#with hand washing clothes and clotheslines

[moonfromearth]

Chores... Bleh 😝

[strang3lov3]

Dirty Laundry

Joel's best kept secret is the washer and dryer he's not supposed to have. Your best kept secret is that you've been using that washer to get yourself off.

Tags - 18+, smut, fingering, cunnilingus, masturbation on a washing machine, dirty boxer sniffing (you fucking freak), fantasizing about a dirty old man, unprotected piv, creampie, curmudgeon joel talks you through knife safety, washing machine repairs, and overstim. 8k words, idk what the fuck happened. Thank you to @noxturnalpascal , @beefrobeefcal , and @papipascalispunk for helping me edit this monstrosity and @joelsgreys for letting me scream about washers and dryers for days <3 A/N - i have worked harder on this than my finals, but that should surprise no one. i only have one more left and then you should be seeing more of me this summer <3 i have a lot a lot a lot planned and I've been so excited to share new shit with you. Roman girlies, I haven't forgotten about you. He's up next. Anyway, you maniacs know what you’re here for, so please enjoy.

Joel’s best kept secret is his Whirlpool brand washer and dryer set, which is hidden deep in his basement. You stand before it now, loading your dirty laundry into it, using what is definitely too much of Joel’s detergent. 

Perhaps it’s more accurate to say his washer and dryer set was his best kept secret, until you came along and forced his hand. Everything was fine, and then you showed up, both yourself and your basket of laundry soaking wet, leaving Joel with no choice but to lend you a hand. Biggest mistake of his life. 

As great as Jackson is, it still comes up short sometimes. Not with everything; you’re beyond blessed to live in the safety of its walls. Just technologically, sometimes it can leave you missing the finer things. It's not Jackson’s fault society is twenty years into an apocalypse, thus running on twenty-plus year old appliances. The older ovens, refrigerators, and other appliances that were built in the seventies to the nineties or so are surprisingly doing alright, but the ones built when manufacturing began to take a turn for the worse around the later nineties and 2000s are beginning to crap out, especially the washers. God, you hate laundry day. The washers at the laundromat in Jackson always give you a hard time. Week after week, your chosen washer won’t start, or it’ll stop mid-cycle. The laundry attendant, Patti, often helps you wash your clothes by hand which is nice, but still frustrating for you both. 

On a busy and gloomy Sunday a couple months back, you were lucky enough to pick one of the less temperamental washers and hardly had to fight or beg and plead with it to get it to wash your clothes. However, your luck ran out when it came time to dry, your dryer wouldn’t run. Refused to start, even with Patti’s help. Worse yet, every other dryer was in use at the moment.  You were shit out of luck. Patti offered you a sympathetic smile and sent you home with a baggy full of clothes pins and a wagon to carry your basket of sopping wet clothes. The clothespins were a nice gesture, but didn’t help much as you didn’t have a clothesline. And - you had to laugh - most of them were broken. Oh dear, sweet Patti.

Once at home, you did your best to hang up your clothes on your porch, laying them out over the thick wooden railing, securing them with rocks. The wind was blowing something fierce that day, and then you felt it – a raindrop. And then another, and another. Before you knew it, you were caught in a torrential downpour, with your clothes blowing every which way. Working to gather your clothes as quickly as possible, you haphazardly chucked the rocks that were keeping them still in every direction, your neighbor Joel interrupting the task when he came outside and started to shout at you. Joel’s a man that can only be described as crotchety. A curmudgeon, even. 

“The fuck are you throwing rocks at my window for?” he shouted, but you couldn’t hear him over the sound of the wind and the rain smacking your porch. 

“What?” you yelled back, “Joel, I can’t hear you.” 

“ROCKS,” he shouted again, “Why are you throwi–” Joel realized it was a lost cause then. He could see in your face that you couldn’t hear him, you looked puzzled and annoyed for a moment before you returned to throwing rocks and gathering clothes. “Fuck it,” he mumbled to himself. Through the pouring rain, he marched across both his and your lawns and right up the steps of your porch. “What are you doing?”

“I was at the laundromat and the dryer stopped working so Patti gave me clothespins but I don’t have a clothesline so I tried to lay them out on my porch with rocks so they could dry but then it started to ra–” Getting the picture, Joel had stopped listening to you and joined you in gathering your clothes tossing stones back into the rock edging surrounding your house. “What are you doing?” you asked. 

“Nothin’, just– come on. Let’s go – we’re goin’ to my house,” he answered, dumping the last of your clothes into your basket. 

“Why?”

Lightning shoots from a nearby cloud, with booming thunder following suit. Joel’s soaking wet, as are you. His hair was dark and stuck to his forehead, his thin t-shirt clung to his body, outlining his soft, pillowy tummy and belly button and his thick, muscular biceps. “Go, go, go,” Joel shouted, waving you away. “Just go. Move.” he grunted as he lifted up your laundry basket and hauled it across the grass in quick strides. He held the basket on his hip as he opened his door for you, guiding you inside with a push to your lower waist. 

Your shoes squeaked as you followed Joel through his house. He took your basket down his basement stairs, “Be careful for me, stairs are steep,” he warned you, “Don’t need you crackin’ your skull open. Got enough shit to deal with.” It was sweet, knowing that he was looking out for you – even with the irritation lacing his tone. 

You couldn’t believe your eyes as you saw what Joel had led you to. A washer and a dryer, olive green in color. He opened the door of the dryer and shoved your wet clothes inside it, then took off his own soaked shirt and pants and tossed them in too. “They’re clean,” he told you. 

In another lifetime where the world doesn’t go to shit and fungus is the least of your problems, the mundane appliances in front of you would be the very last thing on your mind. You’d be focused on Joel, watching rivulets of water slide down his jaw, past his Adam’s apple and pool in the hollow of his throat. You’d be tracing the outline of his body with your eyes, following that thin line of hair that spreads down his lower stomach, disappearing under his boxers. You’d be eyeing his thick bulge and the way that if you squint, you could see the outline of his cock. But in this life, in this moment – where the world went to shit a long time ago – you’re more amazed by the washer and dryer he stands next to. “This is why I never see you at the laundromat? The whole time, you’ve had a washer and dryer?” you asked, astonished. 

“M’not supposed to, but yeah,” Joel answered, shutting the dryer door before turning to you with his chin tilted down, eyebrows raised. Don’t you go tellin’ anyone, now.”

“I’m gonna tell Patti.”

Joel looked betrayed and puzzled. “I’m doin’ you a favor,” he reminded you.

“I know.”

“You want me to dry your clothes or not?” You crossed your arms and bit the inside of your cheek as you shrugged. “Oh, Christ,” Joel grumbled under his breath. “Why the hell would you go and rat me out?”

“Because, Joel, ” you began explaining, “All of the washers and dryers are breaking and you’re hoarding your own? I don’t think so – if everyone else has to share the washers, then you do too,” you scolded. “It’s selfish.” 

“Life ain’t fair, sweetheart.” You stared at Joel for a moment before turning on your heel to go tattle on him, just like you swore you would. “Wait–” Joel grabbed your arm, stopping you. Despite being long gone from Boston QZ, Joel couldn’t quite shake those smuggling and bargaining habits of his. You were serious about this threat, and he knew it. You’d march your ass through the pouring rain to go snitch on him to Patti. And really, the worst that would’ve happened to Joel would be a scolding from Maria and the washer and dryer removed from his home and placed in the laundromat. It’s not like he’d be placed in a pillory and have rotten tomatoes thrown at him. But still. Joel liked his washer and dryer. He sighed. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything, Joel. I just want to better our community.” 

Give me a break. “What do you want,” he repeated, his voice lower. 

You pressed your lips in a thin line, eyeing those pretty olive green appliances of his. It’s not a far walk to Joel’s house… And you wouldn’t have to wait in line to wash your clothes behind twenty other people. You did want to better your community, that much was true. But you weren’t opposed to bettering your own life. “Let me use your washer and dryer. Whenever I want.”

Joel was quick to counter in a stern voice, “Twice a week, tops.” 

“Three times,” you tried.

“Once,” Joel lowered his offer and then looked at you with his eyes squinted, his head cocked to the side. “Who does laundry three times a week?” 

It was a fair point. Even with your very own washer and dryer, you wouldn’t do that much laundry. “Fine. Twice,” you agreed, and Joel held out his hand for you to take and you shook on it. His palm was warm and calloused, his grip firm. In that moment you met his eyes, taking in the beauty of his face. Those sparkling, big brown eyes and the beautiful curve of his aquiline nose. Your eyes traveled lower still, and it hit you both at that moment - the realization that Joel was wearing nothing but his boxers, and that you were still shivering in your cold, wet clothes. Joel dropped your hand quickly and grabbed a clean t-shirt from one of his own laundry baskets on top of the dryer. “Here. You can change into this and toss your clothes in there too, f’ya want.”

“Thanks,” you said quietly, taking the shirt from his hand. “Do you have something to wear?”

“I’m a little behind on laundry, actually…” Joel trailed off, scratching the back of his neck. You scoffed and chuckled at that. The luxury of his very own washer and dryer, right in the comfort of his home, and Joel had the audacity to be behind on laundry. “Uhh, anyway. You just turn the knob on the dryer to ‘high’ and press the start button. I’ll give ya some privacy to change, you can meet me upstairs when you’re done,” he said, and then shuffled past you. 

Once Joel was up the stairs, you took off your clothes and put them in with the rest of the clothing in the dryer. You changed into Joel’s t-shirt, the fabric was soft with time and many wearings, and it smelled like him despite being washed. It was a muted teal in color, littered with a couple of bleach stains here and there. You liked it. 

Upstairs, Joel made a couple of mugs of hot tea to warm you both up. “Honey?” 

“Yeah, Joel?”

“N- no, like…Was askin’ f’ya wanted honey in your tea.”

“Oh.” Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “Y– yes please. Thank you.” You felt heat rise to your cheeks. What a stupid thing to say. You watched as Joel stirred a bit of honey into your cup of tea, smirking as he then handed you the mug. Asshole. “Thought you were a coffee drinker,” you mused awkwardly, attempting to change the subject after taking a sip of the hot liquid, “You like tea?”

Joel grimaced in disgust as he took a sip of his own tea. “No. Just tryin’ to be polite for ya.” 

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it, you know,” you smiled into your mug. 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Aaand there it is. Curmudgeon Joel was back, Neighborly Joel never lasted long anyway. 

You sat on Joel’s couch, warming up with your cup of tea. Joel had noticed goosebumps on your thighs and pulled a blanket over your lap. He sat next to you with his mug steaming in his hands and just stared at you, not even realizing how deeply he was admiring the way his shirt hugged your curves just right, highlighting all the right parts of you. He jolted when he felt his cock thicken in his boxers, spilling his scalding hot tea all over his bare thighs. “God bless it,” he swore. Without thinking, he pulled the blanket from your legs and covered his own lap to hide his growing erection from you. 

“Joel, what the fuck?” 

“Nothin’. Just– m’cold,” he lied. “Jesus fuckin’- just - c’mere,” Joel huffed as he patted the spot next to him and urged you closer, then laid the blanket back over your legs. You sat shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh as you sipped your tea and Joel’s went cold. Dork. 

Moments passed. You sat in silence, the only sound was the rain pounding against Joel’s windows as your heart fluttered in anxiety, or maybe excitement. You might’ve even called it butterflies in your tummy. But you knew better. It was just the close proximity to Joel. And the fact that you were wearing his shirt, and he was practically naked. All of it pretty insignificant, honestly. It was basically nothing.

Joel finally spoke first, “Was thinkin’ it’d be best if you’d come by at night, when I’m on patrol or somethin’. Nobody’ll see you with your laundry and it’ll stay our lil’ secret, yeah?” You nodded, still a little bashful with everything that had happened. You aren’t often like that. It’s cute, Joel thought. “An’ you can use my detergent and whatnot. Whatever you need, s’yours.” 

“Thank–” an especially bright flash of lightning followed by nearly deafening thunder interrupted you. You startled and sort of hurled yourself closer to Joel, grabbed his forearm and held it tight. It was just a reflex, probably. Basically nothing. 

“It’s just a storm, sweetheart. Ain’t gonna bite ya,” Joel teases with a grin. 

“Oh, shut up,” you let go of his arm and missed the warmth of his skin beneath your palm almost immediately, but your longing for his touch was quickly soothed. Joel wrapped his arm around you and pulled you into his side as you listened to the sounds of the storm together. You stayed like that, inhaling the sweet scent of him, masculine and heady. He smelled like the rain, too, and the hair on his underarms tickled your skin but you didn’t mind. When your laundry dried, he carried your basket home for you. You thanked him and moved to shut the door, but Joel stopped it with his hand, “Washer can be sorta delicate sometimes, so just be careful with it.”

“Noted,” you replied. “See ya, Joel.”

“See ya, hon.”

A few nights later, you returned to his home with your basket of laundry. Joel was gone, on patrol as he often is at night. Doing the laundry was uneventful , even though you probably used too much detergent, but whatever. Joel didn’t have to know. The next time you did laundry, Joel was at home. He told you not to worry about whichever nights you come by, that he’d always leave the washer and dryer empty in the evenings for you to use. He was even generous enough to make you dinner that night. 

It all worked out. Joel’s washer and dryer stayed unknown to the rest of Jackson, and your laundry was cleaned in a much more efficient way. There really weren’t any flaws in your and Joel’s system, as long as you didn’t include the one laundry night where Joel was gone on patrol again, but had come home just as you were leaving. You bumped into him accidentally, causing a lacy pair of your panties to fall right out of your basket and onto his shoe. He bent down and picked them up for you, not even realizing what he was holding. “Oh. My bad,” he blushed, once he recognized the garment. “I’ll just…” and put them back in your basket. From that point forward, he was always careful to stay out of your way. Aside from that it really did all work out. 

-

After loading your clothes into Joel’s washer, you shut the washer door and turn it on. You make your way upstairs and there’s a note on Joel’s table – Leftovers in the fridge are yours if you wanna heat them up.

Opening the fridge, you see a neatly packed container of what looks to be chicken and vegetables. Yum. God, you’ll miss these vegetables when it gets cold again. You take advantage of the offer and heat up the food in a pan on the stovetop, humming to yourself as you stir the food to keep it from burning. A light flickers above you. Weird. It flickers again, and then finally goes out. But it’s no big deal, you’ve seen in Joel’s basement that above the washer and dryer is a shelf full of supplies and you know there’s a couple of bulbs there. You go back downstairs where the washer hums, working its way through the cycle.

“Hmm,” you hum to yourself. You’d never quite realized just how high up that supply shelf is. And the bulbs are in the middle of the shelf, so there’s no good way to get them without climbing on top of the washer, which Joel would probably kill you for doing. He did ask that you be careful with his fragile washer, after all. Whatever. It’ll take like six seconds, tops. You hoist yourself on the washer and first try kneeling on it to see if you can reach one of the bulbs. No luck. You stand on your feet then, raising yourself up carefully, slowly, feeling the washer shake slightly beneath your feet. Joel would be absolutely irate if he saw you like this now. When you finally grab one of those light bulbs, you carefully lower yourself to a seated position on the washer to catch your breath. You’re not usually prone to vertigo, but Joel’s wobbly washer brought the dizziness on. You know better than to try and move right now, so you just settle yourself down to avoid fainting.  

The washer vibrates under the flesh of your thighs. It’s a gentle sensation, lessened by the angle you’re sitting at. But if you focus really hard, you can feel it in your core. Curious, you spread your legs and turn to the corner of the washer, tilting your hips to the floor, and oh, this is it. You’re not even thinking about potential consequences when you shimmy your shorts and panties off, then find that sweet spot once more. The metal of the washer is cool against you as it vibrates, sending sweet little buzzes through your hot core. You’re not quite wet yet, just enjoying the sensation. Letting it build and build, seeing where it can get you. You let your mind wander, not really thinking about much in particular. The low hum of the washer fades away in your mind and you’re starting to become wet. Shifting your position, you extend your arm to find something to grab onto when you feel fabric. Joel’s clothes. He’s still a slacker with keeping up on his dirty laundry. Usually it would irritate you. It does irritate you, this exorbitant waste of an advantage he has. You look at the shirt in your hand, the same shirt Joel had lent you. You think back to that first time you did laundry here at Joel’s, how he sat next to you nearly naked. The feel of his skin and the smell of him - sweat and rain and musk. And Joel being the beautiful, incognizant man he is, probably had zero clue of how sexy he looked. Or smelled, for that matter. 

With Joel now on your mind and his shirt in your hand, you decide to experiment, create a better ambiance. You keep those images of him in your mind, those feelings too. You remember the low timbre of his voice, the rain splashing against the windows, the weight of his arm wrapped around your shoulders. And with his dirty t-shirt clutched in your fist and its armpit pressed against your nose you remember his scent. Smell is a powerful sense, closely linked to memory and emotion, his shirt and what it’s doing to you is a testament to that fact. Legs spread wide, your hips angled down with your clit pressed to the corner of Joel’s washer, the machine vibrating under you as you inhale his scent deeply - you’re back in that memory. And then some. 

In your mind, your back on Joel’s couch. You can smell him, feel him, and if you really concentrate, you can even taste him. You’re on your knees and he’s drawing lazy patterns on your back as you suck his cock and fondle his balls, and he’s moaning, grunting and whimpering your name. He tastes like he smells, heady and all masculine. He grips the back of your neck and lifts you up, guides you to straddle his hips. His forehead pressed against yours, he notches the tip of his cock inside you and pulls you down slowly, careful so as not to hurt you but it does, of course it does. Not that you mind, you love the stretch and the ache of his thickness splitting you in two. You rock yourself, grind your clit against that unruly patch of hair at the base of his cock. You’re coming, you’re coming, you’re coming. 

You’re coming. Loudly, whimpering Joel’s name as you rut against the vibrating machine. As you finish, so does the washer. It sings you a little chiming song indicating the load is done washing. You can’t help but giggle at that as you bask in the discovery of this fortuitous delight. You’ve got private access to a washer and dryer and a vibrator now too? Lucky, lucky, lucky. 

God, Joel’s shirt smells good. You inhale it deeply, wondering if he wears cologne. It smells almost woodsy…smokey, even. 

Fuck. You’re smelling smoke. 

You pull on your pants and sprint up the steps, racing to Joel’s kitchen only to find that the chicken and veggies you were heating up are no more. They’re black and shriveled, cemented to the stainless steel pan, and there’s no salvaging that. No amount of scrubbing can erase your masturbatory mistake. Fuck, Joel’s gonna kill you. Your only choice is to conceal the evidence. Surreptitiously, you take the pan and hide it under a bush outside Joel’s backdoor.

You’ll be more responsible next time - yes, there absolutely will be a next time. Gas off before you get off. 

The next time came and went. And the time after that, and the one after that. Laundry was always your least favorite chore, but with access to Joel’s washer and dryer and this new trick up your sleeve, it’s not so bad. Getting off on Joel’s washer has become a weekly thing and it’s been lovely, relieving, dirty, and exciting, but you’d be lying if you were to say it’s been perfectly fine the whole time. 

