen outside the realm of porn flicks and a woman’s wildest fantasies when it came to men Joel’s age. He knew it just as well as you but tried to feign indifference when he pressed the head of himself to your folds. He did, however, suck in a breath at the new sensation.

He could do this.

He could cockwarm you raw, tonguefuck your cunt, ravage and render you all but brainless on the surface of that mirror, and still have the wits about himself to take another breath. He could show those shit-for-brains college boys he’d been battling for days in the depths of his mind how much better he could fuck you than them.

Really, Joel was just manifesting at this point.

He hadn’t busted a nut and fucked this quick since Bill Clinton had been in office. All hat and no cattle whatsoever for this pussywhipped cowboy.

“Better hope I go easy on ya, sugar.”

“Best believe I won’t.” You would’ve winked if you weren’t so bone-crushingly aroused and fresh off your peak.

Joel had just chuckled, more than a touch nervous, and began rubbing your warmth to coat himself in it—angling his slightly apprehensive penis up to your cunt when you straightened some. Rather than keep your tits to the mirror, you chose to press your back against him, ass snug to his front and eyes roaming wildly over the reflection of your two forms. Both of you flinched when the head of his cock hitched around your entrance.

Joel’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat just over your shoulder. He pressed a kiss to your skin.

“Gotta be the sweetest thing I ever seen,” he whispered into your ear. Meeting your gaze in the mirror and lifting his hips just so before breaching your folds.

He hoped you’d take it for sweetness and not just a vicious strain of anxiety or weakness as he prepared for the first thrust. He’d need a second, a minute—maybe a goddamned hour, if he was being real honest. You were too damn pretty to be fucked by a two-pump chump.

Joel nudged his nose against your ear and tried to stall. Pausing a beat.

“Never been humped and dumped before, yaknow.”

Wait—the fuck?

That came out wrong.

You cocked a brow and tilted your hips. You didn’t seem keen on talking but had no choice but to humor him.

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” you hummed.

Joel balked at his own stupidity, trying, and failing, to remove his foot from his mouth and remedy his words.

“I mean, I— I get it,” he returned, too fast for his liking, “I’m no texter myself, I just…thought, uh, maybe—”

“Miller. Spit it out.”

Your body was all but leaking arousal before him and the man was trying to divert the conversation to…phones?

Joel winced.

Felt his member deflate with embarrassment just a bit.

NO! No. No. Just…fuck. Stay hard. Please, stay hard.

He’d done it to himself. Tried to hamper sex for a second too long just to give his dick a fighting chance at survival and ended up mucking things up supremely. Per usual.

“You never texted me back.” He sounded blunt now. Rushed.

Joel watched you raise both eyebrows.

“Texted you back?” you scoffed.

“Yeah…texted, called, snipchatted, whatever.”

Your face didn’t change despite the glaring Gen X error.

“You never texted me, Joel!”

What?

Suddenly, the dick wedged between your legs and hovering over your cunt seemed to be the last thing either of you could be bothered to worry about.

“I’ve…been texting you all week. Called a few times too.”

“Like hell you have. You ghosted me and went off the grid this whole fuckin’ week—Tommy said so, too.”

Joel cringed again to hear his brother’s name brought up in this context and shook his head. You were wrong.

“512-867-5309. Been trying to talk to you all goddamn week, see how you were, and you never responded,” he said, indignation creeping into his tone against his will.

At last, your expression dropped.

From furious to frowning to just fucking annoyed. Your lips were drawn tight in a line across your face.

“My number is 512-867-5305, dipshit.”

“Huh?”

“5 at the end, not a 9.”

“…No.”

“Yeah…”

Shit.

Joel Miller had made his fair share of flubs in his life, but fucking up the phone number of his best friend’s daughter whose pussy he’d accidentally cum inside the week before seemed almost criminal. Too fucking asinine and rookie-level dense to ever recover from. He blinked.

