#Dry wit and too technical

[duskkodesh]

Has Morb been hanging with Misty, Conners, and this gal for MONTHS? Did they just gain him like a pet. "He's a stray, we're keeping him." Or was it more "We cannot let you go unsupervised, you do not make good decisions."

Preview pages are many places but I like the format here.

[incognit0slut]

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Behind Closed Doors 3

Despite your promise not to sneak behind the team again, you find yourself in a compromising position when you’re forced to ride in the same car as him.

Warnings: (18+, MDNI) Nipple/breast play, dry humping, semi public, dirty talk, and technically this isn’t car sex but everything happens in a car, there’s just no penetration. ~2.5k words (not proofread)

A/n: This wasn’t supposed to be in my WIP but… I blame him for looking so slutty in that shirt. Btw, this is shorter because I already have a lot on my plate but I really wanna squeeze this in, so enjoy! If you’ve been following since the first part, our kinky, slightly exhibitionist duo is back

You liked to think you had a good sense of self control when it came to your sex drive. In your past relationships, you were rarely the one to make the first move. It wasn't that you didn't enjoy sex—far from it, actually—but you didn't see it as the centerpiece of a relationship. Sex was enjoyable, yes, but it wasn’t everything.

At least, that's what you thought until now.

You recently reached a realization that three factors led you to reconsider this long-held belief, and unsurprisingly, they all revolved around Spencer Reid.

The first one was his choice of clothes. It seemed like he had woken up one day and decided that undoing the top buttons of his shirt was the new norm. It was as if he was taunting you, and it was working. The moment you saw him wearing that shirt this morning, all you could think about was dragging him into a storage room and have your dirty, nasty way with him.

The second thing was the way your heart raced when he accidentally brushed his hand against yours as you both reached for the car keys. Emily had asked you both to interview a key witness, and naturally, you assumed you’d be the one driving because Spencer rarely volunteered to take the wheel. But to your surprise, he insisted on driving.

It was strange. You wondered what had prompted this change, but you didn’t protest. In fact, you let him. Happily. Because this set the stage for what became the third significant moment that made you reconsider everything.

Him driving the damn car.

You found yourself unable to keep your eyes off him. The way his hands gripped the wheel, moving with effortless control that hinted at a confidence he rarely displayed. Your gaze traveled up his arm, noting the tension in his muscles, and the way his shirt tightened across his shoulders with each turn.

Then there was his face. Your gaze drifted to his jawline, appreciating the sharp angles and the way it tightened slightly when he was deep in concentration. You had to squeeze your thighs together because watching him drive was enough to make you wet.

It was highly inappropriate, of course. You were both on the job, and there was a witness to interview. So you forced yourself to stay professional. It wasn’t until after you finished, after you and Spencer had informed Emily of what you had found and given her the necessary details over the phone, that your ogling became more prominent on the drive back to the station.

And despite being subtle about it, Spencer seemed to know the effect he had on you.

“Is there something you want to say?” His voice was low, slightly amused, as he spared a quick glance in your direction before focusing back on the road.

You forced yourself to look away from his hands. “What do you mean?”

“You seem… distracted.”

You swallowed, trying to muster up an explanation that wouldn’t give away too much. “Just thinking about the case.”

The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting back a smile. “Really? Because it looked more like you were deep in thought about something else.”

You felt a flush of warmth rise to your cheeks. “Well, maybe the case isn’t the only thing on my mind.”

“Oh? And what else were you thinking about?”

“I don’t know if you’d be interested.”

“Try me.”

You turned your body towards him. “It’s highly inappropriate.”

“Now you’ve really got my attention.”

You hesitated, feeling the car’s warmth envelope you, making the space seem smaller, more intimate. “Okay, but remember, you asked for it,” you said, taking a deep breath. “I was thinking about... how well you handle the steering wheel.”

Spencer laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the car. “Is that your way of saying you like my driving, or something more metaphorical?”

“Maybe a bit of both. I mean, a person’s driving does say a lot about them, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he agreed. “And what does my driving say about me?”

“That you’re good with your hands.”

Spencer’s eyes met yours briefly, and you squeezed your thighs tighter.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said finally, his voice low. There was a brief pause and you wondered whether you had gone too far, whether this wasn’t the right time or place to flirt so openly, but then he spoke again.

“And since we’re sharing, I was thinking about something a bit inappropriate too.”

Your breath hitched slightly. “Like what?”

“Like how it’s hard to focus on the road when you’re looking at me like that.”

“…how am I looking at you?”

He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. “Like you want me to pull over to the side of the road and kiss you.”

A silence fell between you, and for a moment, you could hardly breathe. You felt a flush of warmth spread through your body, and you bit your lip, considering his words.

“And what if I do?” You asked softly.

You noticed his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, clearly fighting to maintain his composure.

“Then I’d have to find a quiet place for us.”

Your body responded immediately, a wave of heat coursing through you as your breath quickened. You could feel your pulse thrumming in your veins, an urgent, needy beat that matched the thoughts racing through your mind.

“Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“Pull over.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours. Then, without hesitation, he scanned the road for a safe spot. The anticipation was almost unbearable as you watched him steer the car onto a narrow, dark lane shielded by dense shrubs. The path seemed to swallow the sound of the engine as he drove further away from the main road.

The silence that followed was thick as he turned off the engine. You both stared at each other, acutely aware of what you were about to do, about the potential consequences, but everything blurred as you both moved at the same time.

Everything was fast, a rush of motion and emotion as Spencer leaned over the console. His lips met yours with an urgency that left no room for hesitation.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, while you clung to his arm. He kissed you hungrily, desperately, as if trying to communicate every unspoken word through the press of his mouth against yours. The more he kissed you, the more you felt the heat between your thighs and you realized that, in fact, you really had no control over your sex drive.

You then opened your mouth, letting him sink his tongue into you, pressing your body against his. But he was too far away, and you needed more of his heat, more of him. So, you undid your seat belt and did the only thing that felt natural—you climbed onto his lap.

You both moaned when his cock finally pressed against your core, and he found your lips again, his hand cradling the back of your head while the other rested firmly on your hips, urging you to move. The movement was instinctive, a rhythm that was driven by desperation.

You felt his mouth kisses trail from your lips down to your neck, marking a trail of heat that had you burning for more. Your fingers found the buttons of your shirt, and before you could second guess yourself, you undid them one by one.

Spencer’s hands followed the path you created, tracing the newly exposed skin. His large palms moved along your ribs before they rested just beneath your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your hard nipples through the fabric of your bra. You gasped, your head falling back in sheer pleasure.

His lips found your neck again, kissing and nipping at the delicate skin. His fingers pulled down your bra, exposing your breasts, and when he quickly sucked on your sensitive nub without warning, you bucked your hips, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

His sound of pleasure vibrated against your skin when you moved your hips at a steady pace, the friction driving you both to new heights. You could feel the material of your underwear sticking between your wet folds, and you wished desperately that there was no barrier between you. But time was ticking, and you both knew you were on the clock.

This had to be enough.

Spencer pulled back slightly, your nipple stretching with him, your supple skin following his movements until he let go with a soft pop. He then turned his attention to your other breast, his tongue teasingly circling your hardened nipple before hungrily engulfing it in his mouth.

Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, your nails digging in slightly as you arched your back. You felt his hands roaming over your waist, holding you steady, grounding you even as you felt yourself spiraling higher into a state of pure ecstasy.

“Spence,” you breathed, your voice trembling with need. His response was to look up at you with those intense, brown eyes as he continued to suck on your nipple.

His mouth moved with deliberate precision, alternating between gentle licks and firm sucks, driving you completely insane. You could feel your control slipping, your body responding to his every touch, and you found yourself unable to think of anything but him. The way he made you feel, the way his touch ignited every nerve in your body.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, urging him on, lost in the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. His lips left your breast, trailing kisses up your chest and neck until he reached your lips, capturing them in a searing kiss that left you breathless.

The taste of him, the feel of his body against yours, was everything you had been longing for.

“More,” you whispered against his lips, your voice a desperate plea.

“I know, I know,” he murmured back. “I got you.”

You shook your head, breathless. “I wanna feel you.”

He groaned. How he wanted that to happen, but you were both gone long enough and reality was beginning to intrude on your stolen moment.

“We can’t, not here,” he said, his voice strained with desire as he rested his forehead against yours. “We don’t have enough time.”

You bit your lip, trying to push back the disappointment. “I know, but I-I need you.”

“Soon,” he promised. “When we have more time, I’ll give you everything you need.”

Your hips moved faster. “Everything?”

He nodded, his eyes fluttering close when he felt you pressing harder on his cock. “Everything.”

“You’ll finally fuck me?”

His breath hitched at your bold words, his control slipping further.

“Say it. Say you’ll fuck me.”

His self-control wavered, the raw desire in your voice pushed him to the edge as his palms gripped your ass.

“Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you?”

You never thought there would be a time when you’d hear those words from him, and yet here you were, craving for more. You nodded and grinded against him, trying to find that delicious pressure on your clit.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice laced with urgency. “I want you to fuck me hard.”

Spencer groaned, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned in closer. “Then imagine me inside you,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive. “Think about my cock sliding into you, filling you up completely.”

“F-Fuck,” you gasped, moving against him rhythmically. Who would’ve thought he’d be good at this?

“Imagine my hands gripping your hips, pulling you down onto me,” he continued, his breath warm against your neck. “You’d feel every inch, deep and perfect.”

Your heart pounded as his fantasy played out in your thoughts. “Yes,” you gasped, finding it hard to keep steady. “Please, keep going.”

“I’d set a rhythm that drives you crazy,” he murmured. “Fast, then slow, teasing you, drawing out every moan and gasp until you’re begging me not to stop.”

“Oh God…” you moaned. “Please…”

He continued, relentless and commanding. “And when you’re close, when you’re right on the edge, I’d look into your eyes, whisper how beautiful you are, how good you feel wrapped around me…”

“Spencer, I—”

“And then I’d thrust harder, deeper,” he cut off your words, his tone intense. He pressed a hand against your lower abdomen as if to illustrate his point. “I’d fill you completely, over and over, until all you can do is cling to me and take it.”

You were practically trembling now, his words and slight touches driving you wild.

“I’m so close,” you managed to breathe out, your movements becoming less rhythmic and more desperate. His hands went back to your hips. His grip tightened, steadying and encouraging your frantic movements as he felt his own orgasm nearing.

“Come with me,” he whispered, pressing himself closer to you.

His words, his grip, his presence overwhelmed you. You felt the buildup, almost unbearable, as if every nerve in your body focused on the impending release. Then, with a final, mutual push, you felt the wave break.

Pleasure surged through you, intense and all-consuming. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you down as he drove himself up, his name spilling from your lips in a cry of release. You felt him tense, heard his own cry muffled against your skin, as he reached his climax with you.

Panting, you both slowed, the car filled with the sound of heavy breathing and the soft hum of the engine in the background. Spencer’s hands softened on your hips, caressing now, soothing the spots where his fingers had pressed.

You ran a hand through his thick hair. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a dirty mouth?”

His grin was both sheepish and proud as he met your gaze. “You’re actually the first person to hear it.”

Your eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, his hands carefully adjusting your clothes. “It seems you have a way of bringing out a side of me I didn’t know I had.”

You watched him, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. There was so much you wanted to say, so many feelings swirling inside you, but the words felt too fragile for the moment. Instead, you settled for the silence.

Spencer didn’t seem to mind. He tapped your hip gently, drawing your attention. “Come on, I think we need to drop by the hotel before we go back to the station.”

When he caught the startled look you sent him, he laughed.

“To change my pants. Nothing else.”

“…oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

You blushed, caught off guard by his remark and your own reaction. “No, I just—” you started, then paused, searching for the right words. “I mean, yes, maybe a little.”

His smile widened, pleased by your response. “I’ll tell you what,” he began. “After we finish this case, after we fly back, let’s spend time together. Just you and me.”

Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. You wondered what it would be like to have him pressed against you with nothing between you, to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat directly under your palms.

The thought made you both nervous and excited at the same time.

“Really?”

He leaned in for a kiss. “Really.”

“You promise?”

He smiled against your lips.

“I promise.”

[goodeapple]

words on the page (aemond t. sex pollen pwp o.s.)

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : PWP, dubcon- this is sex pollen (obvi) they are technically not fully consenting. might be hatesex but it also might not, uncle/niece incest, a ridiculous amount of orgasms, squirting, restraint, spanking & slapping, and a slighttt breeding kink (srry i couldn't help myself)

word count : 10,000+

note : hope everyone enjoys. ty for all the love, always. likes, reblogs, comments, anything is gas in my tank xx

.

.

.

“This library is big enough for the both of us, Uncle. You stay on your side, and I, on mine.” Ysilla offers, already working on tuning out the One-Eyed Prince’s mutterings as she gets lost in the sprawling shelves. 

“What if I want a book that’s on your side?” Aemond’s voice echoes up to the grand ceilings from where he must be several rows over, his annoyance clearer than the windows in the Sept. 

Ysilla rolls her eyes so hard she fears they might stick. “Do you not understand the concept of my side and your side?”

“These are all my sides. I grew up in between these stacks- I’m sure the texts at Dragonstone are missing you terribly. Why don't you go back and see if I’m right.” 

That retort stabs at her, the mourning for her home still living on in the thick ball of grief that resides heavily in her heart. It’s been a year since her mother took her rightful place on the Iron Throne, a year since the King had passed, and a year where all members of the Targaryen family had to learn how to live amongst one another once more. Nobody was enjoying it. And there were more days than not that the Princess fantasized of stealing borrowing a boat and sailing back to her beloved pile of rocks. 

“Shouldn’t you be out, oh, I don’t know, swinging a sword or ducking under one? You know, what men do.” It’s childish but Ysilla doesn’t mind stooping lower than her years. Her brothers keep her young and nimble, each one bringing with him a fresh battle of wits and stubbornness.  

He goes silent, blessedly, and she resumes her stroll, picking and plucking titles off the shelves that join the burgeoning pile cradled tight in her arms. Her mind wanders, the endless catalogues of writings whispering their words, lulling her further and further into the scriptural maze. 

Ysilla spots a peculiar text on a shelf taller than her, the aphotic ruby binding and woven gold stitching calling her name. She reaches up, tiptoeing until her feet creak and attempts to hook her finger under the edge of the spine. The old book sticks in place, judging her with a faceless scowl. She grunts, wobbling slightly, pushing forward again and gives it a good strong tug. Too strong, as it flies freely through the air and  Ysilla yelps, jumping to the side to dodge it. Everything goes topsy turvy, her balance lost to her and the rest of her assembled collection clatters to the ground. 

She curses, deaf to the sound of approaching footsteps as she drops to her knees and starts to gather the fallen books. She’s considerate of the older ones, stacking them carefully off to the side of the walkway. The causer of the chaos had landed face down, the text split open as if the ground itself was interested in its contents. Ysilla grasps it gently and turns it over, causing a plume of dust to shift off the pages and billow directly into her face. 

She coughs, sputtering for a breath that isn’t made up of ancient soot. She scrubs at her nose, sniffling and groaning in discomfort as her sinuses burn and her throat grows parched. Her eyelids wrench shut, tears already hot and clumping in her lashes. 

A vice grip in the form of strong fingers finds her arm, and she latches onto them desperately. She’s pulled to her feet, and a downy cloth is pressed tightly into her hand. She pats her face with it, drying her tears and spittle, its perfume of oranges and smoke chasing away the moldered stink clinging to every sense she has. 

“You alright?” Aemond asks cautiously, still holding her elbow steady. Ysilla blinks blearily at him, her nose red at the tip. She nods after a pause, coughing softly into his handkerchief. 

“Couldn’t breathe there for a moment.” She croaks, chuckling weakly before she gently pulls her elbow away. Aemond drops his hold, clasping his arms behind him and taking a step backwards. 

“The library is all yours- I’m going to go lie down.” 

She offers his hanky back, feeling a bit dumb as she does and more than a little embarrassed. Her uncle waves her off, and she skirts around him, careful not to intrude into his space. 

“Niece,” Ysilla turns. Concern is not a look she’s accustomed to seeing on his face, and certainly not when it’s directed at her, but the sight of it sends little tingles through her tummy. “Do you need me to escort you to your room?” 

She smiles dimly, self-conscious in all the ways that turn her cheeks peachy. 

“I think I can manage… thank you, Aemond.” Ysilla curtsies in a silly show of thanks, but he can tell her sentiment is genuine. 

Aemond swallows thickly, bowing his head in acknowledgment, watching her keenly as she shuffles out the doors that lead to the rest of the castle. She never calls him by his name. Always Uncle, and even sometimes My Prince, but the mocking lilt of that one is not lost on him. Aemond though… it’s like he’s hearing a brand new word.  

Shrugging off his worriment, he sighs, squatting down to collect the strewn about books. He inspects them as he does, less so judging and more so learning about his niece’s interests through her chosen reading materials. There’s a collection of songs- one for Drowned Men and one for Northmen that he’s read before. Another about the Lion King, Tommen II Lannister and his adventures in Volantis and, most provocatively, the remaining charred pages of Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History. Aemond holds onto it for longer than the others; she must’ve searched long and hard for it, he’s never even once stumbled across it in here. He tucks it carefully onto a shelf he’ll remember, and thinks of letting Ysilla know where she can find it later. 

Lastly, he comes to the one that sent her into a coughing fit and he regards it carefully. It isn’t smart, but even so, Aemond draws his dagger and nudges at it, angling up the flap so that he can read the title: Potions of Old Valyria. He lifts it too high, trying to see better in the dreary light of dusk and loses his leverage, the cover falling closed and puffing out a small cloud of dust in his direction. He snaps backwards but he’s not fast enough, the grit already coating the slick press of his lips. Aemond spits, growling, scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. He winces as his nose stings, the watering in his eye blurring his vision. 

He shoots to his feet, gathering up the massive stack of books and tossing them onto an empty writing desk, kicking away the potion book in juvenile anger. He stalks out of the library, cursing blindly as he retreats to his room. 

The Prince does not read the page of which the dust had danced off of. But if he had, mayhaps he would have rethought the course of his actions that night. 

“Pollen of the flower Turnera diffusa- a specimen of which is contained in this very page- has a curious effect on the indulger. Found growing along the creeks of Honeyholt, symptoms noted are as follows: fever, delirium, lightheadedness, and most notably, a heightened state of arousal. The affected should take caution to whom they keep in their company while under the spell of this love plant.” 

.

Aemond shucks off his jerkin, sending it flying across the room carelessly. 

It's still there- the rabid itch under his collar. He stalks to his mirror, tearing up his shirt to check his skin, looking for a bite, a scratch, anything to explain the scorching sting engulfing him in full. Nothing, not even a blemish, mars his pale chest. 

He curses, spinning on his heel and going for his table, seizing the wine pitcher so roughly the lit candles nearby shudder from his haste. He pours a full goblet, the deep burgundy trickle causing his mouth to flood with anticipation. He downs it in several gulps, gasping as he rips the cup away and lets it teeter on the table until it spins out, toppling over emptily. He might as well’ve drank from the Great Sand Sea, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He clutches at his stomach, a sharp shooting pain ripping up his insides. He groans, taking a knee as his legs wobble beneath his weight. 

Fuck, he wonders if it was the book, the dust he breathed in. If Ysilla is as bad off as he is. 

Ysilla. Worry spears through him, bringing with it a healthy dose of clarity. She breathed in more than he did, he’s sure of it. He needs to get her to a maester, lest she’s already staggered out of her own room in search of aid. 

He stumbles to his wall, finding the familiar crease in the stone and pushing. The path into the tunnels is one he knows well and he’s lucky he does, his mind fogging over and his pulse thumping in his temples. He’s never entered her chamber this way of course, so he can’t be sure when he comes to an unknown stone archway that he’s where he needs to be. 

He pushes until he feels the door give way, a slice of light pouring out through the crack. He edges it forward a little more, until he can see enough of the room to confirm it’s not a servant’s quarters. 

“Niece?” Aemond coughs, his tone gruffer than what he’s used to. His throat is arid, greedy for a nectar to soothe it. No one answers, but as he strains his hearing, shuffling feet and rustling bottles comes forth, confirming that someone is inside. 