You’ve been abusing the poor machine. It’s no secret. You get every bang for your buck out of the washer, taking full advantage of Joel’s twice a week offer and then some. Some nights you’ll sneak over and do an extra load, wash a blanket or something just to make the washer run for your masturbatory purposes. And so, the vibrating sensation the machine produces has begun to weaken. In order to compensate, you’ve been rocking yourself harder on it, which probably isn’t helping. But it’s still washing your clothes, right? 

…Yes. Mostly. It still washes, but it’s become sort of finicky. And the door doesn’t quite shut the way it used to, and it makes an odd noise now that it never made before. 

Tonight you’re at Joel’s doing a double load of laundry. There were no ulterior motives on your part when you came over, honestly and truly. Your first load is drying, the second load is in the washer. Joel’s home tonight, he’s gonna cook you dinner like he always does when he’s around. For such a grouch, he wears his heart on his sleeve. 

It would be more accurate to say you’re cooking dinner together. Joel came home with a basket full of fresh vegetables from the market and actually put you to work, his reasoning being that he was starving and wanted dinner ready yesterday, and that having your help cutting up the vegetables for the meal he was making would have dinner ready that much sooner. He places a cutting board in front of you and hands you a knife, “Chop chop,” he says, then laughs at his own pun as he rifles through some cabinets. “Missin’ a saucepan…” he mumbles to himself. Oops.

You start by peeling the carrots. As you begin to chop them, you realize he didn’t give you any sort of instruction. “Joel?”

“Yeah, hon.”

“How small do you need me to cut the carrots?”

“Uhhhh,” he thinks. “Lemme see.” Joel turns around and watches you with a look of disappointment and repulsion painting his features. “What’s the matter with you?”

“What?” you ask defensively. 

“Why are you tryin’ to cut off your fingers?”

You look down at your hand holding the carrot and your other hand holding the knife, then up at Joel. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “I’m not trying to cut off my fingers.”

“Sure looks like it to me. Is that always how you handle a knife?”

“Yeah,” you reply, “Why?”

“‘Cause you’re gonna cut off your damn fingers, dammit, that’s why. C’mere,” Joel stands behind you where you stand at the island, then lifts up your left hand and curls your fingers underneath themselves. “Keep your fingers like this,” he instructs. “Holdin’ your fingers out flat like that are a sure fire way to cut ‘em off. Now show me how you chop.” 

With your fingers in the proper position now, you begin to cut the carrots. They wobble beneath you, you hate the way Joel has you holding them. “This is uncomfortable,” you tell him. 

“You know what’s more uncomfortable? Missin’ fingers. Keep goin’.” You groan but keep chopping per his demand. He’s pressed against your back, one of his palms lays flat against the countertop, semi caging you in as he watches you work. “Okay, okay, stop. You’re makin’ me nervous. Gimme this.” Joel wraps his hand around yours on the handle of the knife. He moves the knife for you, cutting the carrot slowly, your hand securely in his. “You’re liftin’ the knife too much, sweetheart. Just rock it back and forth for me. Just like this,” he whispers, showing you how he rocks the knife in a fluid motion to cut the carrots. His hands are warm, his grip on your hands is firm. His breath is hot and tickles your ear, sending goosebumps erupting down the back of your neck. He chops the carrots quietly, and you feel him against you - the rise and fall of his chest and tummy with each inhale and exhale he takes, his wiry scruff kissing the side of your face. “That’s it,” he praises, “Good girl.”

Fuck. His words go right to your core. As if him holding your hands and caging you in to teach you how to cut vegetables wasn’t enough, he had to call you ‘good girl’ as well. That had to be deliberate on his part, you’re almost certain of it. And now you’ve got to pay his washer another visit. His fault, honestly. “Laundry,” you blurt out, pushing his hands off of yours and shrinking away from his hold. “Sorry. Gotta check the laundry.”

“Oh. Alright, then.” Joel watches you pace down the basement stairs and listens to you pretend to check on your clothes, opening and shutting the washer and dryer doors. He’s waiting for you to come upstairs, but you never do. “You comin’ upstairs?”

“Yeah, just a minute,” you call back.

“There’s spiders down there, you know. Big an’ fuzzy too.” 

“I’ll be fine,” you yell as you unbutton your shorts and pull them down your legs. “I don’t mind them.”

Your reply immediately has Joel feeling suspicious of you. Even a mention of a mere ant should have sent you running into his arms and pleading with him to get rid of it. On more than one occasion, Joel’s woken up to you pounding on his door in the middle of the night begging him to come kill a spider that’s in your bedroom. And he always does, of course, even when the spider is miniscule and simply minding its business in a corner somewhere. He’ll scoop it into the palm of his hand and set it outside in a bed of flowers, call you a wimp and be on his merry way, grumbling the entire walk home. He wonders why the hell you’re so brave all of a sudden. 

A loud, clunking noise interrupts the silence. “Oh, fuck,” you swear. And Joel’s deaf, but not deaf enough to not hear you. “What was that?” he calls from up the stairs. 

“Nothing!”

Joel knows it wasn’t nothing, it certainly didn’t sound like nothing. You quickly pull your shorts and panties back on when you hear him stomping down the stairs to investigate. Wracking your brain to think of a lie to tell Joel, you realize you’re fucked, utterly and completely. It would’ve been more appropriate to think of one before now, probably around the time the washer started to make weird noises. Now you’re faced with god knows what consequences. 

Joel greets you with a puzzled and angered expression. “What the hell happened?”

“I d– I don’t know. Just something… Happened, I guess,” you stutter. Subtly, you stuff the used pair of his boxers you were smelling down the back of your shorts to hide the evidence of your even dirtier secret. Joel sees that you’re avoiding eye contact, looking up and away, scratching your head. The silence hangs heavily in the air and Joel sees the guilt on your face and that your shorts are undone for some reason. “You have ten seconds to tell me the truth before this becomes a much worse day for us both.”

“Nothing happened–”

 “Nine, eight…”

You fold instantly. “I sit on it,” you confess, Joel exhales in frustration. “Sit? As in… this is a regular occurrence, you’ve been sittin’ on my washer,” Joel asserts. You nod in confirmation. “Why.”

 “I don’t know,” you shrug, another lie. 

“Well, how much have you been sittin’ on it?” 

“Just like…a lot, I guess.” You look down at your feet, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.  

“Why?” he asks again.

“It…uhh…sort of…” you mumble, picking at your fingernails. 

“Sort of what?”

“Vibrates.”

Joel’s face falls at the admission. “You’re not serious,” he says, but he knows you are. “Oh my god.”

“Stranger things have happened, right?” Your voice wavers as you try to soften the blow with a joke. 

“Unbelievable,” Joel pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “No. Stranger things than you have not happened, sweetheart.” After taking a few deep breaths, he pushes you to the side and reaches for the shelf above the washer for a toolbox. He takes out a putty knife and wriggles the front of the washer off, then drops to his knees to inspect the washer. “Did I not ask you to be careful with it?” It’s a rhetorical question. Joel groans when he sees what’s broken inside of the washer. 

“What is it?”

“Belt’s broken,” he answers. “You’re lucky s’fixable.”

“Oh,” you say. “Well, it’s good you can fix it, right?”

 “Oh, no. You are fixin’ it, my darlin’. You broke it.”

Joel’s out of his mind if he thinks you’re putting his washer back together. “I don’t know how,” you tell him. You’ll make it up to him in any other way than this, but there’s no way he’s serious. Besides, he’s now the first to know that your track record with washers isn’t to be trusted.

 “I’ll walk you through it,” Joel replies plainly. “Get down there. On your knees, sweetheart.” You roll your eyes at him. “Now,” he says, unimpressed with your defiance.

You drop to your knees in front of the washer, looking for the broken belt that Joel speaks of. You find one of the big and fuzzy spiders he was talking about instead. “Jesus!” you yelp, launching backwards and nearly knocking Joel over in the process “There’s a spider, Joel - kill it, kill it, kill it, Joel - kill it, please,” you beg. 

“Oh for Christ’s sake, it’s harmless.”

“Joel!”

Joel nudges you out of the way to find the spider sitting right at the bottom of the washer. He scoops it into his hand, then holds it in front of you, “I thought you said you didn’t mind ‘em,” he taunts. 

“I lied. Get it away from me,” You shove him away from you, and he clutches the spider more carefully in his hands, laughing. 

“Yeah, I know you lied. You’re very bad at it,” Joel opens one of the basement’s egress windows and sends the spider on its way, then closes it and returns to you, first grabbing what looks to be a replacement belt for his washer from a nearby shelf. Leave it to Joel to have the most convenient yet obscure supplies right in his basement twenty years into an apocalypse. “Back to work.” You’re in front of the washer once more, and Joel takes his seat right behind you. “See that black belt at the bottom of the drum?”

“No.”

“This thing here,” he points at it with his finger. “Take it off,” You reach for the belt and tug on it a bit, “Gotta wiggle it a bit,” following his instruction, you wiggle the belt and it falls off the drum. “Attagirl. Now put this one on,” he hands you the new belt and takes the old one from you. “S’gonna be snug.”

You struggle to stretch the rubber over the drum and it snaps your hands when it slips. “Fuck.”

“Keep tryin’. Put some elbow grease into it, hon,” Joel hovers over your shoulder, just as he did earlier in the kitchen. “M’just checkin’ to make sure you got it lined up properly,” Joel tugs on the rubber belt, making sure it’s sitting where it needs to. “So tell me again how long you been doin it for,” he whispers. “Long time?”

You answer cautiously, “Uhhh…a while now, I guess.”

 “Yeah, I figured. S’it feel good?” 

The question throws you off, makes you nervous. But his voice is low and gravelly, and his tone isn’t pointed or accusatory. He seems curious, but for what reason, you’re not quite sure yet. “It does.”

“Better than your fingers?” Joel tightens the belt a bit and leans back. He’s watching you, but you can’t bring yourself to look into his eyes. You gasp when you feel his warm palm sliding underneath your shorts. “What the–” Oh, fuck. Joel found his pair of boxers. He holds the fabric in his hands, a knowing grin on his lips. “These are mine. What’re you doin’ with my dirty boxers?” he asks. He doesn’t allow you time to stutter out an excuse. “You’re a dirty lil’ bird, aren’t you?”

“Joel.”

He tosses his pair of boxers onto the dryer and whispers in your ear again, “I asked you somethin’. My washer feel better than your fingers?”

“Yeah,” you answer, “Better.”

Joel hums in amusement. He slides his hand down the front of your pants, still unbuttoned from earlier. “Saved me the trouble, didn’t ya, sweetheart?” he breathes. Your breath hitches when his fingers find your mound, as he toys with the curls there. He traces over your lips, then dips a finger between them, circling your hole, then circles your clit. “Better than mine?” he asks, dipping a finger into your center and you moan.  He holds one hand on your hip as the other pumps in and out of your center, and you lean back into his chest, relaxing with his touch. You sigh deeply. “Don’t get all cozy on me, now. You ain’t done. Gotta put the front of the washer back on, should just click right into place.”

Joel pulls his hand away from you so you can lift the front piece of the washer. “It’s not–” you complain, struggling to click it into place the way Joel says it should. You push and push, but it doesn’t budge. “Joel, it’s not–”

“It will. Just try.” 

“I am,” you argue, shoving it once more but to no avail. You’ve grown frustrated by his washer, by the task Joel bestowed upon you in fixing it, and his teasing, too. In a fit of anger, you stand up and kick it.

 “Hey, easy,” Joel scolds. “Look, like this,” Magically, the front piece of the washer fits right into place, just like he said it would. He does nothing different than what you did, it just works out for him. Of course it does. “You’re impatient, huh?” he murmurs, moving behind you. You gasp when you feel his hands on your hips, tugging the fabric of both your shorts and your panties down to your ankles, he helps you out of the garments and tosses them elsewhere. His hands are on your hips again, this time guiding you, whispering, “Back, back,” as he positions you where he needs you, spreading your legs apart. You’re leaning on his washer and he’s on his knees behind you, using his nose to tease and part your slick folds. He inhales you deeply, taking in the sweet scent of your arousal before he tastes you. He traces your lips with a pointed tongue, up and down, before he dips his tongue into your heat, savoring you. 

“How ‘bout my tongue?” he purrs, whispering against your skin. You don’t answer, and it’s not like you could anyway, with the way he devours you. His arms are wrapped around your legs, his fingertips are digging harshly into your thighs like he means to bruise you, tear the flesh off your bones even. It’s possessive in nature, but not abusive or aggressive. You know his actions aren’t borne of anything except pure pleasure and you indulge in it, in him. He moves slow like honey as he tastes you languidly, kissing you. He laps your velvety heat, his tongue teasing all of your sensitive, slick flesh. Now and then the wiry hairs of his beard will tease and scratch your inner thighs, a sensation that tickles you and rubs you raw all the same. “Oh my god,” you moan, reaching behind yourself to take hold of his head, fingers tangling in his graying curls and waves. “Joel, oh my god.”

Joel takes your lack of a real answer to his question as a no, his washer pales in comparison to his tongue. Good. He bets you’ve fantasized about him, all those times you’ve used his washer for those needs of yours besides washing your clothes. And he bets that you probably grind yourself on it, picturing it’s his warm flesh beneath you and not the cold metal of the machine. He’d be right. He sucks your clit, circling the sensitive bud with his tongue. He nips at your folds, sucking one, then the other between his plump lips, then focuses his attention back at your clit. You’re moaning his name, the only word you know anymore. Joel keeps you still, held tight in his arms so that you can’t push your ass back and grind against his mouth like he knows you’re fighting to do. All you can do is take it, feel his perfect aquiline nose tease between your cheeks. He’s buried himself face first in your most private place as he consumes you voraciously, his tongue flicking and swirling and painting you. You’re biting into your own arm, seeing stars as you come on his tongue. It’s an elusive sort of orgasm, the kind where you don’t exactly know where it begins and it ends. All you know is that you’re sensitive, so fucking sensitive and Joel is relentless. Your knees buckle as he toys with your clit, gives you a break for a moment before he’s right back there again, continuing to eat you. He keeps going and going, repeating the actions over and over again just to make you cry and beg, “Stop - please - I can’t, I can’t, Joel. T-too much.”

“Know it’s too much, sweetheart, s’why I’m doin it,” Joel coos. But he obliges, places one last kiss to your heat, soaked by his spit and your own arousal before he stands up behind you. He wraps one arm around your stomach, pulling himself close to you. You can feel his hard cock against your ass, separated only by his denim as he uses his other hand to turn your face to the side, meeting him beside you. He kisses you, tracing his tongue along the seam of your lips, licking into your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, then feel his hand leave your face to reach for his fly. You hear him unzip his jeans slowly, and then he’s pulling his cock out, still kissing you as he lines up with you, first parting your thighs with a gentle nudge of his knee before notching his tip at your entrance. He finally pulls his mouth away from yours and gently forces your chest down toward the washer. He pushes himself into you, careful so as not to hurt you but deliberately so that you still feel that ache, the stretch of his thick cock separating your insides. Joel continues holding your body close to his as he reaches for your hand with his free one, interlacing his fingers in between your own.  “How about my cock, sweetheart? You like it better, worse?” he whispers, kissing, nipping at your ear in between words. He pulls out of you nearly all the way, then pushes back into your dripping cunt. 

You try to answer, “Bet - oh, ahhh,” 

Joel chuckles at the way he’s reduced you to nothing but broken syllables and moans. “Ohhh, listen to you. I think it’s better, huh? S’that what you’re tryin’ to tell me?” You nod frantically. “Yeah, I know, beautiful.”

His pace is slower to start, but it builds in quick time. You can feel he’s fighting with himself to be more gentle than he actually wants to be, his thrusts sloppier than he intends, like he’s losing himself in you. You’re lost in him, lost in the moment all the same. You take it all in, the lewd and obscene sounds of the pleasure he creates with you - his thighs slapping against yours and the gushing of your cunt on his cock. Your moans, your cries, all babbling nonsense. And Joel’s deep breaths in and out, shaky and stuttering as he does it. His grunts and his swearing, a whimper here and there if you listen closely. He fills you up perfectly, hits that sweet spot deep inside you over and over and over…

“You coulda had me like this the whole time,” he pants, “Didn’t have to go an’ break my washer f’ya needed somethin’ more than those fingers of yours, sweetheart. Know you been needin’ some lovin’.”  He reaches for your breasts, squeezing and groping the flesh, twisting your nipples and smirking when you twitch and whine. “All you had to do was ask.” You don’t respond, but he doesn’t expect you to anyway. What he did expect, however, were your moans of displeasure as he pulls out of you. He knows, oh, he knows how empty you must feel, you poor thing.  He’ll soothe that. He flips you around, seats you on his washer. “I’m gonna make you come again,” he promises, “I’m gonna watch.”

 “Too much, Joel, I can’t,” you cry. You want to come again, really. But you don’t think you have it in you, still so worked up, overstimulated by the endless teasing of his tongue on your pussy.

 “Oh, don’t cry. You can do it, hon. You can take it,” he says, “Open up those legs for me, darlin’.” Joel pushes your trembling legs wide so he can slot his hips between them, then wraps your legs around his waist before sliding his cock into you once more. He thrusts just once, rather harshly, before he’s met with another rather loud noise from the washer. Joel halts and scratches the back of his neck. God, he hopes he didn’t just do it in. “Probably shouldn’t…uh…”

“Yeah,” you agree. 

“Did you use my dryer too?”

“Duh,” you answer. “How else would I dry my clothes?”

Joel rolls his eyes, “No, smartass. Were you usin’ it for your dirty work, is what I’m askin’.”

“No.” 

Still inside you, Joel slides you over to his dryer. “Good girl. Poor washer’s been abused plenty by you already.”  

“But I will,” You whisper defiantly under your breath, wrapping your arms around his neck as he adjusts. 

“Wrong ear, sweetheart. My right one’s deaf. I heard that loud and clear.”

Joel’s back to fucking you in an instant. He wastes no time in making good on his promise, thumbing your clit as he rolls his hips into you. “See, look at you. Takin’ me just fine,” he praises.The way you squirm and take your shallow little breaths fills him with satisfaction and delight. He knows this isn’t easy, that you’re tired and sore and overstimulated. He’ll be done with you soon. “Come with me, wanna feel you come with me, sweetheart,” he says. “Focus here, eyes on me. You’re gonna come with me.” 

It’s a few moments of Joel painting your clit with those tight, steadied circles as he fucks you hard and deep. There’s a push and pull to it, where you’re not sure who this is for - yourself or Joel. Just like before, you’re not sure where it starts and stops, but you’re there. God it’s intense, you’re gonna break and you know it. Joel’s got his palm on the back of your neck, squeezing you. His jaw clenches and he’s coming undone first, but he never loses focus on you. His thrusts stutter as he milks himself in you but doesn't yet stop - he’s making sure you’re gonna come. “C’mon baby, c’mon. Give it to me,” he says. “One more for me. Last one.” 

His words are all it takes. You whimper and moan, cry his name as you find your climax. Release washes over you the way waves crash onto sand - it’s repeated, the way the tides push and pull. Deafening. Powerful. 

But there’s a calmness yet. The rolling of his hips slows, slows, stops. He presses his damp forehead against yours, breathing deeply. “You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re okay?”

