#Fabric Protector

[vetropowerindia]

Superhydrophobic Coatings: What is The Lotus Effect & How Does It Work?

During the past few years, nanotechnology has been a game-changer in many industries-most of them in the field of protection against surface damage. Among these amazing innovations is a superhydrophobic coating, more commonly known as the "Lotus Effect." What is the Lotus Effect exactly, and how does it improve upon the useful properties of everyday materials like fabric? Let's examine these natural phenomena in more detail now, as well as how Vetro Power uses Fabric Protector to prolong the aesthetic appearance of your fabric and upholstery.

What is the Lotus Effect?

The well-known "Lotus Effect" describes how the micro and nanostructured surfaces of lotus leaves repel water and dirt. As soon as a drop of water touches the lotus leaves, the droplets begin to bead upward and then roll off, carrying dirt and grime with them. This is due to the unique surface structure, which prevents the water from spreading out and creates a high contact angle that easily pushes the droplets off.

We use nanotechnology to mimic this structure and apply a coating on fabrics that perform similarly to a lotus leaf. The coating works to keep fabrics cleaner for longer by maintaining an effective repellency against liquids, stains, and dirt.

How Does the Lotus Effect Work on Fabrics?

The Lotus Effect mainly constructs a protective barrier on fabrics against water and stains. Here is how it adds value to your materials:

Liquid Repellency: Liquids bead up and roll off the fabric surface without absorption. Hydrophobic protection reduced further damage to moisture and liquid.

Stain Resistance: Spills, such as from coffee or wine, will not seep into the fibres, making most stains easy to wipe clean.

Effortless Cleaning: Since dirt and liquids do not penetrate the surface, you can very often clean fabrics with extremely low effort, such as brushing or rinsing.

Extended Lifespan: The protective coating enhances fabric durability, prolonging its life and appearance.

Longevity of the Lotus Effect

Wear, washing, and exposure to the weather can cause the Lotus Effect's obvious characteristics, including water beading, to gradually disappear. It does not, however, imply that the cloth is no longer protected. The coating based on nanotechnology keeps the material safe because:

Durable Coating: Even after several washings, the nanocoating sticks to the fibres to offer long-lasting protection.

Embedded Protection: As the water-repellent effect wears off, the coating's deep penetration ensures defence against liquids and stains.

The Lotus Effect on Different Types of Fabrics:

Different materials react differently to the Lotus Effect. The porosity of the cloth frequently determines the degree of apparent water repellency:

Porous Materials: Cotton, Linen & other absorbent fabrics exhibit the most noticeable outcomes. The Lotus Effect will become evident as water droplets gather on the surface.

Non-Porous Materials: The nano-coating helps non-porous materials such as polyester and nylon, even if they might not readily absorb liquids, the spills can be easily cleaned up.

Conclusion

The Lotus Effect brings nature's self-cleaning magic to your fabrics through advanced nanotechnology. Through the Vetro Power Fabric Protector, the fabrics become water-repellent, and stain-repellent, and generally will be cleaned with ease. Be it porous or non-porous, Vetro Power’s superhydrophobic coating ensures your materials continue looking new for longer.

To know more information about visit us on:

[nullapophenia]

SYNTHESIS.

{You’re intimately familiar with all the gears that work together to form you.}

[jeremiahthefroge]

hey hi hello just finished s1 e13 of mcd. This ones ends with Garroth and Zenix out on patrol and Zenix looking up and aiming his bow at Garroth with the Scary Piano playing. What I think is a fun detail is that Zenix actually had Aphmau make that bow and those arrows for him in the previous episode! And you know! Garroth obviously at least admires Aphmau and supports her and is like, already down to protect her at this point! He might not be like super devoted to her and he might not even love her yet but still there's a bond starting there! He was like JUST talking about how he needs Aphmau to stay safe bc the village will be in safe hands if he dies and that he wouldn't want her death to be on his hands, so OBVIOUSLY HE CARES! And her bow and arrows just put this man in critical condition in the hands of the knight he is TRAINING. What!! What the fuck!!!

[kirannair]

Vetro Power Marine Fabric Protector Spray: Superior Protection for Your Boat's Upholstery Elevate your boating experience with Vetro Power Marine Fabric Protector Spray. Engineered with cutting-edge nano ceramic coating technology, this marine fabric waterproofing spray creates an invisible shield that repels water, stains, and UV rays with unmatched effectiveness. Say goodbye to worries about damage from water or stains; Vetro Power Marine Fabric Protector Spray ensures your boat upholstery and marine fabrics remain pristine trip after trip. Trust in the best marine fabric sealant on the market and enjoy enhanced durability and superior stain resistance. With its eco-friendly formula, you can apply with confidence, knowing you're protecting your investment while being kind to the environment. Choose Vetro Power Marine Fabric Protector Spray and safeguard your boat's upholstery with the ultimate in nano coating technology.

[diamondsteamcleaning]

Best Fabric Protector For Sofas

call our Diamond Steam Cleaning team on 0426 105 106, to discuss how we can help.

[ohheyidothat]

Documenting my scientific exploration of alternative fabric drying processes

[mide404]

To those with compassionate hearts:

I write to you from the depths of pain and suffering, as my family lives in the Gaza Strip under the weight of siege, destruction, and bloodshed. Life in Gaza has become more than just a struggle for survival; it is a daily fight for existence under conditions that can only be described as tragic.

My family now resides in a fabric tent, our last refuge after losing our home and everything we owned. This tent does not protect us from the cold of winter or the heat of summer, and it barely shields our children from the surrounding dangers.

We lost my father, our support and protector, whose soul ascended due to the brutal war. His loss was not just a loss for us, but the end of our security and stability. We also lost my brother's little girl and my sister's little girl, our blossoms who saw only a little happiness in life before the war stole them from our embrace.

With broken hearts and tearful eyes, I beseech you to look with compassion at our suffering. We are in dire need of your support and assistance to be able to live with dignity, even if it is modest.

You are the hope we cling to in these difficult days, and your support can change our lives. Any help you provide, no matter how small, will make a big difference in our lives.

@sayruq @sar-soor @pcktknife @paper-mario-wiki @brutaliakhoa @appsa @opencommunion @punkitt-is-here @90-ghost

[lizzyiii]

Hii, are requests open??

Yes, it definitely is!!!