“Ysilla?” He calls out. Another jolt of agony flares through him and he gasps, startling forward, catching himself on the door and accidentally making it swing open. Aemond stumbles through, colliding with an overstuffed armchair and making it screech terribly across the floor. His head shoots up, and he catches sight of his niece across the room. 

Ysilla wouldn’tve noticed if Vhagar herself trampled through the door. 

She’s… much more undone than she was before. Her curly raven locks, once pinned up and out of her face, spring madly from her head, cloaking her face in a dark flowing curtain. She scurries around the room, mouselike, pressing a wet rag to her throat and then to her forehead, and back again. Twenty or so books are open and strewn about on the long table, looking as if they were caught in a sweeping wind. Long gone are her slippers, and the sleeved pink gown she donned before is abandoned in a silky puddle by the door.

Her chemise, a pale yellow thing with capped sleeves, has gone transparent from the perspiration that has broken out all over her body. It clings to every dip, every curve, shadowing her in a gauzy golden haze. Her bronze nipples tent through the delicate fabric and the thatch of hair over her womanhood matches in color-

Aemond snaps his gaze away, cheeks flaming. 

“Ysilla.” He nearly shouts, stare finding his boots and staying there. 

The woman in question spins around, catching sight of her uncle in the corner of her room, the hidden door she had never had enough courage to use ajar behind him. 

“Aemond… you need to leave.” Her words rumble out of her, like there’s a beast in her belly, roaring through her skin and rattling her bones. “Leave!”

He doesn’t move and Ysilla hurls the rag in his direction.  

“Did you not hear me? I said go!” 

Annoyance chips away at Aemond’s embarrassment. He’s trying to help her, insufferable brat. “You don’t command me, Niece.” He responds, still refusing to look at her. 

She scoffs, happy to channel her discomfort into a much more satisfying emotion. “You sneak into my room, catch me in the middle of undress, and still, you act put out.” Ysilla spits, her temper raising with her temperature.

Gods, she’s miserable. The moment she stepped foot in her bedchamber, her dressings were off, and she drank down water until she felt the urge to spew. It’s as if she can’t catch her breath- she’s so dizzy and her uncle’s sudden company has somehow made it worse. Her belly cramps, and she crosses her legs tightly in search of relief. She cries out, the budding sultriness in her flower springing to life, and wetness coats her thighs in a rush. Gasping, she nearly trips as she collides with her bed’s edge. 

“Ysilla, breathe.” Aemond commands harshly.

His voice is so nice. Has it always been that nice? That soothing? Her snatch gives a happy thrum, her clit fluttering at the memory of his strong grip upon her arm. How he had held her steady in her dizziness, how he had towered over her, so imposing, so encapsulating, making sure she was well. Ysilla gasps, stunned at her body’s wanton reaction. 

“You don’t understand. Please, go.” He’s her uncle- her uncle that doesn’t even like her. This cannot- will not happen. 

“I need to get you to a maester. If you’re feeling what I’m feeling, if you’re feeling it worse, fuck, Ysilla, I need to get you help.”

He needs to stop saying her name like that, in that breathy, strained tone of his. He sounds exerted. He sounds exhausted. He sounds like he’s on the cusp of falling apart. It stokes the fire in her blood. 

“The things I want to do to you… the things I want you to do to me.” She whines quietly, terrified that he’ll hear her. 

A subtle knock-knock at her chamber door quiets them both, and they hold their breath. Again, a knock-knock echoes through, and Ysilla curses the diligence of her ladies. Aemond goes for it, stalking across the room in his usual strutting gait. 

Ysilla panics and rushes forward, latching onto his arm and pulling him to a stop. 

“Aemond, Uncle, please, send them away. I don’t want them to see me like this.” She begs, pleading with him through a glistening gaze. 

Aemond readies his denial, sharp and bitter on his tongue but he loses his voice as he looks at her. He keeps his eye on her face, hyper aware of the press of her nearly naked figure against his side. Her heart shaped face is drawn in a frantic frown, terror rich and vast in her eyes. She smells of the Essos oils in her hair and the coconut oil on her skin, and it all makes his head go a bit fuzzy. 

She squeezes his arm, again, a final silent plea. He nods his assent. Ysilla dashes behind him, slipping deeper into the room, blowing out candles until the bedchamber dims into darkness. She voices a small, urging hum, and Aemond takes his cue and yanks the door open. The visitor, a girl no older than three-and-ten, blinks at him in surprise.

“My Prince,” she curtsies hurriedly and Aemond nods his acceptance, but his face must spell out his impatience because she speaks so fast, her words stumble over one another. “I thought I heard the Princess in distress. I was coming to check on her, to make sure she’s alright.” 

Her eyes dart over his shoulder, her head bobbing to the side as if she were trying to peek in. Aemond moves with her, raising his arm so that it rests above him in the doorway, pulling the door nearly closed behind him. The maid swallows, dropping her eyes in apology.

“The Princess isn’t well- very sick. Keep the other maids away, guards too. She wishes for solitude.” He’s a pushover and he hates it. One look of Ysilla’s beseeching gaze and Aemond gave like a straw bridge. 

“Should I send a maester?” The maid asks worriedly, making to exit down the hall and find help. 

“No!” The young girl jolts to a stop, her eyes wide with alarm. Aemond curses himself, and he speaks softer through gritted teeth. “No, she just needs rest. I’ll see to her, since I’ve already been exposed. I’ll call upon you if I change my mind.” 

The maid eyes him cautiously, but she finally relents, dropping into a curtsy before hurrying down the wall. 

On the other side of the door, Ysilla feels as if she’s going fucking mental. 

She’s balled up her bedsheet, and wedged it between her quivering thighs. The fabric pressed so intimately against her cunt is unforgiving, soaking up her syrupy slick and giving little in return. But the friction along her clit makes her gasp, and it urges on her rutting in dreams of a release so sweet, she could cry. 

The low droll of Aemond’s voice slithers into her ears from across the room, her mind warping the words until he’s whispering to her. What a good girl she is, how desperate she is to find her pleasure, how angry he is that she’s fucking her bed and not him. Ysilla’s eyes shoot open as she hears the squeak of her door, her hopes crashing as she realizes he’s pulling it shut while he’s behind it, not in front of it. 

She collapses forward onto all fours, fisting the furs blanketing her duvet, smothering a broken moan into the softness. Her eyes peel open, her glassy gaze landing on her bedside table. Aemond’s handkerchief is still there- right where she’d left it- the emerald hue of it glowing midnight green in the candlelight. Suddenly, it’s in her grasp, even though she cannot recall moving for it. She presses it to her nose and draws in a shaky breath.

Oh, oh, it smells of him. Citrus and smoke and she’s drooling for it, mouth watering so quickly she has to swallow it down so she doesn’t slobber. She swings her hips forward before rolling backwards, dredging the sodden sheet through her sex. It’s so wet now, the smoothness almost feels like skin. And that’s too much for Ysilla- she can hear him, smell him, but the thought of Aemond in between her legs?- it sends her plummeting off the cliff of desire, her core pulsing vibrantly, pleasure buzzing through her whole body. 

A phantom hand finds the same spot where Aemond had handled her earlier, and rips her upwards. She’s pulled to her knees, still atop the bed, as someone presses up behind her. Ysilla peers over her shoulder, the handsome face of her uncle a welcome sight. He is an apparition appearing from her thoughts alone. He doesn’t even seem real.

Her thoughts are askew with an edge of delirium, her insides purring at his sudden return. Ghoul or not, she will not squander such a golden opportunity. She fists the front of his shirt and drags him in, their mouths joining together harshly. Aemond would be lying if he said he didn’t kiss her back at once. It gets intense. Fast. 

Ysilla melts into his chest, whimpering into his mouth while his grip goes from her elbow to sliding around her, dragging her in closer by her waist. His tongue finds her teeth and she opens up slowly, letting him feel the threat of them, as he slithers in and their tongues touch-

Aemond tears himself away, stumbling backwards, heaving for air and looking at her with a wide eye. Ysilla whimpers, her fantasy failing her, and she slips off the side of the bed to settle on wobbly legs. Her palm goes to press at her abdomen, hoping that the pressure will relieve the burrowing ache. 

They stare at one another, wild animals on alert, a standoff that neither Prince nor Princess can bear to lose. 

Ysilla’s gaze falls to his lips, and Aemond’s to hers. She bites her lip, sucking the meat into her wet, warm mouth before releasing it with a lurid pop. Aemond groans, an audible surrender. 

To Hell with it all. 

They crash into each other like lightning, hands mapping anywhere they can reach. Her body blooms for him, like a flower under the summer sky. He steers them back towards her bed, Ysilla blindly clamoring atop to sit while he stands tall. His touch on her skin has her thighs spreading, opening up and offering herself for his taking. 

“I can’t stop, I can't stop.” He presses kiss after kiss to her mouth, her closeness doing nothing to extinguish the burning in his blood. If anything, she makes it worse, the inferno raging deeper and into his very soul. 

“I don’t want you to stop.” She whines, snaking their legs together and threading her fingers through that beautiful hair of his.

She’ll enjoy this- him. Every inch of Aemond belongs to her tonight. She thinks of drawing the blade from his hip, and carving her name into his chest. Mark him up nice and neat, streak his pale powdery skin red with her desire. Whatever is happening to her- to them- summons something animalistic, something primitive out of the dark parts of their hearts. All tender fantasies of her future husband treating her with such a tame touch are cleaved in half and fed to the hounds. In their place, filthy, feral desires fester and warp her mind until one lone ambition remains: him inside of her, for the rest of their days.

“We don’t even like each other.” Aemond growls between their parting lips. Ysilla slides her way into his mouth, flirting with the sharpness of his teeth, suckling the sweetness out of his tongue. 

“We can’t stand each other.” She affirms, breaking their lips apart, her hands already under his tunic, letting her palms drink in the ridges and rises of his impressive physique. She kisses along the strong edge of his jaw, curling her fingers into clenched claws and rips her way down his chest. Not a blade, but he bloodys all the same. Aemond snarls, catching her by the throat so brutally her teeth clack. His eye pierces through her like a blade, and Ysilla relishes in the pain, his touch upon her skin soothing away her ache.

“Bitch.” He hisses, what little familial respect they harbor for each other crushed under lust and loathing. 

“Prick.” She bites back, grazing at his lip to send her point home. Gods, he’s so close but not close enough. 

Ysilla pulls his hand between her legs- the one not choking her out- and Aemond cups her sex readily. Her heat damn near blisters him, and he grinds his palm into her slick folds, coating his hand in her arousal.

“Yessss…” She hisses in sated victory, her blood pumping thick as her body finally gets a taste of what it's been craving. Even one finger of his is nearly too much as he slips it in, the stretch a tepid burn that only gives way as her body adjusts. 

“You need to be able to take more than that if you want to take my cock, Princess.” He whispers at her lips, already imagining how tight she’ll be around him. He won’t insult her by asking- he knows he’ll be her first. And the thought of that… of taking her maidenhead for his own, being the first man to be inside of her, searing himself into her memory that even time won’t take away… Aemond has to fucking focus. 

��I can take it.” She assures him, head nodding wildly, her thighs splitting open even further. His grip has loosened around her throat, and he strokes where it’s sure to bruise, trying to not grow hot at the vision of his mark marring her body. He hums his approval, letting his middle finger glide forward, her essence enough to ease the way into her hole. 

He scissors them, back and forth, working her pure channel open gently, basking in the silky tensing of her walls. The pained scrunch in her brow has disappeared, giving way to the pleasured furrow of her forehead, her hips beginning to roll up and meet his digits. She grabs ahold of his wrist, stopping his motions, and she pins him in place with a lavender leer. 

“Take off your clothes.” It’s a command, no matter if it is spoken in her soft honeyed voice. 

Aemond loses his shirt and unlatches his belt, tossing it and his sword onto the bench at the foot of her bed. His breeches slide off with Ysilla’s help, her eager fingers untying his laces. He kicks off his boots, not realizing how confined he felt with so many layers hindering him until his skin is bared. She moves backwards, further up her bed and he crawls after her, prowling like a wildcat, covetous sight trained on her. 

The little minx yanks on his elbow, and he crashes into the mattress and suddenly, he’s the one on his back. Aemond lets Ysilla pin his wrists on either side of him, her victorious smile just as comely as the rest of her. Her breasts pillow against his chest, and dammit, she needs to hover above him so he can catch one in his mouth. But she denies him that treat, squeezing his wrists to focus his attention.  

“Don’t move. That’s an order.” His cock twitches from where it’s pressed to her thigh and her lips twitch at his reaction. She kisses his throat, right at the base where his collar bones meet, and her whisper vibrates through to his heart. “Good boy.” 

Ysilla takes her time, voyaging down his body, a traveler on a sought after journey. Her tongue flicks out over each of his nipples, teasing the perked flesh with little swipes of her slick pink muscle. She traces her nose over the jutting contour of his rib cage, counts his muscled abdominals until there’s numbers on both hands, and kisses the scar on his hip, long healed from a tumble off of Vhagar’s saddle when he was just a boy. The fine silver hair trailing down his groin is wispy and it tickles her chin. 

Aemond’s cock is intimidating, even more so as she takes a lick from root to tip. The journey is longer than first guessed, and she thinks he grows even bigger after the swipe of her tongue, the jut of him swaying in the air as more blood thickens him out. The fact that all of that will be stuffed inside of her makes Ysilla shiver, her cunt yearning for the press of his long fingers. 

Fervently, she swallows him down until he greets the back of her throat. The salt of him is jarring but not unwelcome- nothing can be unwelcome about this as Aemond sucks in a ragged breath and fists the sheets. The muscles in his arms strain and bulge, a sight that only incentivises her to keep sucking. 

He’s a thick, velvety weight on her tongue, her mouth full even with inches still to spare. Her drool dribbles down his staff, and her hand wraps around what she cannot swallow. She glides her lips over his length rhythmically, jacking her fist over the rest of him, retreating with a pop to spit on his tip for more lubrication. 

Ysilla has always been one for sweets but this? This is a taste she can find herself hankering for. She suckles on the head, dipping her tongue into his slit, shivering at the sharp burst of his spunk on her taste buds. She dives forward again, gagging around him, the intrusion into her throat a strange feeling she forces herself to adjust to. 

Aemond keeps her hair pushed behind her ears, his thumbs stroking her temples as he fights to not thrust down her throat until she chokes. A familiar tightening in his sack has him voicing the exact opposite of what he wants her to do. 

“Silla, pull off.” She’s on her fucking knees for him, he doesn’t need to defile her like this. Doesn’t need to treat her like a common whore and make her stomach his load. 

She ignores him and he says her name again, more firmly, but she’s such a rebel, swallowing around him once more, letting him feel the constricting vice of her throat. He can’t take it- he gives her what she wishes. 

“Silla, qrugh.” Cursing, he keeps her head still as he empties his balls and fills her belly. He hooks his thumb into her mouth, breathless, breaking the suction and pulls out of her throat. Ysilla coughs, gulping down air and saliva before she gifts him a shiny smile. Aemond scoffs. Unbelievable. 

“You’re a nasty little thing.” He pants out, a compliment he means wholeheartedly. 

She chuckles hoarsely, and her lips are still gooey with his seed. 

“You love it.” 

The urge to fuck her returns tenfold and he sits up, hand at the back of her neck to wrench her up to his mouth. She whimpers, swapping his cum between their tongues. It’s sticky and vulgar and overwhelmingly erotic. 

Ysilla stumbles to her feet, pulling Aemond with her, leading him to the lounge area in front of her hearth. Their mouths remain intertwined, unwilling to part even for a moment. She pushes him into an armchair, the old velvet soft beneath him before following him down, and settling swiftly in his lap. 

“Off.” He demands but he can’t help but be an active partner in his niece’s undressing. Her hands dash to the hem of her shift, gathering up the skirt hurriedly. His hands glide up her body, caressing the naked skin that is revealed to him as she pulls it up and over her head. She’s so sleek with sweat she looks polished- an apple ready to eat, something to be devoured. 

“What do you want me to do?” Aemond asks, not for lack of knowledge but to see how far she wishes to take this. 

Ysilla grins, ducking down and drawing him into an eager kiss. “Whatever you want to do. Just make me feel good.”

Loyal as a hound, Aemond’s mouth goes to her breast, her posture perfectly presenting her chest to him. He takes in as much as he can, greedily sucking and licking until her tender flesh blushes a bright sticky red. He rolls her pert nipple between his teeth, tugging just enough to make Ysilla gasp. She makes pretty sounds- he can’t wait to hear what she’ll sound like as he fucks her stupid. He switches to her other breast, feasting on her supple bosom like he’ll never eat again. His cock bobs upright, his body needing no time to rest, ready and racing to experience the delicacy of her cunt. 

The Princess whines, combing through his tousled hair, tugging on it like she would horse reins. Such a commanding queen she’ll be. 

“Need it, need you.” She whines, swinging her hips lower, searching for the weeping start of his prick.

“Easy, Ysilla.” He warns, even as his thoughts scream to grip her hips and teach her how to ride him, but she’s such a stubborn little dragon and her thoughts may be just as commanding as his. She leans back, reaching between her thighs until she brushes at the head of his cock and steadies him. Lining herself up, she sinks torturously slow, downdowndown every inch until she sits upon his thighs. 

“Oh, fuck.”

“Oh… my.”

They both breathe out, blinking away black stars that dance in their vision, the pollen tapping every nerve ending in each of them until they sputter and fizz uncontrollably. 

The discomfort fades for her faster than she’d thought, transforming into a pleasant fullness that she can feel heavily behind her stomach. Ysilla searches for what feels the best, moving faster and faster on Aemond’s lap as each new shift in position guides her further towards the liquid heat in her loins. She settles on swiveling up before dropping back down onto him, riding him like she’s saddled. Hot streaks of exhilaration engulf her insides, every pass of his cock adding to the ecstasy swirling inside of her. The stretch of him, not just from length but from width as well, itches the scratch left behind after the library disaster. Even as she tried to bring herself to pleasure earlier, there was something missing from her peak. Something that’s building, stacking, soaring fast in her belly. That final crest of a wave, ready to crash and drown anything that’s not pure, hot ecstasy-

Before it collapses back into a tidepool. The pitted feeling of falling through the air as you miss a step in the dark settles over her lust, and she jerks. Ysilla’s eyes snap open, her pupils blown so wide Aemond can barely see a ring of amethyst around them. She whines, bouncing on his cock faster, chasing a release she’s not sure she can find. 

“Qybor, kostilus. I can’t cum like this.” Almost to make her point, she circles her hips up, leaving only the head of him kissed by her tight hole before dropping down and taking every inch of him at once. Aemond holds strong to his stamina, refusing to empty inside of his niece so quickly. 

A shame though, he was so enjoying the view. He winds his arms around her hips, keeping her nice and close as he slips them off of the chair and onto the floor. Several furs keep them cushioned from the chilly stones below and he drags a pillow off the loveseat to ease her up on. 

“Turn for me, sweetling.” He maneuvers her onto her belly, his grip finding her hips and shepherding her into position onto her hands and knees.

Aemond stands corrected- this view is nice. The burnished copper of Ysilla’s coloring clashes deliciously with his own pale complexion. Her backside is plush and hefty, budding from her shape in a way that invites his attention. 

Whatever you want to do. Aemond slaps her right cheek, reveling in her sharp gasp, and the way a perfect red welt appears on the smooth skin. He lands another, on the opposite globe, hypnotized by the jiggle of the flesh. He strikes her again because he can, not ignorant to the way his rough treatment has her absolutely dripping down her thighs. Another for good measure, satisfied in the brilliant bruising he’s left behind.

Just make me feel good. He strokes his cock, still slick from her spit and her honey, and lines his head up at her opening. She arches up, dipping down onto her arms, raising her bottom to prop against him. The angle is too good not to take advantage of. Aemond spits, his foamy white saliva dripping viscously into her tight hole and he pushes it inside of her as he strokes forward. 

Ysilla voices her approval of the new position, wiggling back against him as he goes as deep as she’ll take him. He builds a tempo, in out in out, finding a pace that makes her clench impossibly tighter. His sack slaps intensely at her clit, drawing punchy little gasps out of her that he wants to devour. He digs his fingertips into her hips, thumbs fanning out to stroke the luscious bounce of her bottom. He goes to pause, planning on switching his angle so that some strain can be relieved from her spine.