“Thought you…hated my fuckin’ guts,” he confessed.

You threw your hands up in disbelief, frustration. Fury.

“I do— believe me, I do,” you snapped, “But not for that.”

‘That’ meaning the last time you two bumped uglies. Joel wasn’t sure whether to take heart or step back.

“What’s’at mean?” he asked.

You pushed your feet a little further apart on the floor and pressed back into Joel. He took that as a decidedly good sign and reached for your hip. Then took his cock, again, which had invariably twitched and swelled up at the smallest motion from you.

“Means we’ve got plenty of reasons to hate each other, but fuckin’ ain’t one of ‘em,” you shrugged, angling your ass in the perfect place for penetration. Joel was just about back to full-mast and buzzing as you spoke, “I can get over the whole…old dude taboo—you being dad’s friend and all—I just couldn't stand the thought of you leaving me in the lurch when shit got weird at the end.”

‘Weird’ meaning risky. Virulent. Damn near catastrophic if it ever came to be that one of Joel's swimmers had latched onto one of your eggs and knocked you up. The fear of pregnancy, and every bloodcurdling, awkward conversation to ensue, had been amplified tenfold by the thought that Joel didn't even care one way or the other and couldn't be bothered to text, call, or otherwise show that he didn't totally regret what you'd done in his car. You could handle a clean break, but leaving it on such uncertain terms had been torture. At length, you sighed.

Joel was nosing behind your ear now, a bit less tense.

A little more laid-back and warm this time around, as he, like you, had gotten to exhale a breath of relief realizing that neither of you had deliberately tried to fuck the other over, or ghost, just yet. You'd been pissed at him all night, and he'd been busy barraging a perfect stranger somewhere in Austin with strings of texts and calls all week, but the two of you were ultimately OK. For now.

“But you still hate me, huh?” Joel spoke low against your skin and felt you soften just a little.

You nodded, careful not to slacken too much.

“Mhmm.”

Now Joel was almost glad to have taken that brief, heated detour, because his dick had made a complete comeback and was aching to tease you some more. He grabbed the base of his length and slotted it slow as ever between your folds. Rolled his hips forward and pushed you both a little closer to the mirror. One of your hands flew up to steady yourself, and Joel’s hand followed. He laid his palm over the back of yours and pressed in.

“It’d be a real shame if you do,” he said, smirking as he notched the tip of his cock just within the tight ring of muscles at the groove of your cunt, “For a second there I was starting to think you might’ve liked fucking me, too.”

In the next second, Joel was easing inside you. Feeling you arch into the motion and grabbing hold wherever he could across your front, he pulled you into his chest and felt a streak of coarse pleasure lick up the full length of his spine. Your walls were squeezing him in a brand new way, a novel position, and he was starting to fear there wasn't any place he could fuck you that wouldn't send him veering for release within his first two strokes inside.

He bucked his hips a little something like an amateur, he thought, getting used to taking you like this. You were moaning, holding his fingers between your own atop the mirror as you squeezed your pussy tight around his cock, and he hoped that meant you hadn't minded the few stuttered, desperate strokes he'd delivered at first.

“I love…fucking you, Joel,” you seethed at last.

Then, wordless as it was pointed, finding his gaze in your reflection, ‘I still hate you, Miller. There’s a difference.’

He slammed into your ass and quickly got the sense that you liked it this fast—loving, lusting, or despising him otherwise. Almost needed it a bit frantic and rapid-fire when he was fucking you from the back, he reckoned.

Joel looked you in the eye from his view behind you in the mirror and saw it clear as day. He almost grinned.

You were wildly fucked out and in need of quick release.

For once in his life, he could oblige you on that, easy.

He slid his cock in and out, rutting much quicker than he ever thought you’d want it, and he grunted. Slipped a hand between your thighs and felt you pulse around him, involuntarily, when his fingers found your clit. He could tell by that grip, and those febrile little whimpers, that you were loving this just as much as him and probably were as close, if not closer, to a new, shuddering climax.