The Dragon's Treasure

pairing | young aemond targaryen x niece!reader

word count | 6.7k words

summary | when you were but four years old, your mother had declared jacaerys as her heir, despite the fact that you were born first. in truth, it was a measure born of love; she knew you, with your striking silver locks and lilac eyes—her sweet daughter—would be safe, whilst her sons would not.

tags | FLUFF, FLUFF, targaryen incest, reader is described to have silver hair and lilac eyes (that's all), very very soft aemond, and after fluff comes ANGST, ANGST and more ANGST, also reader is a sensitive queen.

a/n | wrote this in 2 days 💪, and there will DEFINITELY be a PART 2

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 2 — 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 3

Duty and shame. These were the threads from which you were woven—not love, nor passion, but the heavy fabric of obligation and regret.

The firstborn of Rhaenyra Targaryen came into the world not as a son with dark hair and brown eyes, but as a daughter, blessed with ethereal lilac eyes that mirrored her mother's lineage and the shining silver curls that heralded her Velaryon heritage.

Laenor Velaryon and Rhaenyra Targaryen had fulfilled their solemn duty to conceive an heir. For Rhaenyra, each night was steeped in a prayerful longing to erase the memory of her wedding night—a night marked by discomfort and tears. The truth was evident to all: Laenor's heart was not inclined towards her nor any woman; his desires lay with men. Yet, their obligation demanded they play their parts.

After their hurried nuptials in a clandestine ceremony, they found themselves confined within a chamber, the weight of expectation pressing down upon them. When the act was done, the silence that enveloped them was shattered by Laenor's grief; he collapsed into Rhaenyra’s arms, his body wracked with sobs as he mourned the loss of his beloved, wishing loudly that he could be “normal.” It was in that moment, as she held him close, that the young princess, overwhelmed by the weight of her fate, found herself wishing she could shed her identity, to become someone else entirely.

But when Rhaenyra beheld her daughter for the first time, it was as if the world shifted. A spark of profound love ignited in her heart, banishing the shame that had once gnawed at her spirit during her pregnancy and the painful hours of labor. There had been moments when she had cursed the very life growing within her, moments steeped in bitterness toward the infant she carried. Yet now, cradling her sweet babe—her precious dragon treasure—Rhaenyra understood that she would willingly endure a thousand painful pregnancies for this singular joy.

What a delight you were, a soothing balm for Rhaenyra amidst the swirling intrigues of King’s Landing. It was your voice that first captivated her heart, from the moment your tiny lips could form sounds, you babbled with delight, engaging your mother in joyous conversations, even though she could scarcely grasp what you were saying. Your smiles were a sunbeam that brightened her darkest days; the first time you graced her with a radiant smile, it became a memory she would hold dear until the end of her days.

But as the tides of fate turned, life grew more intricate. Once Rhaenyra and Laenor fulfilled the sacred duty of securing an heir, they were free to pursue their pleasures separately, allowing Rhaenyra to take Harwin Strong into her bed. To Rhaenyra, her time with Harwin had never felt like a mistake, nor the first child they conceived together —Jacaerys Velaryon.

Yet, his hair—dark as the raven's wing— and eyes — brown as the earth—set him apart from Rhaenyra’s lineage, with none of her ethereal silver locks or striking violet eyes. Instead, he bore the unmistakable mark of his mother’s sworn protector, a truth whispered in the shadows of the Red Keep, even as Laenor publicly embraced him as his true son and the rightful heir of Driftmark.

Alas, Rhaenyra found herself repeating the same error. Another son came forth from her union with Harwin—a second boy with hair as dark as night and eyes of rich brown. Lucerys Velaryon. Whispers began to flutter through the court, dark murmurs and scornful jibes accusing her children of being bastards. It was the painful truth, yet Rhaenyra, fiercely protective as any mother, longed for her sons to live free from the burdens of her choices.

And so, Rhaenyra was faced with the most harrowing decision of her life, a choice that would weigh upon her heart for years to come. When you were but four years old, she declared Jacaerys as her heir, despite the fact that you were born first, and had Laenor declare Lucerys the heir of Driftmark. In truth, it was a measure born of love; she knew you, with your striking silver locks and lilac eyes—her sweet daughter—would be safe, while Jace and Luke would forever need her protection in a world that could be mercilessly unforgiving.

In the quiet confines of the Red Keep, a yawning silence enveloped the lesson, a silence only broken by the steady, droning voice of Septa Agertha. As a ten-year-old princess, you found your patience with such tedium wearing thin, particularly in the tedious recitation of the Faith of the Seven—each doctrine blurring into the next, sapping your spirit with every word.

Beside you, your beloved aunt Helaena sat in her own world, her delicate hands guiding the needle in and out of the fabric, her gaze distant as though the colors and threads offered more solace than the dull teachings of the Sept. You could see it in her eyes; the spark of interest had flickered away, leaving a solemn stillness where interest once danced.

Embroidery, you thought, was a most tiresome endeavor—how many times had you pricked your own fingers accidentally? It seemed the needle was always too eager, as if it shared your disdain for the task at hand. Your heart longed for the vibrant strokes of paint on canvas, the joyful freedom of creation, but Septa Agertha had sternly deemed such messiness unfit for a princess of House Targaryen.

"Focus, my princess," Septa Agertha’s voice broke through your wandering thoughts, pulling you back from your reverie. In that moment, you wished for nothing more than a dragon's flight, high above the clouds, far from the confines of the castle and the constraints of your title.

You glanced at your Septa, your expression hesitant as you mustered the courage to speak. “Septa Agertha,” you began, your tone dipped in respect, “mayhaps I might be excused to inquire if my mother has finished her labor?”

The Septa regarded you with a mixture of exasperation and fondness; her demeanor softened as you widened your eyes and pouted just enough to tug at her heartstrings. “Very well, my princess,” she relented with a heavy sigh, “our lesson shall conclude for today.”

A joyful smile bloomed on your face, and you offered a swift, sincere thank you, excitement bubbling within you. Leaning over, you pressed a quick kiss on Helaena’s cheek—a fleeting farewell—before darting toward the door. Your sworn sword, Ser Rowan, steadfast and vigilant, attempted to match your youthful enthusiasm, but your spirit was unbridled and wild, leaving him struggling to keep up.

You raced breathlessly down the corridor, your heart racing with exhilaration, until you reached your mother’s solar. As you reached for the door’s latch, you hesitated, hearing the comforting jingle of Ser Rowan's armor behind you. With a bashful grin, you withdrew your hand, glancing back to find him nearing, his breath coming in measured puffs as he opened the door with a respectful bow.