“No! Aemond, stay there, right there, yessss.” Ysilla flails her hand behind her blindly, not stopping her begging until she smacks into his naked torso. Aemond stares down at his niece in confusion, catching sight of her profile, her eyes trained intently on something that is certainly not him. 

He looks up, and catches his reflection staring back at him from across the room. The giant wardrobe mirror is tucked into the corner, and the Gods are good because they're directly in its path, their coupling on display for their viewing pleasure. 

Aemond drops down, blanketing Ysilla with his body, watching his Other do the same. “Oh, I see.” He chuckles, driving into her slowly. 

It’s almost as if they’re watching someone else- surely the couple in the reflection cannot be them. No poise, no manners, not even an ounce of trepidation to be seen. In place, disheveled, howling, rutting animals grind against each other, naked and insouciant in search of their gratification. Aemond enjoys the portrait they make, admiring it so much that he stalls in his thrusting and stills completely inside of Ysilla.

“Aemond, come on.” She whines, moving impatiently against him. “Nākostōbā taoba, making me do all the work.” She mewls, riding down and humping his cock.

Aemond’s trance snaps, and he secures a fistful of her hair, forcing his niece into a backbend. He ignores her yelp, smacking her thigh to halt her gyrations. His lips go to her ear, and this close to her throat, he can hear the lifeblood rushing through her arteries. 

“What was that?” 

“I just thought, unhhh… just thought you would be a bit more… involved in this.” She giggles, fucking laughs even as her bones creak for mercy. It’s harder to breathe this way, and the lightheadedness spurs on her mouth. “Thought you wanted this as badly as I did.” 

Little fucking brat. He laughs too, because it’s funny. Funny because of how right she is- he should be more involved in this, a bit more committed. Ysilla stills at the sound, the audible swallow of her gulping nervously has his cock jumping in interest. Her fear is just as tasty as her willingness. 

He crosses both arms over her chest, his forearms thick bars over her throat and he forces her up, so he can fuck his cock into her belly and watch her tits bounce as he does so. Ysilla’s face contorts into a euphoric mask, her eyes rolling back into her head and her pouty mouth hanging open in slack-jawed pleasure as he pounds her ruthlessly.

“Something on your mind, Princess?” She doesn’t respond, her brain being fucked straight out of her head.

Aemond slaps her face, the sharp crack bringing her back to the present, and back to Aemond fucking her like he owns her. She moans again, her pussy spouting a wash of arousal around his bullying cock. He catches her by the jaw, digging his thumb into the bone and rubbing at the struck flesh of her cheek. His lips are wet at her ear, and she watches him through glossy eyes as he smirks, and bites down on her ear lobe. 

“Answer me, Ysilla.” His niece shouts but Aemond has no sympathy for her. If she can dish it out, she can take it. “You did want this? Or you do want this?” 

He’s searching for the willpower to pull out of her, and put her over his knee to send home his message when she babbles out her acquiescence.

“I want this! Bisa, bisa, bisa, fuck, gaoman gaoman. I want you, Gods, nyke jaelagon ao!” Valyrian braids through her words without forethought, her focus aimed on Aemond’s cockhead tapping at her womb. 

“Sȳz riña.” She preens at the endearment, throwing her hips back against him frantically. A beautiful toothy smile has broken brightly over her face, Aemond catching sight of it in the mirror before he shatters the grin, nailing a spongy spot inside of her that makes her eyes cross.

“Sooo good, so fucking big, feel you right here.” She tries to gesture to her throat but she ends up digging her nails into the arms caging her in, hanging off of him desperately. Her poor battered cunny is still somehow famished for more, the squelch of his cock moving in and out of her a licentious lyric that lulls both lover’s into a trance. Aemond pulls her even tighter to his front, however possible that may be, and plunges repeatedly into her snug cunt, beating the walls of her swollen so she won’t be able to walk without thinking of him first. 

As if they miss each other, Aemond’s and Ysilla’s eyes meet in the mirror, violent violet and silver steel clashing and melding into one harmonious color. 

Their stares fall lower, where they meet over and over and over again so brutally. Her thighs glisten in the candlelight, her flesh rippling with every thwack of Aemond’s hips. It’s so dirty, so primal, so right. He’s going so deep, he could put a babe in her belly. Just a whisper of that fantasy, of her giving him a child, letting him have such a claim on her breaks her apart. 

She screams, Aemond’s palm smacking over her mouth as her thighs give out, and she sags to the floor. He follows her down, draping himself over her back, still fucking her in earnest, chasing his own blissful breaking point. He finds it, after three more punishing thrusts. But even as his balls release and he feels Ysilla grow slicker as his seed coats her insides until it leaks a white ring from where they’re joined, his cock is still hard and heaving from his body. 

He pulls out and Ysilla sobs at the loss, scrambling on the furs, but her cries disintegrate as she’s flipped onto her back. Aemond slings both of her legs into the crooks of his elbows, yanking her forward so he’s flush to her thighs, her pussy a pretty little jewel winking up at him. His seed oozes a pearl stream from her fluttering hole and he swipes it up with his cock, and it’s as slippery as oil as he bottoms out inside of her. 

Fucking Seven, she’s unreal. “Taking every inch of me… like you were made for this, ñuha pretty līve.”

“Made for you, I think.” Ysilla gasps, ripping at the furs, trying to anchor herself down so she doesn’t burst apart. 

Aemond nips at her chin, doing nothing to quell the smug smile on his niece’s lips. “Careful.” 

Careful for what? She wants to question so badly. Careful on what she voices aloud, even as they speak it in both of their minds? Careful on implying that her cunt will not weep for him anytime he passes by her? Careful to claim that the only place he should be after tonight is right where he is now?

But it is not the time for words of the heart, so she digs her nails into Aemond’s broad shoulders in a gnaw and throws her head back. 

“I’m right there. Yes, Aemond, yes!” 

Oh, is she now? Aemond grins, slowing his thrusts to purposefully watch her eyes shoot open incredulously. 

“Don’t stop! Fuck, why are you stopping?” Ysilla growls, circling her hips up against him, doing her best to fuck him herself. So desperate, so full of unadulterated desire, she cannot find it within herself to be appalled at her own salaciousness. 

“I thought you couldn’t cum like this?” Aemond mocks and oh, it’s fun to play with her. 

Her decorum deserting her, Ysilla lets anger lead her movements and her hand flies at his face to strike him. He catches her easily, still smiling that infuriatingly sexy smirk, and drops a modest kiss on the heel of her palm. She melts, her love bitten lips pouting dramatically. 

“Aemond, ñuha zaldrīzes, please.” He likes when she begs- she can see it in the way his jaw ticks, how his skin flushes, as if his body alights in her prayers to him. Aemond won’t acknowledge it, but somewhere deep in his chest, she’s already wormed her way in. He splits her in half, leaning over her until he can rest his palms by her shoulders, her legs still draped over each of his arms. 

He drags himself out, inch after inch, agonizingly slow before he lurches forward, making her pussy swallow his entire cock. He groans, finding himself burrowed in the valley of her breasts, letting his hips pummel her in an amorous hammering. 

“Scream for me, love.” 

She doesn’t need to be told twice- her lungs finding the air to blurt out,

“Aemond, fucking hell!”

Ysilla goes limp, her thighs butterflying open, giving him full reign to dictate her pleasure. She squirts, a wet spray soaking his abdomen that puddles beneath them. Her whole body heaves, appearing almost pained in euphoria. She’s a holy vision. 

Fuck, he’s losing his mind. “Do that again.” He demands. 

He cups the back of her neck, propping her up until they’re eye to eye. Ysilla’s are lidded, exhaustion heavy weights upon them, but she manages a tiny nod and curves herself upwards for his continued onslaught. 

Completely at his mercy, his to control, Aemond takes full advantage. Dragging her down by the back of her neck, he plunges himself brutally inside of her cunt over and over, again and again. She lies there and takes it like a good girl, witnessing her uncle destroy her in the name of desire until he grants her mercy, and he strokes her pearl with the sharp edge of his thumbnail and she blacks out.

He chokes, sparks shimmering in and out of his vision as she convulses around his cock. He pulls out of her, spurting striping streaks of white onto her belly. He cums so hard, it splashes over her tits and even pools in the hollow of her throat. 

Ysilla moans, coming to, rubbing her fingers over the soiled skin of her stomach, blending their releases together in a filthy film that coats her fingers. She pops one in her mouth, and relishes in the blossoming light brightening once more in Aemond’s lone eye.  

And just as quickly as their relief had come, the satisfaction fizzles out and ravenous blood boiling need takes root once more. 

They groan, barely taking time to catch their breath before they’re on each other again. Their mouths are sloppy, leaving trails of saliva down to their chins and along their throats. Ysilla finds a spot she likes over his pulse point and suckles, her left leg wound tight over his hip, rubbing herself off along the unyielding ridge of the bone. Aemond kneads her arse, an apology for his abuse, rolling the voluptuous flesh in his calloused grip all the while dipping his fingertips in and out of her weeping slit.

They tangle in each other’s webs, so caught up in salt and sin that they don’t realize they’re off the rugs and across the floor until the frigid chill rushes through them. 

It’s uncomfortable- their knees will be bruised by the morrow, scrapes along their backs will sting while in the bath, and a crick won’t leave Ysilla’s neck for half a moon. But the stone cools their overheated skin and together is where they still want to be, so all else falls to the wayside. 

Their mouths have drawn back to each other, Ysilla’s tongue dancing over his back teeth and the roof of his mouth, mapping a place she can only dream of revisiting after tonight. Aemond pulls away and Ysilla’s teeth in his bottom lip scold him for his interruption. He smirks, giving her a departing peck to soothe her sour mood. 

“I need to meet her properly, Princess.” He says with an uncharacteristic amount of mirth, leaning her back as he dips down to her lower body. 

Ysilla is bone-weary and dehydrated, but even she knows that doesn’t make any sense. She cocks her head in confusion, watching him as he settles on his front, his face so close to her center, the hot damp of his breath makes her quiver. 

“Who is her- oh! Oh, Seven Hells, Aemond, fucking please-”

Aemond eats her with a fervor she’s never known, a man starved before being offered the bounty between her legs. Shrill gasps and pitched moans are sounds she thought herself incapable of making, but they sing aloud, her walls stowing them in their stones. 

Her thighs are tight around his head, but the cushioned flesh does nothing to block out her calls of ecstasy. Music to his fucking ears, he slurps, undignified and ravenous, the parched dryness in his throat at last quenched as he swallows down Ysilla’s honey. No wine, no water could ever satisfy him like she does. 

She thrashes about on the unforgiving stone, her nails clawing at the ground so harshly that they chip. He’s sending her into madness, unrelenting in his licking even as she kicks at his sides. She’s too sensitive, it’s too much. 

And then, the realization that he is not only lapping up her arousal but his as well, zings up her spine and has her gushing all over his tongue. 

She can’t control herself anymore. Her worries have faded into nothingness as the night has gone on, as she had bounced on Aemond’s cock and came into his mouth and he into hers, and they’ve drank down one another’s spit and sweat and sex. She’s whimpering and whining, squeaky sounds with no words, only what her voice is capable of making. The pathetic, needy gasps draw Aemond’s attention immediately. He rises, hovering over her, pulling up her knees to frame his hips. He slides himself home, not being able to breathe until he bottoms out, fully planted inside of her. 

She whimpers louder as he faces her, the effects of the potion hitting their last peak. 

“Let me see you. Let me see you.” Ysilla begs, distraught that there’s still something keeping them apart. They should be bare- exposed and raw and free. They’ve already come this far- it’s all or nothing. 

Even with her few words, Aemond understands her completely. He doesn’t give himself time to think, time to let self-consciousness tear and twist him up as he rips off his eyepatch. 

Ysilla sees him- truly sees him- his scar, the jagged split of his brow, the brilliant blue sapphire twinkling a wink at her as it glitters in the low light.  

“You’re so handsome.” And then she cries- big, fat, bulbous tears that spill from the corner of her eyes and streak over her cheeks. 

Aemond wants to comfort her, shush her and stroke her hair. Do all the things he should do with a lover that’s not only a lover, but his kin as well. A sweet girl he remembers always drawing for him on his nameday, sketching pictures of fearsome dragons. And as the years dragged on, they continued to evolve, growing fiercer and more detailed and she would always say the same thing when she gifted it to him: “this year, Uncle, this year you’ll find your match, I know it.” And here he is now, the Queen of the Skies his dragon, as if Ysilla herself had manifested it to life. 

But that was so long ago now that it seems a different lifetime, and Aemond realizes he doesn’t really know his niece. He doesn’t know what she likes and what she doesn’t, and that worries him more than he’s comfortable with. 

“Can’t... take… much… more.” She gulps down a breath after each word. Aemond’s thrusts push so deeply into her guts, that there now seems to be no room for her lungs. He hums, the vibration tickling where they’re pressed chest-to-chest. 

“Yes you can, jorrāelagon. You’ve done so well, taken everything I’ve given you. You’ve made me so proud, sweet girl.” He may not know how to soothe her, but Aemond has a knack for telling someone just what they need to hear. Only with Ysilla, he speaks no falsehoods. He whispers his admiration in her ear, keeping her close by a hand cupping her jaw, forcing her to listen to all of his praises, all the while snaking his hand down between them to pinch at her pearl. 

Small hiccuping gasps couple with her agonized moans; the pride, the pleasure, the pain, all of it an elixir he drinks down his throat as she connects their lips once more, a soft tremble in hers that he soothes with his tongue. They cum together, less intense than their lasts, but still just as satisfying. Aemond spills inside of her, her silken walls milking him for every drop in his fucked out cock. He moans, long and loud into her neck and she peppers his cheek with kisses, her breathing heavy. He collapses, further down on her body so he doesn’t constrict her chest. 

The evening tempo of her breathing beneath his cheek has Aemond focusing on his own, and the two spent lovers take a much needed break to collect themselves. 

Tremors still shake her thighs, the creamy fawn flesh jumping from overstimulation. Aemond presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, a sweet assurance of relief hopefully not far behind their releases. She pets his hair, no energy left to even raise her head. He rises back up to look upon her face, wiping away a stray tear from her lash. She nuzzles into his hand and it all finally feels like enough. 

Until it isn’t. Until the lust fills them up once more, water in a pail, and it overflows and sloshes thickly in their bellies until they’re sick with it. 

Ysilla sobs brokenly, exhausted and at her wits end. Aemond shudders for breath, the pain in his stones throbbing incessantly for relief. They’ll lose their minds if they keep going- chasing an endgame that is unattainable. 

Aemond digs deep, attempting to collect himself and become the man Ysilla needs him to be. He tucks her legs around his hips, crossing her ankles behind him, and rises up to his feet with her draped around him. 

He carries them both on shaky legs, drifting along the wall for support until he rounds the corner to her privy. The golden casted tub is filled halfway with what was once steaming, boiled water but has now grown cool. He swings a leg over the edge, trying not to collapse, Ysilla still wrapped around him like a second skin and settles them both into the pool.

The Princess crumbles, falling to pieces as they’re engulfed by the water. Her heartbeat still thrums from between her legs, her nipples scraping at Aemond’s chest for attention, as if he had not lauded them with his tongue until they were bruised and sore. The undying urge to mate is at her throat, its teeth gnashing at her veins and claws piercing her hips, ushering her to fucklicksuckfuck again and again and again until her brain would be lost to the lust. 

But her body is done- every muscle expended, every limb weighted, every bone crushed to nothing but dust. All she can manage to do is whimper softly from where she’s pressed into her lover’s chest. 

Aemond cups her face, raising her up so that he can look upon her. She’s a sculpture of desire: lips puffy and rubbed red, cheeks flushed, eyes teared and heavy. He did this to her. 

“One more, love. One more and then we’ll stop.” He promises, the need too heavy in his cock, thickening his member until it lies straight up against her stomach. 

She nods stiffly, spreading her thighs until they mirror his hips. He taps the head of himself at her entrance, a gentleman waiting for the lady to make the first move. He doesn’t have to wait long, Ysilla pushing forward and taking his cock in full until their bellies rest flat against each other. She’s as tight as the first time, and the stretch is not lost on her either, her groan equal parts pained and pleased. 

Aemond’s hands are worshiping as he trails down the elegant column of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, the bloom of her breast, until he finds the small of her back and hugs her tight. They just dance, slow and steady, rolling their hips together, the water shifting with their union. They rest their foreheads against one another, eyes closed and noses brushing.

Aemond isn’t sure who leans in first- he thinks it may have been him but Ysilla will say the opposite. Their mouths slot together, innocent and vestal and it’s so much less eager than the times before, but it makes it all the more intimate. He moans weakly and she coos, her hands coming to cradle his face, the breaths they share one in the same. Somehow, it’s as if this exposes them more to each other than being joined so sensuously. A simple press of their lips, doing more for them than a thousand slippery tongues or nimble fingers. 

A gentle wash of pleasure, one that raises goosebumps along their arms and makes their breaths hitch is all that they get and then suddenly, finally, the call for gratification quiets and all prince and princess are left with is the drip of water off the edge of the tub. Ysilla sighs heavily, sounding every bit thankful and spent. Aemond takes a breath that feels like his first, and he sags against the resistance at his back. 

Everything is still, weariness seeping into them like ink to parchment. Aemond thinks he could doze off right here, Ysilla a comforting weight atop of him, his manhood still nestled in her center. 

Her palm is gentle on his cheek, her thumb rubbing back and forth in a tender sweep that stirs his eyelid to open. She’s beautiful, even in her enervation and he lets himself savor this moment. The world has paused for them, and it will not go on unless they will it to. 

“Thank you for taking care of me.” She whispers, afraid to shatter the silence. A final brush of her thumb over his bottom lip, softer than a feather, is her parting gift. She unseats herself from him, and even if she’s the one who wants to leave, her cunt does not agree. Her walls grasp at every ridge and vein of his prick, a caress goodbye until at last they part. Ysilla floats backwards, away from him, and the fact that he has an urge to catch her wrist and pull her back until she’s closer than skin terrifies him. 

She curls into a ball at the other side of the tub, an ocean away, and brings her knees to tuck under her chin. She stares at him unflinchingly and he stares back, tiredness glazing over them both. 

Aemond sighs deeply. One of them has to be the first to depart and since his quarters are on the other side of the castle, he begrudges that it is him who will have to make an exit. 

“I should go.”

Ysilla’s face is serene, every drop of willpower left in her battling the urge to slip beneath the water and fade away. She nods, a wooden lift and fall of her head.

“I think that’s best… I’m sure the whole castle knows what we’ve been up to.” 

Why her response stings, he won’t let himself dwell over. Nothing’s changed (everything has changed), they will soon return to their routines and carry on with their lives (neither one of them will be able to think of anything else but each other for the better part of a year). He rises from the water, stepping out and over the tub, reaching for a linen to at least try and make himself decent. 

It is she who catches his wrist in reality, her thin fingers looping over the bones until she surrounds him like shackles. 

“But… maybe…” Her eyes traverse their way down his body, revisiting the spots she had tasted, had bitten, had sucked. Her tongue snakes out, wetting her swollen flesh and he has to think of the night he lost his eye, the stench of manure, anything to keep the blood from rushing to his spent cock. 

“Gods, Aemond, what’s one more bad decision tonight?” She’s not looking for an answer, not out loud, looking deep into his eye instead. Searching for an understanding she’s not sure is there. 

“Stay? With me?” Even after all the carnal ways they’ve explored each other, it’s those three pleading words that send Ysilla’s heart galloping in her chest as she voices them. 

He stares at her, unanswering and still, and dread creeps up her neck in a cold chill. 

“Your chamber is a mess. We both need to eat and drink something other than wine. Not to mention sleep.” Aemond states stonily. Ysilla swallows passed the knot in her throat, sinking deeper into the water. Her fingers release him and she drifts away, in both body and mind. 

Aemond catches her fingers, and he threads his through hers like they’re meant to be there. He rubs small, soothing circles about her knuckles, and he brings them to his mouth on pure instinct, and presses a chaste kiss to the bones. 

“So I best bring you to my room then, to make sure all of that happens, no?” 

Aemond smiles first before Ysilla returns it widely. Hers is the sun appearing from behind a cloud, warmth bathing him, and welcoming him home. 