Joel plunged deep inside your cunt and drew you closer.

Taking your throat in one hand, he nudged your body into the glass and smirked, drunk with the feel of you.

“Ya like it when I fill this pussy, huh? Love feeling me deep inside this needy little hole?” he murmured, slow and taking care to draw out the syllables in each word.

You nodded that you did. Rocked your hips back to meet his thrusts and moaned.

“I love it, daddy,” you managed weakly, “Love it so much.”

The fingers at your clit increased in speed, and Joel rutted into you even harder, relishing the soft squelch between your bodies as he moved. Then he reached for a fistful of your hair and, instead of pulling back like he might normally have done, he pushed in. He pressed your face in the mirror, turned to the side, and pistoned his hips even faster. Felt your moans spill out across the glass and mix with his own, and he couldn’t help but let a raw, primal impulse take over his thrusts—and tongue.

“You make the prettiest fuckin’ noises, y’know that?” Joel breathed, hunched over and close to your ear.

Before you could so much as acknowledge his praises, bob your head, or moan in response, he shifted the hand in your hair again. This time turning your face toward the mirror, he brought your lips within inches of the glass and made you watch him fuck you, again and again.

You trailed your gaze over your full reflection and almost whined out loud, ripe with desire and ready to cum just seeing how good he looked as he took you from behind.

With his brow furrowed, pupils blown, hair a fucking mess, lips parting slightly with the strain of every grunt and moan, and hips rolling repeatedly, furiously into your own, Joel looked about as handsome as you thought you’d ever seen him. You felt the soft nudge of his tummy behind you, the tightened grip on your hip and in your hair, and within seconds, you were nearly there.

“My pretty. fuckin’. girl—” Joel managed through gritted teeth, each word punctuated with a thrust, “—and her pretty. fuckin’. moans.” Then, bringing his beaming, sweaty expression right next to yours in the mirror, “Ready to cum for me, pretty girl?”

You curled your toes into the floor and nodded, slotting your fingers through his own when he planted a hand above you again,

“So— so close, daddy.”

Joel squeezed your fingers back. Kept your faces damn near side-by-side in the mirror and relished the marked change in your features when he grazed that spot inside. You let out the filthiest, fuckdrunk moan and didn’t need another stroke—you came around his cock with a tight, pulsing spasm, seizing his hand, rocking your hips back into his hard as the pleasure washed over your body.

Joel’s cock absorbed every last delicate throb, hot and heavy enough to send the man spiraling himself. He braced his front tight against your body and kept fucking you through your release, groaning a vicious, desperate bout when he felt that deep-seated urge to spill his seed.

Fuck. He’d have to pull out. Now.

Just as his own climax was close at hand—close as he could ever, or should ever feel it while still inside you—Joel reached down for your hip to pull out and cum all over your ass, but he was brought to a stop. Swiftly.

To his surprise, it was you pulling off of him—sliding off his cock and dropping to your knees as if to take him in your mouth.

Thank fuck.

Joel grabbed his dick as quick as he possibly could and moved to start stroking himself over your face, when your hand closed around his own. Stopping him. Again.

You grinned.

Feeling the slightest twinge of retributive pleasure at seeing him like this, just like he’d had you, your smile stretched even bigger. Joel could’ve wept at the sight.

You brought your lips to his cock and grazed it, barely.

“Wanna try something fun?”

He knew better than to let a moan slip at a time like this.

Not when he was sitting at the dinner table; not when he was surrounded by the people he knew and loved the most. Not when he was celebrating his best friend’s fifty-first birthday, and certainly not when that man’s daughter was currently perched between his thighs, out of sight from every eye at the party but his.

Joel lifted the tablecloth. He almost came on the spot.

This was your idea of ‘fun.’

Payback by any other name would’ve smelled as sweet.