But as you stepped into the warm chamber, your excitement began to wane. A sudden twinge gripped your young heart at the sight of nearly everyone gathered within your mother’s solar, unbidden thoughts swirling as to why you had not been summoned.

Yet those troubling questions were swiftly banished as you cast your gaze upon your mother, weary and glistening with the exertion of childbirth. Ignoring the soft coos of the newborn cradled in your father’s arms, you dashed toward Rhaenyra, laying your small hand against her damp cheek. “Mother, are you well?” you asked, concern threading through your words.

A tender smile softened Rhaenyra’s features at your worry, and she grasped your hand gently, kissing your palm in a soothing gesture. “I am better now that you are here,” she replied, her voice warm like the sun breaking through the clouds.

You turned at the sound of your brother Luke's voice, a warm smile stretched across his face. "We selected an egg for the babe, and for you as well, sister," he announced, his eyes bright with excitement.

"Ahh," your mother’s voice came softly from your side, laced with affection, "Those look perfect indeed."

"I let Luke choose," Jace declared with a hint of pride.

With a nod and a grin, Luke acknowledged his brother's words, "Thank you, Jace."

"Not every day an egg leaves the Dragonpit, Princess," Ser Harwin Strong intoned, his hands clasped thoughtfully before him. "I deemed it fit to escort the lads."

Rhaenyra turned to him, her voice gentle, "Laenor and I thank you, Commander." Her gaze shifted slowly to you, warmth radiating from her eyes. "What do you think, my love?"

Your eyes were drawn to the two shimmering eggs nestled snugly in the hatching pot. You should have felt joy, perhaps excitement, yet a shadow of sadness draped over your young heart. "Why was I not included?"

An uneasy silence fell over the chamber, heavy and palpable. Ser Harwin broke it first, offering a sympathetic smile, “You were busy with your lessons, princess. We did not wish to disturb you.”

"But surely Jace and Luke were occupied with their dragon lessons as well," you replied in a soft voice, the undertone of hurt evident in your words.

Rhaenyra immediately noticed the glimmer of tears pooling in your lilac eyes and the tremble of your lips, as she rushed to uplift your spirits. "Look, my love, it is purple, your favorite color."

No sooner had Rhaenyra spoken than Laenor interjected enthusiastically, “I have a good feeling about this one, my darling. You know what they say—third time’s the charm.”

Third. This was to be your third dragon egg. The first, a vibrant orange, had turned to stone in your cradle, a cruel fate none could have foreseen. The second, a deep crimson egg, had been bestowed upon you with the birth of Luke, yet it too remained unhatched. As you gazed at the violet egg in the pot, hope eluded you, replaced instead by the grim certainty that this egg too would not awaken.

“Now I am certain you would like to meet your new brother,” Rhaenyra murmured, wrapping an affectionate arm around you.

“A boy?” you whispered, your eyes lifting to seek the babe cradled in your father’s arms.

“Yes, my love.”

“Oh.”

Rhaenyra could instantly see the disappointment which weighed heavy on your features at the prospect of yet another brother, and it became ever clearer in your silence. Rather than springing toward your father, you chose instead to nestle deeper into your mother’s embrace, seeking comfort in her warmth.

As you reclined against your mother’s side, you gazed at Ser Harwin, who now cradled your newborn brother, Joffrey. At merely ten summers, you could discern the affection in Ser Harwin's gaze as he looked at Joffrey—a tender look reminiscent of the affection he often bestowed upon your mother. It was a gaze filled with adoration, one he also offered to your other brothers, yet curiously, yet it never seemed to touch you. How curious this felt, a wonder mixed with a hint of sorrow.

When your father ushered your brothers from the chamber, it left a stillness that enveloped you, your mother, Ser Harwin, and the tiny new life nestled in his arms.

“Mayhaps you should return to your lessons now, my love,” Rhaenyra said, her voice soft and melodic, turning her gentle gaze towards you.

A twinge of sorrow flared within you once again, and you glanced up at her, barely able to protest. “But—I just arrived,” you murmured, the longing in your tone betraying your desire to remain by her side.

Ser Harwin, ever the loyal knight, defended your mother, answering with a reassuring tone, “I am certain it is merely that your mother seeks rest, my princess.”

Reluctantly, you eased away from your mother’s embrace, turning slightly so she wouldn’t witness the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. “I’ll go find Helaena,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

You heard her sigh, a sound laced with affection and understanding. Then, you felt her hand encircle your wrist, drawing you back to her warm side. She pressed a firm kiss to your forehead, her love wrapping around you like a cloak. “If you wish to keep me company whilst I rest, I shall never protest, my treasure.”

And so, you settled back against her, safe and cherished, while Ser Harwin gently rocked Joffrey to sleep. Your mother cast the same tender look upon him that Ser Harwin had, her eyes shimmering with a light of love—a look you noticed she had never bestowed upon your father. With this curious thought lingering in your mind, you surrendered to the soothing comfort of your mother's embrace, drifting gently into a blissful slumber for an impromptu nap.

“This one has rings...and two pairs of legs on each,” Helaena whispered, her voice a gentle hum as she held a slithering black insect close to her face, its glossy body glinting in the soft light.

“That makes two hundred and forty,” she concluded, her gaze fixed on the peculiar creature, while you regarded it with wide, curious eyes.

“Yes, indeed,” the Queen murmured thoughtfully from her perch beside Helaena.

You had awoken to find your mother still lost in slumber after drifting off beside her. With utmost care, you slipped away from her warm embrace, seeking out Helaena as you waited for the boys to finish their dragon lessons — and by boys, of course, you really meant Aemond.

“It has eyes...though...I don't believe it can see,” Helaena continued, bringing the strange creature nearer to you. Instinctively, you leaned back, wary of its closeness.

“And why is that so, do you think?" Queen Alicent inquired, her brow cocked in gentle curiosity.

Helaena merely shook her head, a mystique in her expression. “Some things lie beyond our understanding.”

“I suppose you are right,” Queen Alicent replied in a soft tone, a touch of wisdom in her words. “Some things simply are.”

"That sounds quite scary," you ventured, finally chiming in.

Both heads turned to your direction, and Helaena regarded you with a gentle curiosity. "Why do you say that?"