.

.

.

qrugh . shit

Qybor, kostilus . Uncle, please

Nākostōbā taoba . Weak boy

(I want this!) Bisa, bisa, bisa, fuck, gaoman gaoman. I want you, Gods, nyke jaelagon ao! . This, this, this, fuck, I do I do. I want you, Gods, I want you!

Sȳz riña . Good girl

ñuha pretty līve . my pretty whore 

ñuha zaldrīzes . my dragon

Jorrāelagon . love

[mjrtaurus]

Modern AU

Ace was technically his first kid. Garp had taken him in as a favor to the boy’s late parents, but was passed off to Dadan because of military work having him go all over the globe. That’s no life for a kid that young. Dragon loved his father, yes, but sometimes he wanted to break the man’s nose. Dadan was struggling, she always had been struggling, and now with a kid that was practically dropped in her lap, she didn’t know what to do. So, Dragon took Ace in. The poor kid’s heart was already rife with abandonment issues, and Dragon understood those all too well.

The adoption was cut and dry, going from Garp’s custody to Dragon’s with no resistance or drama. Garp was just glad to see Ace have people who were willing to step up for him when he couldn’t.

When Ace was three, Luffy was born and left for Dragon to raise. Crocodile… wasn’t doing well with him. Postpartum was a monster, and dysphoria on top of it made it all even worse. Dragon wanted to comfort the man, but it was all too much for him. He left. Couldn’t handle it.

Dragon was hurt, but he understood.

Cut to seven years later when Luffy let slip at the dinner table that Ace was sneaking off to meet a boy that was staying out in the woods past the property line, and Dragon nearly choking on his drink.

Rural Oklahoma wasn’t something to fuck around with. There were miles between their home and the next. There were copperheads, there were coyotes, the occasional cougar, and they were in the middle of fucking tornado season… and- after asking Ace a few times- this kid was only ten and a runaway.

He needed to get this kid out of those woods and into the house. Immediately.

Sabo was the kid’s name, and getting that much out of him had been like pulling teeth. He’d been on his own for a couple of years. Upon asking around in the right places and pulling a few strings, Dragon learned that this kid was old money from out of state. And his parents hadn’t even bothered to file a missing person’s report until very recently. No, no, instead they adopted another boy with a hefty inheritance to his name and went on fucking vacation until they realized Sabo was willed to inherit everything upon the passing of one of his grandparents.

If conflict of interest wasn’t an issue, he would have torn them both apart in court. He did get to take the witness stand, though, with his good friend Kuma taking over the prosecution in his stead. It wasn’t quite as satisfying, but he still got a few good licks in.

[littlegrapejuice]

Playing The Long Game | LS2

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x Reader

Summary: You've had your fair share of romantic experiences, not all successful. Logan was always there to comfort you, and he's still here years later when you realise that there might be more to your friendship.

Author's Note: ok so my og plan was to write ab lando but @babyunickorn suggested "boy next door/childhood friend logan" in my coms and suddenly my brain became so inspired the idea so here it is🤗

He had witnessed them all.

Your first crush in kindergarten who had picked out a flower for you one day – turned out that he had actually given one to every girl in the class which you learnt the following day.

Your first boyfriend in middle school with whom you’d had your first kiss – it wasn’t that bad per say but you didn’t have any other experience to compare it with at the time.

Your actual first love in high school. He wasn’t like the other popular guys. He knew a lot of people and was an extrovert, but he only had a few close friends that could be counted on one hand. You got along well with him but didn’t pay much attention to him since you didn’t have many common interests. But during your senior year of high school, you two ended up in a class together.

It was the usual cliché story: pairing up for a project, spending time together outside of school – more talking than studying. And when the project was over, he told you he wanted to keep spending time with you. So he asked you out, and you said yes. The next few months were actual bliss. Compared to your first boyfriend – if you could even qualify him as one, this one was sweet and caring. He made you laugh and knew which words you needed to hear – wanted to hear.

He once told you he was falling in love with you fell in love with you, which you believed. And knowing his feelings, it made you fall in love too in the process. You didn’t have any reason not to: he took you out during the weekends, paid for your drinks, and you were facetiming almost every night to talk about your days.

Days that you didn’t spend together.

And that’s when you started having doubts.

Sure, you weren’t in the same class and only had one subject together. However, you were in the same high school and had similar timetables. Did you see him during the day? Yes, sometimes. Did you talk to him? Never. Not like you had never tried: if he was alone or with a couple people you knew, you would go up to him and chat a bit. But every time you were getting a bit too close, he was subtly backing away. You hadn’t noticed at first – or you did and just thought him shy regarding PDA – but then it became more obvious.

Not even glancing at you when you’d pass each other in the hallways. Not returning your waves, nor your gentle smiles. But you put up with it. Because at the end of the day, he would always send you a text, offering to facetime.

Then it got worse.

The texts were scarce and dry. The calls now non-existent. And during one weekend, you had enough after he had ignored you and left you on delivered for several days in a row. So you confronted him when school started again. You had a long talk with him during which he admitted his mistakes. You were ready to accept his apologies until you realised what he was apologising for in the process: he was saying sorry for the past, but also for the future.

He was breaking up with you.

You should’ve known. You didn’t want to know. But it all made sense now. You don’t think you even kept listening after you realised what was happening. He was babbling about things you didn’t want to pay attention to anymore. Half of it was along the lines of “it’s not you, it’s me” and yes, it was all him – that you could agree on. You had been the perfect girlfriend, as perfect as one can be when in love. But he was the one who didn’t love you enough.

Technically, he hadn’t lied about his feelings. They just disappeared as quickly as they appeared. Maybe he’d had an idea of you that didn’t prove itself to be right when he went from having a crush on you to dating you. But you didn’t care at this point, you were just hurt. You could only nod at what he was saying. Your only thoughts were to go home and cry yourself to sleep. That was a good plan. 

When you got home though, someone was waiting for you in your room.

Logan.

You had forgotten he had texted you earlier in the day to say he needed your help with homework. But when he saw you walk through the door, any concern about school was quickly discarded and his only reaction was to go hug you as he noticed your red eyes, not yet dry. He immediately knew you’d been crying and the reason why was clear to him.

Nevertheless, he never asked. He wondered obviously, but never questioned you about the details as he easily guessed what had happened.

It took you a couple weeks before you told him the full story. There wasn’t much to say to be honest, but still, he listened. He comforted you and did his best to make you forget.

He was there for you. He had always been there for you.

But you had never noticed him. Never truly noticed him. Not like he saw you. Not like he loved you.

So why now, were you looking at him with such softness in your eyes? Why now, was his smile the most beautiful one in the room? Why now, was your only wish to be close to him and never leave his side?

You were starting to get confused by your own feelings. You didn’t know why suddenly, your gaze kept drifting back to Logan – who was across the room talking with Oscar – when Lando was being a perfect gentleman to you.

“You know, I won’t get hurt if you go to him.”

You were surprised to hear Lando’s voice. You shouldn’t be, you had been conversing with him for the past half hour so it wasn’t weird for him to still talk to you now.

“What?”

“Logan,” Lando replied as if it was obvious. “You’re acting like a high school girl too afraid to go up to her crush right now.”

“I’m not afraid to go talk to Logan”, you mumbled.

“So you’re not denying the crush?” Lando raised an eyebrow at you.

“I– I don’t know…” You were still confused about what was going on in your brain. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s not though.”

“Why would you say that?”

“He likes you, you obviously like him back after so long so go make out or something I don’t know.” Lando shrugged before taking a sip of his drink.

“After so long?” You repeated.

“Yeah. I swear I shouldn’t have befriended Oscar because he came as a package with Logan and I had no choice but to hear about you for like– months before I even met you?”

You had no words. Logan liked you? You don’t know why you never connected the dots but it kinda made sense. Well, everything made sense actually: the support he offered you, the friendship he never gave up on even when he was thousands of miles away from home after his motosports career took off, the letters, the late-night calls, the random visits back home whenever he had a few days off.

“So?” Lando interrupted your thoughts again.

“So what?” You wondered.

“Are you gonna talk to him and confess and then maybe he’ll stop torturing Oscar and I?”

“Oh… Hmm, yeah, yeah…”

“Good, because he’s walking towards us.”

“Excuse me? Right now?”

“Yep”, Lando replied with a grin. “Good luck, name your firstborn after me please.”

“Lando, wait–”

You barely had time to turn to the direction where the British had gone off that Logan was appearing in your field of vision.

“Logan, hi!”

“Hey,” he replied with his signature smile that you loved so much and wished it never left his face. “Everything good? We haven’t talked a lot tonight.”

“All good yes,” you nodded. “That’s true, yeah… But we’re together now so we can chat a bit.”

“I’d like that indeed.”

“You wanna go outside?” You asked Logan, who agreed and led you both to the nearest balcony.

As soon as you stepped outside, you already felt lighter thanks to the nice evening breeze. However, it didn’t last long. Although comfortable, the silence felt heavy to you as you debated about how to start a conversation - the conversation. It had to be tonight. Now that you had somehow realised your feelings for your closest friend, you didn’t think you would be able to keep it a secret for long so your only choice was to get it out as soon as possible.

“I have something to tell you”, you simply stated. Your tone was serious enough that Logan understood it was important. His gaze on you showed you that he was giving you all his attention, but you actually felt overwhelmed by it. “Hmm… Well, I–” Your determination was disappearing extremely quickly; and for a second, you thought about going inside to get a drink that could act as ‘liquid courage’.

“I can talk if you want”, Logan offered. “I kinda have something to tell you too, which I hope is related to what you want to say.”

“Really?” Your voice was suddenly high-pitched as your stress was through the roof. Did he realise so easily what your intentions were? It wouldn’t surprise you now – Logan was smart and observant, especially when it came to you. So you nodded. “Go ahead, yeah…”

“I’m not gonna beat around the bush: I like you,” he confessed with a stoic face. “If I’m being real, I actually love you – I’ve done so for a while, several years I guess. And I hope you do too or else this is gonna be extremely awkward.”

“Y–yeah I do too,” you stuttered as you were too shocked by the revelation. Lando telling you was one thing that you already had a hard time believing, but Logan confirming it felt even crazier. You cleared your throat before speaking up. “I like you too Logan,” you said with more conviction. “Sorry it took me so long to notice, I’m still coming to terms with that myself.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” And there it was again, the smile that you cherished. “I would’ve waited forever if needed.”

“Seems like a lot”, you chuckled as a way to seem less nervous.

“Anything for you”, Logan simply replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world for him.

You hadn’t noticed as you had mostly kept your gaze on your hands, but as you finally looked up to face Logan, you realised how close he was to you. You couldn’t help the blush on your cheeks, your face heating up as you felt Logan’s hand brushing against yours. If you’d looked closely, he was blushing too, but your gaze could only focus on how beautiful his eyes looked under the moonlight.

Your name rolled off his tongue as he tried to catch your attention. Your eyes quickly glanced down to his lips before coming back up to his eyes as a way to show that you were listening.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” He softly asked, almost whispering by fear of ruining the moment.

“I don’t think I want anything else as much as that right now”, you replied with your voice as low as his.

So he obliged, and closed the gap between you. This wasn’t what you’d expected. Sure you’d thought about kissing Logan a couple times – you thought about kissing Logan before? – but this was even better than any other kiss you’d experienced. Way better than your first one, that’s for sure. Because the feelings were here, and they were strong.

And it wasn’t only romantic love that linked the both of you, but platonic love as well. All those years of friendship weren’t meaningless. There was a deep bond between Logan and you, which nothing could ever sever. And when you both pulled away after the kiss, this mixed love could be felt all around you. The joys you’d experienced together, the pains, the highs, the lows, and everything in between.

“Damn, okay…” you sighed as you rested your forehead on Logan’s shoulder.

“Good ‘damn’ or bad ‘damn’?”

“Definitely good”, you replied with a light laugh which made him smile. You could feel Logan’s thumb stroking your hip, making you blush as you thought about how intimate the gesture felt.

“I’m glad then.”

This time, the comfortable silence that settled between you was peaceful for the both of you. But as you thought about your conversation before – well… this, you realised you needed to clarify something.

“Wanna know a secret?”

“From you? Sure.”

“I love you actually”, you confessed. “Not just like, but love.”

“That’s good to know”, he answered. “Wanna know a secret of mine now?”

“Of course I do.”

“It’s more than love for me, like– I’m in love with you.”

“Oh…”

‘Oh’? This wasn’t the reaction Logan had expected as he could feel you freeze in his arms. You slowly backed away – your hands still resting on his chest nevertheless – and looked up to face him.

“You’re sure about that?”

“I– well, yeah?” Logan was confused. Was he sure of his feelings? What kind of question was that? He’d had many doubts in his life, but how he felt about you had never been one.

“Like– sure sure?” You stressed the word to emphasise your question. “You’re not just saying that because we just kissed, and it’s overwhelming, and it might just confuse your judgement so maybe you didn’t actually fall in love but you just love me, with basic love feelings. Don’t feel obligated to say that right now because we’re in the heat of the moment”

Logan was even more confused now as you kept rambling about how he could be mistaken about his own feelings and that maybe he should reconsider and give it a second thought to be certain of how deep his feelings for you were. But then, it clicked as your explanation felt familiar, reminding him of something that happened several years ago.

“Wait– is this about him?”

"I-” You were caught off-guard as you didn’t expect Logan to make the connection so quickly. “I don’t know, maybe…” you replied, looking a bit embarrassed. “Sorry, I'm making things awkward now…”

“It's fine, don't worry. I don't think I actually mind.”

“Really?” You asked, surprised at his words.

“Yeah, I guess…” He tried to find the right phrasing for his thoughts before speaking again. “He's in the past and I'm the one with you right now. And if I ever do something wrong that he did, then I'd like to know so I can try to not repeat it. And if he did something right that I never end up doing for you, then I'd like to know as well so eventually I can do this same thing too. Because even though it didn't last between you, he made you happy for a while and I could never disregard that. But”, he stressed the word to catch your attention. “I know my feelings best, so when I say I’m in love with you: I’m. In. Love. With. You. okay?”

“Understood, yes.”

“I’m glad that we’re on the same page then,” Logan concluded with a smile.

“Still, I’m sorry I never noticed either of our feelings earlier. This could’ve happened sooner”, you assumed.

“Probably not.”

“Why?” You wondered.

“Well, my feelings started developing when I was comforting you and realised you deserved better,” he explained. “I could give you what you deserved, but I just never made a move back then. I wasn’t about to go confess to you when you were still heartbroken.”

“That’s valid,” you agreed. “You got me now, don’t worry. He’s not in the picture anymore and you currently have no other competition.”

“He’s still part of you though, made you the person you are today.”

“I hate that you’re right”, you sighed. “Unfortunately, you never forget your first love even if it hurt.”

“Well, he was your first love, but I kinda want to be your last if you’ll allow me.”

“That’s perfectly fine by me”, you replied with a chuckle.

“So… We’re all good now? I can peacefully be in love with you?” Logan asked with a grin.

“Yes you can,” you nodded. “I fear I’ll be in love with you too soon enough if you keep being sweet like that.”

“I definitely wouldn’t mind that,” was the last thing he said before offering to kiss you again.

And although Logan knew it may actually take a while before you’d be completely in tune with your feelings, he also knew that he had no reason to worry about him. He was just a memory, a bittersweet and nostalgic one. Still part of who you became as a person, but he was in the past. Someone you'd probably never see again. And if you did, you were over him anyway. The only man that mattered to you right now was Logan – the one you currently loved, the one kissing you, the one who'd give you the world and burn it to the ground if it meant that he could see you smile.

Logan had been playing the long game and he was finally rewarded for his years of loyalty. You wished you could go back in the past and tell your younger self that the best friend she’d made when she started primary school would later become her boyfriend – past you would be delighted as she might have had a slight crush on Logan when she met him and he offered to share his pencils so that she could colour the sun drawn in the corner of her paper – but this would be tampering with time.

So if reliving everything that ever happened to you was necessary to end up with Logan now, then you’d do it all over again. And Logan would still wait for you, no matter how long it’d take.

..........

And we're done! I hope y'all liked this, I'm super happy w how it turned out and i think this might be one my fav things ever written

Ngl i kinda put some personal stuff in here and it surprisingly made me feel better bc even tho I'm over the person, idk if I'll ever be over the situation yk so this is a way to keep coping w it years later lmao

Also☝🏻 let's take a minute to celebrate logan posting a few days ago bc i was so glad to see him on my screen, i miss him on the grid sm :(

See you next time, take care of yourself🫶🏻

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 408: Orphaned Cryptid to Billionaire Supervillain

Previously on BnHA: HE WAS BORN AN ARROGANT BABY.

Today on BnHA: Horikoshi decides he’s going to cover the rest of the AFO/OFA saga in the span of just seven pages, the majority of which are mostly just filled with lovingly detailed closeups of AFO and Kudou’s eyes. Back in the present day, Kid For One takes a couple of seconds to trample the last of the “Kacchan is OFA II or is related to OFA II” theories into the dust, and is then all “fuck it, I’ll just take him out with one last spectacularly grotesque supermove.” Kacchan is all “lol you fucking dipshit”, and he says it with such confidence that it truly makes me believe he can defeat AFO’s “ALL THE QUIRKS EVER!!” attack with his piddly little exploding bloodsweat quirk. AND IT WILL BE A SIGHT TO SEE.

interesting!

Yoichi’s name btw is written with the kanji 与 which means “bestow” or “give”, and 一 which means “one.” so basically “one who gives”, which is fitting as the creator of OFA, but also fits in with this new context of being the first “possession” bestowed upon AFO

oh yes and also AFO I guess has just torn his brother to shreds or something too. idk. I’m going to be honest with you guys, this panel has such a surreal vibe that I just sat here blinking stupidly at it and wasn’t even shocked or anything. like what. is he dreaming this?? or did he really just make a “STOP! IN THE NAAAAME OF LOVE” gesture and in doing so remove half of his brother’s jaw

ewww

idk what’s wrong with me today guys. AFO just disintegrated Yoichi, and Kudou and and OFA Tres (who apparently still doesn’t have a name???? freaking Kudou got named before you??) are literally RIGHT THERE and presumably horrified, and all I can think about is how fucking gross it is that they’re all hanging out in a fucking sewer

oh shit y’all it’s about to go down

he can’t kill Kudou right off the bat can he? does Kudou even know he has OFA yet? are we going to see him transfer it to OFA III? I’m so fucking excited omg

LOL WHAT

“weirdly matte” omg. so apparently he’s like All Might, where the “he’s just drawn differently” thing is something people actually acknowledge in-story. “yeah he actually has no pupils. that’s a real thing. technically that should mean he can’t see since pupils are what let light into your eyes, but don’t worry about that part. just know that his eyes canonically look weird to the story people as well, and everyone is creeped out by it, not just you”

yeah he’s actually blind

so he literally can’t see outside himself. way to lay those metaphors on thick, Horikoshi

(ETA: this is my “just in case my impeccably dry wit doesn’t translate well across the internet” ETA to assure everyone I know he’s not actually blind lol.)

now we’re cutting to some random city where AFO is broodingly staring at Yoichi’s severed hand because he’s perfected the art of always doing incredibly unsettling things

I cannot believe the fucking hands thing has an actual origin story. of course it does. this man has never done a single hinged thing in his life. it’s all unhinged or bust. am I talking about AFO or Horikoshi? YOU DECIDE

he’s sitting at a table with a bottle of wine holding his dead brother’s embalmed severed limb and thinking about fucking quirk shit

so your transformation from Orphaned Cryptid to Billionaire Supervillain happened almost completely offscreen huh. I’m kinda disappointed, ngl. I could have read a few more chapters about that. maybe a spinoff miniseries

WAIT WHAT

are you serious. we finally get a panel that’s INCREDIBLY RELEVANT to pretty much ALL OF MY BNHA THEORIES, only for that same panel to contradict itself ONE SPEECH BUBBLE LATER?? so what is the truth???

omg omg omg

so many fucking questions, omg. what the hell does “through research” even mean. how did he confirm Yoichi’s quirklessness, and why did he later change his mind? how the fuck can Yoichi have a quirk factor and yet not have an actual quirk. “it was just so weak it didn’t count or something I guess” okay??? how much of this is unreliable narrator vs. the word of god? how is it we’re getting so many answers and yet all I have is more fucking questions you guys

BRUE?CE?CEE??!

bruce

Kudou is so goddamned hot. I hope you washed the hell out of that arm wound after getting it all covered in sewage you stupid sexy man

I can’t get over Three’s name. “idk if anyone noticed, but it’s kind of a subtle homage to another very famous superhero” Horikoshi your nap wasn’t long enough, please go home

also love how Bruce is talking shit about OFA being a puny loser quirk for wimps. how the fuck do they even know what’s going on, anyway? was there a tutorial???

oh you just had a feeling huh??? that it was “something like this”, huh??? how is it that I, who knows all about OFA because I’m from the future and have read 408 chapters of this nonsense, am somehow still less in the know than this handsome clown who doesn’t know shit but just “had a feeling”

(ETA: while editing this post I noted that Bruce is sitting in front of a computer in what seems to be some sort of medical lab, so maybe they ran some tests or something? except that only makes me more confused, because it implies they didn’t actually figure out OFA’s workings via convenient plot instincts. so then how the fuck did they figure out the transfer process?? questions)

meanwhile AFO is sitting in the panel next to him whining about how someone stole Yoichi’s quirk. excuse you. he did not steal it. it was in fact a gift

these flashbacks are all jumbled up and it’s unexpectedly fun to read, but also really chaotic

I guess he’s talking to Kudou on the right and AFO on the left

so many intense closeups of eyes in this chapter oh my goodness

Horikoshi even drew the individual goddamn eyelashes. this looks like the margins of someone’s notebook from when they were really bored in middle school

oh my god the information overload!!!

so much for AFO actually feeling emotions lol. or is he just lying to himself about why he cried. that delicious ambiguity

so we don’t even get a flashback explaining how the transfer actually happened?? to either Kudou OR my beloved Bruce?? goddamn you Horikoshi. omg I would seriously kill for more of this. make a movie about it. I want the OFA origin story prequel movie damn it

I like how AFO just sits there on a throne holding court with a single tiki torch beside him for aesthetic reasons

I can’t quite figure out how he killed Banjou and I’m not sure I really want to know. it looks very violent

friendly reminder that Shinomori is Sir Not Appearing In This Flashback because he’s the only OFA user who died of natural causes! good for you Shinomori. En probably wishes he was more like you

poor En

was Nana just taking a stroll or something one day and stumbled across this epic fight with the evilest man on the planet vs some kid in a trenchcoat, and then the poor kid got bisected and he looked at her and he was all “please eat my hair” and she was just like “ok”?