Seeing your mouth open wide and your lips curled tight around his hot, throbbing member, Joel couldn’t help but ache for reprieve, or else a split-second lapse of judgment—one where he forgot all sense of decorum and simply went to town on that pretty little face of yours. But, as it was, the rest of the party was totally oblivious to your absence, and he didn’t want to draw attention to it, or him, by roughfucking your mouth.

That would come later.

No, now he would let you glide your mouth gently over his shaft, leaving trails of thick spit and hints of a shiny pink lip gloss in its wake. He’d let you bob your head softly—self-assured in a pace you got to set—and he wouldn’t lay a finger on your face or let a thrust of his get in the way, because this was all about you giving him the pleasure. Maybe making him squirm just a little, too.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t steal a glimpse every now and then and pin you with an expectant look when he wanted something done his way. The room was dimly lit and everyone in it drunk; Joel would gladly take the risk.

‘You can go deeper than that, sweet pea.’

‘Nope, three-fourths ain’t enough, I need your mouth around me whole.’

‘You did wanna make daddy feel good, didn’t ya, sugar?’

He didn’t have to speak a word of it out loud for you to know what he meant. What he needed. You loosened your jaw and stretched your lips even wider, whining just a little when the head of his cock grazed your tonsils.

“Fuck that feels nice,” Joel said aloud.

You froze.

Then, without missing a beat, you heard him continue just as comfortably, speaking to the people around him,

“Y’all feel that breeze comin’ in?”

Sick fuck. You continued to suck him anyway.

One hand braced tight against Joel’s leg and the other moved shamelessly between your own, and you tried not to moan, but the sound escaped anyway. No one heard it, but Joel felt it reverberate down his shaft, and he gripped his glass of Merlot like a vice. Your dad shot him a curious look from across the table but said nothing.

“Can’t get enough’a her, huh?” Tommy grinned beside him.

“What?” Joel faltered. Set his drink aside carefully.

Down below, you dragged your mouth just far enough to take his tip between your lips and suckle. Joel grunted.

“The wine,” Tommy said, still smiling, “You must love it.”

Joel let out another strangled breath that he tried to pass off as a chuckle and nodded.

“Got me on my fuckin’ knees,” he admitted.

And that was the truth. Starved for air and blinking through tears as you knelt down to blow him, it was still you with the chokehold on Joel, and both of you knew it.

Try as you might to convince yourselves otherwise, the man was enrapt. Too spellbound to turn down your offer of sucking him dry under the dinner table just minutes after he’d almost cum all over your face, Joel was in it, and he was in it deep. It was just that small matter of you being his best friend’s daughter that made him loath to admit it. At any rate, he had your tongue licking strips up his cock and felt a sudden, sharp clench in his stomach.

He knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Neither would you.

Joel couldn’t see it then, but you’d practically soaked your own hand from how hard you’d been rubbing your clit—ignoring his orders not to touch yourself there—so turned on from just sucking his dick and needing to feel relief while you selflessly, secretly pleased him beneath the table. While Joel reached for another draught of wine, you brought one hand to his balls and kept the other at your cunt, triple-tasking like the efficient little slut he needed you to be: sucking, cupping, and rubbing all at once to get the two of you off in one minute or less.

You guided him down to the furthest place in your throat, then pushed him even deeper. You gagged just slightly and felt a hand reach down for your cheek. A thumb began to rub at the tears welled up at the corners of your eyes.

‘Sweet thing hasn’t felt a man this deep before, huh? Wanna swallow some more?’

You nodded that you did. Couldn’t actually hear him now, or see much else besides the soft tufts of hair on his belly, but you could feel a light, heady warmth seep into your brain.

You rutted your hips and just hoped no one dropped a fork nearby. Bucked desperately into your hand and felt the heat start to swell to a whole new feeling, and suddenly you were whimpering, whining on Joel’s cock from under the shade of the table and cumming all over your fingers.