You offered a slight shrug, your finger gliding over the peculiar, scaly texture of the insect before you. "I suppose I’d feel so helpless, not being able to see anything. It would be a sad too, not to behold colors or shapes."

Queen Alicent regarded you with a softened gaze, her expression a mixture of contemplation and warmth. While her heart held a shadow of disdain for your mother, Princess Rhaenyra, and your brothers, who bore the stigma of bastardy, she recognized the innocence in you. A precious blend of Targaryen and Velaryon blood, you were a vision of purity akin to a delicate flower springing forth amidst thorns. It certainly didn't hurt that your sweetness was reminiscent of the ripest strawberry tart.

"Well, since it has never encountered colors or shapes, my dear princess, it has no reason to feel sad," she said softly.

Your brow furrowed, the Queen's words weaving through your mind like threads of a tapestry, before a radiant smile broke forth on your cherubic face in understanding.

The calm of the Queen's solar shattered abruptly as the heavy door swung open, revealing Aemond, forcibly ushered inside by a stern Kingsguard. All eyes, filled with concern, turned toward the commotion, “Your Grace.”

Alicent sprang to her feet, her voice laced with accusation. “Aemond. What have you done?”

You trailed closely behind the Queen, keeping a respectful distance as she unleashed her frustration upon Aemond, who stood there, cloaked in ash from head to toe. “After how many times you've been warned, must I have you confined to your chambers?!"

Your heart twisted painfully at the sight of your friend’s distressed expression. “They made me do it!" he pleaded, desperation lacing his tone.

"As if you needed encouragement," Queen Alicent rebuked him, her hands firm upon his shoulders. “Your obsession with those beasts goes beyond understanding."

“They gave me a pig!” Aemond’s voice rose, indignation spilling forth, and you flinched at the raw hurt echoing in his words.

Alicent paused, her brow furrowing in confusion. “A what?”

He turned his gaze away from his mother, the shame evident, but when his violet eyes fell upon you, they swiftly darted back, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. “They said it was a dragon… but it was a pig.”

The stern lines of the Queen’s face softened, and she spoke with conviction. “You will have a dragon one day. I know it."

“They all laughed at me,” Aemond murmured, his sorrow palpable in the air.

You yearned to bridge the distance and offer solace, for in that moment, you understood his pain more profoundly than anyone else in the room. Yet, you recognized that he needed his mother’s embrace more than your support. As Alicent enveloped Aemond in a tight hug, his violet gaze met yours once more, and all you could offer him was an understanding look, a silent promise that you would be there when he needed you.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting amber rays that danced across the ornate shelves of the Red Keep’s library, you found yourself seated beside your uncle, who had only just tidied himself after that unpleasant encounter. His eyes remained fixed on the pages of the book detailing Aegon's Conquest, but the tense silence between you weighed heavily in the air.

The heavy silence lingered, thickening the air around you. Restlessly, you glanced up at your uncle and whispered, "I am truly sorry."

He did not lift his gaze from the book, his tone icy as he replied, "Why do you say you’re sorry? You bear no blame in this."

Your heart ached for him, as you said softly, "I am sorry for what happened, for the pain it brought upon you. I will speak to my brothers about their behavior, I promise."

Aemond’s expression hardened, his lips pressing together in frustration. "I don't need you to save me, niece," he retorted, the sharpness of his words echoing in the quiet library.

Your heart sank, and you instinctively dropped your gaze. You could sense his turmoil; and you understood the pain and inferiority he was feeling. You had only wished to help, yet somehow, your kindness seemed to have been misread. You recognized when your presence was unwelcome, so with a small, resigned 'alright,' you began to rise from your seat, intending to leave him in peace.

Yet just as you turned, Aemond’s head snapped up, a wave of guilt crashing over him. He realized harshly that he had been unfair to you—his darling niece who was merely being her sweet, caring self. In a swift motion, he reached out for your hand, "Wait," his voice softer this time, “I did not mean to be cruel. I...I apologize.”

A warm smile crept across your face as you met his earnest eyes. “I accept your apology, uncle." You furrowed your brows playfully, a hint of mischief in your voice. "Come with me."

Before he could protest, your fingers intertwined, and you pulled him along with a gentle urgency. Aemond, caught off guard, found himself captivated by the warmth and softness of your hand in his. In the innocence of your youth, holding hands and being with each other everyday all day had felt natural, but with each passing day, as you both grew older, the simple act took on an air of unspoken indecency. Still, he let himself be led, wrapped in the comfort that his niece eagerly offered.

Aemond hesitated as you guided him into your chambers, pausing at the threshold, uncertainty written on his brow. However, any tension was quickly vanquished as you drew him inside. Your quarters brimmed with the elegance one might associate with a princess; the canopy bed was adorned with delicate pink linens and plump pillows, while vases scattered throughout the room overflowed with a lush assortment of pink and purple roses, their fragrance sweetening the air.

Yet, it was the object resting on the small table before the crackling fireplace that truly seized Aemond's attention. Nestled atop the table was a warming pot, housing a radiant violet dragon egg that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. "A dragon egg," he murmured, his fascination palpable.

You guided Aemond to kneel beside the table, where the two of you were drawn into the stillness of the moment. With a tender whisper, you began to recount the story behind the egg. "My brothers retrieved it when they sought an egg for my newest brother, Joffrey."

"Joffrey?" Aemond asked, a hint of skepticism lacing his tone as he met your gaze, "That name sounds far from Targaryen."

Your focus remained on the egg, brushing aside his remark. After a moment of contemplation, you finally shared the weight that had settled in your heart. "I fear it won't hatch."

Aemond's reaction was immediate; his head snapped towards you, irritation flickering in his eyes. "Do not speak such things."

"It is but my opinion, Aemond," you replied gently, undeterred by his sharpness. You understood that his frustration was not truly aimed at you; it never was.

“Why do you believe such a thing?” His voice softened, a hint of curiosity threading through his concern.

You averted your gaze, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “It is foolish,” you murmured, hesitant to reveal the depth of your fears.

“And so?” he pressed, his intensity unyielding.

Drawing a steadying breath, you finally revealed your heart. “In my mind, the egg shall only hatch if I do not care for it deeply.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed, understanding dawning. “So, you do care, then?”

“No, I do not!” you insisted too quickly, casting a furtive glance at the egg as if it had heard Aemond's words.