OH WOW

what a transition omg

LOLLLLLLLL

you know, part of me always wondered how All Might was so certain he’d killed AFO that he apparently never bothered to confirm it. but looking at this panel now, I can understand

fjjfdzjgf

he’s sweating so much. like “okay yeah he punched the top of his face off, this is pretty bad but I’LL DO MY BEST”

BACK TO THE PRESENT DAY AWW SHUCKS

so let’s recap. over on Kacchan’s side we have “GOTTA USE THE PAIN TO WIN!!!” haha ouch. and then over here on KFO’s side we have. whatever the fuck we just experienced over these past two chapters. so basically it’s a battle between the two most deranged characters in the entire series. glorious sweet chaos

DSFJKSLDKGJL he’s now trying to figure out how the fuck they look so much alike and whether they’re actually related

“no, that can’t be it. so then maybe... this kid grows up and then somehow travels back in time...?!” HE’S JUST LIKE US FR

so now he’s saying it’s because Kacchan didn’t have character development yet the last time, but now that he does his eyes are all Full Of Determination just like Kudou’s and so we’ve basically come full circle!

transcended WHAT? :O :D :D omg I’m kidding you guys please don’t hurt me

lol

actually the more we learn about Kudou the less I personally see the resemblance now lol. because Kudou seems so calm and collected, but Kacchan is just... [gestures to literally everything about Kacchan]

so AFO’s trying to strategize, but he can’t warp Kacchan away because the only available targets are too close and he’s still got that SUPERSPEED, BOYO so it wouldn’t make a difference. lol but if you kept doing it repeatedly it might be kind of funny though

and he can’t keep fighting him either because he’s getting his ass whooped and it’s speeding up his de-aging or whatever. well you could just give up then I guess. your call, AFO

oh was that your plan?

spoiler alert for me lol. but it’s not exactly shocking or anything since he’s dying, guess he wants to abandon ship

(ETA: just FYI for anyone reading this who’s not familiar with my dumbassery, I have currently only read chapters 1 through 374 at this point in time, before skipping ahead to 403 because Kacchan came back and I lost all willpower. I am working on catching up with the rest!)

oh so now you did come up with a strategy?

lmao what the FUCK

how much of this is going to be clearer to me once I finish the chapters that I missed, and how much of it is just plain old “nope this is all brand new zero-context BnHA bullshit” lol. this looks like every single quirk AFO ever absorbed combined into one gigantic horrifying blob that forced Horikoshi to take an extra week just to draw it

oh my god!?

Kacchan hovering there bravely facing all this is giving me Gandalf “you shall not pass” vibes and I’m LIVING FOR IT

so either AFO is going to kill Kacchan for the second time right here and now, or he’s going to fail and turn back into a squishy evil baby fdslfjkls

love how All Might is all “DODGE IT YOUNG BAKUGOU!” thanks for the warning, champ. doing his part

more exploding bloodsweat closeups. are these just going to be a mainstay of Kacchan fights from now on

“are you stupid?”, when faced with [gestures to the entirety of the previous page], is possibly the best line ever uttered by anyone in the series. even better than the polite “coming through” uttered only seconds before it

ah man. you love to see it. he literally doesn’t even care. HE ALREADY DIED ONCE TODAY, AND IT CLUED HIM IN TO THE FACT THAT HE’S A MAIN CHARACTER AND ACTUALLY IMMUNE TO DEATH. sorry AFO it’s curtains for you. CURTAINS

[ofliterarynature]

TBR TAKEDOWN: Week 13 (Aug 25)

TLDR: I have too many unread books, and I’m asking tumblr to help me downsize. Pick one or none, and comment if you can - a convincing sentence is worth a dozen votes! You’re also welcome to just choose the one that sounds the worst :D Book descriptions below the cut, see my pinned post for more info.

Artemis by Andy Weir

[For reference, I *did* like The Martian but did *not* like Project Hail Mary]

Jasmine Bashara never signed up to be a hero. She just wanted to get rich.

Not crazy, eccentric-billionaire rich, like many of the visitors to her hometown of Artemis, humanity's first and only lunar colony. Just rich enough to move out of her coffin-sized apartment and eat something better than flavored algae. Rich enough to pay off a debt she's owed for a long time.

So when a chance at a huge score finally comes her way, Jazz can't say no. Sure, it requires her to graduate from small-time smuggler to full-on criminal mastermind. And it calls for a particular combination of cunning, technical skills, and large explosions--not to mention sheer brazen swagger. But Jazz has never run into a challenge her intellect can't handle, and she figures she's got the 'swagger' part down.

The trouble is, engineering the perfect crime is just the start of Jazz's problems. Because her little heist is about to land her in the middle of a conspiracy for control of Artemis itself.

Trapped between competing forces, pursued by a killer and the law alike, even Jazz has to admit she's in way over her head. She'll have to hatch a truly spectacular scheme to have a chance at staying alive and saving her city.

Jazz is no hero, but she is a very good criminal.

That'll have to do.

The Probability of Miracles by Wendy Wunder

Dry, sarcastic, sixteen-year-old Cam Cooper has spent the last seven years in and out hospitals. The last thing she wants to do in the short life she has left is move 1,500 miles away to Promise, Maine - a place known for the miraculous events that occur there. But it's undeniable that strange things happen in Promise: everlasting sunsets; purple dandelions; flamingoes in the frigid Atlantic; an elusive boy named Asher; and finally, a mysterious envelope containing a list of things for Cam to do before she dies. As Cam checks each item off the list, she finally learns to believe - in love, in herself, and even in miracles.

A debut novel from an immensely talented new writer, The Probability of Miracles crackles with wit, romance and humor and will leave readers laughing and crying with each turn of the page.

Merchants of Culture by John B Thompson

For nearly five centuries, the world of book publishing remained largely static. But at the dawn of the twenty-first century, the industry faces a combination of economic pressures and technological change that is forcing publishers to alter their practices and think hard about the future of the book.

John Thompson's riveting account dissects the roles of publishers, agents, and booksellers in the United States and Britain, charting their transformation since the 1960s. Offering an in-depth analysis of how the digital revolution is changing the game today, Merchants of Culture is the one book that anyone with a stake in the industry needs to read.

[mi---amor]

Tipsy-Turvy

A//N: Chef Saltbaker x Self Insert OC

Although Amor's shown to speak/think in English for reading convenience, she's actually doing so in Spanish.

Saltbaker will also sometimes be referred to by the hc name I gave him. Not too much in this one because this is set within the early days of them working together.

°•°•°•°•°

Amor followed a peculiar sound. Rich singing occasionally interrupted by hiccups and giggling. 

It was early. Too early for the dimly lit, sweetly-scented bakery to be occupied by anyone other than herself for the weekly anticipated order of produce. A 4:00 AM delivery, to be exact. 

Amor had no complaints. It was part of the job, one she enjoyed no less and had plenty of prior experience for. Being a chef’s baking assistant, she was readily willing to get up at what most people considered to be the butt crack of dawn, cleaning, going over stock, and arranging the deliveries to be as presentable as possible for when her boss arrived.

Strangely, she didn’t recall being told he would be coming in earlier than usual today, if her ears did not deceive her. The only reason might be to help with unloading the truck, but that was hardly a challenge for either of them. 

Poking through the kitchen door, Amor was met with several oddities right away. To start, the lights were not on. Instead, a procession of candles lined one of the countertops, illuminating a portion of the area in a surreal, seance-like way. 

Beside a wall adorned with plates, utensils, and frames, a gramophone filled the scene with lively orchestral music and an operatic singer- two of them, technically. Dueting over the recorded voice was another that was much lower, much louder, and directly at Amor's feet. 

“Sir?” she wondered as Chef Saltbaker merrily belted out the next chorus in unhinged, staccato Italian. He lay sprawled and surrounded by four hefty jugs most likely retrieved from the cellar, his uniform rumpled and undone. To complete his apparent desire to resemble a castaway sailor, his ascot was tied around his disheveled salt-and-pepper hair.

Underneath his coat was an undershirt that, during the events of whatever the hell transpired, had bunched up like a raised curtain. Inside his glass window of a stomach was a tinted, bubbling view of whatever he had sucked dry from the jugs, as well as the pounds of salt his mysterious innards were made out of. 

Probably not the best combination. 

Amor kept her gaze on her superior’s upside-down face shining in the abnormal ambience. She crouched nearer to his level to yell out a very confused, “Hello? Chef?”

Saltbaker’s half-lidded eyes rolled upward and lit with some semblance of recognition. 

“Oh-ho-hoh! Cia-*hic* - ah, scusami. Ciao, bellissima!"

Well, that confirmed it. Chef Saltbaker was plastered out the wazoo, a sight Amor hadn't had the privilege of witnessing before. 

Sure, she'd seen him sip daintily at a wine glass after a particularly busy day. She'd accepted a cup or two herself and could admit she looked forward to them and the friendly chats that ensued. The bottle would get finished by him most of the time, but evidently, it wasn't enough to affect him whatsoever. 

Not like this. The level of drunk the chef had achieved in secret was astounding and not at all something he seemed capable of doing. Not outside of his own home anyway.

Had he even gone home? 

Amor hurried over to the gramophone and stopped the record. Saltbaker held a warbling note until he gave a puzzled grunt. He groggily looked over, whining petulantly at his baking assistant.

“Why’d’y’do that?”

“Chef Saltbaker, sir, you’re uh. Very drunk.”

The chef dropped his head back with a clink. He waved the allegation away, looking as if he were being puppeteered by a sleepy toddler. 

“Jus' a-*hic*- glass or five. Not too much, n' if it was,” he gave a boastful slap to his middle, “it’s nothing this ol’ tank can’t handle, ha ha!”

“Sir, it’s 4:00 in the morning,” Amor insisted. “Have you gone home and slept? At all?”

Saltbaker slurred the question in his language, mockingly falsetto, and made himself laugh, shaking up the party’s worth of booze inside him. “Ehhh. Who has time t'do that anymore?”

“Right, okay.” Trying to think of how to go about the situation, Amor set her fists on her hips and stared at a mounted clock in the shape of a frying pan. The deliveries were going to arrive any minute now. She could handle them herself just fine, but she needed space in the kitchen to sort and count the items out. Not to mention figure out how to get started on everything else single-staffed.

Frowning, she returned to the lump of a salt man. “I have a feeling you’re not going to be able to sleep all this off before 8:00.”

“Why yes, I can! See? S-S-Sleeping!” Accepting the challenge, Saltbaker rolled over, sloshing audibly like a whiskey keg. He had basically become one and was not fit to do anything else for the day- or however long it took saltshaker people to reach a hangover. That much Amor knew and resented to be her problem to deal with. 

The chef she had begun to befriend and admire was supposed to be the opposite of whatever this was. She would have even gone as far as to say he wouldn’t ever put himself in such a predicament. Not when he had a business he seemed to care intensely for.

Did he have something else on his mind lately? Something…. troubling? 

Amor went over to his side where his cheek was smushed against the tile floor. He was doing a terrible job pretending to be asleep, blinking out of sync and mumbling along to the musical number he had been robbed of in his head.

Frustrated as she was, Amor had to admit… it was hard not to find the situation a tiny bit amusing. Out of all the types of drunks to be, Saltbaker luckily landed on jolly dialed up to a hundred. If it was on any other occasion, Amor would have no doubt been laughing at how ridiculous he was being. But this was not the place, not the time, and certainly not the type of boss she could work with. 

“Can you stand up?” she asked, although the answer was probably not going to shock her in the least.

“Yes, of course!” Saltbaker declared, flopping back into his previous starfish position. 

Amor waited, but after a minute he remained where he was, seemingly pleased with the zero amount of progress he made. 

“Sir?” 

“Mmm?”

“Can you stand, please?”

“Oh. Ohhh! You mean now?”

“Yes,” Amor said through one very tired rush of air. “Please. Right now.”

At his assistant’s command, the chef lifted his arms like an awaking zombie, gave a smidgen of effort, and then dropped them. 

“I think I- *hic* -like it down here. Heh heh, you should join me, gattina.”

Amor flushed pink at the pet name honeyed with flirtatiousness. No, she had to have misinterpreted that. Chef Saltbaker liked to tease and throw around nicknames for everyone… one difference being strictly in English. Maybe that quirk in his naturally charming tone had just been her imagination, which betrayed her yet again as she pictured herself cuddling in the big man’s arm and performing karaoke to Italian opera. 

A certainly ideal evening outside of work hours. 

Right now, he needed to move his ass out the goddamn way and maybe sober up at a table or broom closet. Seeing how he definitely couldn’t tell the difference between up and down and no one else was coming to punch in and lend a hand, Amor was the one stuck with having to deal with him- plus get everything else done for the day. 

She was not getting paid enough for this. 

“Sir, can you try to sit up one more time?” Amor asked. She nudged his shoulder with the tip of her shoe. “I’ll help you.”

Through a seesawing grin, Chef Saltbaker hummed at his assistant bathed in candlelight. “Amore mio, have I ever told you your ey- *hic* -excuse me, oh dear. Your eyes… they are sapphires shining bright…ly… no- yes- bright… they make th’morning… uh…” He trailed off and scrunched his brow. “Fiddlesticks. I had learned that jus’ for you. From a picture about cats. You like cats. I remember that abou- *hic* - you.”

Gosh, he was beyond ridiculous. And yet, Amor couldn’t keep a half smile from appearing on her lips. Never mind that her eyes were actually brown; he was right about the cat fact. It felt nice that he cared to remember that insignificant detail from one of their previous unwinding talks. She decided she’d let him have that one. 

“Yes, I do. And I liked whatever that was too. Very sweet.”

“Aw, really?” The chef beamed and fumbled a translucent, surprisingly soft finger to boop her nose. “Well, good! I have man-n-ny more. I'll think of ‘em.” 

“You can tell me all about it while you get up, okay?”

Chef Saltbaker watched with interest as his smaller assistant planted her feet firmly between his legs. She bent over with her hands out toward him, but he pulled his up to his chest like a scared puppy.

“Oh my… Miss Leches, that’s quite forward.”

As politely as she could, Amor told him to shut up and grab hold. Once she got a grip on him, she yanked with strength befitting someone more his size.

Jerking forward with a yelp, the chef stayed vertical for a full second. Before he could rush back to the floor’s embrace, Amor scurried and braced herself against his back. 

She didn't know what lifting a waterbed strictly with her spinal cord felt like, but this had to be it. 

“Unf-! Come on, Chef, work with me.”

“I do work with you, yes. And I- *hic*- enjoy your company very much! Too much, probably.”

Amor huffed and puffed and dug an elbow in, hoping the pain would at least register somewhere in his body and get him to move. With a sturdy little support digging into his shoulder blades, Saltbaker seemed to sense his limbs needed to create useful movement. He lurched over onto an elbow and took the long, sloshy journey to his feet.

“Whooo, so much spinning! I believe I'm going to regret this later.” 

“Yep, probably. Good job not falling on me.”

“Not a problem. Thank you-u-u for being so…. ever so helpful.”

Amor more or less let him lean on her like an armrest before he dropped anchor against a blessedly nearby counter. Believing the worst to be over, she went to gather her hair out of her face- only to catch the chef chuckling as he started sinking to his knees like a melting ice cream.

“No, no, no! Up, stay up.” Amor righted him with another elbow jab to the squishy source of all her wasted energy and time. 

“Oof-!” Saltbaker stuck out his bottom lip and, finally noticing he wasn't decently dressed, decided a little too late to cover up his exposed target. “That wasn't very nice,” he admonished, waggling a finger parentally at his assistant.

“Neither was any of this,” Amor grumbled, patience well spent. “What happened? Why didn't you go home?”

“I have… *hrp*- a much better question. Do you?”

“What.”

Thinking she hadn’t heard him in the otherwise completely silent room, Chef Saltbaker folded in on himself to close the several feet of distance that separated them height-wise. His nose nearly gouged Amor’s eye out, and by his breath alone she feared secondhand intoxication. 

“Do you drink?” the chef clarified, bouncing a little on his toes for emphasis. 

“Chef, I do. But like this?” Amor gestured at his everything. “No. And my advice is that you shouldn’t either. Would you like me to call you a cab or something?”

Saltbaker didn't really seem to understand, which was entirely expected. He had no idea where he was going with his initial question anyway as the world grew increasingly disorienting the longer he stood.

He rocked in place and rambled on. “I asked this, why? Because I dunno if you do. And 'f you do, you knew, who know… knew do. And I do. Knew. Mmmm-hm.” 

Convinced he'd spoken gospel truth, Chef Saltbaker set a fist on his hip, his other going for the counter. He missed completely and his center of gravity gladly took over. 

Amor nonchalantly sidestepped as her boss face-planted into the ground, rattling everything within a five-mile radius. He didn't move or say much else and she decided that was for the best. She continued with the morning duties after a brief checkup confirmed the chef was more than okay. He was snoring. 

Amor shook her head and wished him well once he woke up.

He was going to have a massive headache, and she wasn’t going to make it any better by asking him for a raise. 

[kimberly-stocks]

There are a lot of videos about how Rory is the worst. And there are a lot of defense posts about Rory on Tumblr. What I've noticed is how so many people concentrate on Rory's mistakes and on her fall from grace and whatnot. There's a lot of debate on who's the best and worst boyfriend for her etc etc etc. People are either ready to crucify her from dropping out of Yale or advocating for a much needed break. But I guess what I haven't seen a lot is the detrimental role Dean played on Rory's self esteem.

We all remember and love Rory from season one, who was unapologetically herself, who stood up for herself to Tristin and Paris, and who had this dry wit, and just did her thing, studied a lot because she loved it. And then somehow that confident Rory disappeared, and turned into someone who crumbled under the first ever critique. I may be wrong, but I feel like Dean played a huge role in that.