Joel returned a quick smile from your father and cracked a joke about the Super Bowl. Raised his hips just the slightest bit and wiped one of your tear-soaked cheeks.

‘Almost there, hon, keep that throat open for daddy.’

All you could do was cry and try your best. Wild feelings from both the slow, deep facefuck he was giving you and the flurry of euphoric aftershocks coursing all throughout your body made it almost impossible to bear, but you obeyed your sweet and strong and steady-handed Joel and sensed a blossoming desire crop up for something else.

You wanted to taste him as he blew his load in your mouth, flooded your tongue with his spend, and painted every inch of your insides with that hot, sticky stuff.

You needed him whole.

Your Joel.

In tune with your thoughts—or perhaps just overcome with a need to see you before he reached his peak—Joel raised the tablecloth the slightest bit when Tommy wasn’t looking. His gaze locked on yours, and his tongue darted quick between his lips. He cocked a brow. Brushed his thumb again and looked down as if to say,

‘Ya want this, darlin’? Want all of me?’

You gave a soft nod, and that was all he needed.

No sooner had you given him the green light than his cum went pulsing out in ropes, coating your throat and eventually your whole mouth as you held still and took it all.

There was so much more than you thought. So much of Joel that had been waiting to give your mouth a proper fucking glaze that once he’d started he just couldn’t stop. Above the table, your dad shot a pointed look in his direction—‘You good, man?’—and it took every ounce of strength in Joel’s body to grit his teeth tight and nod.

He’d filled so much of your mouth it was spilling out.

You tried to hold steady, keep your movements extra slow. You’d heard your dad’s voice and just knew there’d be a lot more on the line than Joel’s dribbling seed if either one of you fucked up now. Your breath caught in your chest, and you felt too afraid to even swallow.

“I just…came,” Joel started, and your head almost cracked on the wood surface from how abruptly you flinched back,

“—to the realization—”

“—that you…are so…motherfuckin’ old, my friend.”

Your father’s laugh was the first you heard, followed by Tommy, his friends, and a dozen other party guests.

The next thing you felt, to your complete and utter shock, was Joel’s cock brushing your cheek. Then your lips. Then your tongue. He slid his still-hard member through the ‘o’ your mouth had made in awe and started to move in gentle motions back and forth, like a man all but aching to get a feel for your wet, sodden walls.

A man who couldn’t risk a glimpse now, but wanted more than anything to see the mouth he’d just filled.

Your father’s words hadn’t even cooled in the air.

Joel Miller, you sneaky, freaky fuck.

As the laughter subsided, and Tommy scooted back in his chair to take leave of your table, you felt a spark ignite. Whether it was yours or Joel’s or both your perverted minds suddenly alight and insane with the same thought, you couldn’t be sure, but you could make out the sound of a tablecloth flipping back up above you.

Joel slipped his dick out of your mouth and grinned. Took a firm hold of your face under the table so his fingers were coaxing your jaw to unhinge before him.

It was the lowest, slowest, menacing sort of sound you’d ever heard from him before, but it was his all the same.

Speaking to you now, softly, “Show daddy, darlin’.”

You thought you might like to see him that way forever.

Eyes honey-soft and glazed, thumb toying at your lip. Chest heaving up and down in time to your own breaths and growing ragged as you opened your mouth to him. He was sated and somehow unfulfilled—a bottomless pit of raw prurience as he stared down and held your gaze. Hair tousled, pants unbuckled, cock resting comfortably against your cheek, the man looked wonderfully undone and half in love with your sweet face peering up at him.

You couldn’t deny you loved doing this, too.

You’d just wished he saw Tommy before Tommy saw you.

[simplyholl]

The Interview

Summary: After a talk show interview where secrets are revealed, things get heated in your dressing room.

Pairing: Rockstar Bucky x F. Reader

Warnings: Smut. 18+ Only. Minors DNI. Rockstar AU.

See My Masterlist Here

A/N: Sebastian Stan as Tommy Lee has me in a chokehold. So this was born from my tatted, horny daydreams.