Frustration etched across Aemond’s features, he clenched his fists tightly. “It is unfair that your brothers possess dragons while we remain without, since they are—”

“What?” you interjected softly, concern lacing your tone. “They are what?”

Your earnest look tugged at the fragile threads of his heart. He couldn’t assume you were unaware of the whispers that painted your brothers in shadows, nor could he believe you were deaf to the harsh truths woven through courtly gossip. Yet, he would never voice those words to you. Instead, he muttered grudgingly, “Not as special as us.”

A small pout formed on your lips, drawing his attention away from the dragon egg that lay neglected between you. “You do understand that it was most likely Aegon who orchestrated that prank, yes?” you pressed, your voice laced with a gentle resolve.

Aemond scoffed and turned away, the weight of your words lingering in the air like an unwelcome specter. “Are you truly defending them?” he challenged, though he felt the shake of his conviction.

“No, Aemond,” you replied, your voice as sweet as summer rain, “What my brothers did was wrong. But more often than not, you never hold Aegon accountable, despite him being the leader of their little group.”

His back remained turned to you, pride keeping him rooted as he mulled over your words. Deep down, he recognized the truth in them, though he loathed to concede, for Aegon was his elder brother. He longed for the bond that appeared so effortless between you and your siblings, and it felt far more convenient to direct his ire toward them instead.

As Aemond continued to brood, you glided closer, resting your chin on his shoulder, your presence as warm as the sun’s rays. “If my egg should hatch, perhaps we could share the dragon?” you suggested brightly, seeking to lift his spirits.

He let out a disdainful scoff, turning to face you so closely that your noses nearly brushed. “Now, that is simply absurd.”

“Aemond,” you admonished softly, undeterred.

“Never has there been a dragon with two riders,” he rebutted gloomily, his voice laced with skepticism.

“So we would be the first,” you retorted, rising to your feet with animated gestures. “There must always be a first, for only then can things be normalized. Just wait and see, Aemond—one day, a Targaryen will claim more than one dragon!”

He regarded you with an unreadable expression and replied matter-of-factly, “That is entirely selfish, niece.”

You huffed in exasperation, settling back down beside him, your patience wearing thin. At moments like this, Aemond’s stubbornness made him seem dreadfully dull. “You fail to see the vision, uncle."

It was curious how swiftly the tides of life could turn. You had often confided in your mother about your aversion to change, and her response was always the same: "Change is inevitable, my love." You were not certain what that meant, but you understood now, as the world around you shifted in the blink of an eye. The sudden sadness that gripped your heart was puzzling, especially since you were so young. Just like that, you had been whisked away from the familiar streets of King’s Landing to the distant shores of Dragonstone, all because of your mother’s choices, which felt like a shadow beyond your grasp.

Dragonstone loomed before you, ominous and strange. You had never set foot on its rugged shores, but a sense of dread weighed heavy in your chest, telling you you would despise it here. The library would be smaller, you thought—if Dragonstone even had one at all—and the gardens could not possibly rival those sprawling ones in the Red Keep. Most troubling of all was the thought of being separated from Helaena and Aemond.

Helaena, your sweet aunt, sometimes it felt as though you could almost imagine her as your sister. Though her peculiar musings often escaped your understanding, it was her delightful oddities that you cherished most, setting her apart from all the other court ladies.

And Aemond—nothing in this vast world could rival the bond you shared with your uncle. You both understood one another in a way that few could fathom. The two dragonless Targaryens united by the same unspoken grief, felt the weight of their inferiority hanging over them like a storm cloud. Yet within that shared pain grew a deep-rooted connection. Aemond was your anchor in a world that often felt lonely and overwhelming. With him, you never felt truly isolated; you were never alone.

As the time arrived for your departure, Aemond attempted to mask his feelings with indifference, but you could see beyond his brave facade. The glimmer of tears in his violet eyes and the strength of his embrace told you everything: he would miss you just as fiercely as you would miss him.

Once again, the sea had darkened, mirroring the heaviness in your heart. The next time the two of you would gather would be under the shadow of sorrow. Your Aunt Laena had passed, and your family was bound for Driftmark to honor her memory. Despite having never met her, a sharp ache coursed through you, all the more intense for the grief etched across your father’s face. Laena had been his twin, after all. Then there was the loss of Ser Harwin Strong as well, which weighed heavily on your mother and brothers. Yet, for reasons you couldn’t quite grasp, your own heart felt strangely untouched by sadness.

The funeral had drawn to a close. Your mother gently encouraged you and Jace to offer words of comfort to your cousins, Baela and Rhaena. But Jace spoke without thinking, a clumsy remark about how you all should have been at Harrenhal instead of Driftmark. You felt a rush of frustration rising in your throat, longing to assert that his pain didn’t lessen the tragedy of the day. After all, he was only voicing his own hurt.

With a quiet huff, you had marched away in silence, finding your perch beside a jagged stone wall, where you could observe your father from a distance. He stood in the shallows of the ocean, the waves lapping at his knees, as if being closer to Laena might ease the sorrow that weighed upon his heart. It pained you to witness him so downcast; the truth was, you had always thought your father impervious to sadness, having never seen his face devoid of a smile before this moment.

“How fares Dragonstone?”

A smile began to bloom on your lips at the familiar sound of Aemond's voice, bringing warmth to your gloomy thoughts.

"It is cold and windy," you replied quietly, shifting your gaze toward him.

Aemond paused, taking in the sight of you. It had been merely weeks since you left the Red Keep, yet in your absence, the loneliness had curled around him like a thick fog. Seeing you now felt like sunlight piercing through gray clouds after a long storm. He regarded you for a moment longer before nodding subtly toward your brothers. "My condolences for Ser Harwin. I assume that is what had your brothers weeping."

“The bond between him and my brothers was indeed strong,” you admitted, a furrow forming in your brow as Aemond stifled a laugh with a cough. “I am sad he has passed, just as I mourn Aunt Laena. But the sorrows I feel mostly arise from witnessing the devastation their losses have cast upon my mother and father.”

Your lilac eyes shifted back toward your father, worry etched across your youthful features. You bit your lip, glancing at the water below. Surely it had turned icy, “I wish I could help him, to see him smile once more. But I’m not sure what to say.”

This was a curious moment for Aemond. Throughout his life, he had cherished you as his dearest friend, his beloved niece. Yet, recently, he began to view you in a new light—the way your silver curls captured the sunlight, glowing as if spun from starlight, or how every gown you wore magnified the beauty of your lilac eyes.