It's a well known fact that women who date abusers, however confident they were getting into that relationship, can completely lose the sense of self, and their confidence by the end of it. And I feel like that is what we see when Rory starts dating Dean. The confident and cool Rory completely disappears by the end of season 2 after dating Dean for over a year. I feel like his jealous freak outs and him yelling at her slowly but surely were chipping away at Rory's sense of self. And she couldn't get away from it, because Lorelai encouraged that relationship. Even though she felt like it was wrong, she kept dating Dean because Lorelai thought he was a perfect boyfriend. (Which I mean, I sort of get. I mean, imagine being 16 and giving birth, her emotional development basically got stunted after that point. So even though she's technically 32, she's still 16 in her mind. And in her teenage brain a guy who shows up and calls when he says he would, unlike Christopher who's never there, it's basically the epitome of perfection). So Rory gets stuck in this clusterfuck of a relationship with Dean for years to come, while he mentally and emotionally abuses her throughout the whole thing. No wonder when she gets Mitchum's criticism, she's completely destroyed. Because dean's constant nags to her were like termites who ate away the fundamental foundation of what Rory is as a person. Even when Jess showed up she's been with Dean for way too long. I think it would've been better for her mental health in the long run if her and Dean didn't get back together at the end of season 1. Three months with Dean is more than enough.

[13eyond13]

hello — do you have any death note fic recs that occur in the canon universe? they don’t necessarily need to be canon compliant, and i’d specifically prefer gen or lawlight. thank you so much :) your blog’s really fun to scroll through whilst putting off doing assignments

Aw, thank you anon! I quite like scrolling through my own blog too lol

And you got it, pal. I'd say it's about time I dust off my rusty fic recommending skills (I haven't been reading fanfiction regularly since probably about 2018, so these recs are not going to be the newest of the new, jsyk)...

Also, I'm ASSUMING this is the same anon who asked recently for fics a bit similar to

(X) Nights - youremyqueen [E, 400k+ words] L imprisons Light and then Light imprisons L and then L imprisons Light again. Sometimes they have sex, too.

? If not please forgive me, because I also used that as a guide when picking out these recs.

Also most of these recs are explicit and many of them are dark, so please check the tags and content warnings on the fics before reading them, just in case there's anything listed there that might be a dealbreaker for you! Should go without saying, but it's entirely on YOU if you end up reading something you're not comfortable with linked here, dear reader(s)...

--

CANON UNIVERSE + LAWLIGHT FIC RECS

SOME YOTSUBA ARC PWP ONE-SHOTS:

(X) Slap Fight - Shipaholic [E, 2k words] L makes a request. It gets out of hand. -(the girls are fiiiiighting...) (X) Love is an Open Door in My Ass - Shipaholic [E, 4k words] Matsuda gets very excited about an email forward. The task force despairs. -(technically meant to be taking place in the dramaverse, but you can easily imagine it as the anime/manga characters too. Rough sex but done with a lighter/softer tone) (X) Losing - Twyd [E, 2k words] L knows what losing feels like. -(depression!L is having a bit of a bad time... this writer makes L so quiet and sad and cute, and even though that's not often my cup of tea I still love everything they write) (X) Tresemme - Twyd [M, 2k words] L x Light slash. Set when they are handcuffed. Light just wishes L would dry his hair properly. He takes matters into his own hands. -(understated bittersweet fluff-smut) (X) Brilliant Bodies Disintegrate - Tartpants [E, 5k words] "L gives Light flesh made fact. L is the wayward flock for him to tend -- he’s Lucifer, the dawn-bringer, delivering light back to Light. Put bluntly, L’s the one who keeps shit interesting." -(L keeps being a big ho and making Light jealous on purpose to goad him into some rough sex-having, basically? Good if you liked that aspect of Nights...) (X)Trash Note - Tartpants [E, 3k words] "The character whose name is written in this note shall obey the writer’s every trash whim, no matter how out-of-character, preposterous, unsavory, carnal, humiliating, or cracktastic." -(if you ever want some goofy handcuffs smut that isn't taking itself too seriously at some point...)

SOME LONGER CANON UNIVERSE + LAWLIGHT FICS:

(X) Coexistence is Boredom - Sakurazukamori6 [M, 232k words] A new deathnote. A new plan for world sanctity. And an entirely misled Catholic clergy. Raito and L take their respective places on the sides of their own justice. A final battle waged in the Garden of Eden. -(This was my very fave Lawlight fic back in the 2000s, and a lot of it still holds up for me now and has a very special place in my heart even though it never actually got finished. I just love how L and Light and all the other characters are written in it, and appreciate that it can be angsty and suspenseful while still being funny and kinda lighter in tone for a canon universe Lawlight fic - it frequently makes me lol when I'm reading it. From what I remember it was the first fic that convinced me they'd potentially make a good couple beyond just unresolved sexual tension, too) (X) The Lies of Light Yagami - Kildeer [E, 38k words] “You’re pretty good Light, but I don’t see how you could hurt someone more with love than with death.” It was Light’s turn to smile as he leaned back in his chair. “Well then Ryuk, prepare yourself for a good show.” -(a bunch of missing scenes from the canon storyline, mostly smut. Very angsty and well done) (X) A Tithe to Hell - Aja [E, 34k words] Light has thirteen days to find out how it will feel--not just to kill, but to destroy. -(considered a fandom classic. I remember finding it intense and well-written, and that it also has a few interesting twists and turns) (X) Between the Black and White - Serria [M, 103k words] When L captures Light, he finds himself unwilling to relinquish his kindred spirit to the police, and instead has other plans to make Kira atone for his crimes. But the saga of Shinigami, genius intellect and old memories - BB - has only just begun. -(I haven't read it since it was new, and I don't think it ever got finished, but I remember this one being my fave of Serria's fics back in the day when I was a very fussy reader and only wanted to read fics set in the canon universe. Serria wrote a lot of great early Lawlight fics, and was my first friend in the fandom back in 2008 as well!) (X) A Cure for Love - halfpromise [M, 230k words] Light and L fall in love during the Yotsuba arc and Light's master plan is derailed when an assassin steals the Death Note. The threat of Kira is dwarfed when Kira's powers seem to have fallen into the hands of a terrorist organization known as Astraea and Light and L are united to find the culprit, but for how long... -(you've heard of the legendary Hinterland Doctrine fic series, now get ready for what I believe is halfpromise's very first fic? I don't think I actually read this whole thing so I don't know if it's finished, but I remember finding it fun to read her take on the canon characters too, and that what I did read had a pretty interesting plot and at times was quite funny as well)

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 1

Brainwashing

CW: brainwashing (pre-brainwashing technically, these are early stages), referenced child abuse, sports injury

Summary:

When Jamie's career is still in its early stages, one of his teammates witnesses his dad's abuse. Unfortunately that teammate is Zava.

Here on ao3

“You do not need to put up with this.”

Jamie righted himself quickly, trying to hide his wince. With a quick swipe of his eyes, he turned to defend himself, discarded shoe at the ready, only to realise it wasn’t his father who stood behind him this time.

Cold horror filled his chest.

“What the fuck do you want?” he snapped. His eyes darted around the treatment room, but if there were somewhere to hide, he would’ve found it ten minutes ago. The corner of his lip throbbed from what had been a quick but brutal slap. He wasn’t sure yet if it’d bruise, but the residual heat felt like a neon sign to anyone who looked.

Zava, the Zava, stood in the doorway watching him, his head cocked as he studied Jamie like one of those evil Australian birds with the necks.

“That man, he is your father?”

Shame curled under his skin; an ugly flush sprung up to his cheeks.

“None of your business, is it?” he spat. He leaned down to fetch the other shoe from where it’d missed his face and smacked against the far wall. Even that small movement made his knee sing in agony, fingers shaking as he snagged the laces. “Don’t you have post-match incense to light or something? Or a shower? Your man bun’s looking a bit flaccid there.”

Zava ignored him the same way he’d ignored Jamie ever since the man arrived at City four months ago. “You are ashamed.”

“Fuck off.”

“He is upset because you did not play long enough for his liking.”

“Are you fucking deaf or something?” Jamie choked; even to his own ears he sounded screechy and overemotional. He dug his nails into palms, trying to ignore the heat where it sprung behind his eyes. This was exactly the kind of behaviour his dad wouldn't tolerate. Zava was far from the first dick to catch him vulnerable and decide to poke at the bruise. This should be nothing.

The knee brace was still right on the counter where his dad had tossed it after demanding Jamie show him what was so bad that they’d had to pull him fifteen minutes into play. Only his third time starting this season too. His dad hadn’t been impressed.

“Zava agrees.”

It took Jamie a moment to catch up. When he did, he paused, knee brace forgotten in his hand. “What?”

“Zava agrees. If not for the unfortunate tackle, Zava would have preferred you to play longer. You are not unskilled.”

“Oh. Uh-,” he choked, his throat gone inexplicably dry. After months of his dad riding him, even a backhanded compliment like ‘not-unskilled’ sounded like a choir to his ears. “Thanks?”

Zava nodded in approval. For a dizzying moment, Jamie found himself struck with the need to make it happen again – only to remember that he couldn’t do shit until his knee healed.

Just his fucking luck.

Shaking himself out of his stupid, short-lived daydream, he sat down on the bench. He needed to get the brace back on. Already, the swollen joint had started to turn black around the edges, an unnerving ink blot into how long it would take to recover-

“Stretch your leg out.”

Jamie glanced up. Even disregarding the fact that Jamie still hadn’t hit his growth spurt, Zava was tall. Standing this close while he was still seated, he loomed over Jamie like a god.

Hesitant, Jamie slowly slid his leg out. He watched dumbfounded as Zava — Zava — knelt down in front of him to redo the straps. He worked quickly, professionally, the exact opposite of the irritated rage with which his dad had ripped it off.

Once it was secured, Zava worked his finger under the sides, testing and readjusting the straps.

“You are on contract with City,” he said. “Do you intend to stay after next season?”

Jamie nodded. Zava didn’t spare him a look; he appeared focused on efficiently tightening the straps. When the silence grew awkward, Jamie finally said out loud, “Yes.”

“You should not. During the summer transfer window, you should come with Zava.”

Zava did something to the brace, and Jamie hissed through his teeth as a sharp pain shot up his leg. Biting his lip was one of his habits that needed breaking, and the hot swell at the corner of his lip was the price he paid for forgetting. Jamie was certain now that it’d bloom into a bruise. His dad always got a bit heavy handed towards the end of the season – and this was the end of the season for Jamie.

Regret settling thick in his stomach, Jamie shook his head. “My knee’s fucked. Physios said I won’t even be able to train for another three months.”

Zava disregarded this. “It does not matter. Come play for Zava.”

“Mate, even if another club wanted me like this, my contract ain’t up for another year.”

“Irrelevant. Come play for Zava.”

“The fuck does that even mean?” Jamie demanded, overwhelmed and lightheaded as Zava gave one final, businesslike tug on the straps.

The hands that settled on Jamie’s knee were gentle; the stare that was levelled at him was heavy as granite and pinned him to the bench.

“It means you come with me. You leave behind the sad man with the bad aim. You come with me; you play for me. You give your life to Zava.”

The magic spray had worn off over an hour ago, and the physios still hadn’t returned with any pills. His face hurt. His eyes stung. He’d limped off the field with only two touches and a bad tackle to his name, and his teammates — the senior team he’d envied from a distance, the ones who hardly tolerated having a younger kid about anymore than his dad did — had barely clapped him off the pitch. He didn’t play enough to matter to them anyway. An entire season, and he’d only started three matches – and he’s been made to regret every one of them.

He didn’t play enough to matter to anyone. Yet.

Jamie swallowed. Out of curiosity, he asked, “Where are we going?”

Zava raised his hand. Jamie couldn’t hide his flinch in time, but the older man ignored it. With no regard for personal space, he settled his palm on Jamie’s face, right over the impression his dad had left behind.

“You do not need to know. You need only to say ‘yes’ to Zava.”

Something tilted in his head then. 

For years, Jamie had existed with a soul that felt too heavy for the skin it was supposed to ride around in. The pressure of it weighed him down, the bones in his chest squeezing and buckling under the pressure until he feared that one day it’d crush him dead in his sleep.

Whatever that weight was, wherever it had come from, it abruptly sprung loose, and for the first time in years the world felt… lighter.

Easier.

A shiver ran down his spine.

“Okay,” he said carefully, a bit scared that saying he wanted it might make the offer vanish. “Yes.”

The intensity of Zava’s stare made him feel as if he was being weighed, tested for that ugly stone inside him.

He bore the scrutiny with all the feigned strength his bony shoulders could muster up and tried to make himself a feather.

“Three more times,” said Zava. “Three more yeses. One for every time you made Zava ask. And one more for making him explain.”

That seemed fair.

“Yes,” said Jamie Tartt, eighteen and bruised, with hope flapping in his chest. “Yes, yes, yes.”

It would be the hope that killed him.

[visceravalentines]

solicitation

Murph Connors x AFAB!Reader

IT'S HERE BABES. AT LAST. this was so so far outside of my comfort zone but i'm finally happy with it I think. thank you for your patience and your love for this silly goofy guy. I just adore him and I hope you do too.

You go undercover as a sex worker, determined to nail the Major Crimes Unit for their casual disregard for the law. Unfortunately, the blonde one is...really cute.

5.1k words. Porn w/ plot. Everyone's a cop including reader. Drinking & drug use. Canon-typical douchebag behavior. Murph knows like ten words and nine of them are "fuck." Smut, fingering, very mild dirty talk. Murph is thicc iykwim. He's also a sub and reader is more dominant as a result. Creampie bc we DESERVE IT. Apologies in advance for all the side characters in this lol.

In theory, this had the potential to be a cut-and-dry operation. 

The Major Crimes Unit wasn’t exactly shy about their complete and utter disregard for the law. All laws. Every law. The running joke was that the only difference between the MCU and the guys they took down was a badge. Unfortunately, they tended to pull results out of the smoldering wreckage left in their wake, and that had lent them a truly maddening amount of immunity. 

No one had come at them from this angle, though. You were a pioneer of sorts. A pioneer with a wire taped between your boobs. 

You didn’t probably need to be wearing actual lingerie. The dress was enough. But it was a mental thing, being undercover. Started from the ground up. So you looked stunning yet attainable, sweet and a little spicy. Fun. You looked fun. This was going to be fun. 

Technically, when Detective Henderson had made the offer to you and a few of the regular corner girls to stop by suite 243 at the Haven on Vine, that had almost been enough. He had been deliberately vague about the nature of the invitation, but money had changed hands, and the implication hung in the air. You could get him for that, if you dug your nails in. 

But you didn’t just want Henderson. You wanted all of them, but most of all, you wanted O’Brien. To see that smug sonofabitch slapped with a solicitation charge? You just might sell yourself for real to make that happen. 

So you agreed, along with the rest of the girls, hitched a ride with a couple of them about an hour later. Only one of them knew you were a cop, the one who had tipped you off that the MCU went looking for party favors every Saturday night. You’d had her back a few times. She’d keep your secret to herself. 

The cacophony of three pairs of pleasers clacking up the cinder block stairwell was deafening. You made your way down the hall to 243, watched your girl rap on the door with fingers tipped bright pink and glittering. When the door flung open wide, O’Brien was standing there with a beer in one hand and a blunt in the other, all bad tattoos and worse attitude. 

“Ladies!” he boomed. “Come in, come in, please.” He stepped out of the way, ushered you in, grabbed your ass as you passed. You hid the grit of your teeth behind a silly smile, kept it pasted on as you surveyed the scene. 

The gang was all here. Detectives Henderson and Connors were hunched over a poker game. The pool was a mixture of cash, drugs, and someone’s silver lighter. Detective Magalon had cards in one hand and a hooker in the other. Detective Zapata was snorting coke off the countertop with not one but two girls, bringing the grand total of dirty cops up to five, sex workers up to six, counting you, and crimes in progress up to twelve or so. 

“Make yourselves at home,” O’Brien said. “Can I get you something, a drink, a smoke?” 

The other girls opted for drugs. You needed your wits about you, weren’t supposed to drink undercover, and so you declined altogether. This was met with general disapproval. 

“Come on,” Connors teased. He winked at you when you met his eye. He was cute, you thought. Kind of scruffy.

O’Brien levelled a stare at you from beneath his heavy brow. Much less cute. “What, you underage or something?” 

You had to play the game to win. “What do you got?” 

“Well, we’re fresh out of pina coladas. What kinda night you hoping for, honey?” O’Brien held up a bottle of vodka and a fifth of whiskey. 

Vodka always hit you hard and fast. “I’ll take the whiskey.” 

“Atta girl,” Henderson muttered. 

“Your wish, sweetheart.” O’Brien poured you a generous serving into a glass and leered at you. Maybe the whiskey was a good idea after all. You batted your eyes at him and took a delicate sip, let it seep across your tongue until the burn turned to cinnamon and cloves. He grabbed your arm and kissed your cheek as he walked by. “Let’s fucking party, boys!”

Zapata cranked the volume on the speaker thumping R&B from an iPod – a genuine third-gen iPod Touch. The room was stifling, smelled of coconut body spray and weed. This job always took you to the nicest places, but you hadn’t expected to be blasted back to a shitty house party in 2009.

You sipped your whiskey sparingly and trailed O’Brien around the room like a lovesick teenager for a while, laughing at what passed for jokes, hanging on his arm every chance you got, making sure to get every one of the men’s voices on record. You danced with one of the girls for a song or two and listened to countless stories told by dirty cops, which all amounted to basically nothing. No details, no evidence, no incrimination. Apparently, you just had to be there.

The whiskey was warm in your hand by the time you decided to give it a rest. You were putting in work and getting nowhere fast, and you truly could not stand Nick O’Brien. You choked down one more sip before tipping it quietly down the drain. You’d had too much already.

Leaning against the countertop, you tracked your mark from across the room. He took a shot, punched Magalon in the arm, dropped to the couch beside Connors. You watched him lay a heavy hand on the blonde’s shoulder, lean in close, whisper something to him that you couldn’t make out. Connors’ gaze lingered on his cards, then floated across the room and up the length of your body before meeting your eyes. 

“C’mere, princess,” he said, patting the space on the couch beside him. 

You rounded the poker game, felt both detectives watching you. “My friend here needs some company,” O’Brien said, clapping Connors on the back. 

You paused, regarding both men with doe-eyed interest. You were being pawned off, just like that. You weren’t sure whether to be relieved or offended. “What about you, baby?” 

O’Brien smirked. “Flattered, honey, but I’m married.” 

Zapata snorted. “Since when?” 

O’Brien scowled at him. “You were in the wedding party, dipshit.” 

“Uh-huh, so where’s your ring, Nick?” Henderson folded, set his hand on the table. 

O’Brien shrugged. “Left it by the sink or some shit.” He stood up and maneuvered past you with his hand on your waist, nudging you toward the couch. “Sit down, honey, Murph don’t bite unless you ask him to.” 

“That’s the truth,” Connors said as he folded too. “Borracho, you gonna show us your hand or what?” 

Magalon withdrew his tongue from behind the teeth of the girl in his lap just long enough to say, “Fold.” He threw his cards down on the table. Henderson and Connors groaned. 

“Man, you won that round,” Henderson grumbled. “You ain’t even playing.” 

You sank down onto the couch beside Connors and tried not to feel like you were being handed a consolation prize. You reminded yourself that there was evidence aplenty tucked in your cleavage. With their luck and yours, it would probably amount to a month’s suspension. A goddamn paid vacation. Fuckingridiculous.

“One more round?” Henderson asked, shuffling cards. 

“Nah.” Connors leaned back and put his arm around you, nudged you into his side. “Got better things to do.” 

You rested your hand on his ribs, looked up at him through your lashes. The night was still young. You could play this right, maybe land an actual criminal charge on at least one of them. Of course it had to be the cute one. His thumb drew circles on the bare skin of your shoulder. 

“Hey.” He smiled at you. He had killer eyes, you noticed. Sky fucking blue. “What’s your name, baby?” 

“Selene.” 

“Selene,” he repeated. You liked his voice. Had that been your real name, you’d have butterflies. “Name’s Murph.” 

 ”Is that short for something?”

He chuckled. He’d probably been answering that question his whole life. “Nah. Just Murph.”