"Who is your celebrity crush?" The host of the Midnight Show, Chet Smith asked you. Your newest movie was a box office hit, so you had to do every talk show to promote it. To say you were exhausted is an understatement. Luckily, this was your last stop for today. This show was the most fun because Chet brought out all the celebrity guests together. At least you weren't by yourself answering awkward questions.

The other guests were Red Star, the hottest rock band at the moment. They went viral while playing at their local bar. An audience member threw a bottle at their lead singer, Loki and the whole band jumped off stage to fight. They were offered a record deal the same week.

They are known for their wild videos on TikTok. Women everywhere love them. Currently, they are squeezed on the small sofa with you for the interview. Bucky Barnes, their drummer sat on one side of you, his tattoos drew you in like a moth to a flame. You were doing your best to not stare at him the whole time.

The Odinson brothers, Thor and Loki were on the other side. Loki is the lead singer, his long, dark curls and piercing stare made men and women weak in the knees. Thor plays guitar and he is the band's himbo. He's a charmer, flirting with you the whole interview. Steve Rogers is their bassist, an All-American guy to balance the others out. He plays the part well, flashing his megawatt smile at the live audience. But you can tell there is a darker side to him lurking under the surface.

You consider Chet's question; your PR team warned you about questions like this. "Well, I don't really have one." You shrug your shoulders, as the audience begs for a real answer. "Come on, darling. I know you're lying." Loki smirks, reaching his hand over Thor to rub your thigh.

"If I go first, will that help?" Steve asks, being the helpful guy that he is. You nod smiling shyly at him. "Okay, but when it's your turn you have to be honest." He winks at you, and the audience goes wild. He answers one of your costars. You promise to hook them up later. You feel your cheeks heating up, suddenly embarrassed that you have to answer now.

Chet repeats the question, and you bite your lip, pointing beside you to Bucky. "My celebrity crush is actually this guy." Bucky looks ecstatic, high fiving his band members as they congratulate him as if he has won an award. Thor's answer is a pretty pop star who he had been spotted out with twice already.

Loki's celebrity crush is a famous author whose upcoming book features a main male character who looks suspiciously like him. Dating rumors swirled even though there was no proof, except for a few flirty comments between them on Instagram. When it's Bucky's turn he says you, draping his heavily tattooed arm around you. You smile, grateful that he lied to save you from public humiliation. You were sure he was going to say someone who didn't look anything like you.

You're already dreading what the headlines tomorrow had in store. You and Bucky cuddled up on this sofa would no doubt be on every website. You should have lied, you tell yourself. People will start shipping you, his fans would be saying horrible things about you. You should have said anyone else.

Red Star took the stage to close the show. They were playing their latest number one hit. The audience was on their feet, some girls were crying as Loki's sultry voice came over the speakers. You watched Bucky closely. He played the drums like it was his life's purpose. He tossed the drumsticks in the air, pointing to you and winking as he caught them. It was the sexiest thing you had ever seen.

When their set was over, Bucky walked toward the dressing rooms with you, stopping outside yours. "Thanks for saying I was your celebrity crush back there. I would have been so embarrassed if you would have said somebody else." He flips his hair out of his eyes. "You don't have to thank me. It was the truth." You tell him goodbye, feeling awkward about the whole thing. You turn to go inside your dressing room to change into comfy clothes before you go back to the hotel.

Thick fingers catch your wrist, pulling you back toward him. "I wasn't ready to tell you bye." Bucky's lips curl, the light shines on his nose ring, bringing attention to his face. When you look into his shining blue eyes, you realize you don't want him to leave either. You grab the sides of his leather jacket, pulling him toward you. His mouth is on yours instantly. He presses you against your dressing room door, his large body covering yours.