You nod and smile, “Yeah, I’m good.” He smiles with you and helps you off of the dryer. Joel finds your clothes and dresses you in them, steadying your shaky legs. 

Joel tentatively restarts the washer. It chugs a bit, but makes all the right noises and he breathes a sigh of relief. You’re a bit startled when he takes you by the arm and marches you up the stairs. “New rule,” he says, “You stay with me when your clothes are washin’.”

You bite your lip to hide your guilty smirk. “Yes. Joel.” 

“And I still need you to cut them veggies for me, too.” 

I struggled heavily with this fic, comments and reblogs would be much appreciated if you were feeling so inclined🙏 they keep me motivated and I look back at your words when I’m writing to remember that I’m capable of pleasing you all

[onyourowndaisymae]

"why do you guys put clothes out on the line if there's no sun in the devildom?"

"it's not the sunlight that dries them. it's the heat."

"oh. right."

"it's something we used to do back in the celestial realm. i guess we never stopped." beelzebub tossed a big sheet up on the clothesline, effortlessly pinning it into place. a small breeze made the fabric billow gracefully. for a moment, you could almost hear the birds chirping under gold sunrays in the garden of eden. "plus they smell nice after drying outside."

belphegor gave a lethargic nod as he handed you another wet shirt to dry. "napping on warm bedsheets is really nice."

you could understand why. the scorching heat of hell had simmered into a soft, bearable warmth, like a summer's day back home when the sun began to embrace the horizon.

you took a long look down the clothesline at the row of garments swaying in the breeze as the chatter between the twins faded into the background. mammon's pajama pants looked silly next to one of asmo's silk bathrobes. there was a dark sweater on the line-- satan's, a thicker one he wears during the colder months-- and for a moment you thought it might be one of lucifer's. belphie passed you something else to hang, and you held it for a moment as it dripped onto the grass below. it's yours. your RAD uniform is wrinkled from the wash.

for a moment, your mind wanders back to your journey. the days you've spent in the devildom bleed into the afternoons at the park back home. did the brothers play tag in the gardens of the celestial realm, too? did some angel pick their tired bodies from the ground and carry them to bed as they drifted off to sleep? did the heat of the devildom's arid climate remind them of the exhaustion after a long day in heaven's never ending light? when did it start reminding you of the trip your family took to the desert you senior year of high school?

do the memories of what could have been nag at the future of what will be for them too, or are you the only one blending realms like watercolors in your mind?

"do you need help reaching the line?" beel asks, already pulling the line down to your height and you out of your thoughts. belphie is looking at you curiously.

with a smile and without a word, you hang your shirt with a sense of triumph and watch it flutter in the wind. like the smell of laundry soap in the air, your new life mixes with the old.

[heckaroniandcheese]

spiraling down zillow showing my partner fucking gutted little cabins in the woods like 🥺 sustainable homestead? 🥺

[thus-spoke-lo]

Let Me Help // Sanji x afab!reader // NSFW/18+ Kink: Voyeurism

CW: afab!reader [no pronouns used to address reader]; non-consensual voyeurism; masturbation [m]; handjob WC: 2.8k // Kinktober Masterlist

You stand on tiptoes, back arched and tongue tucked between your lips, trying to keep from toppling forward as you struggle to pin another pillowcase to the clothesline, silently cursing whoever strung the line so damned high. A warm breeze gently flutters the fabric, and a gentle wave crashes against the boat—just enough to disrupt your balance, and you tumble back onto your heels, arms outstretched to steady yourself. A quick glance up at the clothesline confirms that everything is still in its place, and you sigh—you’re less concerned about falling on your ass and more concerned with not having to start all over with that damned pillowcase.

“Finally,” you mutter, shoving your hands in your pockets, enjoying the feel of the afternoon sun on your skin. “And now—we start all over.”

You indulge in a quick stretch, your fingers reaching for the cerulean sky, before picking up the empty clothes basket and setting off to gather the rest of the laundry. The hamper digs into your hip as you meander through the ship, collecting errant cloths from the kitchen, grease-stained rags from the engine room, damp towels from the bin that overflowed in the bathroom. Laundry was never your favorite chore, but your generous offer to stay behind and catch up on the washing resulted in a rare afternoon by yourself aboard the ship, allowing you some needed space to roam and be with your thoughts while the rest of the crew went ashore to restock supplies. Time alone was a privilege, one which you were grateful to have been granted this afternoon.

At least, you had assumed you were alone.

You approach the men’s quarters to collect the week’s dirty socks and sweat-drenched shirts, when you stop in your tracks—the door is ajar, barely a crack, offering only a sliver of visibility. A low creaking noise comes from inside, accompanied by muffled grunts and soft whines, rhythmic sounds that you quickly recognize as anything but chaste. You inhale slowly and deeply through your nose, your hands shaking as you set the laundry basket down as carefully as possible beside you, trying not to make a sound. Whoever it is behind that door seems to be under the same impression you had been—that the ship is otherwise unoccupied.

“Fuck.” The word tumbles out of you, almost noiselessly, as you still your breathing, closing your eyes to focus on the lewd noises from behind the door—the squeaking of the bedframe, the rustling of fabric, the guttural groans of someone lost in their own pleasure. It’s obscene, the way you find yourself frozen in place, unable to tear yourself away and get back to your chores; you know you shouldn’t be here, your body leaning towards the crack in the door, straining to hear every soft panting breath, your tongue tucked between your lips in concentration, yet the lure of perversion is far too great to ignore.

And that’s when you hear it: your name being said in between quiet whimpers, in a voice that unmistakably and unequivocally belongs to Sanji. A flame kindles in your core, stoked hotter with every gasping utterance of your name and the way he says it like a desperate plea, a depraved wish for you to be there in his bed with him. It comes as no surprise to hear Sanji panting your name as he pleasures himself, given the way he fawns all over you, the way his fingers gently brush your hand as he hands you your morning tea, how he always has a reason to be pressed against you somehow, his body warm and wanting. But you hadn’t expected to ever hear his desires laid out in front of you as raw and as wantonly as this—and it’s making you insatiable, wondering why you denied for so long that a liaison with the cook might be a satisfying endeavor.

The sound of your own guilty heartbeat rushes through your ears, almost drowning out his panting breaths for a moment, and your fingertips tingle as you do the unthinkable, acting out of some impulsive, aching need: you carefully pry the door open just a little more, just enough for you to peer inside and put an image to the vulgar noises coming from within. Just a glimpse would be enough, you quietly lie to yourself—just a quick glance at how Sanji must look when he’s in the throes of his own self-pleasure would be enough to satiate you, enough to give you something to play over and over again in your mind later in the privacy of your quarters.

The door complains slightly as you nudge it ajar it just a bit more, and you wince; luckily, Sanji is far too preoccupied to even notice the door shifting open, or the corrupt crewmate lurking just outside. He kneels on the bed, his pants pooled around his knees, shoes still on, one hand holding his shirt up and away from his slim waist, only the hint of his abs and a faint trail of blonde hair leading down from his navel visible. He’s thrusting rhythmically into a pillow in front of him—folded in half, as if to mimic a bent-over body, your bent-over body if his utterances were to be believed. He looks needy, even desperate, as he ruts against the cushion, his eyes clenched shut, sweat beading at his temples.

“You like that, sweetheart? Like the way my cock feels, huh?” he murmurs, his thrusting slowing to languid strokes, subtle rolls of his hips, as if he’s teasing the version of you that he imagines before him. “Mm, so needy. Let me take it slow for you, lovely. I know you want to feel every inch.”

You quickly clamp your hands over your mouth, choking back a wanton moan as you watch his hips gyrating, thighs tensing, abs flexing as he makes slow, deliberate thrusts. You feel yourself pulsing the longer you watch, listening to him rambling, hearing the way he praises and compliments whatever lewd vision of you that he must be conjuring, the way he says your name like it’s the most erotic thing in the world.

“So perfect, my darling—your pussy feels so nice,” he whimpers, thrusting hard into the pillow and holding it there flush against his pelvis. “So fucking wet for me, love. Ah, you’re so soft inside—you’re like velvet around me.”

“Oh, Sanji,” you mumble under your breath, trying to keep your hands from wandering, needing to relieve the sudden and pervasive ache that blooms between your thighs. Perhaps you could approach him later—not to tell him what you witnessed, of course, but to see if he would be willing to make his fantasies come true, to have the real thing laying bare in front of him, writhing and waiting for his touch.

“Fuck, you’re taking it so well, angel.” Sanji’s thrusting grows quicker, then slows as he unfolds the pillow and lays it down on the bed. He unbuttons his shirt and loosens his tie, moving to hover above the pillow, caging it in on either side with sinewy forearms. You nearly gasp at the sight of his cock—long and slender, flushed pink with a swollen, leaking tip. It looks even more enticing than you’d pictured in your fantasies—the ones you would never, ever admit to, the ones where he’d secret away into the corner of the kitchen with you and press you against the wall, sweet words of adoration spilling from his lips while he takes you from behind.

“Mm, you look so nice like this,” he says to the pillow as he lowers his hips to meet it, gliding his cock along the fabric. You wonder if this is how he’d look on top of you—how it would be to have him pinning you to the bed, your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper with every thrust. “Bet you want me to cum for you, don’t you? You wanna take this cum so much, I know. I’m gonna let you have it all, my sweet—every last drop. You can take it, can’t you? This pretty little pussy can take all of this, can’t it?”

You chew on your tongue, trying to suppress a whimper—he’s going to cum, and he’s going to cum for you. Oh, if only he knew—if only he could see you there, pressing your thighs together to keep the flood of arousal at bay, taking in every movement, every sigh, every salacious word that falls from his lips, all so you could think about it later with your fingers deep inside you, pretending it’s him. As you lose yourself in thoughts of what his soft fingers could do, you lean a little too hard against the door, forgetting how precarious your situation is, distracted by the way his movements slow as though he’s on the precipice. Without any way to recover, any way to save yourself from the inevitable, the door swings open and you stumble into the room with a squeak and a gasp

“Shit, shit, shit!” Sanji quickly clambers off the bed, grabbing the pillow and holding it in front of his pelvis, scrambling to tug his pants back up. “I’m so sorry, my angel, I-I thought everyone was gone, I would never—”

“No, no!” you interrupt, waving your arms frantically in front of you, turning your head away from him. “I’m sorry, I was just coming to get the laundry and I heard something and—”

“Y-you heard what, my sweet?” He holds his pants at his waist, and stares at you, wide-eyed, chest heaving. “What exactly did you hear?”

“Just—just noises. That’s all.” You glance at him out of the corner of your eye to see the way his head tilts to look at you; there’s no way he’s buying your panicked fib, not unless he means to be chivalrous and allow you to escape this situation with some semblance of your dignity intact.

He takes a deep, shivering breath as he carefully approaches you, standing mere inches from you, the heat of his body seeming to radiate from him. He opens his mouth as if to speak, as if perhaps he means to reassure you, buy into your lie and ignore the way your body shudders and the way you cannot bring yourself to look at him for more than the briefest moment. You wonder if he can smell it on you—your shame, your arousal, your latent longing to know what it’s like to have that pretty pink cock buried inside you to the hilt.

“Darling,” he finally utters, the word stretching out and hanging in the air. “How long were you standing there?”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, the words sticking in your throat. “A little while.”

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry—”

“No, Sanji, don’t be,” you quickly interject. What did you have to lose now, standing here before him, clothed in see-through lies? “I, um—I liked it. Listening to. And—and watching you.”

“You were watching?” A mix of embarrassment and unbridled lust settles in his every feature, a thin trickle of blood running down from his nose, settling in the crevice at the top of his lip. You nod, steeling yourself—the ship would only be empty for a little while longer, if there was going to be a time to surrender to your most base desires, this would be the time to do it.

“Let me help.” The words come out of you almost a whisper, sticking in your throat.

“W-what?”

“Let me help you, Sanji.”

“I—I could never, I would never ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.” You push his still-unbuttoned shirt aside and place your hands on his bare chest, running your fingers through the thick patch of blonde hair, silently reveling in how the steely hardness of his muscles feels under your fingers. “You want me, don’t you? I mean, it seemed like it at least.”

“Of course I do,” he mumbles, raising a hesitant hand to your face, gently brushing his long fingers against your cheek. “You know I do.”

“Then let me help you.” You run your index finger down his lean torso as he trembles, trailing down to the front of his trousers. “Please? I mean, unless you’d rather go back to your pillow.”

Sanji closes his eyes momentarily, tilting his head back and letting out a low groan. “You know I could never say no to you, angel.”

He releases the tenuous hold he has on his pants, still unzipped, and they slip down his legs, pooling at his ankles. You start to palm him through the silky fabric of his boxers, feeling him harden under your touch, his body spasming a little with every gentle movement, a moan catching in your throat at how he twitches and pulses for you. Your fingers dance lightly over the tip, tracing the outline of it, smirking at the wet spot that spreads the more you tease him; you bite your lip, feeling your own growing arousal begin to dampen your panties.

But Sanji is impatient, needing more than just the feeling of warmth through the barrier of cloth, and he quickly tugs down the waistband of his boxers and grasps your wrist, placing your hand on his throbbing cock. He holds his hand over yours, closing your fingers around his length into a delicate grip and directing your movements over his shaft, stuttering gasps leaving his lungs as he guides your strokes. He hums softly and moves your palm over the throbbing head, rutting against your hand until your palm is slick with his precum.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” he asks, grasping your cheeks in both hands and tilting your head up so you meet his hungry gaze. “That’s all for you.”

It takes everything in you not to drop to your knees and take him in your mouth, not to push him back onto the bed and straddle him, burying his aching cock inside you and chasing your own pleasure over and over until you’re both sore and spent and collapsing on one another in a sweaty heap. Instead, you press your face against his chest, listening to the way his heart thrums for you, wrapping your free hand around his waist to steady yourself. You stroke his length, slow at first, then building to a faster rhythm, as he pulses under your palm, his hips bucking in response to every pumping caress of his aching cock.

“Oh fuck, your hand is so soft,” Sanji whimpers, wrapping his long arms around you and holding you against him, his words hot in your ear, warm breath ghosting your chilled skin. “So good. Oh god, it’s so good, you feel so good, my darling.”

His breaths come in short, sharp gasps, his rambling praise and hushed words of desire suddenly silenced as his body tenses against you. He reaches an arm behind his back and grasps for your hand, holding on to you as if to ground himself, to find an anchor as he approaches the edge of his pleasure.

“Fuck. Fuck, m’gonna cum, my angel,” he rasps through quick and hallow breaths, the grip on your free hand tightening almost painfully. “Gonna cum for you.”

Sanji abandons himself to pleasure in your sweet embrace, and he groans in blissful agony, his cock pulsing with waves of pleasure, spilling himself onto the floor. He rocks his hips and thrusts into your palm over and over, low whines accompanying every spasm, every tremor of his body as he surrenders to the sweetness of your touch. You stand there with him as his movements finally cease, his grasp on your hand releasing as he wraps both arms around your again, holding you to him like something precious, like something he never wanted to let go of again.

“Thank you, my love,” he sighs, finally pulling away and placing his hands on your shoulders. The desire that burns within you grows even more intense at the sight of him in his bliss—his cheeks flushed, his eyes wide and pupils lust-blown. “I-I don’t know what I did to deserve this—but thank you.”

“Oh Sanji, if you liked that…” you trail off as you lean up and impulsively kiss him on his warm, trembling lips.  You grasp his wrist, leading his unsteady hand down to the apex of your thighs, and he stammers and gasps as you hold him there, his palm cupping your warmth. “…just wait til you feel the rest of me.”

[melzula]

Break Apart

pairing: Zuko x princess!reader

notes: i know i’ve said previously that i don’t like going backwards with fire lilies but i feel like i didn’t do this scene justice the first time so i decided to rework the piece. plus i think revisiting this scene will be important before starting smoke and shadow

summary: your peaceful life with Zuko comes crashing down in the crystal catacombs of Ba Sing Se.

~ part of the fire lilies series ~

You pull the shutters apart and let the sun shine through your new home in Ba Sing Se. The morning is just getting started, and as Iroh begins fixing breakfast for your little family you take it upon yourself to begin the day’s chores before it’s time to head to work. It’s been a long week, what with Zuko’s sickness and the hassle of moving into the Upper Ring, and you’re beginning to feel worn out from the emotional turmoil, but you do your best to keep these feelings to yourself in order to not ruin Iroh’s excitement for the opening of his tea shop. At least one of you gets to live out the life you dreamed for yourself in the city.

You eventually end up outside hanging the freshly washed clothes to dry, brows furrowed in thought as you pin the fabrics to the clothesline and hum a song Iroh used to perform for you during your day’s on Zuko’s ship. You’re too engrossed in your work to notice you have company, and it isn’t until you hear someone gently clear their throat that you turn to see Zuko standing before you with a smile on his face and two bowls of pongi in his hands.

“You’re up early,” you note with a raised brow before accepting his offering of breakfast.

“I wanted to have breakfast with you,” he says with a gentle smile as the two of you seat yourselves on the steps of your apartment. “It’s a beautiful day out, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose,” you reply carefully, unused to his positive demeanor. “You’re not still feeling sick, are you?”

He laughs at the way you press the back of your hand to his forehead and feel for his temperature before carefully lowering it down. “I feel better than I ever have before. I’m really starting to like it here, and I wish I could have realized sooner how peaceful life is with you in Ba Sing Se.”

“Uncle was right, you really have undergone a metamorphosis,” you note, half teasing and half serious as you take a bite of your pongi. “But I’m happy you’re finally deciding to give the city a chance, my love.”

“It’s something I should have done sooner, and I plan to make up for all the time I wasted being miserable instead of enjoying my new life with you. I love you, y/n, and I’m going to make things right for us.”

You’re pleasantly caught off guard by the sweet kiss Zuko gives you after tenderly cupping your face in his hands and pulling you forward to meet his lips. You easily melt at his touch like you always do, and for a moment you’re able to forget all the hurt and insecurity you’ve felt for the last few years. Your relationship had suffered a few rough patches recently, and you worried that you’d never be enough for Zuko no matter how hard you tried, but it seemed that things were finally beginning to fall into place, and you could live the life you’d always dreamed of since running away with Zuko.

Finally parting from the kiss, he gifts you a sweet kunik before pulling away and taking your empty bowl of pongi with him. “I have to start getting ready for the grand opening of the Jasmine Dragon. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

“Of course. Miss Tai is letting me leave my shift early today so I can be there,” you assure him with a smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I love you,” Zuko utters earnestly in response, “and I’m happy you’re still here with me.”

You longingly watch his form retreat inside, already beginning to miss his touch. But you have work to do before your shift at the dress shop, so you rise from your seat on the steps and resume hanging the laundry to dry.