He licked his dry lips and spoke gently, “I reckon there’s little you could say that would ease his pain. Instead, find a way to show him you stand with him. That might be enough.”

You nodded thoughtfully at Aemond's words, your gaze drifting toward Rhaena and Baela. "I feel so awful," you confessed, your voice scarcely above a whisper. "I could never imagine losing my mother."

"Me neither," Aemond replied softly.

After a moment of silence, you added, "I think I would die from the heartbreak." You could sense Aemond’s eyes upon you, a question hanging unspoken in the air between you. A small sigh escaped your lips as you said, "It didn’t hatch, if that’s what you were thinking?"

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Aemond's head lower slightly. "Oh," he murmured, disappointment lacing his tone.

You lifted your chin, trying to display strength despite the disappointment gnawing at your heart. "I suspect I am not meant for a dragon," you asserted, forcing a brave smile.

"Don’t say that," Aemond insisted, his voice firm yet gentle.

Turning to face him, you allowed your hopelessness to seep through your facade. "Three times, Aemond. Three times my egg has failed to hatch."

"There are many unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone," Aemond suggested with a hint of resolve. "Perhaps you could try with them?"

"At the risk of my life?" you replied, arching an eyebrow at him. But then, your lips curled into a playful smile as you reached out to take Aemond's hand in yours. "But really, why would I seek a bond with a dragon when my bond with you is far more precious to me?"

Your words made Aemond’s cheeks flush a deep crimson, his heart thudding like the wings of a dragon. Though you seemed to find comfort in his friendship over the absence of a dragon, Aemond couldn't shake the feeling of urgency. If a dragon was to be claimed, it would be up to him—the time had come, for both of your sakes.

He remembered that at this very moment, there was the legendary Vhagar, unclaimed and free, somewhere on the island, waiting for someone worthy to forge a bond with her. And he would do it in your honour.

You were jolted awake from your slumber, the sound of your name ringing insistently in your ears as someone gently shook your shoulders.

Opening your eyes with heavy lids, you frowned to see Jace’s eager face hovering over you, his hands gripping your shoulders.

“Jace, what is it?” you mumbled, pushing him away with tired reluctance as you struggled to sit up.

“Vhagar has been stolen! We must find out who did it!” he exclaimed, his voice bubbling with urgency as he tugged at you to rise from your bed.

“We?” you replied slowly, letting the word hang in the air. Your gaze drifted past him, landing on Luke, Baela, and Rhaena, who stood ready to storm out.

You groaned and collapsed back into your pillows, muffling your voice as you protested, “Can this not wait until the sun graces the sky?”

Once more, Jace insisted, pulling you upright, even as you felt something being slipped onto your feet. You turned your bleary gaze to see Luke kneeling beside you, fastening your boots with surprising urgency.

“No time for that! We needed a person of age to accompany us,” Jace declared, lifting you to your feet with determined hands.

You froze in place, fixing him with a look that was a blend of disbelief and exasperation. “Jace... I’m ten, and you’re nine.”

Yet your protest went unheard as Jace and Luke eagerly dragged you through the castle’s dim corridors, Baela and Rhaena leading the way with purpose. A terrible knot of dread twisted in your stomach, and you murmured under your breath, “Perhaps we could find a guard.”

“That would take far too long,” Rhaena replied sharply, her steps firm as the twins guided you deeper into the shadowy tunnels beneath the castle.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, and your mouth gaped open as you caught sight of Aemond standing before you, his hair tousled and a cocky smirk dancing on his lips.

“It’s him,” Baela exclaimed, realization dawning on her.

Aemond's smirk widened, and he drawled, “It’s me.”

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon,” Rhaena said, her voice trembling with indignation.

“Your mother’s dead. And Vhagar has a new rider now,” Aemond shot back, his words sharp as a dagger. You flinched at the cruelty woven into his tone.

“You claimed Vhagar?” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. Aemond’s gaze met yours, filled with an expectation of pride, but instead, he found only shock and hurt reflected in your eyes.

But before you could gather your thoughts, Rhaena’s voice pierced the air, filled with anger, “She was mine to claim!”

“Then you should’ve claimed her!” Aemond roared, his voice echoing through the tunnel. “Perhaps your cousins can find you a pig to ride. That would suit you better!”

Disgust twisted your features at Aemond’s taunts, yet your attention shifted as you saw Rhaena charging toward him. “Rhaena, wait!” you cried out, but it was too late.

In a heartbeat, Rhaena slammed into Aemond, pushing him with all her might. In response, he shoved her to the ground, and the chaos spiraled out of control. Everything happened so swiftly that you barely registered Baela darting past you until the sharp crack of her fist meeting Aemond’s cheek rang in your ears. He retaliated in an instant.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond roared, fury lighting up his features.

A gasp escaped your lips as you instinctively shouted, “Aemond!”

“She hit me first!” Aemond yelled back, his frustration spilling out around them like wildfire.

Just then, you felt a rush behind you as Jace charged forward, his own fury ignited. He struck Aemond squarely on the nose. In the blink of an eye, the fight erupted around you, with Jace, Luke, Rhaena, and Baela striking Aemond from every side.

It was only when you felt that surge of panic return to your mind and body that you tore yourself away from your stunned silence, sprinting toward the melee. “Stop it! All of you, stop!” you cried, your voice rising above the clamor.

But your pleas fell on deaf ears as the thrashing continued. In the fray, Jace’s elbow inadvertently crashed into your face, sending you spiraling toward the stone wall. Your head thudded sharply against the rough surface, pain blooming as darkness threatened to close in.

Time seemed to slow, and suddenly, the fighting ceased. Jace’s wide eyes met yours, filled with shock. “I—I didn’t mean to,” he stammered, guilt clouding his features.

Through the ringing in your ears, you attempted to open your eyes, focusing on the concern etched on your brother's face. “I know you didn’t mean to, Jace,” you murmured, your voice a fragile whisper.

Yet the fury of the confrontation did not relent; the struggle surrounding Aemond grew more fierce, spurred on by your injury. As blood trickled down your forehead, thick and unwelcome, Aemond's anger erupted. “You hurt her!” he roared, his voice laced with venom.

A throbbing pain radiated through your skull, swelling with every clash of voices and yells. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you finally opened your eyes wide enough to glimpse Jace, knife in hand. A pang of urgency surged within you, prompting a weak plea, “Jace, put that away.”