You examined him up close. He had a tattoo on his neck, the most basic compass rose you’d ever seen, black ink bleeding a little from age and sun exposure. You wondered if he’d been a sailor in a former life, maybe ex-Navy. His shirt was a size too small, clinging to him like a second skin, tight on his biceps.

“You work out, Murph?” you asked. Low-hanging fruit.

“Every day, baby.”

“That's about all Murph does,” Henderson said, shuffling the deck. “Can’t get rid of the double chin under that beard though.”

“What do you do, Henderson?” Murph shot back. “’Cause I never see you at the gym, skinny motherfucker.”

“C’mon man, you know if Gus ain't working he's praying,” Zapata offered from the kitchen. 

“Look, I'm a man of faith,” Henderson said as he pulled the pot towards him with a glance at Magalon, who could not have cared less.

Zapata scoffed. “Name one book in the Bible, dude. One.”

Murph pulled you in closer to be heard over the sound of their bickering. His cologne was smokey and musky, made your nose tingle. “I don’t just work out.”

You cracked a smile at his defensive tone. “What else do you do?”

You felt his nose against your temple, his beard bristly on your cheek. “I surf, too. You like the beach?” His lips at your ear sent chills down your arms.

“I love the beach.” You hated the beach.

“You surf?”

“I’ve tried it once or twice.” An outright lie. “I’m not very good at it.”

“Bet you look hot as fuck in a bikini.” 

“I do, actually.” This was true.

His gaze flicked to your mouth and back up. “What do you do for fun, princess?”

You cocked your head. “You mean, besides this?”

Murph laughed. “Yeah. Besides this.”

“I like to cook. I jog. Got a couple dogs, take them to the park on weekends.”

“You ever been to the dog park on 11th? Real nice, has a little obstacle course and shit.”

“How long does it take you to run through it, Murph?” Zapata interrupted.

“About the same amount of time as it takes to fuck your mother.” You snorted and he snickered in your ear, conspiratorial. “Got him.”

Morons, every one of them. You couldn’t keep from rolling your eyes.

Murph didn’t seem to notice. “C’mere, baby.”

He patted his knee and you slid into his lap, looped an arm around his neck. Your tits were nearly in his face and you had to sneak a surreptitious glance down the front of your dress to make sure that the mic wasn’t visible. His jeans were rough on the bare skin of your thighs. He held you against him with one big hand splayed on your waist, the other on your ass, and gave you a squeeze. “You’re fine as fuck, girl.”

You ran your hand over his stomach. Considerable muscle was tucked beneath the foundation of a beer gut. He probably looked good without a shirt, wet and sandy. Too bad you hated the beach.

“You wanna take this somewhere else?” you murmured. Risky. You were skirting the line. You couldn’t actually offer him anything, not even verbally. You had to be vague enough to leave space for a lawyer to argue it had been Murph’s idea to pay you for sex.

He looked at you with interest, almost made you wish these were better circumstances. His lashes were long and thick. You imagined, just for a moment, how it would feel to watch those pretty eyes roll back. How he sounded in bed. You had to cut that train of thought off quick as you felt it shoot straight to your pussy. You were working, for God’s sake.

For a second, you were sure he was going to proposition you right then and there. The promise of it hung in the meager air between you. But then his mouth twisted into a wry smile and he let you down easy with a kiss on your cheek. “Not yet, princess. Night’s still young.”

He looked away, threw an insult at Zapata, got sucked into a mind-numbing conversation about baseball statistics. You were relegated back to accessory status with his hand trailing aimlessly up and down your thigh.

With determination bordering on desperation, you kept working on him, keying him up a little at a time, making sure he didn’t forget about you. You ran your fingers through his hair, drew circles on his chest. For all he was barely paying you attention, you were terribly distracted by him, kept catching yourself admiring his profile. Your knee was nestled against his crotch and you found yourself thinking he probably had a gorgeous cock. He had just the right amount of swagger for it.

Christ. You dug your nails into your palm to snap yourself out of it. Goddamn whiskey was making you spacey. You were not, in fact, here to get laid. You were here to score something more than a slap on the wrist for bad behavior. A department transfer at least, jail time at best. Breaking up the boys’ club either way.

Across the coffee table, Magalon finally decided to stop dry humping his girl in full view of everyone. He untangled himself to escort her into one of the two bedrooms amidst a chorus of howls and ribbing, threw a theatrical wink over his shoulder before swinging the door shut behind him.

“Get it, my man,” Henderson said with a lazy salute.

“It was just gettin’ good,” O’Brien complained. “I got half a boner here.”

Spurred on by the knowledge there was one bedroom left and four girls looking to make an actual business transaction tonight, you figured it was time for desperate measures. You’d already lost O’Brien; you weren’t about to let the night end without a victory.

“Murph, baby,” you whined softly. You had his attention immediately. The expression on his face was so open and earnest that a fleeting thrum of guilt flitted through your chest.

You stroked his cheek and leaned in slow, giving him the opportunity to deflect you, but he didn’t. His lips were soft and he met your kiss with surprising gentleness. He tasted like weed smoke when you slipped your tongue over the threshold of his mouth. You felt his hands tighten their grip on you just a little bit, like he was looking to stabilize himself.

The room filled with hoots and exaggerated moans from your audience and it was enough, you had him, but you didn’t stop and neither did he. His cock twitched against your leg and you let out a small sound of satisfaction, forgetting for a minute that none of this was real. Your hand slid to his neck. His skin was hot under your fingers.

When he broke the kiss and leaned back, he regarded you with a look on his face like he’d underestimated you. His lip shone with your spit. You wanted to suck on it.

“Get outta here?” he mumbled. You nodded and rose unsteadily from his lap. He took your hand and picked his way past the coffee table, leading you to the other bedroom.

“Make good choices,” O’Brien called. “Use protection.”

Murph flipped him off before swinging the door shut behind you.

You turned and opened your mouth to back him into a corner, ask him just what he was hoping for, but his hands were on your waist and he was kissing you again before you got the chance to speak. You meant to push him off – of course you did – but you balled up his shirt in your fists instead, parted your lips for his tongue. He groaned low in his throat and you pressed yourself against him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, backing you toward the bed until your knees hit the mattress and you dropped to a seat.

“Murph –”

“You’re so fucking sexy.” He braced himself on the mattress and bent to kiss the skin below your ear.

“Murph, wait –”

“Tell me, how long have you been a cop?”

You froze. Had you heard him right? “…what?”

He lifted his head and met your eyes, a smug, reproving smile on his face. “Nick clocked you in the first fifteen minutes, baby. Told me to keep you busy. This ain’t our first rodeo.”

Your mouth dropped open in shock. You had no words.

Even in the wan yellow light filtering in through the blinds, you could tell he was enjoying himself. “What you wearing under that dress? A thong? A wire?”

“…both.”

Murph grinned. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said loudly, “let the record show she kissed me first. That’s entrapment, detective.”

You scowled. “Fuck you.”

“Now let’s talk about that,” he said. “You seem pretty committed to the bit, huh?”

You hesitated. “I…I don’t….”

“It’s okay. The thing is, I really want to fuck you too. Don’t pretend like you haven’t been thinking about it all night,” he said, cutting off your protest before it could materialize. “Bet that thong’s nice and wet, huh?”

You smacked his arm. “You’re an ass.”

“I know it.” He leaned back, gave you a little space. “Look at it this way. You absolutely can’t use that recording now, right? So this has been one hell of a waste of your time.”

“Looks like it,” you shot back.

“It doesn’t have to be.” There it was again, that sweet, sincere expression. “Let me make your night, princess. We’re two consenting adults.”

“No way.”

“Why not? I’ll even tell Nick he was wrong and you are just a whore.”

You scoffed. “What an offer.”

Murph chuckled. “Come on, baby doll. You know you want to.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, mind racing. He was right, any evidence you’d managed to collect had gone up in smoke the moment he’d outed you on tape. For all intents and purposes, after you left, you were never here. And if he could shield you from Nick O’Brien’s wrath….

He tucked his finger beneath your chin and leaned in. “Please?”

Your breath caught. You did want him. You let your eyes drift shut as his lips found yours. His kiss lacked any hint of malice, was all softness and sensuality. Your hands hovered to his face and you caved, kissing him back, kissing him harder, grabbing his shoulders to tug him on top of you.

To your surprise, he resisted. “Mm – hey.”

“Shut up.”

“Wait.” He pulled back. “Probably best we get that wire off, huh?”

You narrowed your eyes. “The wire, or the dress?”

Murph shrugged. “Both. I’ll get naked too, if it makes you feel better.”

He peeled his shirt off and you were right, he looked damn good without one. The hair on his chest was blonde and curly, the hair on his stomach a shade darker, disappearing into his boxers. He had a tattoo of a shark on his left hip. You shimmied out of your dress and there was the mic taped securely between your breasts, the wire running down your stomach to a small receiver at your hip.

“Fuck.” He reached out and peeled it off, the brush of his thumb sending goosebumps flaring across your skin. “You’re gorgeous, girl.”

You grabbed him by the beltloops. “Come here.”

“Whatever you say.”

He sprawled on top of you and you caught him on your lips, scrambling up the mattress and pulling him along with you. He scooped you into his arms and rolled onto his side, hitched your leg over his hip, grabbed at your ass. You palmed him through his jeans and he threw his head back and moaned.

“Pants are too fuckin’ tight,” he complained.

“Whose fault is that?”

“Yours.”

You undid his fly and slid your hand into his pants, feeling him up through his boxers. He was thick. He writhed as you stroked him purposefully, caught between working his jeans off and melting into your touch.

“What’s the matter?” you teased.

“Driving me fucking crazy. Hold on. Fuck.” He swatted your hand away and stripped off everything at once and you must’ve been on your game at least a little bit tonight because he did indeed have a gorgeous cock. You wrapped your hand around it before he could even settle back beside you and he groaned, collapsing onto his back.

“Jesus Christ, Murph.” Your fingers only just met around his girth. “You’re huge.”

“I know,” he grumbled. “We can take it slow, it’s – fuck – it’s okay.”

You didn’t expect him to be so considerate. “That’s awfully sweet of you.”

“It’s nothing, c’mere. Let me touch you.” He slipped his fingers past your panties and you sighed as he eased them along your slit. You could feel how wet you already were. So could he. “Goddamn…you want it bad, huh?”

“Been pressed up against you all night.”

When his thumb found your clit you jerked and gasped. “Take it easy, baby, I got you. Like that?” He worked you in soft, slow circles that had you bucking against his hand.

“Yeah. Like that.”

You were wound up and desperate for him by the time he pushed his fingers into you, cursing under his breath at the sound they made as he scissored them in and out. The man could multitask, rutting into your hand as he fucked you with his fingers. His kisses were sloppy, without pretense. When you squeezed his balls he moaned shamelessly into your mouth.

“You like that?” you asked him coyly.

“Yeah.”

“Feels good?”

“Feels so fucking good. Get on top of me, girl.”

You obliged, straddling his hips, holding his dick where you wanted so you could grind against him. His head lolled and he let out a vocal sigh, grabbing at the blanket, grabbing at your waist, arching his spine. You were torn between watching his face and watching his cock part your lips as you rocked back and forth. When you reached behind your back to tug at his balls again he whined.

“Need to be inside you, baby, please?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready yet.” You were absolutely ready.

He squeezed his eyes shut, furrowed his brow. “That’s fine, yeah. That’s okay.”

“I can try….” You lowered yourself onto him slowly, so slowly, easing just the head of his cock into you.

“God – fucking – “

“How’s that?”

“So good, baby, that’s so g – fuck.” He bit his lip hard as you sank a little further down. “It’s perfect, you’re perfect.”

You sighed in bliss. “You gonna cum already, Connors?”

“No way. I’m good. You good?”

“I’m great.”

You took him all the way at a glacial pace just to see him squirm, half an inch at a time until he filled you completely. His gaze was locked on your pussy, stretched snug around him, and when his eyes finally wandered up to meet yours his pupils were blown in the darkness.

“Fuck me?” he said breathlessly.

You rolled your hips slow and he groaned, gripping the flesh of your thighs. You rode him lazily, reveling in every little sound that escaped from his mouth, the way his lashes fluttered when you switched up the angle. When he fumbled for your clit in the meager light you took his hand and guided him to it, letting out a soft squeak when he found it. Your cunt clenched tight and he shuddered.

“Easy, tiger.” You slid your hands up his stomach, over his chest. When your thumbs brushed across his nipples he responded with a broken moan and a full-body flinch. “Oh, sweet boy.” He was done for.

You bent low over him and laved your tongue around his nipple, sucking greedily, worrying the other one between your fingers. He choked out a sound that was downright indecent, tangling his hand in your hair and grinding up into you, helpless and needy. The change in position pressed his cock to your g-spot and you rabbited your hips in short, quick thrusts until you were both frenzied and panting.

His beard was coarse as you combed your fingers through it, admiring his flushed and handsome face. “Pretty boy. You feel so good.”

“You’re hot as fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That pussy is – fuck.”

You smiled at him. He was sexy like this, so thoroughly dazed and disheveled, whimpering when you flexed around him. “What are you gonna give me if I let you cum inside?”

“A million dollars,” he said immediately. “Are you for real? Two million dollars.”

You laughed. “No way you have two million dollars.”

“I can get it.” He said it like he meant it.

You gripped his hair and kissed him, lapping at his tongue. His big hands were warm and gentle on your waist. “How about you let me finish first?”

“How about I let you finish first and I give you my number?”

“Is that for my benefit or yours?”

“Mutual benefit, baby doll.”

“Deal.”

His muscles flexed under your hands as he sat up and adjusted you in his lap, wrapping his arms around you, kissing you hungrily. He dug his nails into your back as your mouth wandered down his neck, licking the sweat from his skin, blazing a trail of love bites and kisses, sucking a sultry purple hickey into the center of his tattoo.

“I got work in the morning,” he protested weakly.

“Good,” you said. “They’re gonna love it.”

He offered you his thumb and you wrapped your lips around it, watching his expression turn desperate as you sucked a shade past innocence. He tugged it from your mouth with a pop, snaked his hand between your bodies and felt for your clit.

You made a soft, dreamy sound when he stroked you just right. He was damn good with his hands. “Let me make you feel good, baby,” he murmured. “Wanna make that pussy fucking drip.”

You let him work you up for a minute and then took up a gradual rhythm, eyes closed, grinding on him with intention. Wave after wave of steady-building sensation coursed through you, tightening the clutch of your body around him. You were so full, pulled tight, the friction addictive. You could feel it, that swing and pull like gravity, his body coaxing yours to the brink.

“That’s it, princess, let me see it.”

You pawed at his shoulders. “Murph….”

“You gonna cum for me?” he breathed.

“Yes – God –”

“Fuck, you better cum for me, I can’t –”

You felt the swell of your release in your core and cried out, burying your face in his shoulder and clawing at his biceps, riding him through it. Pleasure washed through your veins. Your cunt spasmed in staccato bursts, stretched to its limit.

Murph inhaled sharply, his whole body tense. You felt him quiver inside you. “Baby – baby – please –”

Hazy and gratified, you strung kisses along his jaw, snapped your hips until he started to come apart. “Come on, big boy, cum for me.”

With satisfaction, you watched his eyes roll back as he let go and it was better than you’d imagined, the way his lips parted and a strangled groan twisted free, the way he threw his head back like some feral animal under the moon. You gasped at the throb and pulse of him inside you, sending vestigial sparks spiraling off into your core.

He slumped forward with his forehead pressed to yours and let out a heavy sigh. “Fuck,” he mumbled.

“Fuck,” you agreed.

You moved to extricate yourself and he grunted, tightened his arms around you. “You got somewhere to be?”

“We should probably get back out there.” You had no idea how much time had passed. The music was still going strong in the next room; you couldn’t imagine anyone had called it a night.  

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “No way, baby.”

You laughed, smoothing his hair back from his brow. “We can’t stay in here.”

“We could,” he said. “We could sleep here.”

You shook your head. “O’Brien’s going to be pissed at you.”

“He’s always pissed. Don’t bring him up. This is a nice moment.”

With a laugh, you said, “You’re right. It is.”

You laid your head on his shoulder and listened to his heartbeat for a few minutes more before pulling away in spite of his protests. “You’re breaking my heart,” he complained.

“You’ll have to text me later so I can break it again.”

“Do you need a ride home?”

“No, I’ll call a cab.”

“You don’t want a police escort?”

“I’m a fucking cop, Murph.”

“Oh. Right.” He watched you dress. “What’s your name? Your real name.”

You told him, smiled when he repeated it to himself. “Do you really surf?”

“All the time. I love it.”

“I have a confession. I hate the beach.”

Murph gave you a crooked smile. “Bet I can change your mind.”

He offered his arm to stabilize you as you stepped into your absurdly high heels, wound the wire around his hand neatly and gave it to you to hide away in your bra. He called after you as you made for the door. “Hey.”

You turned. He sat on the edge of the bed, hair mussed, light from the streetlamp out the window cutting lines across his bare chest.

“Kiss me goodnight?” he said without a hint of sarcasm.

Fuck, he was cute. You wobbled back across the carpet and took his face in your hands, kissed him long and sweet. “Goodnight, tiger.”

He took your hand as you pulled away and kissed your fingers, and then finally, reluctantly let you go. “’Night, princess.”

You slipped back into the main room, met the chorus of heckling with a beatific smile. You exchanged a few words with your girl from the corner, let her know you wouldn’t need a ride home. She gave you a look; you gave it right back; she gave you a subtle nod of approval.

On your way out you shot a glance at O’Brien. You couldn’t help it. He had a look on his face that could curdle milk, watching you like a hawk. You supposed it was alright you hadn’t managed to get very far with him, all things considered.

You gave him a delicate finger wave, blew him a kiss. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Get the fuck out.”

You winked at him as you ducked out the door. “Your wish, sweetheart.”

[jungle-angel]

Cozy Companions: Part 2 (Calvin Evans x Reader)

Summary: You and Calvin absolutely hate grading papers but your daughter and Six-Thirty will always give you a reason to laugh in the midst of the stress

Tagging: @floydsmuse

Calvin really truly hated grading papers, the very bane of his existence as a teacher. Already, you two had enough stress on your plate with the holidays around the corner and petty admins thinking they were the cat's ass on campus. At home, you could somewhat relax, but around finals, you could both tell that the next two days would be utter hell.

Calvin looked up from the test of a student who, although had done well, had clearly struggled with technical terms, to hear Six-Thirty coming around the corner, his tags jangling like a bell. Cal gave him a few scritches behind the ears, sighing deeply at the annoying and tedious task of grading.

"You know?" he said to the dog. "You're a lucky boy. All you have to worry about is digging up that ham bone you buried in the flower bed last spring."

Six-Thirty gave something akin to a snort and a woof before Cal heard you coming from your adjacent bathroom.

"Here she is," you chirped in your sing-song voice. "Little princess fresh from her bath."

Your daughter Ellen, giggled as Calvin rose from his spot on your shared bed and took her from your arms, littering her soft little cheeks with a million kisses. "Hi princess," he cooed. "You're so warm from the bath......and you smell so good too."

You yourself, giggled a little. It had been the few drops of orange and mint oil you used for your own bath but figured it wouldn't hurt in the least for Ellen since this time of year was prime season for dry skin.

Your baby girl babbled like crazy, her pretty blue eyes lighting up when she reached up and pressed her chubby hands against Cal's cheeks. You both melted at the sight of her gummy little smile and her adorable little baby giggles that filled the room.

As soon as Ellen was in her warm little pjs and nested cozily in the crib at the foot of the bed with her teddy bear, you and Cal had set to grading the papers, hoping that despite the chatter, Ellen would go to sleep. Already, the house was feeling draftier than usual and through the Christmas lights outside, you could see the snowflakes beginning to fall more heavily.

"So what technically is the answer?" you asked, stumped by a question with a half point mark next to it.

"The answer to the question in this case is 'no,'" Calvin explained. "Dissolving salt molecules in water doesn't make its atoms ionize. Ionization begins long before that."

"So he got it right then?" you asked Cal.

"Yes but I do have trouble reading this one's handwriting," Calvin said. "I'll give him the points but I am gonna work with him on the handwriting skills."