Life is going to be perfect now, you can feel it.

~~~

The opening of the Jasmine Dragon was a success, so successful, in fact, that the Earth King himself has invited Iroh to serve tea in the palace.

The Earth Kingdom palace is certainly different from the palace you grew up in, and though you yourself are technically royalty you feel as if you don’t belong in such a grand space. The dress Miss Tai had loaned you and the way she had styled your hair for you at least makes you look the part, and you make sure to be on your best behavior as you wait with Iroh and Zuko for the king to arrive.

You neatly set out the cups as Iroh begins pouring the tea with a pleased smile on his face while a restless Zuko surveys the room for any sign of the king.

“What’s taking so long?”

“Maybe the king overslept,” Iroh suggests, prompting you to raise your brow at his unlikely explanation.

“He’s a busy man, Zuko. I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” you assure him, but the former Prince isn’t convinced so easily. The sudden appearance of Dai Li agents only furthers his apprehension as they begin to close in on your little trio.

“Something’s not right,” he utters anxiously, and as your gaze falls upon the shifty eyes of the agents before you you find yourself slowly pulling the tea pot towards you in preparation for bending.

“It’s tea time,” a familiar voice chimes prompting Zuko to immediately rise to his feet. The mere sight of the Princess is enough to prompt you to bend the tea out of the pot, and though it isn’t much you’re able to close your fists and produce small blades of water that shoot sharply from your palms. It’s a move you’ve seen Zuko perform countless times with fire, and it’s a move that you’ve managed to perfect just as easily with water.

“Azula!” He scowls only for her to smirk in response.

“Have you met the Dai Li agents yet? They’re earth benders, but they have a killer instinct that’s so fire bender. I just love it,” she punctuates with a clenched fist before her eyes shift to your makeshift water daggers. “I see that’s something you’re trying to mimic, Princess. Such a cute little trick.”

“It isn’t so hard,” you reply with a relaxed shrug much to Azula’s dismay.

“But of course,” she sneers disapprovingly at your lack of fear for her.

Breaking the silence, Iroh suddenly says, “Did I ever tell you how I got the nickname the Dragon of the West?”

“I’m not interested in a lengthy anecdote, Uncle,” she scoffs with a bored expression, but Iroh merely smiles.

“It’s more of a demonstration, really,” he explains before taking a sip from his cup of tea. Before you can even process what’s happening, the man quickly pulls both you and Zuko behind him before exhaling a breath of fire around the room. With the Dai Li temporarily disabled, you’re able to make your escape out of the palace.

Using a blast of lightning to break through the walls, both Iroh and yourself make the jump through the hole and land down below in the the shrubbery. However, Zuko doesn’t follow behind, and instead you’re forced to watch him chase after Azula.

“We have to help him!” You cry only for Iroh to stop you.

“Even with our abilities combined we will not be able to outmatch both Azula and the Dai Li agents on our own,” he utters carefully.

“Then what are we to do? We can’t just leave him behind,” you express worriedly. You have no idea what Azula has in store for her brother, and you don’t want to leave Zuko in her clutches long enough to find out. You know Iroh’s right, but you can’t just sit and do nothing.

“We’ll have to get help,” Iroh notes thoughtfully, and you’re left with no choice but to blindly follow the man as he begins to head back towards the city.

“Help from who?”

~~~~

It’s safe to say Iroh and yourself are the last two people the Avatar and his friends expected to see at their doorstep, but you’re not left with many other options.

“Princess?!” Sokka exclaims in surprise at the sight of you as you gift him a meager wave of hello in return. The last time you’d seen each other had been during the siege of the North, so it was safe to say he was more than surprised to see you here in Ba Sing Se. “What’s going on? Have you finally come to your senses and decided to leave Zuko?”

“What? No!” You cry indignantly much to the boy’s disappointment. “It’s the opposite, actually. We came to ask for your help.”

“Princess Azula is here in Ba Sing Se,” Iroh explains gravely.

“She must have Katara!”

“She has captured my nephew, as well.”

“Then we’ll work together to fight Azula,” the Avatar expressed firmly, “and save Zuko and Katara.”

“Whoa, there,” Sokka interjects immediately. “You lost me at ‘Zuko.’”

“I know how you must feel about my nephew, but believe me when I tell you there is good in him,” Iroh insists earnestly, but Sokka doesn’t budge.

“Good inside him isn’t enough!” He insists. “Why don’t you come back when it’s outside him, too, okay?”

“Sokka,” you call gently, eyes full of sincerity and a hint of guilt as the Water Tribe boy meets your gaze. “Please understand. We just want him back safe. I need him back safe. I know Zuko has done horrible things to you and your friends, things I don’t expect you to forgive, but we don’t stand a chance against Azula and the Dai Li on our own.”

“Katara is in trouble,” Aang reiterates to a contemplative Sokka, your words swimming in his thoughts. The mere look of sadness on your face is almost enough to make him cave in, but not quite. “All of Ba Sing Se is in trouble. Working together is our best chance.”

After a moment’s pause, Sokka finally relents. Relief immediately washes over you now that you know the Avatar and his friends are going to help you get Zuko back. “Thank you, Aang. Your kindness means more than you know.”

“I’m just returning the favor,” the boy says with a sheepish smile, prompting you to recall fondly your first meeting with him on Zuko’s ship long ago.

With the Avatar’s help, you stand a chance now, and as your group heads to the crystal catacombs you once again feel that sense of hope grow in your heart.

Once this little bump in the road is over, you can resume your perfect life with Zuko, all you need to do is just get through the day.

And you will.

~~~

You journey underground with Iroh and the Avatar to the crystal catacombs, tuning out their conversation as your mind reels over your worry for Zuko. It figures that after having such a perfect day the universe would throw something like this at you. But that’s just the way your relationship was, and anytime a hurdle had been cast your way you’d always been able to overcome it. This time would be no different.

After finally arriving in the crystal cave, you’re quick to lift the skirt of your dress and sprint towards Zuko before flinging yourself into his arms.

“You’re okay!” You exclaim, voice coated with relief.

“What are you doing traveling with the Avatar?” He asks, almost as if he’s insulted by Aang’s mere presence.

“Saving you, that’s what,” Aang replies testily, prompting Zuko to lunge forward only for Iroh to hold him back.

“We wouldn’t have been able to find you without him,” you explain truthfully. “Please don’t be upset.”

Zuko had never really gotten over your little stunt back on his ship when you’d helped the Avatar escape, so seeing you by Aang’s side again felt like rubbing salt in the Prince’s wound. He was trying to be better for you, but the conflict within him still remained.

“Zuko, it’s time we talked,” Iroh says before encouraging Katara and Aang to move ahead without your group.

“Why, Uncle?” Zuko asks softly, hurt clear in his voice. Your gentle eyes meet his own and he looks away in shame, unable to return your gaze. He knows he’s disappointed you too many times to count, but he’s not sure how much longer he can keep up this charade of pretending to be happy in this dirt prison you now call home. He doesn’t want to admit this to you, but the conflict within him continues to fester.

“You are not the man you used to be, Zuko. You are stronger and wiser and freer than you have ever been,” Iroh says proudly. “And now you have come to the crossroads of your destiny. It is time for you to choose. It is time for you to choose good.”

A hopeful smile plays upon your lips at Iroh’s words, but it is quickly wiped away by the sudden rumbling of the cave. Before you can even process what’s happening, Iroh and yourself are encased in crystal.

“Y/n!” Zuko exclaims, but he isn’t left with time to free you once Azula appears with the Dai Li at her side.

“I expected this kind of treachery from Uncle and your little girlfriend,” she says sharply, “but Zuko, Prince Zuko, you’re a lot of things, but you’re not a traitor, are you?”

“Release them immediately!” He demands firmly, his hardest gaze focused on Azula. The crystals dig uncomfortably into your sides and pin your limbs in cramped positions, but you have enough movement in your wrists to bend should you need to.

“Are you sure? I think the crystals are quite flattering on y/n, don’t you?” Azula goads playfully to an unamused Zuko.

As his sister tries to fill his head with promises of redemption and honor in exchange for his help, and as Iroh tries to persuade him in the right direction, you focus your attention on looking for any source of water to help you. Your eyes land on a trickle of water that drops from the roof, but you don’t make your move until Azula has left the room.

“Zuko, you have to help Aang and Katara. If Azula and the Dai Li catch up to them they won’t be able to fight them off on their own,” you express urgently as you use your free hands to pull the droplets of water towards you. “Iroh and I will be right behind you.”

You’re too engrossed in your escape plan at first to notice that Zuko doesn’t budge, but when you lift your gaze to see he hasn’t moved at all a frown quickly pulls at your lips. “Zuko?”

A sense of dread washes over you at his lack of response, and for a moment you fear that perhaps Azula had gotten to him, but then he finally moves to meets your gaze. The green crystals of the catacombs reflect beautifully in your tired eyes, and Zuko can’t help but try to commit the scene to his memory. It will probably be the last good one he’ll be able to keep of you.

He finally gives you a silent nod in response, but not before urging you to stay behind.

“You’ll be safer here,” he says, and he doesn’t give you a chance to argue as he runs off in search of Aang, leaving Iroh and yourself behind.

After gathering enough water, you cover the crystal in ice until the intense cold prompts it to crack, and with a firm flick of your wrists the ice and crystal shatter so that you are finally free from the trap. You move to do the same for Iroh, but he quickly shakes his head to stop you.

“You must go and help the Avatar. I will catch up with you shortly,” he assures you. “There isn’t time to waste.”

You give him a firm nod before rushing after Zuko, hoping you’re not too late to offer your help. The crystals had ripped through the skirt of your dress, and though you felt guilty for ruining the clothes Miss Tai had lent you, you’re grateful for the range of motion the tattered fabric now gives you. Hopefully Zuko won’t be too mad at you for disobeying his request.

The commotion in the catacombs has you pushing yourself to run faster, but when you finally reach your destination you’re quick to skid to a stop at the sight before you.

Katara has Azula in her grasp, and it’s clear that the Fire Princess is at a disadvantage. Zuko’s back is turned to you, and at first it looks as if he’s about to help the water bender. But when his blast of flames cuts through her water arms and frees his sister you’re left with a dreadful conclusion.

Your heart sinks to your stomach as you realize Zuko hadn’t come here to help the Avatar- he’d come to defeat him.

“Zuko…” you utter softly, your features riddled with heartbreak and disappointment as he finally turns to look at you after hearing the sound of your voice. The eyes of the boy that stare coldly at you now are not the same ones that once used to look upon you with nothing but love and adoration.

There is no remorse or guilt on his features, but there is anger and resentment. He’s never looked upon you this way, fury blazing along his irises as if you’re the enemy, as if he hated you.

“How kind of you to join us, Princess,” Azula calls with a taunting smile. You swallow harshly and stand frozen in place, too in shock to move. But then she gestures to Zuko, and a sickness settles in your stomach as he slowly begins to approach you.

“Zuko, stop. This isn’t you,” you beg desperately, cowering away from his menacing figure. “Please, don’t do this.“

“This is me,” he says gravely. “You just didn’t want to see it.”

You can’t help but let out a scream as he shoots a blast of fire towards you, and you’re barely quick enough to form a wall of water to block his attack. His moves are relentless, but no matter how many times he strikes you don’t dare fight back. Your moves are defensive, for even though he’s turned against you, you can’t bring yourself to hurt him.

“I don’t want to fight you!” You insist, narrowly missing the fire he whips at you.

“Are you sure about that?” He retorts harshly, eyes hard-set on the water swirling in your palms. “You’re afraid of me, you always have been. You think I’m a monster!”

“That’s not true!” You cry desperately as you block another attack.

“You only stayed by my side to try and fix me so you could feel better about yourself. You’re no different than the rest of your people.”

“Zuko,” you gasp in disbelief. “How can you say that?! I love you!”

“You’re just a spoiled little Princess who thinks being a water bender makes her special.”

“Stop it. That’s Azula talking, not you.”

“You left your people to fulfill your own childish dreams of love. What a joke,” he scoffs harshly before hitting you with another blast of flames. “You’re selfish! You’re weak! You’re-“

You don’t want to hear anymore. It’s as if he has your heart in his hands, squeezing it apart with each insult he throws your way. Your Zuko is gone.

He isn’t able to finish his assault as the tsunami like wave of water you send his way sweeps him off his feet and throws him across the catacomb. The water roars deafeningly in your ears, drowning out the sound of the anguished sobs that wrack your body as you finally turning your bending on the one you love.

The rest of the fight seems to be a blur as you do your best to hold off Dai Li agents, but once Azula shoots Aang down with a blast of lighting it’s clear that the battle is lost. The fire siblings are beginning to close in on your group, and in a last ditch effort you find yourself standing protectively in front of Katara and Aang ready to fight for as long as you can. However, you find you don’t need to when Iroh swoops in and saves your group.

“You’ve got to get out of here. I’ll hold them off for as long as I can!” He insists before blocking the Dai Li from reaching you.

You hesitate in your tracks, unsure about leaving behind the man who had become family. As if reading your thoughts, he gives you a firm nod of encouragement. “Go, Princess.”

Swallowing harshly, you urge Katara to her feet and guide her to the waterfall. As she holds Aang’s limp body securely in her grasp, you use your bending to reverse the flow of the water so that it sends your trio upwards. Tears stream steadily down your face, but your gaze remains firm and set straight ahead.

Your relationship with Zuko is over.

~~~

The tide is calm as the Fire Nation ship sails towards the Capital City. After three long years, Zuko is finally returning home. It’s all he’s ever wanted, but for some reason it feels as if something is still missing. There’s a relentless ache in his chest that won’t leave him be, and he can do nothing but stare contemplatively out at the water.

“You seriously can’t still be worried about finally coming home,” a voice calls playfully as cold hands rest upon his tense shoulders. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, you’re practically a hero now.”

“I know that,” Zuko snaps irritably. Mai simply rolls her eyes in response.

“Then what is it?” She retorts only to be met with silence. Her eyes harden suddenly, and she yanks her hands away from him as if revolted by the Prince. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that water Princess.”

“Of course not.”

“Sure,” Mai replies flatly, obviously unconvinced. “You don’t need her, Zuko.”

“I know that! She was just a distraction,” he tells her, trying to convince not only Mai but himself of it. “She never really meant anything to me.”

“I wish I could say I feel sorry for her,” Mai says unsympathetically with a bored wave of her hand, “but she must have been an idiot to expect you to live the rest of your life as a peasant.”

“Yeah…” Zuko murmurs quietly, remembering the way your eyes hard sparkled in the catacombs. They shined brighter when they were full of tears, and the image haunted him.

He’s pulled away from his thoughts by Mai’s hands gently guiding his face towards her own. A rare smile plays upon her lips as she pulls him in for a kiss. Zuko returns the gesture, but it’s empty.