You longed to retreat into darkness, to let the cacophony fade away, but the din continued to swell. Jace unleashed a handful of sand, blinding Aemond momentarily, while Luke, with fierce determination, rushed forward carrying Jace's knife. “Luke, no!” you cried, though your words were nearly drowned in the chaos.

And then, before you could breathe another word, the world faded away into shadows, consumed by the horrifying scream that sliced through the air — Aemond's anguished cry as Luke struck at his eye.

To Be Continued...

[solarmorrigan]

Eddie doesn’t like it when Steve is upset. He just wants that on record. He would prefer it if Steve could feel happy and safe and content all the time.

But–

A sad Steve Harrington is a cuddly Steve Harrington, and Eddie is absolutely weak for that shit.

There’s nothing quite like the days when Steve will come home from a shitty shift at work and immediately sit down with Eddie on the couch and curl into his side, never even bothering to change out of his work clothes. Or the days when Steve has to talk to his parents on the phone, and afterwards he’ll come find Eddie and pull him into a hug that may last minutes or hours while Steve presses his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck and loses himself there.

Or nights like tonight, when Steve comes to bed in an old pair of sleep shorts and a t-shirt he’s stolen form Eddie’s side of the dresser and lays down more in the middle of the bed than on his own side, his head practically on Eddie’s pillow.

He’s asking without really asking, but Eddie will never, ever deny him.

He’s quick to roll onto his side, facing Steve and prodding him until he rolls over, too, facing away and allowing himself to be scooted back across the mattress. Eddie gets an arm around his waist and pulls him close, until he’s practically molded to Eddie’s front, chest to back, hips to hips, Eddie’s knees tucked into the bend of Steve’s.

It isn’t that Steve isn’t normally a touchy sort of person; he is. He thrives on physical affection, and Eddie loves to be the one to provide him with it. But there’s something different about it when Steve gets like this, like it isn’t just a want – it’s a need.

He buries himself in Eddie’s presence, curling in close like he can hide away inside of him, like Eddie can keep the world at bay – like Eddie can protect him.

And hell if that isn’t a heady feeling. The thought that Steve, so strong and sure of himself, lets himself be soft around Eddie, will let his armor fall away and let himself be cared for; Eddie can’t say he doesn’t cherish the privilege.

Who protects the protector? Eddie does.

And he takes his responsibilities very seriously, thank you.

He presses a kiss to the back of Steve’s neck, stroking his thumb against his ribs over the soft fabric of the pilfered t-shirt. He can feel Steve’s chest rise and fall with a sigh.

“Bad day?” Eddie asks softly.

Sometimes Steve wants to talk about it. Sometimes he doesn’t. Eddie always gives him the chance, either way.

Steve shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. Nothing happened, I just feel… bad.”

He sounds defeated, and Eddie won’t have that.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to know.” He presses another soft kiss to the nape of Steve’s neck. “I’ll make it better.”

“Yeah.” Under the blankets, Steve’s hand finds Eddie’s where it’s draped over his waist and threads their fingers together, squeezing gently. “I know you will.”

[Prompt: Spooning]

[vetropowerindia]

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[saltywritings]

Unsworn Protector ( Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Niece! Reader )

Summary: The reader is sent to Old Town with Daeron, however, is left in an uncomfortable situation when her uncle finds her with a pillow.

Warnings: explicit smut under the cut minors do not interact, incest, age gap, reader has a pillow princess moment, oral (female receiving), penetration, Gwayne is giving sub vibes.

Word count: 3,728

The journey to Old Town was arduous and slow, a monotonous trek that seemed designed to drain one's spirit. Few things could be more disheartening than being sent to Old Town, a place that felt like exile. Your mother, the queen, insisted that sending you and your younger brother Daeron there was for the best, claiming it would build character—whatever that meant. Yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that she simply preferred not to deal with you. Sending you and Daeron away made it easier for her to focus on Aegon. Despite her intentions, you were frustrated by being uprooted from your home, all in the name of this so-called character building.

When the carriage finally arrived in Old Town, your eyes took in the sights as you traveled swiftly through the city. Having spent your entire life in King's Landing, Old Town seemed exceptionally small. You noticed the tall walls surrounding the castle, some sections near the gate clad in ivy.

"Finally, we're here," Daeron exclaimed as he rushed to the carriage door, eager to free himself from its confines.

With a mix of frustration and disgust, you pushed at your brother’s back as he deliberately blocked the carriage door, trapping you inside. "Daeron!" you shouted, your hands shoving at the coarse fabric of his shirt. "Let me out, you fool!" You struggled against him as he laughed, his mirth only heightening your irritation.

Suddenly, another voice cut through the commotion. "Come now, my prince. Let your sister out," it urged. Reluctantly, Daeron relented and stepped down the few stairs, finally freeing you from the confined space of the carriage.

As you finally freed yourself from the carriage, you realized the voice belonged to your uncle, Gwayne Hightower. Though many years had passed since you last saw him, you recognized him instantly. Stepping forward, your feet now firmly planted on the ground, you shot a sharp glare at Daeron, resisting the urge to shove him, before turning back to your uncle.

"Thank you, Uncle," you said with a small nod.

Daeron, looking bewildered, finally noticed Gwayne. "Oh—Uncle Gwayne. I didn’t recognize you," he replied, prompting you to narrow your eyes.

"I’m not surprised," you said. "You were but a babe the last time he visited."

"Indeed you were," Gwayne said with a warm smile. "I'm surprised you recognize me, Princess. You've grown as much as your brother."

He stepped forward, extending his hand toward you. You raised yours to meet his, and he took it gently, bringing it to his lips with a delicate kiss that conveyed a soft, caring warmth. Your eyes fluttered slightly as you looked at him, appreciating the affectionate gesture.

"You've grown so much," he remarked, turning his attention to Daeron.

"I'm certain I haven't grown that much," you insisted with a modest smile.

Daeron glanced at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and snorted. "Oh, trust me, you’ve grown—just not in height, sister," he mocked. Unable to restrain yourself, you gave him a small shove in response.

Your uncle watched the exchange, a faint smile playing on his lips, and shook his head with a soft chuckle at your sibling rivalry.