You laughed a little but once the test was graded, you and Calvin realized you had at least twelve or eleven more to grade. Calvin was at his wits end when he suddenly heard Ellen giggling like crazy and Six-Thirty coming around to his side of the bed. To his shock, there was Ellen, crawling out of her crib and up the foot of the bed towards the both of you.

"How'd you get out?" Calvin teased, picking the giggling baby up into his arms. "Did your big brother let you outta your crib?"

Six-Thirty jumped right up onto the bed with Ellen's bear in his mouth, dropping it between you both. Calvin couldn't resist teasing the baby, blowing soft little raspberries on her cheeks, hearing her giggles erupt throughout the room. You both could barely keep your eyes open when the clock downstairs in the living room rang in the hour of nine.

"Alright princess," Calvin said, scooping Ellen up into his arms. "In you go."

He had been about to put Ellen back in her crib when the draftiness had suddenly changed his mind. Back into bed he crawled with her, tucking her in safely between you both so that she wouldn't get hurt while you all slept. As the three of you settled in, you and Calvin let the stress melt away, happy to always have a reason to have fun even when tending to a chore.

[sunxflowerxx]

Purpose

Summary: When the reader faces a life threatening injury, Joel’s true feelings towards them finally comes out

Warnings: Age gap, injury, mentions of suicidal thoughts (kind of) - If i have missed any please let me know in the comments

Thanks for reading ❤️

———————————————

You had joined Tess, Ellie and Joel on their journey to find the terrorist organisation the Fireflies to trade Ellie for supplies, not long ago. Really, you just wanted a reason to escape the QZ, hating the feeling of being imprisoned behind those tall bleak walls, you would take any chance of freedom you could get. You knew the world outside was terrifying and dangerous but that was the fun of it; you thrived off adrenaline. Joel thought you had a death wish, but you thought you were invincible and technically, you were. Just like Ellie, you were immune. It was a secret you knew you could not tell anyone, understanding the risk it imposed on your life. But you were fearless… nothing could hurt you right?

Joel and Ellie found out your secret after the clicker attack, not long after Tess revealed she had also been bitten. You knew Joel wished it was you who died, you could tell by the way he looked at you with pure rage and hatred behind those deep brown eyes. Tess’s death had been hard on you too, you were close in the QZ - she helped you with rations from time to time after your parents died and took you under her wing. Joel didn’t understand it but he didn’t try to stop her. It was Tess’s idea for you to come along with them, she knew you wanted to see the outside world after all you were only three years old when the outbreak happened - you had barley even lived before you lost your life. You thought this new found freedom would breathe the life you longed back into your lungs, and it did for a while, but after witnessing all the death that followed, death that you would never feel, began to slowly break you. You felt helpless and you hated it. All you wanted was a taste of what life used to be like, what you had missed out on, but you were too naive to know what it was really like out there.

You finally got a taste of what you missed out after arriving at Frank and Bill’s house. It was like time had stopped. You had only read about life like this in the old, damaged books your mother had smuggled into the QZ with her. It was beautiful. The house, the life they had. You were angry you had never had a chance to live like this, at who you don’t know, but you were angry.

“Shower’s free, I’d hurry up before you start stinking the place out.” Ellie directed at you and Joel, as you were packing up the truck with supplies. “Go on,” Joel nodded at you with a low grunt. You smiled, thanking him and scurried off to the upstairs bathroom.

The warm water trickled down your body, coating your dry, scarred skin in comforts - a feeling that was utterly foreign to you - showers at the QZ only lasted two minutes and were stone cold. You began to cry, from happiness - because you had finally experienced a part of normal life - and sadness - because you knew this would never happen again. A soft knock rattled on the bathroom door, pulling you out of your own head, “You okay in there? You need to hurry up, we want to leave soon.” Joel called through the door. You hadn’t realise how long you had been in there, “Sorry!” You cracked, failing to hide your saddened voice, “I’ll be out in a second.” You quickly turned off the shower and wrapped your soaked body in a crisp white towel.

“I’ve laid some clothes on the chair for you in the bedroom, there’s a box on the bed if they don’t fit.” He smiled as he pushed past you into the bathroom. “Thank you.” you pushed out, barley a whisper. Joel frowned at your sudden change in demeanour, you were never quiet and reserved like this, “Are you okay?” He asked stepping closer to you, placing a hand on your damp, scarred shoulder. You shook him off, “Don’t act like you care Joel.” Since Tess’s death he had steeped away from you, always looking at you like he was in pain. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care.” He stated with a touch of anger in his voice as you slammed the door to the bedroom behind you.

You finally breathed out, not realising you had been holding your breath that entire conversation. You hated it, the way he had been treating you since Tess’s death. You just wanted him to hold you - someone anyone. You don’t remember the last time you felt the comfort of a hug, and after the weight of Tess’s death weighing on your shoulders, it was all you needed. You quickly pushed the thoughts of self pity out your head - not the time, you’re in the apocalypse Y/N, get it together.

You quickly dried yourself off and changed into the clothes Joel had left out for you - a pair of black cargos, a grey vest, an old black Radiohead t shirt and some new, shiny black boots as well as clean underwear. You smiled softly at the Radiohead T-shirt, as memories of your father singing “No surprises” to you flooded your mind - god you missed him. Shaking your head, you stuffed an extra T-shirt into your backpack, pulled on your leather jacket, before making your way down stairs. “Nice T-shirt,” Ellie smiled. You smiled back. “Come on, time to go,” Joel called as he walked down the stairs, throwing you and Ellie some deodorant. “Well don’t you look nice.” Ellie smirked at Joel before handing me the green tube, “You need it more than me.” I let out a small laugh.

Joel and Ellie hopped into the van whilst you wandered to the electrified fence to open the gate. The sun was beating down which caused another smile to form on your lips, sun never felt like this in the QZ. For once, life felt normal. No infected, no raiders just the open road and the warmth of the sun. “You getting in?” Joel asked as he pulled up beside you. Your smile fell, as he pulled you back into reality “Sorry, just lost in thought for a moment there.’ You walked around the car to get in the passenger seat when a gunshot rang out in your ear - raiders. “Shit get in the car.” Joel shouted through the window to you. You aimed your gun at the raider in the tree line and pulled the trigger while Joel and Ellie screamed for you to get in the car. A loud gun shot rang through the air, followed by an ear piercing scream. Your scream. You slid down the side of the car and gripped your side. “Shit, shit, shit,shit.” You panted. More gunshots shattered the peaceful air and Joel was at your side pulling you up. He shoved you in the back of the van with Ellie and shot at the other two bandits, taking them down. He climbed into the van and quickly drove off.

Your vision began to blur as pain seared through your body. You could hear the low mumble of voices but could hardly make out what words they were stringing together. You felt a shaking hand grab yours as put pressure down on your pouring wound. You were certain you were going to die. You didn’t fight it, instead you closed your eyes and welcomed it like an old friend. You felt at peace - strangely. You were always afraid of death, or so you thought, after watching so many face a similar fate.

“FUCK!’ Ellie shouted trying to shake you awake. Joel hadn’t spoken a word, truthfully he was terrified of losing you, He had lost Tess and now he could lose you… He wasn’t going to let that happen. He pulled the van into a clearing. “Help me get her out.” He rushed as he stepped out onto the grass. He placed a blanket from a box of supplies on the floor as well as a first aid kit. “The bullets still in there.” Ellie stated. “I know that!” Joel practically roared. His hands were shaking as he tried to pull it out. “We’re losing time, her pulse is slowing. Fuck!” He couldn’t lose you, you and Ellie were all he had left. Ellie pushed him to one side and delved into your open wound, pulling out the bullet. Joel quickly got to work stitching you up and administrating antibiotics to prevent infection.

“What do we do now?” Ellie asked

“We wait.” He stated covering you over in his coat, while gripping your cold hand.

———————————————

You pried open your eyes to be met with tall trees and a dull sky - were you dead? You began to sit up when you felt a tsunami of pain slam through your body. Nope definitely not dead. “Hey, you’re awake.” Joel smiled, relieved. Ellie immediately hugged you accidentally catching your side. “Shit I’m sorry!” She apologised as you whimpered in pain. “It’s okay,” you smiled returning the hug. Ellie pulled away and smiled, “I’m so happy you’re alive. I thought you were a gonner back there. You really are invincible!”

“Back to bed Ellie, we have a long journey ahead of us.” Joel commanded. She let out a small groan but didn’t protest and she clambered into her sleeping bag.

It was dark out, how long had you been out for? Joel quickly wrapped his arms around you, unable to hold back anymore, “I thought I lost you.” He tightened his grip around you, “Don’t scare me like that,I can’t lose you.” You melted into his arms. Even though you had nearly died, you had finally got the hug you needed and began to sob. “It’s okay, you’re safe.” He wiped away your tears and held you close. “Don’t you ever do anything like that again, you hear me! Sometimes I worry you have a death wish.” He spoke firmly but he wasn’t harsh, but it just made you sob harder. Your body shook in pure emotional exhaustion which just hurt your side even more.

“Talk to me baby, talk to me.” Joel rubbed circles into your back, he had never seen you like this. You were always so tough, you weren’t afraid of anything, and under no circumstances did you cry, not even after your parents passed.

“I… I don’t know what I’m doing out here. I thought I would find freedom and purpose. I wanted to experience living but all I’ve found is a world full of hatred, pain and death and I can’t do anything to stop it. I know you wanted it to be me who died instead of Tess and I’m sorry by the death and danger I’ve brought along with me. I’ve risked yours and Ellie’s lives with my carelessness and I’m the reason Tess is dead, I understand why you hate me, I do and all I can do is apologise.”

“Oh baby, I don’t hate you, and I don’t blame you. We, me and Tess, knew what we were getting into coming out here. It’s a fight for survival out here and Tess understood the risks. It is not your fault at all baby girl. I’m just glad you’re alive. I need you, you give me purpose, something to continue living and fighting for.”

“You’re not angry at me?”

“Maybe a little… You risked your own life, you’re so fearless you think you’re indestructible. Just because the virus can’t kill you, doesn’t mean other things can’t. You’re human after all.”

“I’m not fearless, Joel. I’m terrified. Constantly. I have this ‘blessing’ as people call it - it’s more of a curse. All I can do is watch people die and it is killing me inside. When I was shot, I welcomed death, I didn’t fight it. I’m not careless and fearless, I just don’t care if I die anymore. I thought I would finally be at peace. I… I was so naive at life was like outside the QZ. I just wanted to see the outside world. I never got to experience life, normal life and that hurts so much. Seeing Bill and Frank’s house was heartbreaking, realising what I had missed out on… I have no purpose, no reason to live except for the fact I could be what saves humanity.”

Joel hugged you tighter, “You’re my purpose Y/N.” He was now crying too and he slowly placed a soft kiss on your lips, “I’ll give you the life you want, I promise, I don’t know how but I will, I promise. I’d give you anything you want baby. Just promise you won’t do that again. I can not lose you, you hear me?”

“Oh Joel…” You smiled through the tears and kissed him again, you had never heard such caring words before.

“Promise me… Promise me, you will fight for me and keep yourself safe!” He pulled away looking deep into your soul

“I promise Joel.”

[regretevator-headcanonss]

hm.. Enough showing our headcanons.. (Only once) Now show US your HEADCANONS!!!!!

My regurgitator headcanons some sad some random

Mannequin Mark

• Hyperfixated on wood and will not hesitate to yap about wood to the point your ears bleed

• Woodtism

• Got the hyperfixation a while after getting the woodworking job

• Hates Glevil

• Silly

• Gets sent memes from ifunny by Jimmy and laughs because he also somewhat finds them funny and just so Jimmy won't feel bad. Also ocaisonally references some of them

• Has made some BAD wood puns. Very bad puns..

• Self harms with one of his carving knives.

• Attempted before.

• Suicidal.

• BE TRANSGENDER!!

Wallter

• Objectum and posic

• Suffered from Mark's wood yapping (OH GOD WHEN WILL THIS MAN SHUT UP ABOUT WOOD???)

• Drinks grey stuff when he misses Mark

• 30 - 56 or smth (oldass man /silly)

• Does not want to go to a therapist

Lampert

• AuDHD

• Torn between his two friends (OH GOD WHEN WILL THESE TWO STOP ARGUING)

• Not their child!!! ^^

• Dreams about a pure clean land with no ounce of germs in it. Though when Folly was still invading people's dreams she would come in and spread germs on which would basically give Lampert a panic attack (sorta canon but whatever I'm still labeling this as headcanon)

Jimmy

• AuDHD

• Sucks at understanding social cues but can understand them sometimes when its more in his face or smth

• Contradictory to the previous headcanon, He's also street smart ish.

• Probably some form of chronically online in a young middle aged dad way

• Has a few repressed memories

• Skates a bit (based off the soap shoe thing)

• Decent skating skills

• Silly

•Thinks he's cool and epik

• Shows Mark memes from ifunny because he thinks they're funny and cool and would get a bit sad if Mannequin Mark said they weren't that funny

• Tries to laugh at some of Mark's bad wood puns (he doesn't actually find them funny he just doesn't want Mannequin Mark to go into a deep depression again)

• Tried to be supportive and comfort Mark during the divorce despite misunderstanding the topic a bit and saying some things that were a bit inappropriate for the tone. Still managed to make him feel better!

• Has pica and eats wood which is technically cannibalism and also sometimes gnaws on Mark's arm (<- adopted headcanon. I think you know who i stole this one from)

• Stims by biting his arm

Glevil

• Homophobic /hj /j

• Internalized homophobia and homophobic prejudice (either interchangeably or at the same time. Depends how i wanna depict em)

• Drinks tree sap

• Rude

• Hates Mark's guts and thinks Jimmy is stupid and useless (hey!! That's rude 😡)

• Evil but not very gleeful!! Oooooo!!!!!

• The glitchy face is a factory defect

• Controlling and manipulative (oooh!! Spooky!!!!!!!!)

• Hates non-mannequins and the ones that left the hivemind

• Alcoholic (<- adopted headcanon)

• Their voice is their charisma ig idfk

• Wants to and will cannibalize someone

Boots

• Boots/Bootsself and They/She/He/Any

• Flexes their height and Boots ALOT.

• Would probably have boots' worldview shattered if they saw someone taller than them

• Kinda self centered

• Has beef with the other mannequins ocaisonally.

• Wine aunt

• Gay. Gay as hell

• Would step on someone. Not in a kinky way

Kai

• He/They

• Dry but secretly the silliest guy ever

• Has counted how many times Glevil has killed someone with chalk

• Would've acted just like Manequinn :3 if it weren't for the fact he occasionally witnessed probably the most fucked up shit in their life and stuff

• Born to be a yapper but forced to listen to Glevil

• Boring!!

Timmy

• Ignorance is bliss.

• Can sharpen his lollipop into a spear

• Doesn't realize some of the shit he witnesses is fucked up and thinks strangling people is normal

• 5-10 years old or smth

• Loves his lollipop!!

• Happened to be manufactured smaller than the others.

Manequinn :3

• They/Them

• Poob but if you made them a mannequin and turned their annoyingness up to 11

• Screw it. This one has ADHD too and i say so

• Born a yapper.

• Full name: Manequinn Quinn :3 bla catty Mane Mannequin

• GEEK!!

• Likely a weeb and a MHA fan

• FURRY!!!

• would type :3 or a variation of it at the end of every sentence (like 3: if they are sad)

• Silly

• would have a jar.

• And a figurine.

• Insane in a way

• Would be a wattpad user..

All of the mannequins in general

• Can range from non-sentient, sapient and sentient but usually non-sentient. (mostly due to the cult-hivemind thing yadayada)

• The ones in glevil's room are depressed as fuck

• Bleed tree sap

• At some point weren't all mostly part of a hivemind. Glevil just fucked up shit a little bit (BOO!!!! TOMATO TOMATO!!!)

• The reason some mannequins have funny faces is because the workers at the factory use markers and draw silly goofy faces instead of the usual face craved out on them. Though Glevil's face wasn't a result of the workers goofing around. It was more of a defect

• The company agreed to throw their regular and defected mannequins into the wood chipper to help the Regretevator staff. Some mannequins who get spotted moving infront of people get sent to the crusher. However Mannequin Mark is an exception.

Gnarpy

• Struggles with love and trust similarly to Folly: Being hurt so many times they don't want to get too close to someone so they don't get hurt again (Trust issues 🤑🤑)

• Gifted child ahh mf

• Raised to be this way

• Committed multiple war crimes

• Won multiple wars!! (and may have killed a few species to extinction)

• Distracts xemself from guilt and trauma by using a gun and killing people

Also I'm coming out. I'm cherriezkin lol and yes i did terrorize hat one headcanon blog

[fauxfickle]

We now return with your regularly scheduled and all too familiar feeling of malaise and the search for "The Great All American Pizza Show!"

So it's been a little under a month since my last post and I've been skimming through commercial compilations from the LA area. I've found some cool YT channels that archive old ads from that area but I obviously don't have anything to show for it. The ads are either too early or too late to be part of this campaign which is a bit frustrating. Something I neglected to mention last time was that I was also looking through Colossal Pictures demo reels to see if they had a snippet of the animated commercial but of course, there's nothing. There seems to be a cutoff point in the early 80s as most demos only show things from that far back. I was able to find some obscure, silent, avant garde, sci-fi film possibly connected to Colossal but I don't think that'll help me much.

Colossal had some sort of "meet the crew" type video where all the employees said they're names but only their first name so I can't really track them down or anything. I'll keep looking, I didn't look all too hard as I was kinda at my wits end at that time looking through ad comps for hours.

I took a bit of a break for a while before reading through the old Pizza Times newsletters from Dec 79 - May 80. The May 1980 newsletter had some cool info about commercials and news features filmed at the various stores. Some of these aren't technically part of TGAAPS campaign but ehhhhhh I don't really care. They're part of early PTT history and I wanna see them damnit!

Let's go through these starting with Citrus Heights. The Citrus Heights section is loaded with info regarding lost media, 3 in fact! Sacramento's Channel 40 (KTXL), which has since been bought out by FOX in the mid 80s, did a Newsplus at 10 feature on the cyberamic systems at the new store during it's opening week. If we consult the ever so useful Chuck-E-Pedia, we can find that this feature would have been shot and most likely aired on Christmas week of 1979. A perfect pin point set of dates to look through! Next, Chuck was seen in the lead up to the United Cerebral Palsy Telethon which also gives us some idea of where to look. Finally, a TV commercial was filmed, possibly with TGAAPS slogan. Bob Wilkins' ad agency produced it but I couldn't find ANYTHING regarding this company. It's mentioned on his wikipedia but not named, and a even his own website doesn't mention anything about it. It's surprising that someone who seems like a local celeb in there area could have an ad agency that goes almost entirely undocumented.

Next, we move to Sparks, Nevada. Channel 2 (KTVN) filmed a feature on the store for the PM Magazine. The store was visited by reporter Keith Hirshland. Now I'm actually pretty sure I've found this dude! I found a local online article talking about him and the timeline works perfectly. Assuming this was filmed in early 1980, Keith would of been still fresh out of college with a degree in journalism and around 23. He also says he grew up running down the halls of the KTVN office. As a little aside, I'd just like to say don't bother this man or anyone/company mentioned in any of my posts. The last thing we need is to scare off these people.

This last little piece of lost media probably has the best chances of being found out of all the rest. Ben Wattenberg's 1980, from what I can find, is a dry, uninteresting TV news segment hosted by an equally dry and uninteresting host, the neo-conservative Ben Wattenberg. Ben Wattenberg's 1980 itself seems to be almost entirely lost media as only a few stills, episode descriptions, and TV listings exist online. However, this show was on PBS which no doubt has it somewhere in it's archive. What's better is that that there not only an exact date of when the episode will air, but also the name of the episode itself! One user on taptalk was able to find a TV listing which unfortunately doesn't lead anywhere and isn't archive on the WayBack machine. Luckily people actually said the name of the supposed episode which would of been "Silicon Valley: The New Entrepreneurs". We can also find evidence of it in a newspaper from that June 15th.

I sent e-mails to KTXL-40 and PBS on 2/24, so far no responses. I'll wait a little longer and in the mean time look for more leads and contacts. As I said before, don't bother these people/companies. I don't want them to be swamped with calls and e-mails and clam up on us. Bye for now!