He feels absolutely nothing.

~~~

Sokka is hesitant to approach you, unsure if his presence will make things worse for your emotional state. The tears haven’t stopped since you escaped from Ba Sing Se, but he feels awful just sitting there without attempting to comfort you. He never really understood just how someone like you could love Zuko or why you were ever with him in the first place, but all of it meant something to you, and he couldn’t ignore that.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asks gently, well aware of how stupid the question is. Obviously you aren’t, but he isn’t sure what else to say.

“I should have known I’d never be enough for him,” you weep miserably. “I was foolish to think he would ever put me before his need to restore his honor and please his father. How could I have been so naive?!”

“It’s not your fault,” the water tribe boy consoles while placing a comforting hand on your trembling shoulder. “It isn’t naive to want to see the good in people. You tried to find it in Zuko, but it just wasn’t there.”

“I gave up everything for him,” you murmur dully, exhaustion and defeat clear in your features. “And now I have nothing.”

“You have us,” Sokka corrects you with a careful smile. “Trust me, you’re better off without that jerk.”

You carefully wipe away your tears and give Sokka a meek smile in return for his kind words. “Thank you, Sokka. I’m more than grateful for your compassion. I promise to do all I can to help you and your friends defeat the Fire Lord.”

After all this time, after all the hurt and the guilt, all the running and the hiding, you’ve finally left Zuko. And you don’t intend to ever look back.

| atla tags: @sirkekselord @chronic-daydreamer-blog @niktwazny303

| zuko tags: @thebluelcdy @royahllty @the-firebender-girl @ilovespideyyy @yiyibetch @eridanuswave @lammello @a-monsters-love @knaite-solo @taeeemin

| fire lilies tags: @titaniafire @emberislandplayers @kikaninchen-2 @music-geek19 @thia-aep @thyunnamed @haylaansmi @nataliahaslosthershit @idkdude776 @aangsupremacy @thirstyforsometea @ihaveaproblem98 @brown-eyed-thang @xapham @misnmatchedsox @chewymoustachio @that-bucket-hat-gal @chilifrylizard2 @kyomihann @kaylove12 @kiwihoee @freggietale @noodlesfluffy @moon-spirit-yue @bubblegum-bee-otch

[fhrlclln]

i’m sorry but i need angst!

i need qimir and reader angst!

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPRoXdYwG/

forlorn | qimir

SUMMARY -> loving him was the hardest thing she has ever done but how does that love go so far when he is so immersed in the darkness?

qimir x fem! reader

masterlist

GENRE -> angst

WARNINGS -> toxic relationship, arguments, qimir's kinda gives off sadboi vibes in this, slight manipulation? abandonment & hurtful words

WC -> 1.61k

a/n: 🚨warning, pathetic man realizes his girl is going to leave him!! 🚨 LMAOOO. hope you liked this anonz!!

likes, comments and reposts are greatly appreciated !! <3

enjoy !!

your hands feel numb as you scrub away the piece of clothing in your hands.

your heart feels heavy. your washing his dirty robes, the water in the large basin turning red from the blood and grime as you ponder to yourself... why were you still here with him? you scrub hard, the overwhelming emotions threaten to burst out. this was all wrong. why were you washing the clothes of a cold-hearted murderer?

well, you couldn't. you could not leave him even if you desperately wanted to.

drowning in your own thoughts, you don't notice the chaste kiss placed on top of your head when he finally speaks to you. the same hushed and soft tone reserved solely for you.

"your hands are going to bruise, my love." you look up to see him, the man you were thinking of... the one you are thinking of leaving. qimir has a soft smile written across his serene face as he bends down to your crouched level. and those thoughts diminish now. you always fall back to the start when he looks at you like this. like you were the only thing in the world he desires... that he loves. but you have to remember you were not. that was the realization you had to learn when he carelessly put your life in danger that night in khofar.

"the blood won't come off." you say with a plain tone, avoiding his calculating stare. there's a deafening silence between the two of you as if you're both waiting to see who would speak first about what happened. but you hoped, you hoped he wouldn't say anything else because if he did, you don't know what you'll do. you scrub his robe a little harder, dunking it in the soapy water with a splash, and qimir lets out a sigh at your behavior toward him.

"forgiveness is a hard thing to give. that i know." he starts off as if he's starting a lesson for you. "but if we prolong this further, when are we going to move forward, my heart?"

your drop his robe in the basin. "some things aren't meant to be forgiven easily, qimir." you bite back. how dare he tell you to move past this? when your own heart is still in shambles for the pain he had caused. his face drops to a solemn frown, and he seems uncertain what to say, but he opens his mouth nonetheless.

"i don't wish to argue-"

"you left me for dead in that godforsaken forest!" you raised your voice, standing up now as you turned around, picking up the laundry basket to hang outside, wanting to get away from him. damn him and his fucking blood-soaked robe. the salty tears forming in your eyes, threatening to fall down if you look at him one more time. your steps are quick, but qimir still follows you outside.

you shuddered out a shaky breath, calming yourself as you focused on hanging your washed clothes on the clothesline outside the cave. anger consumes you, you feel like you've been betrayed, how the one person in your whole miserable life could carelessly throw you in the hands of the jedi just because of one thing.

power.

another acolyte who he wants, to be able to achieve the one thing you have always heard come out of his mouth. the power of two. the moment when you had come back to this remote planet to see him tending to her, osha, the one he brought back- not you.

you felt like a fool, a fool who continued to be with him against your personal conflict and how dangerous your life had become because of him. you tried to ignore the jealousy you felt when you saw him treating her when you came back all mangled in dirt and cuts from fighting those jedis in khofar. and he dismissed you when you were going to argue how he didn't even try to come back for you. oh, how your pure heart broke into pieces, how uncaring he sounded that day.

you cried for the first time in years, feeling like you've been abandoned by the one man you claimed to yourself you love. the person who accepted you after years of being abandoned by everyone you had cared for. it was getting tiring. you're tired of being tossed away for another. again and again and again-

"i was going to come back for you." he softly said, gauging your reaction as you hung up your clothes. "but, it was too dangerous to come back to the planet. the order would have been there, and all my careful protection would be gone to waste. i know you understand that."

"you have a tasteful way of saying... i'm disposable." you grit your teeth, wanting to throw yourself off the cliff now. "but her? you chose her instead of me to save."

you willed yourself to turn around to face him. he stands there, face as passive as ever. no emotions but just a quiet look of calmness. it irks you how this seems normal to him. were you going to be just another tool at his own expense? to be tossed away every time if he deems so. your mouth quivers, you can't hold back anymore.

"i'm sorry." he says, but you don't feel he's sincere. "i love you."

"this doesn't feel like love anymore, qimir." you shake your head. "i want to leave. you have your acolyte, and i am done being tossed away." you sniffled, wiping away the tears that had already fallen on your cheeks.

his eyes darkened, and he stepped closer to you. "you can't."

"oh, so when osha wants to leave, you let her. but to me, i'm the prisoner?" you glared at him through your watery eyes. his chest rises, you see him fighting back his own emotions. you want him to feel the same hurt you're feeling as you continue to push on.

"you're so desperate to achieve the rule of two, you don't even see what you're doing is hurting the people around you." you say with venom laced in your tone. "i know i cannot be with your goal, osha can, but will she? it's ironic how careless you are to abandon me when you have experienced the same thing from your master. how cruel you are to do it to the person who you claim to love."

his jaw ticks at your words, and you hit a sore spot. you stare into his emotionless eyes, brows furrowing as he doesn't say anything else.

"you don't love me." you quietly said, your own words hurting you. "if you loved me, you wouldn't abandon me when i needed you."

"that is not true." his face contorted to anger. "you have to understand what i said."

"i am tired of understanding you!" you cried, sobbing as you pushed him away, but he caught your wrist before you could shove him back again. "and frankly, i don't understand you, qimir. what is the point of having more power? what do you want from me when I cannot give it to you, but osha can?" your eyes begged for an answer.

"freedom." he merely says, and you scoff.

"when will you be free if the darkness compels you to have more power?" you retort, you never liked this way of the force. "you're obsessed with this. i feel like you're losing yourself for this."

"if it means protecting you with this power, i will gladly do so." he rests his forehead against yours, and you let him, savoring his gentle touch that you know it might be the last. his hands stay on your waist, rubbing up and down to soothe your sobs. "i don't want anything from you... i just want you."

your heart thumps, doubting if you believed him.

"i love you, qimir." you say as his eyes shine with hope. "but i can't do this anymore."

"don't leave me." he begs, sensing that you're serious about leaving him. "i need you with me."

"let me go." you begged back. if he held you in his arms further, you didn't know if your decision to leave would come true. "please."

he doesn't say anything else. his own eyes shine wetly, his own resolve crumbling.

"stay with me. just a little longer. think about it, please." he tries again, hoping you would relent. your hands move up to cup his cheeks in your palms. "i'm sorry."

"when will this all stop?" you whispered, sighing. "i just want a peaceful life with you."

he doesn't have an answer to that, but that gives him some realization of what follows through. but he knows deep down he will not stop until the jedi order won't come for him. peace is a lie. he remembers what he said to mae back then. he knows he cannot give what you are asking for. peace was never going to be in his life, he hoped you would understand that if you chose to stay with him. but if you choose to leave, he finds himself crumbling at the thought of losing you.

he chooses to capture your lips to his, and you kiss him back, knowing he doesn't have an answer to your questions. he holds you in his arms, your chest hurts, you don't know what to do now. but all you know is your love for him will always be there, whether you choose to leave him still.

all you can hope for now is a moment of peace, even if it will never happen as you rest in his arms.

[deadfrog-and-friends]

Rag Doll washes the tea things when the party is over because otherwise they won't get cleaned. the old Scullery Doll was much better and quicker at it but there were so many tea parties that she broke. one day when they stuck the key in her back it just wouldn't turn anymore and no one knew how to fix it. she just waits in her chair by the fireplace, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. we give her tea every day so she doesn't feel left out but it just grows cold in her lap.

we all have our duties. Rag doll's duty was to tuck everyone into bed at night. that's what she was made for. she was made so a young witch, frightened of the dark, would not be alone. she was made to say "are you comfortable? close your eyes. this one will tell you a story," and such things. the young witch is grown and gone away, and none of the dolls here seem to need that, so Rag stands at the sink with a teacup in one hand and a soapy sponge in another, late into the night. the soapy damp smell has become a part of her. she never feels fully dry. there is only so long she can stand being tumbled in the machine. so every night, instead of crawling into bed with the other dolls, she hangs herself from the clothesline with the fan blowing on her. someday Scullery will be fixed, and this duty will be lifted from her, and the smell will fade, but for now she hardly feels fit to present herself at the tea table.

Mabel helps by bringing all of the tea things to the kitchen, which is wonderful of it, because Rag can't handle the tray and would have to make individual trips for each piece. Mabel Doll has suggested that Rag wear some kind of rubber gloves, there are some that the witch used to use for magical purposes of some kind, but Rag has no fingers. the gloves are too big and the fingers get in the way. Baker Doll who happens to be passing by looks at Rag's cloth stumps and chuckling starts to suggest condoms before Mabel cuts it off. but Rag Doll has tried washing teacups with condoms. they're weirdly greasy. "this one is fine," Rag insists.

"that one is starting to get moldy," Mabel points out.

"a witch will come," says Rag, "and Scullery will be fixed."

~🧽~

years pass. the witch who finally comes can not fix Scullery. "Ro just left you guys here to your own devices," she observes, shaking her head. "Pity."

"miss Ro has many responsibilities," ventures Mable.

"not *that* many," says the new witch. "Scullery here, for example, a beautifully well-made piece of machinery. the silicone coating is lifelike, flexible, and durable. i've never seen its like. it apologizes, by the way, for neglecting the dishes all these years. what a waste, letting it rot out here."

"it needn't worry," ventures Mable. "Rags has taken over its duties."

at this, a giant gear within Scullery cranks into action, clicking over once. some of us jump, some scream, as this is the first we've seen it move in years and our memories are not very long. Scullery's hand jerks, toppling the cup of tea placed in its lap. luckily, its heat resistant silicone will seal out the hot liquid, preventing it from any harm. its skirt will have to be laundered. (we will probably just spot clean it.)

Scullery falls back into permanent stillness. "it's very upset," the new witch remarks. "it said 'that rag doll is least suitable to perform this one's duties."

"well, it's doing its best," says Mabel. "but we hope miss Ro will come back and give it some new body. that one is starting to be like a sponge that is ready to be thrown out."

"we did suggest gloves," says Sweetie. "this one thinks it just enjoys the feeling of decay. not every doll is capable of it, you know. this one will never decay. in a thousand years its parts will still be littering the planet." Sweetie's eyes get a faraway look.

"did it not occur to any of you," the witch says, the misery of the situation beginning to soak in, "that maybe one of the dolls who's not made out of absorbent, um, cloth, would be a better choice for washing the dishes?"

blank stares. finally "these ones' witch is gone."

"but Rag Doll offered to do it. Rag Doll said it was fine."

"we have our duties. this one sweeps the floor and dusts, for example."

"this one is also made of cloth! this one thinks that one is insane for taking on such a task."

"Rag got mad when this one tried to help. Rag screamed at this one."

"no." none of us had given it that much thought.

so the new witch goes into the kitchen to see Rag Doll. "oh, you poor thing," comes out of her mouth before she can stop herself. Rag, startled, falls off the back of the chair it's standing on. it had slunk back into the kitchen, defeated, the moment it had heard the new witch say she could do nothing for Scullery.

the new witch skips over and turns off the faucet. "what is it you were actually made for, little one?" she holds out her hand to help Rag Doll to its feet.

it struggles to remember. "this one... was made to tell bedtime stories and snuggle in bed." the years have not been kind to it. at least it's freshly laundered, having gone through the washing machine and tumbled in the dryer just a few nights ago.

"my name is Zo. may I pick you up?"

not believing what it's hearing, the doll nods, and suddenly it's being lifted into the air! levitated by a magical supportive pair of arms, and pressed into the chest of a Witch. it would take that one's breath away, if that one could breathe. it was like a purpose, long forgotten, was starting to reawaken. "a good weight, a good squish," the witch was muttering. "plenty of latent magic, plenty of spells to decrease the smell of dishes over time. little one, i might just steal you!"

"wha-?"

but before it could object, miss Zo, with Rag Doll in her arms, was hopping on Elizabeta's broom and zooming out through an open window. when Baker stopped in a moment later, all it observed was a sink full of half-washed teacups and the curtains swaying in the wind.

those half-washed teacups stayed in the sink like that for a few more days, and then Baker and Mabel agreed to share the job.

[wannabespacesmuggler]

D.D. | Shane's Girl

Part Five | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee | Check out the playlist

Summary: Daryl Dixon knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s alone at night in his tent. Hell, he shouldn’t even be looking at you throughout the day. You’re not his. You’re Shane’s girl. But Daryl doesn’t like the way Shane treats you. And he certainly doesn’t like how you’re forced to play ‘loving girlfriend’ to a man with eyes for another woman at the camp.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Warnings: Shane Walsh sucks

Word Count: 1.2K

Author’s Note: Thanks for the continued love on this lil fic. I love them. The connection they are creating with one another is so sweet and I cannot wait to continue writing for these two idiots. Shane of course continues to be a dick and will only get worse. We're getting closer to the start of the show. I won't be retelling the entire series in this fic. Just snippets of their life together -- the show will fill in the gaps in a way. Anyway, let me know what you guys think of this one, if you want to be added to the taglist, or just want to ask me a question.

Extras: Playlist

You don’t consider yourself a jealous girlfriend; however, as you watch Shane and Lori from across the camp, you cannot help the rage that begins to simmer in your chest. The feeling makes you nauseous. You adore Lori. She’s always been like an older sister to you -- the senior girl who took you under her wing during your freshman year of high school. So the problem isn’t Lori. No, it’s the way Shane is looking at Lori. His face practically lights up with affection and warmth as he listens to her -- a stark contrast to the Shane you’ve become accustomed to since the dead started walking. 

“Hey, uhm. Is everything okay?”

Glenn’s soft voice cuts through your rising temper, startling you. You look up at him with wide eyes for a second, before attempting to pull yourself together. If anyone in camp knew the exact thoughts running through your head right now, you’d be humiliated. You take a deep breath before giving Glenn a polite smile. 

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

Glenn shifts awkwardly on his feet. You haven’t really had a chance to get to know to know Glenn. You could probably count on one hand how many times the two of you have interacted since he joined the camp. For the first few weeks, you assumed he didn’t like you. However, Amy informed you that his avoidance is nothing personal -- it’s just that Shane terrifies him and you’re an extension of that fear. This seems to be a common problem for you around camp. People seem intimidated by you due to your proximity to the camp’s self-proclaimed leader. It’s infuriating and isolating. 

“It’s just… those are my favorite pair of jeans.”

You look down at the wash basin in front of you. You’d been so distracted by your own thoughts, that you’d completely forgotten about the clothes you were washing. As your mind continued to race, your hands began moving on their own accord with just as much ferocity. Your face flushes as you stare at Glenn’s jeans that you damn near scrubbed a hole into.

“Sorry, Glenn. Just zoned out for a second.”

Glenn gives you a kind smile, seemingly content with your answer.

“Don’t worry about it. Happens to everyone.”

He shrugs nonchalantly before wandering off towards Dale. You let out a relieved sigh once he’s out of earshot. Deciding that Glenn’s clothing has been through enough torment today, you pull his garments out of the wash basin and move to pin them up on a clothesline. As you attach the last article of clothing, you hear footsteps approaching you from behind. Before you can turn around, you hear a familiar voice.

“I’m goin’ out to hunt, wanna come?”

You furrow your brow. Daryl has mentioned how much he enjoys hunting alone -- how relaxing it is. It makes sense. He’s a loner by nature, so the constant presence of people in camp must be overwhelming. You don’t want to intrude on his personal time. Before you can ask him if he’s sure, you notice his eyes shift from you over to Shane and Lori.

Oh.

You might have been able to fool Glenn, but you can’t fool Daryl. He knows exactly what has you so riled up. You’re embarrassed that the younger Dixon has seen through your ruse. The last thing that you want is Daryl thinking less of you because of your envy. You want to explain yourself -- let him know that you’re not just some jealous girlfriend -- but the words get stuck in your throat, so you nod wordlessly at his offer and allow him to lead you into the surrounding woods. 

Daryl likes the quiet -- he usually finds comfort in it, but your unusual silence, while you both move through the forest, is unbearable. You’re the conversationalist. You’re the one who retells stories about your time in King County with Shane and the Grimes family, recites all the gossip you learned from Andrea and Amy throughout the day, and complains about whatever crappy meal the group was able to put together that evening. And he likes that about you. You ask him the occasional question about Merle or hunting, but you never pry. You’re the one that talks and he’s the one that listens -- simple as that.

But right now you don’t feel like talking and it’s making him anxious. He knows he should say something, but what? Sorry your boyfriend is such a jackass? He shakes his head at the thought. Real, smooth Dixon. This is uncharted territory for him. No one ever taught him how to comfort.

A rustling in the woods saves him from his attempts at starting a conversation. Daryl puts his arm out to stop you from walking in front of him, before aiming his crossbow toward the noise. He slowly moves forward and you follow his lead, knife in hand. Eventually, a walker comes into view from behind the trees. Daryl waits for a clear shot and pulls the trigger. You let out a sigh of relief as you watch the arrow sink into the walker’s skull. 

“Nice shot.”

Your voice breaks through the silence for the first time and he’s glad to hear it. He wanders over to the walker and retrieves his crossbow bolt. He wipes the tip of it off on his jeans, before looking back at you. 

“You ‘lright?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek as you think about his question -- you know he’s not asking about the walker.

“I’m just worried.”

Daryl furrows his brow at your response. He doesn’t ask why, instead, he silently shifts from one foot to the other, allowing you to continue if you so choose. 

“I feel like you’re the only person in this camp who sees me as a person and not just Shane’s girl -- I just don’t want that to change.”