You tangle your fingers in his long locks, needing him closer. Bucky hungrily kisses down your neck, while one hand travels under your dress. He rubs his thumb against your soaked panties. "All this for me?" You whine when he rubs harder, your clit making contact with the silky fabric. You move your hips, lost in the moment.

Voices echo down the hallway, bringing you out of your horny haze. "Bucky" You whisper, trying to warn him so he has time to stop before they see you. "Shh. I got you." He moves his body, so he is blocking you from view. His fingers are relentless, dipping inside your panties. His rough thumb rolls over your clit, you bury your face into his chest.

"Oh my God, It's Bucky! We are huge fans!" A woman's voice comes from behind him. You aren't brave enough to look, so you keep your face hidden. "Thanks guys. I love meeting fans. So, what's your favorite song?" You try to pinch him so he will get rid of them, but he continues talking about the world tour they are about to go on.

He enters you with two fingers, curling them as you moan out loud. The women look around him, finally noticing you. "Is she okay?" The second one asks. "Yeah, she's fine. She just ate too much so she has a stomachache." His fingers caress your inner walls, thumb rubbing in small circles. The band in your belly snaps, arousal flooding his hand as you come apart. Your legs shake, and you hold onto his arm to steady yourself. You clench your teeth to keep from making noise.

"You better get her inside; she can barely stand." One of the women says. They tell you both goodbye, as Bucky leads you inside your dressing room. "You did so good for me, but I need more." You look at him incredulously. He just made you cum the hardest you ever had in your life in front of two strangers and that wasn't enough.

Your legs are still trembling as he lifts you onto the vanity. Your back hits the cool mirror as Bucky slides your panties down your legs. His hot breath tickles your thighs as he lowers his face, pressing kisses to your inner thighs. He takes his time, nipping your sensitive skin. He licks a lazy stripe up your center, avoiding where you need him most. His tongue sinks inside you, firm nose pressing against your clit.

You cry out, head falling back, knocking into the mirror behind you. It bangs against the wall, hard enough to rattle the pictures hung there. Bucky drinks every drop of you, moaning as you writhe against his face. His plump lips fasten around your swollen nub, sucking and tugging like he can't get enough.

Your shaking legs close around his head, trapping him as you ride out your high. You cry his name, not caring who hears you. Bucky lifts you, slamming you against the wall. He holds you with one arm, the other works quickly to bring his pants down. His cock springs free, pink tip leaking. You swallow hard, intimidated by his size. "You're so big." You shiver, anticipation putting you on edge. He holds you, lining your bodies up.

"You can take it." He snaps his hips up, slamming into you. You try to adjust as he stretches you, wiggling around to see if the stinging will go away. When it starts feeling good, your arms wrap around his neck, holding on as he pulls out, leaving the tip in. He thrusts back into you, bottoming out. You have never felt so full, he fills every inch of you. He sets a steady rhythm, every part of him feels like it was made for you. You pulse around him, your back hitting against the wall as he sinks impossibly deeper.

Bucky bunches your dress around your hips, thick fingers digging into your skin as he fucks you. You try to meet his thrusts, but you're too weak from the explosive orgasms he already gave you. You hold onto him as he uses your body, his ragged breath on your neck brings forth the familiar pressure in your lower stomach.

"You're doing so good. Fuck! You take me so well." He praises, moving your thigh higher up his torso. He holds it in place, tilting his hips. The new angle makes your vision blur as he deliciously drags against a place you were sure was a myth until this very moment. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as you shatter around him.

Bucky's thrusts grow brutal, taking what he needs from you. "Oh fuck" He moans as he spills inside you. For a moment, you just look at each other, trying to catch your breaths. Thankfully, he knows you can't stand on your own, so he carries you to the sofa. Your dress is still around your waist, arm over your eyes. You can already feel a dull ache in your stomach where he had been just moments ago.

"Do you mind?" Bucky asks, pointing his phone toward you. You narrow your eyes, not understanding. "You're just so fuckin' hot and I wanna remember this." He says, his meaning finally dawning on you. You nod, almost too tired to speak. He angles his phone camera toward you. "Fucking perfect." He examines the photo he just took before showing you.