Daryl shakes his head at the thought. He’s seen you do more for this camp in one day, than Shane’s ever done. It’s stupid really, how everyone treats you. And he knows that you have more to give than cleaning laundry and preparing meals. You don’t have to prove yourself to him -- the two of you are far past that. You’ve already earned his respect -- something Shane has yet to accomplish.  

“You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that.” 

You nod at his words, but Daryl can tell that they did little to reassure you. 

“I feel the same way.”

Your brows knit together in confusion over Daryl’s words. 

“You’re the only person who doesn’t see me as Merle.”

His tone is sincere -- you know he genuinely means what he is saying. You wonder how many people have met the Dixon brothers and simply wrote Daryl off due to the brashness of his older brother. You watch as he awkwardly shifts from one foot to the other, obviously uncomfortable with the vulnerability in his words. 

“Yeah, you’re definitely not Merle.”

This causes Daryl to laugh -- actually laugh. The sound is surprising at first -- more boyish than the usual gruffness you're used to in his voice, but it’s nice. And it makes you smile brightly, knowing you’re the reason for his laughter. 

“C’mon, we should head back.”

You allow him to take the lead again, navigating through the woods once more. He might not have caught any squirrel, but the two of you are not coming back to camp empty-handed. A newfound understanding washes over the both of you, bonding you to one another.

Taglist: 

@minervadashwood

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@dreamtofus

@youcantstandit

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@prettywhenibleed

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@all-will-be-well-love

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@catradora333

@punicorn999

[haveyouanytime]

each miller brother takes their days off differently

inspired by it pouring rain where i live (＃￣0￣) | tommy x reader & joel x reader, NOT tommy x reader x joel

౨ৎ daily click to help palestine 🍉

Waking up with Tommy in your shared bed, listening to the sound of the rain pattering against your window, you can’t help but feel tranquil and lazy. As much as you loved having the day off at the same time as your husband, you feel a bit peeved that it was only due to the pouring rain making the roads close off. You feel his body atop yours as he sleeps like a seal on a rock (you being the rock, unfortunately), his soft snores sending a deep rumble to your chest. 

You let him sleep for a bit longer, slowly running your hand through his dark curls you love dearly. It’s after a few minutes that you decide to get up that Tommy stirs, his hold tightening on your torso. 

“Nope. Mm-mm.” He grumbles into your sleep shirt, pinning you to the bed with his body weight. You sigh, thinking to yourself that his actions would be cuter if your bladder wasn’t about to explode. 

“Tommy, I gotta pee.” You softly push at his shoulder, still weak with leftover sleepiness running through your body. 

“Too bad.” He mumbles into your chest. He sighs, as content as possible in his half-asleep state. “Five more minutes.” 

And although you do eventually make it out of the bed-- it seems like you can’t escape Tommy’s arms all day. As you cook a lazy brunch, his chest is pressed to your back. As you eat, he pulls you onto his lap. As he washes the plates, he demands you stay beside him to hold him just as he did to you. Afterward, he drags you towards the couch, but you escape his grip as he lands on the plush cushions. You run a hand through your hair, taking a step away from the couch to try and distance yourself from his iron hold. “Tommy, I gotta do laundry.” 

“No need for laundry. C’mere.” He demands with a huff, sticking his arms out for you to join him. You can’t help but smile, thinking of how he looks like a child asking for a toy. 

“Tommy, we need to do laundry.” You sigh with a smile, taking a step closer to him to rake your hand through his dark curls. “All your work clothes are dirty, right? Can’t have you going to frame in sweatpants and a band-tee.” 

“You can’t do laundry, ‘cause it’s raining.” He grins, looking up at you and resting his hands on your hips. You let out an airy laugh, and you want to try and protest that the laundry can be done because you have a washer and dryer and not a clothesline like a pilgrim, but his hands move up to your waist and pull you down onto the couch with him. 

And as you lie on the couch with him, looking up at his peaceful face as he naps, you figure the laundry can be done tomorrow. 

With Joel? You wake up the same as always, with him already up. As you saunter down the stairs to the kitchen, he’s already making breakfast for three-- despite Sarah still being asleep upstairs due to the school sending out the announcement the night before of a canceled day due to the pouring rain. But there he was, cooking like he was about to get in his truck with Tommy and Sarah like any other morning. 

But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns into a handyman rather than a carpenter for the day. Anything that creaked moved quieter than a mouse, anything that leaked seemed magically brand new. The lights seem brighter in the doorway, kitchen, and bathroom, at one point, you find the front door open and you peek outside to see Joel battle the whipping wind atop a stepstool as he replaces the lightbulb on the porch. 

Once everything possible seemed done and it was only the early afternoon, you found him standing with his hands on his hips, just staring out the window. You and Sarah watch from the doorway, matching furrowed eyebrows as he just… stares. 

“Maybe we should ask him to do something,” Sarah whispers to you, “Maybe he’s secretly worked like a Sim this whole time. He can only function when given tasks.” 

“Have him do what? I think he’s already done everything possible.” You whisper back, your head tilting curiously as your husband seems frozen in time. 

“I dunno. Anything.” She speaks lowly, her honey-colored eyes widening as you both just watch Joel. 

“Maybe he’s like a T-Rex,” Sarah whispers, watching as her father stands like a statue, his gaze transfixed on the pouring rain. “If we don’t move, he can’t see us.” 

“You know I can hear you, right?” Joel raises his brow, turning to face you two. Sarah all but disappears, her sock-clad feet pattering up the stairs and abandoning you to deal with Joel. 

“Let’s take a break, honey.” You smile, walking forward and gently grabbing his forearm. You lead him to the living room, trapping him to the couch with your legs thrown over his. Much to his chagrin, you turn on a rom-com which pulls Sarah out of her room to effectively trap Joel by sitting on his other side. He grunts that he’s not watching a chick flick, but a solid 20 minutes into the movie, he’s hooked.

[wildemaven]

meant to be | javier peña

-> pairing: javier peña x f!reader

-> wc: 1645

-> content warnings: 18+ blog; domestic javi, established relationship, unprotected p in v, fluff, talks of starting a family, reader has zero descriptive features

-> a/n: this was posted on my other account and i am moving it here now. it is also a rewrite of an older fic i did with frankie.

masterlist

Fall is settling in nicely in Texas. The days are still warm, but the weekends no longer hold as much daylight as they did weeks ago. 

Everything transitioning into its autumnal journey, your yard drenched in rustic hues and sunshine. 

You and Javier both loved taking advantage of the nicer weather, wanting to soak up as much of it as possible before the shift into a colder season, deciding to spend your evenings on the patio as the days wound down and the sun set behind the pasture on the west side of the ranch.  

Chores were the first thing that needed to be tackled. Divide and conquer seemed to work well for you both. You took on the inside duties of laundry, dusting, and food prep, while Javier managed the outside— mowing, tree trimming, truck washing. 

Bed made with clean sheets, a load of dirty clothes placed into the washer– the previous load hung in the backyard on the clothesline, dinner prepared and waiting– your list of to-do’s dwindling as the day went on. Now you find yourself planted at the sink of dirty dishes, your kitchen window a front row seat to the old barn, your eyes glued on your husband as he washes his truck. 

His striped sky blue shirt encapsulates every detail of his back, sleeves tight around the bulk of his arms, muscles flexing as he scrubs the soapy sponge back and forth across the metal surface– and you thank whoever designed his well-fitted jeans.  A week's worth of dirt slowly slid off the sides of the old ranch truck, a prized possession that had been passed down from Chucho when Javier had decided to take on more responsibilities around the ranch. 

It has been two years since moving into the home Javier grew up in, wanting something big with the hopes of starting a family in the future. Chucho insisted you both move in, stating the house was far too big for just him— he moved into the ranch’s guest house down the dirt road. Memories tucked to every corner of the house, old family photos still hanging in the very spot his Mama placed them.

Javier must sense he’s being watched when he turns towards the kitchen window, catching your eyes on him. His gaze lingers a bit, soap and water dripping from the sponge in his large hand. He shoots you a wink with a smile that makes you instantly weak. 

“Shit!” The mug you had been washing slips from your soapy hands into the water below, water splashing back at you, soaking the thin material of your dress, your attention drawn back to the sink and the remaining dishes. Somehow Javier still makes you flustered after all these years with just a simple look thrown your way. 

Glancing back out the window again to find Javier is no longer there, the suds freely dripping off the truck door and sponge discarded on the ground. The creak of the screen door lets you know exactly where your husband is as you proceed to dry the drinking glasses and place them in the cupboard. His shuffling around in the living room does little to help you know what he’s up to. 

“Javi?” You call out to him as you finish putting away the last of the plates and bowls, wiping the counter off before you go in search of your husband. 

The slight crackle of a record starting makes you aware of his location– the living room. His old collection of records and record player had been boxed away in the attic after he moved away. Last Spring, while you were putting away the winter blankets, you stumbled upon his music collection– something from nearly every genre. You pulled everything down one weekend while he was busy in town with Chucho, having everything set up on the bookcase and a record going when he got home. It became a habit that one of you would slip on a new record, windows open allowing the breeze to carry the songs throughout the house. 

A familiar tune begins, it instantly brings a smile to your face.

“Wise men say...”

The low timber of his voice sends a tingle down your spine any time he sings your wedding song. For such a reserved man, who refuses to indulge in karaoke, he jumps at any chance to serenade you within the walls of your home— one of the many things you love about him.

A set of arms wrap around you, welcoming you back from your walk down memory lane, pulling you against his chest as he begins to move about the kitchen with you. Your bodies swaying together as the music continues, his face nuzzled in close to your cheek as he hums along with the song.

“Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be…”

Your body leans into him, the rest of the chores fully abandoned as you both waver about the kitchen, savoring how easy it is to create new memories in your home.

“You sure know how to get out of chores Peña.” You tell him just as he spins you around so you’re facing him, looping your arms around his neck while his hands settle on your back— Javier singing along completely ignoring your comment. 

“If I’m not mistaken Querida, I’m pretty sure you were hardly putting an effort into yours.” He teases you before grabbing your hand to send you twirling around. You can’t contain your laughter, living for these spontaneous moments of ease with the man you’re so completely head over heels for. Your body is pulled back into his, resuming the energetic flow between the two of you. A sweet rhythm of bliss now strumming through your body as you melt into his arms. 

“Hmm, I don’t know what you’re talking about…” Hiding your smirk into his warm neck, knowing full well what he’s referring to. 

“That wasn’t you gawking at me through the window—“

“I was not gawking, Javi!” As you playfully pat his chest. “I was just admiring the view.” 

“You were in fact gawking. I think I clocked you at 10 minutes from the first moment I noticed you hadn’t moved.”

“You are so exaggerating!” He’s definitely not wrong though, it’s hard to pull your eyes away from such a thing of beauty. 

“How about we take this to the bedroom, Querida– and I’ll show you exaggeration!” He taunts into your ear. 

 “Javier! Your truck is half washed in the driveway— and I know you’re going to be pissed about the soap drying on it right now. Plus, I already made the bed.” 

He’s dragging you back towards the stairs that lead to the bedroom, his infectious smirk displayed across his stupid handsome face, your body doing little to stop itself from his magnetic pull. 

“I’ll just wash it again. I’ll even set a chair up for you to admire up close. Get you one of those ice cold beers too.” He says as he falls back into the bed, pulling your body on top of his. 

“And I’m pretty sure this won’t be the last time we dirty these sheets this weekend…” His voice muffled against your neck, his lips planting kiss after kiss as he pleads his case– you easily succumb to his antics.

His hands work at the line of buttons that trail down the front of your dress, your own undoing his buckle before working at the button and zipper of his jeans– he hisses as your hands hastily move over bugle straining behind his jeans. 

Your dress is open and hanging off your shoulders as you slowly sink down on Javier’s cock, the stretch of him a welcomed adjustment, his length hitting something delicious as you settle at the base of him. 

“Fuck, Javi!!” Hands splayed over Javier’s firm chest for support, your head thrown back as a rapturous whine pours out into the room, a slight bounce to your breasts as you move— the cups of your bra pulled down, the cool air has your nipples pebbled and tight. Javier is taken by your angelic state— you're a sight to be seen. 

Javier’s fingers are digging into the meat of your thighs, the slow stuttering roll of your hips as you move over his cock has him worked up faster than he has anticipated. 

“Querida— Shit! Baby, I’m not gonna last— you look so good riding my cock like that!” His hips bucking up at the feeling of your cunt clenching around him. 

“I’m right there with you, Amor!” 

A few swipes over your throbbing clit and a string of quick thrusts, both of you cresting the euphoric peak in unison. 

You collapse on top of Javier, a strong arm wraps around your waist, a hand cupping your neck, Javier determined to keep you as close as possible— you fully melting into his touch. 

Breathing ragged and hearts racing— bodies perfectly satiated and filled with an intense love for each other. 

“I should probably get up and get dinner started. That should be plenty of time for you to rewash the truck.” You don’t show any signs of actually doing so, too relaxed to care about finishing the rest of your chores. 

“Or— we can just lay here a little longer. Save the food and truck washing for tomorrow. We can go into town later and get dinner instead.”

“A man after my heart. I’d marry you if I wasn’t already.” He rolls you off him onto your back, hands roaming over your dewy skin as he kisses you slowly. 

The lull of the record player echoes through the house as the music fades out, clothes and sheets are thrown about the bedroom, the day’s plans forgotten as you both seek out a more exhilarating afternoon. 

[anyasathenaeum]

Romance/fluff prompt 3 with wolfwood? Maybe the reader just casually takes his shirt

A/N: Awwww yes! That's kinda cute so here, have some fluff!

Wolfwood couldn't find his shirt.

No matter where he looked for it, it was nowhere to be found. He had checked the drawers in the room, and through every pile of clothing he had come across - nothing.

He had been wounded pretty badly, and while his vials managed to get him to a point where he was stable, they didn't fully manage to heal him with how much damage he had taken. The last thing Wolfwood could even remember was you trying to support him and get him to what looked like an abandoned, run down house.

Imagine his surprise upon waking up in a bedroom filled with dust and sand, on an old but still intact bed. Wolfwood had blinked around, trying to piece together what had happened during his unconsciousness, and that's when it hit him - his wounds were healed.

That's when he heard the humming.

It was a familiar voice - your voice. Humming some ancient love song with long-forgotten lyrics as you did whatever you were doing in the next room over.

Wolfwood all but shot out of bed, wanting to see you and talk to you, but he realized his shirt was missing. You had likely taken it off to tend to his wounds.

"Damnit!" Wolfwood muttered to himself as he gave up looking for his shirt. Maybe it had to have been cut off of him. Either way, Wolfwood found himself frowning in annoyance - he had really liked that shirt.

Your humming suddenly snapped him out of his search, and when he approached the door, Wolfwood realized the door wasn't fully closed. He peaked out from the opening, hoping to see what you were up to. What he saw absolutely stunned him.

There you were, in a ruined, decrepit, long-abandoned living room, humming to yourself and swaying happily with something in your hands. Wolfwood could see other clothes hanging from a makeshift clothesline - had you done laundry?

To his surprise, his heart rate hit the roof and he felt his heart do some funny things in his chest. Why did the sight of you doing something as simple as laundry make his heart want to burst? Why did you humming a love song make Wolfwood want to dance with you, to spin you around and dip you dramatically to surprise you?

Then, his heart all but stopped when he recognized the thing in your hands.

His shirt.

He watched you give the shirt a tender and gentle hug, holding it against your face with such care that you'd have thought it were made of glass. You took a breath before hanging it up with the rest of the clothes you had presumably washed, gazing at it with affection.

Wolfwood had to stop himself from storming out of his hiding spot and kissing you then and there. Instead, a small smile appeared on his face, and he allowed himself a moment of true joy as he realized that maybe, just maybe, he made you as happy as you made him.

[goodmorgan]

Perfect Strangers

Chapter 3: A Sin to Hang

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 2)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!Reader

Series Summary: When a stranger appears at your homestead to steal from you, you set out to help him instead. What follows is a reckless relationship with potentially dangerous outcomes.

Chapter Summary: A pleasant afternoon turns into a delightful evening as you and Arthur exchange some intimate confessions.

Word Count: 4.4K

Tags: NSFW. MDNI. 18+. Smut, Porn With Plot, Mutual Pining, Infidelity, Clothed Sex, Vaginal Sex, Pet Name, Mentions of Masturbation Voyeurism and Oral Sex, Teasing, Swearing, Touch-Starved Arthur Morgan

AO3 Link

A/N: This one's just smut. Necessary smut! Things get a lot more intimate!

You should’ve known that satisfying Arthur Morgan wouldn’t be as easy as pie.

As you serve him another slice, you notice the pie you baked earlier now has a 4 o’clock shape, the apple filling spilling over the bottom of the round plate. You wonder how he can eat so much dessert after such a hearty dinner, even for a man of such build.

“This is the best pie I’ve ever had, missy.” Arthur is swift to gobble another bite, downing it with a sip of his whiskey.

“It’s my grandma’s recipe.” You watch attentively as he devours your baking while nibbling on one of the pieces of chocolate Arthur brought you. You hadn’t had some in months and the sweet familiar taste comforts you after such an unpredictable day.

You both eat the dessert each of you got for the other, enjoying your mutually pleasant company in silence as you’re now both perfectly at ease. The night sky has just settled over the horizon and you hear distant whippoorwills outside. Amber and Titus are now sheltered on the stable outback, enjoying the comfort that Arthur spent all day renovating.

Arthur is now wearing a plain white shirt, a spare one he had on his horse since the blue one he wore during the day was stained with your wetness during the afternoon’s recreations. You were insistent to wash it before dinner and now you watch as it dries on the clothesline outside from your living room window.

After a short while, the inevitable happens. Before reaching his mouth, a piece of apple filling lands right on the pristine white on the middle of his shirt. You both chuckle as Arthur reaches for the fallen chunk with his fingers, quickly bringing it to its destination as he places it on his tongue, swallowing as he savors its sweet taste. He licks his fingers, adamant about not letting anything go to waste.

“I’ll get a towel.” You head to the kitchen and wet a tea towel on your sink, hoping to reach him in time before the shirt stains. You swipe the remaining filling off, rubbing at the smudge to try to erase it. It soon becomes apparent the effort is pointless. Another shirt is ruined.

Arthur watches your face attentively as you attempt to salvage it, his chest getting wet as you damp the shirt with the towel. When you let out a frustrated sigh, he places a hand on your jaw, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “It’s no use, darling.”

You’re stubborn enough to keep going. “You don’t happen to have another shirt on your saddle, do you?”

“I’m afraid we’ve ruined all the ones I have.”

You both laugh as Arthur’s thumb continues his motion, moving up as your smile widens. You stop cleaning his shirt, setting the towel down on the table, smoothing the wet spot with your fingers as you try to dry it out. Arthur’s free hand snatches yours away, lifting its back up to his lips to plant a soft kiss as you fix your sight on each other’s gaze. He then smoothly pulls your jaw down, leaning in the rest of the way until he finally kisses you languidly. Then he’s brave enough to part your lips, deepening the kiss as his other hand pulls the rest of your body clumsily onto his lap, a place that’s becoming all too familiar and all too exciting for you.

You prop yourself on his thighs as he begins pulling you downwards into his embrace, eventually sneaking his tongue between your teeth. You find yourself sinking into him while beginning to float all at once.

As he gets more excited, his hands reach for your thighs and he caresses them as he did during the afternoon, before he moved to see if you were ready for his ministrations. Your hips are now intimately close to his and you feel him starting to tent underneath you.

You withdraw from his lips to speak, hoping he doesn’t take you right here and now. “Arthur, the dishes.”

He reaches for your jaw, a subpar replacement for your lips. “What about them?”

“Let me finish them before we start.”

He heads for the crook of your neck. “We don’t need them clean for what we’re doing, darling.”

You let out a scoff. “I hate leaving the kitchen messy overnight.” You straddle his face between your hands. ”You can have me after.”

“You promise?” He’s almost pouting and it’s endearing.

“Yeah, I promise.”