Your hair is disheveled, giving you the appearance of being caught in a windstorm. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes blown wide with lust. The top of your dress barely contains your breasts. The bottom is by your hips, your exposed cunt glistening with his cum. Bucky set the picture as his phone's background. You protested because you looked like a mess. Bucky stopped your arguing with a kiss. "You know what you look like?" He asks, smiling wide as he turned his phone screen toward you. "What?" You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling insecure. "Mine."

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[hayoomii]

ILYTOW⋆˚࿔

500ish words / tsukishima kei x f!reader

fluff , use of Y/N , sweet kisses , tsukki being pretty cheesy tbh

“Tsukishima…”  Y/N’s voice is a mere whisper, barely audible over the quiet melody drifting from the speaker.

“Hm?”  He cocks his head to look at her.  The blond is caught off guard, however, when he notices just how close she is.  And as if it is second nature to him, his gaze flickers down to her lips as quickly as lightning strikes.  Shit, he thinks.  He hopes she didn’t notice.

“What?”  The boy asks more adamantly this time, faux annoyance adorning his features.

She giggles lightly, “You’re really good at that, y’know…”

“Good at what?”  Tsukishima’s eyebrow quirks up.

“Acting mean,” this time her eyes look down at his lips, “but you’re lucky I know better.  You’re too nice to me.”

At this point, the space between them is rapidly closing, and Tsukki only has time to gulp and chuckle nervously before that distance is nonexistent.

Y/N’s lips are soft.  Her kiss is light, and Tsukishima can't help but let out a breath through his nose close enough to a whine.  He doesn't understand how she can make him feel this way so easily.  It's almost like he could start floating at any moment.  Or maybe his heart would race right out of his chest - rushing to burrow itself closer to hers.  Not that he would complain, though.  Deep down, he thinks it’d be happier that way…

Her nose nudges against his as she tilts her head slightly, pressing further into him, now gliding her gentle hands up his chest and around the nape of his neck.  She fiddles with the short blond tendrils there briefly before fully embracing him.

After a few moments, she pulls back.  Tsukshima’s lips subconsciously follow hers – like it’s some natural instinct to keep them melded together – but he’s stopped by a light peck on the tip of his nose.

He opens his eyes this time, lashes fluttering in a daze as he takes in the image before him.

She’s beautiful.

Tsukishima sighs imperceptibly.  He knows if she could read his thoughts she’d smack him for thinking such lies.  But, they’re not lies. And, he wishes, more than anything, for her to believe it too.

“Kei,” he swears he could get drunk just off her voice, “you’re so pretty.”

The boy blinks slowly once, then twice before finally registering her words.  And, without even thinking, the next words slip out of his mouth.

“That’s my line.”

If it were any other man than the one and only Tsukishima Kei, it wouldn’t have been so surprising.  But, it is him, and the shade of red that flushes across Y/N’s entire face, and down past the collar of her shirt, is almost record-breaking for the amount of time it occurred in.  In order to hide her embarrassment quickly, she slumps forward, face resting comfortably in the crook of his neck.

“Stop,” she mumbles, “that was too cheesy…”  Tsukki chuckles at her barely audible statement, trying not to squirm from her tickling breath.

“Don’t try to hide the fact that you liked it.  And, that makes you cheesy,” he whispers directly into her ear, which earns a quiet groan from the girl.

She pulls herself halfway out of her hiding spot but stops to leave a chaste kiss on his jaw.

“You’re stupid,” she says plainly.

“Yeah, yeah.  I love you too, or whatever.”

notes : this is the very first fic i have ever written with the intention of posting, so please be gentle! let me know what you think! i hope to post more in the near future <3

song : Peppers (feat. Tommy Genesis) by Lana Del Rey

Divider from saradika-graphics !