His scowl reaches your lips as he wrings from you a short but passionate kiss before he lets you off his lap. You break from his embrace as you head to the kitchen.

“Bring me the rest of the plates, would you?” You begin to scrub one of the pans you used to make dinner.

He exhales in disappointment. “Yes, ma’am.”

Arthur begins to do as he’s asked, clearing the table a few dishes at a time, brushing sideways behind you as he places them by your side. You notice he gets a little closer with each brush, a move that is certainly intentional, making you giddy. You pretend to ignore his attempts to rattle you, which makes him lean closer every time. He eventually runs out of plates to bring you.

“Can you help me out and dry the washed plates, please?” Your tone is of obliviousness.

Another exhale. “Yes, ma’am.”

He somehow still finds a way to keep brushing past you as he begins to put away the plates and cutlery in their cabinets. You’re doing the final dishes when he finally places his last one, brushing past you again but stopping with his body front facing your back. You feel him sinking into you slowly, putting his hands on your shoulders before he suggestively runs them down your arms, stopping at your bent elbows before he slides them downwards to your waist, leaving their warmth on your hips.

“I haven’t finished the dishes yet, Arthur,” you say almost as a reprimand. You know that he’s fully impatient now, but you’re not above teasing him further.

“I don’t think I can wait, missy.” He lowers his lips to kiss that magical spot below your ear and you try to fight the urge to let your head fall back. He continues to rummage his hands where he pleases, moving from the width of your hips to the small of your back and then forward to the curve of your belly. You can’t be sure if the plate on your hand is already clean as you become increasingly distracted, so you keep scrubbing, applying more pressure as he does the same to you.

“I’m almost done.” A few dishes still remain.

“You better be.” His face creeps up on your collarbone and you feel his hot breath on your neck, the sensation so intoxicating you're surprised when his fingers reach the underside of your breasts. You respond by holding your own breath but when he finally cups them fully in his palms you can’t help but let out a ragged sigh. When he lightly squeezes them, your sharp whimper is perceptibly loud and it echoes directly into his ear.

He purrs in response. “Enjoying this, are we?”

You’re so delighted to be in his embrace you stop moving your hands, savoring as he encapsulates your frame. This only encourages him further and he pushes his whole torso onto your back, taking a deep breath to smell your hair as he switches sides, soon nibbling at your other ear. His hips lean heavily into yours and, even with the fabric of your skirt and his pants in the way, you feel his hard bulge pressing against your ass, sending a hot wave of desire through your whole body.

Arthur suddenly begins to suck the spot below your ear, which makes you let out another gasp, making him more determined, tightening his hold of your bosoms. You continue to fail at remaining quiet, especially when you begin to feel him rubbing himself over your, strategically moving his pelvis to create enough friction to alleviate his growing stiffness. You lean your hands over the edge of the sink to ground yourself as you lift your buttocks higher to meet his grinding, chasing the euphoria of the moment. He responds by letting out a long-repressed groan, making his chest vibrate against your back. It feels too good not to keep pressing against him, especially as the movements become less restrained.

“You know, I could just come like this,” he admits. The image is heavy fuel to the fire in your core and you feel yourself twitching as you become wetter. “Is that what you want?”

Your instinct is to immediately say yes. You imagine him rocking into you vigorously, clutching your hips to keep them from moving. You’d hear his obscene groans directly in your ear as he brings himself closer to release, making you reach underneath your skirt to find some consolation. You figure you’d unravel by the sounds he would make as he’d make a mess on his jeans, another garment to wash before your sinfulness hangs in the clothesline to dry again.

But then you think of the past few days, how you had touched yourself to the idea of him bringing you to the edge while sinking into you, his thick length the reason you came apart. The one thing that you didn't get on the night you met. It has nagged you too much not to recall it now.

You seem to get lost in your reasoning as he's insistent to ask you again. “Is that what you want, missy?”

You grip the stone of the sink tighter, scared you’ll disappoint him with your answer. “I’m sorry, Arthur. No.” Your voice quietens at the end.

He hears you perfectly though and upon your last word he stops his grinding, reaching for your waist before he turns you around so he can look at you, concern in his eyes. “What is it that you want then?” He can tell you have something on your mind as he tightens his hands on your hips, kissing your jaw lightly to put you at ease. “Tell me what you want and I'll do it.”

You’re a little reticent to tell him, but he seems sincerely interested in your pleasure. He leans his lips into your neck so you take the chance to whisper into his ear. “I need you inside me.”

He hums at your suggestion. “Yeah?” He resumes rolling his hips lazily. “What else?”

You trail his ear as he deepens his hold on you, placing his palms on your back. “I need you to make me come.”

He rises to look at your face, a slight smirk on his lips. “You wanna come around my cock, huh?”

You nod gently, palming the side of one of his moving thighs.

He hovers over your lips. "Naughty little thing, ain't ya?" You close the gap between your mouths, answering his question affirmatively.

Arthur finally gives you the ardent kiss you seek, pulling you closer as his hands run down to your ass, grabbing at you desperately. His rutting fastens as you thrust yourself into him as well, both of you needy with unashamed desire. Your hands are still wet and soapy from the dishes but you sink them onto his shoulder blades with gusto, further ruining his stained shirt. When you feel his erection poking into your thigh, you lean crudely into his center so it prods directly on your pulsing core. The blinding stimulation frees from you your biggest moan of the night.

He lets go of your lips to look at you again, not pausing his movements for a second. "Maybe we should stop." Neither of you do.

“What for?” You’re too lost to understand why.

"You haven't finished the dishes yet, missy." He lands his joke with a satisfying grin.

You respond with a hiccuped sneer. "I don't care, Arthur."

"I thought you didn't like messes." He sinks into your neck again.

You like to fight fire with fire. "Why don't you make a mess of me again and we find out?" Your tone is more challenging than humorous.

He suddenly stops his hips as he raises his head and you see his gaze is completely overcome with lust now. “Let’s get you out of these clothes then. Before you have to wash them too.”

Arthur practically drags you to the bedroom before he sits on the bed, working quickly to remove your blouse while you begin to undo your skirt for the second time today.

“You sure you’re ready again, missy? You’re not sore from this afternoon?” He looks at you while he slides the top from your shoulders.

You shake your head, desperate to relieve your arousal again. The pleasure he gave you a few hours ago seems to have been wiped from your memory as you’re more than ready for another round. “I need you, Arthur.”

Your skirt finally falls on the floor on top of the blouse and you feel Arthur pulling at your drawers until they reach your ankles. You step out of them while you remove your chemise.

His eyes are now facing your bare folds and he parts them lightly to see how aroused you already are. “Hmm. So wet already.” He reaches for your hips, pushing you on top of him again. ”Such a good girl for me.” He clasps your shoulders as he swiftly swaddles you down to lay you flat on the bed, pressing his chest against yours before he lands on his feet, already working his damp shirt.

You watch as Arthur unbuckles himself, removing his boots before letting his pants fall next to your clothes. His already stiff length is protruding inside his underpants, now considerably stained, no doubt the result of his fervent grinding on you. It dismays you when he doesn't remove his shaft right away. Instead, he climbs on top of you on the bed, caging you beneath him, being careful enough to keep his hips from touching you.

"What was it you wanted again, darling?" He leans down for a quick kiss.

"You inside me." You reach for his shoulders, trying to force him to come down on you.

“And how much do you want it, missy?” He starts pecking your collarbone.

“So much, Arthur.” You're growing uncomfortably desperate, so you jolt your hips trying to try to meet his.

He chuckles. "I can see that. Did you touch yourself while I was gone?”

How does he know, you wonder. "Yeah." You try to reach his waist again.

"When?"

"Every day." You thrust again.

He looks up at you. "Every day, huh? What did you think about?" There's a snooty smirk forming on his face.

“I thought about you being inside me.” Your tone reeks of impatience as you become frustrated by his unyieldingness. You hook one of your legs around his back but he doesn't give in.

"Yeah, and did you come?" He sounds and looks beyond pleased with your confession.

"Every time." You remember that to get to a man you get through his ego. "Some days more than once." Your other leg joins the other and it manages to lower him a bit, his undergarment slightly brushing your core.

He fixes his greedy eyes on you. "On which days, missy?"

You deliver your coup de grace. "All of them."

"Oh, you're killing me." He succumbs fully to the pressure now, not just of your insistence but of his throbbing cock, reaching for your warmth to appease the unbearable ache inflamed by your words. He sinks into your neck as he writhes you hungrily, his covered erection rubbing your folds apart, exposing your swollen clit to his frenzied movements as you begin to lose composure.

"Arthur, I need you inside me!"

He fastens his squirming as you feel him twitching at your words. "We'll get there, missy."

"I won't last long!" You cry out petulantly, feeling pathetic that you're this aroused after what you got this afternoon.

You get his attention as he surfaces, swiping your lips with his thumb. "Well, let's make sure your dreams come true then."

It's pure torture when Arthur stops moving, lifting his whole upper body as he kneels by your thighs, towering over you as you watch him lowering his underpants to let out his fully hard cock, its head beading, begging for attention. Your hips jolt reflexively at the sight, unable to do much under his weight. He reaches for his shaft to pump a few lazy strokes to smear it with his precum as his thumb works the head. He continues even when he lifts one knee at a time to remove the garment, releasing a few huffs of gratification.

"You ready to take me?" He gets faster as his hand glides easier around its member.

"God, yes! Arthur!" Your whole body moves with restlessness as you clutch the sheets beneath you. "Inside!"

He moves his free hand to part your legs, placing a knee between them as he curls one of your legs around his back. His other knee joins the other as he bends your other leg to make you open wide for him. "I'm gonna tell you a secret." He bends downwards to place his smeared head at your entrance as you dig your nails into the white cotton threads. He kisses your lips annoyingly tame. "Wanna hear it?"

Your shaking turns into a nod. "Yes!"

He guides his cock upwards to reach your clit, the move so intense you bolt your head sideways and close your eyes. Arthur's hand reaches your cheek to make sure you look at him, his fingers smelling of his heat. You open your mouth as you feel his hardness return to your entrance, ready to swallow him whole.

He delivers his own finishing blow. "I touched myself thinking about you too."

Arthur begins to enter you, slow but steady, and you suddenly think you're about to black out, your senses clouded by the intensity of the moment as you take in his cock and his words. The thought that he chased his pleasure thinking about you just like you thought about him sends you flying, crashing as you begin to feel him filling you, reaching your spot of untamed delight. You swap the grasp of the flimsy sheets for the strength of his shoulders, as he deepens himself into you, recreating the dream you kept yearning for in the past few days.

He begins to share his own dream. "Thought about you taking me like this too," he reveals through ragged breaths that fall on your mouth. "All warm and tight. Just for me." He steadies himself on his elbows as his legs begin to tremble slightly. "Here to feed me and save me. So good for me." His hands reach for your shoulders as he begins to angle down further. "An angel from heaven." You would think this corny if you could think. "Sent down to fuck me."

You feel your chest heaving with what must be sharps wails but you're only able to hear the words coming out of his mouth, trembling at his every remark. When you finally feel him reach your hilt, you're amazed you haven't finished yet, blindsided by something beyond any of your waking fantasies.

Arthur stills himself as he lets you adjust to his significant size, toying with your bottom lip as he bottoms out. “Oh, fuck, you fit me so well, missy.”

You ache at the lack of his thrusts, so you do some of your own. "Arthur!" You tell him something you've never told another man in bed. "Please!"

He must notice the desperation in your eyes and your voice because he budges, rolling out a slow buck of his hips. "This what you want, angel?" Your moan comes from deep in your throat. "For me to fuck you?" Another roll. "My perfect fucking angel." He begins to set a rhythmic languid pace as he lowers his mouth to one of your breasts, teasing your other one with his fingers. His broken name begins to echo throughout the room, each time followed by one of his mind-numbing thrusts. You tighten the hold of your hands and legs around him, trying to consume a body almost double your size, convinced to devour him whole.

You're disheartened when he stops telling you of his time away. "How'd you have me? In your touch?" You fail to form comprehensible sentences.

Somehow he understands you. "Thought about you stroking my cock with your pretty little fingers. Like you did the other day by the fire." He keeps pecking your tit as he speaks in short bursts, his breath hitching further. "That it was your hand instead of mine. At the end of the day. On my bed. In my tent." His tongue slides in and out of his mouth to rile you up. "A few times I had to stop. By the road. Behind a tree."

You're so close now, you can feel it. If only he keeps talking. You shout his name again, hoping he continues. He does. "Thought about your mouth. Sucking. On your knees." His own knees are now bouncing on the mattress as his motions become more erratic. "One time. At the farrier. Had to go outside. Thinking of you. Your hand and your mouth. Couldn't help it. A lady saw me. Didn't say nothing. Just left." He sucks on your nipple for a moment. "But that's not how I ended."

"How?" you let out between moans.

"I was inside you. Like this. Tight. So fucking tight." He lifts his head and you find his gaze. "Squeezing my cock. Hard." He licks his lips, setting now a dramatic pace as he steers his cock down to hit the sacred spot inside you again and again. "Need you to repeat it, missy." He tries to kiss you as you grit your teeth. “Need you to be a good girl for me.”

Nothing about what happens next is calm or collected as you near the point of no return, shutting your eyes closed as his request reaches your ears. You must look hysterical as your whole body braces for the inevitable, already eclipsing this afternoon's debauchery. You undulate carelessly under the confinement of his frame as his cock slams into you with unrelenting force.

"Come around me, girl." He feels your muscles clenching rapidly around him. "Like that. Yeah." Animalistic grunts cascade from his words. "Just like that. Come for me." You feel your muscles begin to lose any control they have left. "Come on, missy. Do this for me. Be my pretty little angel." His wish is granted as you finally reach the edge, turning both your lewd fantasies into delectable reality as you come around him.

Your husband's bed creaks loudly under you as you ascend a heaven he never even prayed for you, wrapped around another man as he calls you his angel.

"Oh, fuck, missy. Fuck." Arthur's plunges get brusque as your climax makes him approach his own, gripping your hips tightly as you toss uncontrollably from the overwhelming sensation. He revels in your oversensitive state as you attempt to subdue his force unsuccessfully. His moans start getting louder as yours subside. You open your eyes to see his face recoiling in ecstasy as he struggles to hold on.

A few seconds later he finally removes his cock from you as he reaches the finish line, stroking himself to completion, slathering your stomach with his warm white spend, marking you with his sinful elation.

This is the second time now he has climaxed on you, but this time he releases himself with more composure, lasting longer, the effort of someone regaining his footing on a forgotten skill. You can tell this round was more enjoyable to him, like it was to you, both of you enraptured by the bliss of intimacy.

"Christ, missy." He opens his eyes as he continues to hold himself, running on empty. He exhales a cackle as he looks down at you, both of you already able to breathe again. "You look a fright, darling. Let's get you cleaned up." Arthur gets up to reach for the towel hanging from your vanity before nestling between your thighs again, your legs still open from exhaustion. He begins to clean the spill he made with smooth wipes.

"Now that's the kind of mess I like," you joke, watching his delicate handling of your skin. He chuckles as he finishes, throwing the towel on the floor. Another sin to hang on the clothesline.

Arthur leans over to your side, lying next to you as you embrace him, settling your head over his chest. You hear his heartbeat return to its usual crawl underneath you as he soothes your stilling sweaty back.

"That was something else, Y/N."

You leap at your name and you turn your head to see his lashes looking down at you. "Yeah?"

"Really something."

"For me too," you finally say, forming a smile. "Thank you."

He rubs the thumb on your back more noticeably. "No. Thank you, angel." He places a soft kiss on your temple.

You wait for a moment before you're bold enough to ask. "Did you really think about me? Like that? These past few days?"

"Yeah." He pauses for a moment before he words his confession. "I- I haven't been with someone else… for a while now. Like we've been." It pains him to admit it. "I guess I'd forgotten what it was like until the other day."

You try to set him at ease with your own admission. "Out here, by myself. It gets lonely too."

Arthur's lips stretch shyly from your empathy before he places another chaste kiss on your forehead, relieved to find solace in you. He leaves his lips there as you two savor the closeness neither of you has had recently.

When Arthur is relaxed enough to feel the weight of sleep bearing down on him, he's careful to prop you on a pillow, thinking you feel the heaviness settling in too, reaching stealthily down for the quilt. He begins to cover you when he sees you're still very much awake.

You prop yourself up on a bent elbow. "At the farrier? Really?"

He sighs heavily as he realizes he still has plenty to put up with before he gets you to sleep.

-

A/N: Chapter 4 coming very very soon!

[rileyslibrary]

Living With Ghosts: 6. Hurt

He seemed more accustomed to surviving than living—as if the military had adopted and raised him to be the man he is today.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,155

Notes:

Warnings: Mentions of blood and physical injury (gunshot wound)

Pure angst

That’s a sable. :)

Entire work on AO3

Table of Contents

———————————————————————

“Mating season is upon us; do not feed the sable—I repeat: Do NOT feed the sable. Over.”

That was Laswell’s last message to all the safe houses across Italy a couple of weeks ago.

“Sable” was Makarov’s code name—an odd choice for a criminal of his calibre since sables are cute and furry. Although you were unaware of his manscaping habits to argue the “furry” aspect, you knew that Makarov was anything but “cute.”

Mating season is upon us. Makarov was on the loose and closer than ever. Operators were sleeping with one eye open if they ever got the chance to do so. The job should be over soon.

Do not feed the sable. That meant one thing: under no circumstances should you blow your cover. Instead, you must keep a low profile and follow a consistent routine until further notice.

That’s what you’ve been doing for the past two weeks. You kept imitating a farmer harvesting lemons while monitoring unusual traffic in secrecy. Meanwhile, Ghost was helping you in the morning and leaving at nightfall to “take care of things.”

Everything seems to be going well so far—A little too well, perhaps. 

Call it a “gut feeling,” an “intuition,” or a “sense of impending doom.” Whatever it was, it felt eerie and lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. 

As weird as it sounds, Makarov wasn’t your primary concern, as he’ll soon get what he deserves. “The life of a war criminal is as profitable as it is short,” you recall Ghost muttering while cleaning his gun.

It was him who you were most worried about—his physical and mental well-being appeared to be in distress lately.

Every morning, you would catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye while he was helping you. New rips would appear on his clothes overnight, some mended, others beyond repair. “I walked through some shrubs” was his most common excuse. Shrubs don’t cause such damage; knives, on the other hand, are perfectly capable of doing so. 

His left shoulder hardly moved while helping you out, so he relied solely on his right one. He also walked with a limp, which worsened every time he carried heavy crates up to the house. 

He was doing everything he could to take care of himself, but there’s only so much a man can take. Soon, his wounds would be too deep to heal.

You assumed he had a difficult upbringing. You’d never dare ask about his personal life, family, or friends if he had any—but it seemed that he raised himself.

He was overly precise with how he placed each piece of garment on the clothesline. He often left you wondering how he turned chores such as washing dishes into a tactical mission. Even wearing his boots and tucking his trousers inside them seemed too…strategic. 

No parent would teach their son to be so meticulous with these mundane tasks. No child would have the discipline to follow such rigid and strict rules. He seemed more accustomed to surviving than living—as if the military had adopted and raised him to be the man he is today.

Then again, you could see the light in him. It was dim and barely noticeable, but it’d fall through the cracks sometimes. Whenever he’d make you laugh, for example, a speck of light would appear, softening his tough exterior. He seemed more human with each suppressed chuckle he let out as you danced around in victory for nailing a new recipe.

Shit, the recipe—where were you? Ah, yes! The salt. 

It’s impressive how cooking can stimulate such extraordinary levels of introspection. 

Look at you: preparing dinner and analysing an operator’s emotional trauma while a war criminal is on the loose.

The back door swings open—he’s back; the knives and bullets rattling on his tactical vest give him away. Yet they sound different; they reveal a sense of urgency.

You turn to greet him, but he dashes for the stairs.

You catch a glimpse of something on the floor.

Droplets of thick, black liquid shine against the floor, leaving a trail that leads to the stairs.

You take a closer look—it’s not black. It’s crimson. 

He is bleeding.

You sprint to the staircase, climbing two or even three steps simultaneously. Your hands are gripping the rails, pulling yourself up as if that would make you go faster.

He’s running for his room, clutching his left shoulder.

You grab a strap from the back of his vest, but he yanks your hand off and pushes you away, causing you to fall to the ground.

You get up just as he enters his room, but he shuts the door and locks you out.

“How bad is it?” You ask with your hands on the door, trying to reach him through the thick wooden panel.

No answer.

“Let me see—I can help.” You command.

Still no answer.

“FUCK! Answer me, God damn it, yell at me, show me you’re alive!”

Nothing.

There are faint sounds of objects falling to the floor, boxes opening with force, and furniture being pushed around. You sit on the ground with your back against the door.

You bring your legs close to your chest and hug them, your forehead resting on your knees. 

This can’t be happening. It’s a fever dream that’ll soon be over. Simon cannot be in danger; How can he? He is invincible. He just walked through some shrubs, that’s all.

You try to concentrate on sounds, noises, grunts—anything to indicate that he’s working on it.

Focus, try to focus.

He’s fiddling with something—he’s unscrewing a bottle, its contents spilling on the floor. It must be alcohol—he is treating a gunshot wound.

“Are you shot?”

“Shut up for a bloody second, will you?”

He can talk—that’s a good thing. Right?

“What happ-”

“Ya fuck-I said to be quiet.”

You can hear quick, short gasps of air—his breathing becomes more audible with each inhale. He’s about to pry the bullet out.

You close your ears and shut your eyes, trying to block the screams. It’s pointless.

He sounds like an animal being hanged upside down to be slaughtered, screaming in agony.

You can’t help him, but you have to bear it. Bear his screams, his swearing, his pain.

Feeling helpless and useless yourself, you resort to praying. “An atheist until the plane starts falling,” they say. God must be having a laugh looking down at you right now.

The cries stop. You sit up straight, listening closely for any signs of life.

There’s a clink—it’s the bullet hitting the floor.

His breathing gradually returns to normal, his movements getting more controlled and graceful than earlier. He must be patching up his wound now.

“I’m still here.” You mutter.

“Thanks,” he replies.

He’s not okay yet, but he will be. He better be.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“You need to pack your things; our cover is blown.”

———————————————————————

Next ->

[ritcchamadayo]

Hear me out, what if for Valentine's Day, Jamil's s/o does all his chores for him in secret? Not only that, they invite him to Ramshackle for a feast dedicated to him because he's worked so hard?

awww (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠) anon thats so sweet!! all the love for Jamil, he deserves a rest from time to time!

Only for You

Jamil Viper x Reader ; For your overworked, responsible boyfriend Jamil Viper, you decide to make this year's Valentine's the best he's ever had! (It's kinda my first time writing Jamil, so I hope I do him justice~)

"...Huh?"

To say that he was surprised is more than an understatement. Jamil woke up early that day, got himself dressed and even took his time making sure his braids were in perfect position. He was sure he's ready to tackle all the chores and favors Kalim might give him today, but...

He definitely didn't expect a fully-dressed Kalim to be setting the table for breakfast, and he certainly didn't expect the scent of Eggs Lahsa and toasted Pita breads filling the entire domitory.

"Good morning Jamil!" Kalim beamed, pulling the taller man towards the Scarabia lounge.

"Good morning." Jamil answered curtly, still a little confused. "Why is everyone out so early and setting up breakfast already?" He took a glance at the multiple Scarabia students in the area, holding plates and cutleries in their hands.

"You won't believe what happened!" Kalim exclaimed. "When we woke up, breakfast was already served and made in the kitchen! Wasn't it your doing, Jamil?"

Jamil was at a loss for words. "I.. I just woke up, I didn't cook anything. There's even some Shawarma fillings ready to cook..? This is more than enough for lunch and dinner."

"Huh." The housewarden shrugged. "Well, there's enough food for a feast so let's just dig in! It's rare for you to have a day off from the kitchen!" Kalim ran towards their dorm mates, with Jamil hurriedly trailing behind him. "Kalim, wait! I need to check for poison first! Kalim!!!"

---

The breakfast was positively safe and delicious, both Kalim and Jamil even found themselves enough leftovers to have a second portion. And while everyone's happy that Jamil had one less thing to worry about today, Jamil's confusion keeps on adding up during the day and the man was stunned in place when he saw the sight in front of him.

He'd usually do the laundry for his and Kalim's clothes, hand washing them personally and leaving them up on the clothesline overnight before folding them the next day. But he didn't expect the clothes he put off to clean from yesterday were all hung on the clothesline, meanwhile the dried cloths were already neatly ironed and folded, sitting on the laundry basket and lint-free, the soft scent of his usual detergent filled the laundry room.

Jamil was a cautious man though, and he had to re-check all the clothes and the folds to make sure nobody planted anything on them. Once he's sure that their clothes are all clear, he decided to run towards the kitchen. There should be some dirty dishes left, right?

Oh how he was wrong. All the pots, pans, and plates were squeaky cleaned and carefully polished, neatly put down on the kitchen counter. Jamil gasped, once again surprised and confused. "Who in the world..?" He checked each plate and pan, finding that it's been meticulously cleaned and no stains were left on them.

"Kalim's room..!"

Jamil ran towards the housewarden's room, and was just as surprised when he saw the room has been meticulously cleaned as well. The bedsheets were tidily folded and the pillows were fluffed up, the floor was spotless and polished, and even after careful inspection Jamil didn't find any of Kalim's belongings out of place or stolen.

"Who would be doing all of this, I wonder... They're definitely not looking to take advantage of Kalim, that's for sure." Jamil raised an eyebrow, opting to double check around Kalim's room.

His thoughts wandered over to the Octavinelle housewarden and his two peers, who had pulled this sort of stunt a while before he overblotted.

"Could it be Azul..? No, no way. If it was, he'd be obnoxiously showing himself around the dorm and I'd be able to hear those obnoxious clacking of his shoes. And the twins would be hard to miss, since they're big and tall."

"JAMIIILLLLL!!!!" Kalim soon ran into his room, pouncing on his childhood friend. "UWAGH- KALIM!"

Kalim laughed and rolled off the man, his hand seemingly holding onto a piece of paper. "Did you clean up the room for me? Thanks so much Jamil!" He exclaimed, the usual grin on his face. "Oh! Anyway, I found this letter in front of your room earlier! I think someone might be looking for you!"

Jamil reeled in from the impact of Kalim's body, but he quickly recovered and took the letter from Kalim's hands.

"To : Mr. Jamil Viper,

I cordially invite you to come to Ramshackle Dorm tonight at 19:00, for a special surprise. Don't be late!

~ &lt;;3"

Jamil chuckled, looking at the all too familiar handwriting. Who else but the Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm who would send him such an invitation?

"Who is it? Who is it?" Kalim peeked from behind Jamil's shoulder, reading the contents of the letter. "Oh! It's (Y/n)!" Kalim made a smug look and nudged his friend. "Look at you, getting a surprise from the prefect!"

Jamil laughed, swatting Kamil away gently. "I suppose I'll need to be prepared then."

---

Jamil really didn't need to rush. All his chores were done by the mystery person, and his partner called him out to Ramshackle to spend some time together. He's happy, but he's also weirdly worried about the mystery man who was walking around Scarabia and doing chores unnoticed. But his partner comes first, and Jamil shook it off as he walked through the mirror and onto the path to Ramshackle.

He softly knocked on the door once he arrives, and the door quickly opened. "You made it, Jamil!" You smiled up at him, letting him inside the dorm. "I wouldn't pass up the opportunity, (Y/n)."

What surprised Jamil even more though, was the layout of Ramshackle's lounge. Instead of the usual sofa and rickety chairs, there was a small table for two in the middle filled with a lot of Jamil's favorite foods.

"Wow... (Y/n), i mean- wow." Jamil looked at awe of the spread, a light blush spreading on his face. "What's the occasion?"

You laugh, pulling the chair out and telling him to sit down. "Don't you remember? It's Valentines!"

Jamil didn't notice the date up until then. He was so focused on finding out the mystery man, he didn't realize it was February 14th. You took his hands in yours, gently holding them as he looked up to you.

"I wanted to do something for you, since you've been working so hard for everyone."

Jamil stared at your hands. It was littered with cuts and bandaids, your fingertips rough and calloused, and the skin around your nails were peeling off.

"Oh."

Then it hit him.

"You were the one going around in Scarabia and doing all the chores, weren't you?"

You chuckled shyly, scratching the back of your head. "W-was it obvious? I just wanted you to have a small break, from time to time! Since you must be tired handling Scarabia's affairs and looking after Kalim, and you're still trying your best to make time for me.. I thought I'd do something to lessen the burden.."

Jamil was more than flustered. No one ever asked him whether he needed help, or even gave him any. He pulled up the hood of his shirt, shyly averting your eyes as his fingers traced along the small cuts on your hands.

"Thank you, (Y/n.)"

"Only for you, Jamil." You giggle, moving to the chair in front of him. "C'mon, let's eat before it gets cold! I made some curry, and I even asked Kalim for a Baklava recipe earlier! I hope you like it!"

Jamil chuckles, standing up to grab the food. "Ah, so Kalim was involved. Alright, let me handle the food and washing the dishes. It's the least I could do in return for you, dear."

[bitchsister]

yoyo 😟❤️ i miss eyy so much. i love the curtis bucky and gale that you created. i can only reread chapters sporadically because i love them but they make me so sad. please let eyy bucky and gale dp curtis ❤️❤️ for me… your biggest fan

Okay. OkAYY okay… because they deserve it. And so do you 🫶🏼🫶🏼

🚩: dp. But you knew that

ONCE AGAIN. Edited very quickly as I’m posting this before I literally sprint out of my house & break traffic laws to get to work on time 😭🫶🏼🫶🏼

The ending is @swifty-fox fault!!!!! Not mine!!!!

Rome meant more privacy. Rome meant more time together. Rome meant no impending doom, at least not for a couple days. Rome meant they could play pretend — they could be who they wanted, even if sometimes it felt like they were school kids playing house.

It hardly mattered. Such are the realities of war, of being so far away from home. Any semblance of love and affection wasn’t followed by a careful reminder that they weren’t safe, that they could be spotted.

Behind a locked door in their own apartment is where the three of them existed the same way they would in a dream.

Curt took advantage of this, of course.

He strut around naked whenever he could. He’d parade himself around, fold his washed clothes he’d unclipped from the clothesline in his little tight briefs. He’d take naps in the sweltering heat on their balcony, not a care in the world as to who might spot him.

“Should we wake ‘em?” Gale murmured, a click in his throat when he swallowed.

Curt had fallen asleep on the couch, his towel shucked off of his body from his shower and there he lay, naked and growing harder by the second once he’d turned on his side, his hips rutting against a cushion ever so slightly.

“Dunno.” Bucky murmured, a cigarette between his teeth whilst he watched, free hand thumbing at Curt’s tags around his neck that burned against his flesh. “Fun to watch, ain’t it?”

Gale huffed a chuckle through his nostrils, poking at the grapefruit in front of him with his spoon mindlessly, eyes locked on Curt whose cheeks had gone red just like they did when he was conscious and showing himself off, fingers gripping a nearby pillow, but hardly.

“Think he’s gonna make a mess like this?”

Bucky shook his head.

“Can’t finish.” He looked at Gale who’d grown so flustered. It was almost cute. “Remember?”

“Ah,” Gale clicked his tongue and nodded, scrunching his nose as he scolded himself for forgetting. “Needs us to finish first.” Another laugh forced its way out of him, his spoon heaped with sour citrus and honey shoved into his cheek.

“Think that still applies when he’s sleepin’?”

Gale shrugged. “Guess there’s only one way to find out.”

So, they watched. And watched. It was slow and painful until Curt’s hips found a sleepy rhythm, cock between his belly and the itchy fabric of the loveseat he fit just perfectly upon as he whimpered and groaned, cheek smooshed against the couch while he slept.

“Sounds close.” Gale shrugged, listening to his ragged breaths as a distant church bell tolled in the piazza. Riposso. Shops closed for cat naps or cappuccinos, opening again later in the afternoon — the world around them seemed to still in a split moment.

All that was left was this.

It almost felt like watching a horse race, Gale thought. The same ones his father would place losing bets upon.

“Bet you he won’t.”

Gale didn’t make bets; but this time, he would make an exception.

“Bet you he will.”

Lips tugged into a smirk, Bucky reached his hand across the table for Gale to shake. “What will it be then, Cleven?”

“I want the jam Ruthie sent you.”

Bucky gasped. “The orange?”

“Mhm,” Gale grinned, shoving his spoon into his grapefruit again. “The orange.”

“Fine.” Bucky huffed, eyes trained on Curt again. “I want that maple leaf patch you got from that Canuck at the Cellar.”

Gale groaned, shaking his head with a sigh — quickly, he’d been reminded why he never made bets to begin with. “That’s foul.” He shoved another spoonful into his mouth, mostly honey that time. “Fine.”

Hands were shook in a done deal, eyes flickering back to watch Curt again who rut himself against couch cushions and the air, muttering something as he slept, too quiet to be heard all the way across the room from the dining table where they sat.

“What do you think he’s thinkin’ about?”

Gale shrugged in response, flicking the rind of his grapefruit into the trash. “Can only hope it’s not Hambone or somethin’,” he joked, though he could hardly ignore the way his trousers had tightened as his cock stiffened.

Bucky blew smoke from his nostrils as he chuckled, “Or Chickadee.”

It’d become louder, the moaning. His hips faster, but still sleepy and uncoordinated. His lips were parted, his overgrown curls falling in front of his closed eyes while he whined, “Galey.”

Like he’d been picked out of an audience to get up onto a stage, Gales posture stiffened as if a spotlight had shone itself right onto him. His cheeks flushed as he bit his tongue that held the lingering flavor of honey, cheeks hallowed when he sucked on it.

Bucky didn’t say a word — his gaze trailed from a desperate and very much asleep Curtis to a floundering Gale who didn’t know how to be the center of attention, especially when it’s that of a wet dream.

“Fuck— Bucky.”

A sudden and very welcomed sense of relief washed over him once Curt had uttered a name that was not his own, relieved to feel the intensity of the spotlights glare dim a little once it was spread onto John who sat back in his chair, his thighs spread as he lit another cigarette. “We’re lucky men, you know.” He looked over at Gale again, a smirk playing his lips.

“I —“ Gale’s line of sight flickered toward his kit where the letters he’d gotten from Marge lived, and then back at Bucky again. “I know.”

“I know you know.”

Gale swallowed.

“Do you think Curt knows?”

“Knows what?”

“Y’think that Curt knows that I know that you know?”

The bell tolled again in the piazza, Gale’s shoulders scrunching when he jumped at the sound. “I can’t think right now.” The admission came effortlessly, since he was sure as much was obvious and perhaps that was precisely the reason Bucky was fucking with his head.

“I know.”

Gale groaned, “know what?”

Bucky stood to round the table, standing behind the chair Gale sat in to lean down and whisper to him, “I know.” It cleared up nothing, but the gentle ghost of his breath against Gales neck made him shiver. “I know you inside and out, Buck.” His lips might as well be touching Gales skin, the shivers running down his spine electrifying. “I know you better than you know you — you’re a part of me, after all.”

A voice hardly audible, a breath sucked in before it. “I know.” Gale turned slightly, hoping to catch Bucky’s gaze but he failed miserably.

“Look at our honey,” Bucky placed his fingers on the nape of Gale’s neck, urging him to watch Curt without turning away. “You think he needs some help?”

The bet. The bet. Gale’s forgotten about the bet.

“Mhmm..”

The sound of boots thumping to the floor and trousers being unzipped came from behind him, eyes locked on the little sticky mess Curt had made beneath his bellybutton with his own excitement, wherever his imagination had taken him.

“And,” Bucky pulled his shirt over his head, discarding it over the kitchen tiles. “You think we should help him, hm?”

“Mm… Mhmm..”

Bucky strut himself over to the couch, just a pair of long legs and the sound of Curt’s tags jingling against his chest. “C’mere, you sweet little thing.” He gently pulled Curt up from his spot, waking him only halfway as he slipped beneath his body, Curt lying over his chest instead. “Havin’ a nice little dream, huh?”

Curt’s eyes peeped open, his head lifted from Bucky’s chest slowly to blearily look around the room. “I dunno,” he whispered, brows furrowed with what looked like annoyance. “Woke me up from it.”

He soaked up the rest of the details — his throbbing cock, his thighs that vibrated, the wet mess he’d made over his belly. “M’sorry,” Bucky pushed Curt’s damp waves away from his eyes, “Would ya rather go back to dreamin’? Don’t need the real thing, do ya? Wanna make a mess all over the couch all on your own.”

“No — I-“ Curt rubbed his sleepy eyes, cheeks burning red as he sighed and sat up to straddle Bucky’s waist, looking around the room again as his eyes began to adjust. “Galey,” he blinked, “What is he talkin’ about?”

Gale once again felt the spotlights warmth, harsh and scorching like the suns rays on beach days — instead of speaking, he stood up and walked to the couch, bending down to press a kiss to his forehead and then his cheeks, his chin, his eyebrows, even.

Whilst Gale took care of the kisses, Bucky used that time to gather some of the moisture from Curt’s belly and use it to tease his hole, fingers pushed in right to the knuckle. One at first, and then two — already, he was coming undone.

Eyes closed, whimpers spilling out of him as he rocked his hips back against Bucky’s fingers. “I had a dream that,” Curt gasped softly, gripping onto a couch cushion for stability as Bucky fucked him open with his fingers. “That I had both of you in me. And it felt so good,” he leaned his head back, catching Gales lips with his own. “I never felt nothin’ like that.”

“Too little.” Gale shook his head, certain they’d split him right in half if they dare try anything so absurd sounding. “Wouldn’t that hurt you?”

Curt shook his head, hand wrapping around the back of Gales neck to lick into his mouth. “You worry too much.” He whispered, a gasp following once Bucky replaced his fingers with his cock. “Nothin’ can hurt me.”

“Right,” Gale pulled away, tugging his shirt over his head, his pants pooled around his ankles. “Forgot.”

A dog barks in the distance. A rooster crows, though it’s well into the afternoon — Bucky finds it odd, but he can’t focus on anything other than the feeling of Curt around him, so soft and warm. “Can try it.” Bucky whispered, his hands reaching behind Curtis to spread his cheeks and guide him further onto his cock.

Curt was already stuffing his throat with Gales cock before another world could be spoken — nice and wet for whenever Buck decided to stop worrying about shattering Curt like an expensive piece of China.

It wasn’t long before Gale could hardly contain himself. “M’gonna come if you keep it up, darlin’.” He whispered which had forced Curt to back off of him with an a loud pop, wet lips dribbling down his chin and he grinned.

“Much as I love the way you taste, Galey, I’m tryin’ to make my dreams come true.”

A position redirection was needed and so Curt straddled Bucky’s waist once he sat up, sinking back onto his cock with a subtle hiss through his teeth. “C’mon,” Bucky whispered to Gale, position re-adjusted again so Curt was between them, pliant and already a little ditzy looking. “See if he can take it.”

And, he did.

There were a couple frustrated groans here and there. Another readjustment, and then another. Even a muttering from Gale who wanted to throw in the towel. “Too little, baby. I told you — it’s-“

“Shut up.”

“Ok.”

When Gale finally managed to slip his cock in with Bucky’s, he gasped. The sensation was unlike anything he’d ever felt — so warm, and so tight.

A rhythm was found once Curt had adjusted, taking deep breaths and swapping sloppy kisses with both of them until he began to rock his hips, his chest heaving with stuttered breaths once he’d bottomed out on both of them, blue eyes fluttering behind heavy lids and forced to focus. “Faster,” he begged, a stream of tears rolling down his cheeks. “Fuck me. Please — I can take it, i — I promise”

Bucky lead the way, his hips rutting upward into Curt which had forced Gale to match his pace, their cocks in tandem slamming into Curt who was falling apart, a hand clamped over his mouth to conceal the squeals, the moans, the whines and whimpers. “Look at you,” John could hardly believe his eyes — his angel, his pretty baby. “Just like your dream, ain’t it?”

Curt could hardly form words, let alone remember any. A mess of his own drool, fluttering crossed eyes, a body that was no longer his own.

“I— I’m gonna,” Gale huffed softly, cheeks red, his blonde hair damp with sweat with a heaving chest. “I’m gonna come, Bucky.” His breath quickened, “I can’t — fuck — “

A scorching warmth fizzled into Curt’s belly who sobbed into his hands, the feeling so euphoric he trembled. “Gimme it,” Curt grabbed Bucky’s jaw, spit dribbling from his lips and into John’s mouth, a sloppy kiss followed just after. “Galey — I feel it in my belly —“

A howl came from nearby, too close to be coming from outside.

The familiar scent of freshly spun hay replaced the musky and so fucking addictive smell of them, the thick wet tongue of a Husky that lapped against his cheek to wake him as it did every morning.

John’s eyes cracked open, his heart racing in his chest when he pulled his sheets away to find he’d ruined his underwear. “Christ, Angel.” He mumbled, sitting up slowly to rub his eyes, eyeing the picture he kept of the three of them at his bedside. “Gale. Ya owe me your Maple Leaf, buddy.”

He slung his tired legs over the edge of his bed, the picture he talked to more often than anyone else held in his hands whilst Meatball did circles in front of him, ecstatic that his best friend had finally woke up. “I’d do anything to be where you are.” He looked at them. Their smiles, their eyes that held so much promise of a safe return. A life they’d live together. “I’d do anything.”