Gwayne shook his head with a gentle sigh, his gaze shifting to Daeron. "Now, nephew, I understand why your mother insisted on sending you here. One day, you'll realize the value of your sister's presence. Treat her with the respect she deserves," he urged, his tone firm yet compassionate. You cast a sidelong glance at your brother, a small smile playing on your lips now that your uncle had come to your defense.

Daeron responded with an eye roll, his demeanor defiant. Gwayne cleared his throat, his expression turning more serious. "I'll have your cousin show you to your room, Daeron," he declared, nodding towards him. "As for you, Princess," Gwayne continued, extending his arm toward you. "I will personally escort you to your chambers." You took his arm promptly, grateful for his support and guidance in this unfamiliar place.

Gwayne escorted you up the stairs and down a hallway to your assigned room. As the door swung open, you couldn't shake the feeling of entering a stranger's room. Though the space was well-appointed and fair, it lacked the personal touch of home. Sensing your unease, Gwayne spoke up as the two of you entered.

"This will be your chambers. My quarters are just next door," he explained, his voice reassuring. "Consider me your protector, close at hand." His words were accompanied by a small, comforting smile.

In that moment, you realized Gwayne's striking presence: his piercing blue eyes, chiseled jawline, and eloquent speech. His demeanor offered a sense of security that eased your nerves, prompting you to return his smile warmly.

"You are to be your sworn protector then?" you questioned, eyebrows knitting together as you stood somewhat puzzled. Gwayne couldn't help but chuckle softly as he shook his head.

"No, sweet niece. There's no need for that here," he reassured you gently, "but I promise to watch over you." His words carried a comforting assurance.

You nodded in understanding, your hand still linked with his arm. "Did my mother explain why she sent me here?" you asked, recalling her vague answers and insistence that leaving the Red Keep was in your best interest. Gwayne sensed your unease and took your hands in his with tender care.

"Niece," he spoke softly, "Your mother didn't want to send you away, but you're soon to be married—or at least betrothed. She thought it would be easier for you not to be uprooted from your home like many maidens are." His explanation caused you to look away, a mixture of emotions stirring within you.

"I don't want to be betrothed to a stranger," you confessed to your uncle, your hands still held in his. "The thought of belonging to a man I don't know, who doesn't know me—it frightens me."

Gwayne's expression softened at your confession. He released one of your hands and gently cupped your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his. His blue eyes held a depth of understanding as he listened intently to your words.

"Your feelings are valid, my dear. Many women share your apprehensions—I know your mother did," Gwayne said soothingly, hoping to bring you comfort. "Besides, not every lady finds herself betrothed to a stranger. Try not to let fear cloud your judgment until you've had the chance to know your intended," he urged gently, sensing he had eased your nerves.

"I'll leave you to rest now," Gwayne added, seeing your nod of approval. With that, he quietly exited your chambers.

As night descended upon Old Town, you tossed and turned in your sleep, consumed by an unrelenting yearning. The unfamiliar blankets and sheets, devoid of your scent, offered no comfort. Frustrated, you reached for a plush pillow, sitting up and clutching it tightly between your thighs. Slowly, you would rock your hips back and forth, pushing down your core with some friction to alleviate this frustration that burned between your thighs. Your eyes fluttered closed, your night gown slipping from your shoulder as your hips desperately humped the pillow beneath you. You thought of your uncle, you knew you shouldn't, and yet- you could not help but to think of how kissed your hand, the blue of his eyes, how he smelled of sage.

On the other side of the door, Gwayne awoke to a plaintive sound that he initially mistook for a cry. Even through the stone walls, the soft echo of his niece's distress reached him. With concern driving him, Gwayne rose from his bed, the urgency of his duty as her uncle compelling him. He slipped into a pair of pants and quietly left his room.

It was his responsibility to care for and protect her in this unfamiliar place, in the absence of their family. Moving with cautious steps, Gwayne approached her door. Normally, he would have knocked, but in his haste and concern, he bypassed this customary courtesy. He gently pushed the door open, making as little noise as possible.

What Gwayne had come face to face with made him freeze, his entire body tensing up as he looked to the figure of you, the princess, feverously humping a pillow. Your shoulder exposed and hard nipples showing through the sheer of the night gown. Your eyes were still closed as your hips rocked against the pillow. Eyebrows pushed together as soft cries left your lips. Gwayne was more than aware that he should not be there, that he should not be witnessing this, and yet he could not tear his eyes away.

Then you said it, "Gwayne." His name left your lips like a melody and it took one hush of his name to make him impossibly hard. To the point in stung and bulged from his trousers. It was then your eyes fluttered open, and in a few blinks they widened realizing that your uncle stood in the doorway. In a panic your hands grasped the pillow and brought it up to cover yourself.

"Oh, Gods. Princess, I'm -I'm sorry -" Gwayne barely managed to gush an apology as he had went fleeing the room, closing the door behind him as he went rushing back to his room. In the midst of his embarrassment he had been sweating, his heart racing as he stayed in the confides of his room.

He was still hard. Gwayne tried not to think about you. He tried not to think about how you cried as you humped your pillow or how sweetly you spoke his name but he could not.

Gwayne would wrestle with himself for nearly an hour, but at the agony of his own groin he could not contain himself. Gwayne would still be standing as he pulled his pants down, freeing his length as he took it in one hand.

This was wrong, this was so wrong.

And still, he began to pump himself to the thought of you pleasing yourself with a pillow.

I shouldn't be doing this.

He wondered how it would feel to be between your soft thighs, to have you be humping him.

He was almost there.

To have you scream his name instead of whisper it.

Gwayne would soon spill his seed onto the ground as his hand feverishly pumped himself to the thought of you. Gwayne would attempt to find sleep that night but had been unable to do so.

When the next day dawned, you anticipated a conversation with your uncle about the events of the previous night. However, it soon became apparent that Gwayne was actively avoiding you. He didn't join you for breakfast or supper, and your cousin took it upon themselves to entertain you with a tour of Old Town, while another cousin kept you occupied with needlepoint throughout the day. Despite your efforts, the entire day passed without a glimpse of him.

Returning to your chambers in the evening, a growing discomfort settled within you. You couldn't shake the feeling that Gwayne's absence was deliberate. Did he feel embarrassed for having found you in distress? Was he ashamed of you? These thoughts churned in your mind as you lay on your bed, staring up at the canopy for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, unable to endure the uncertainty any longer, you threw off the blankets and stormed out of your chambers. Determined, you strode purposefully to his door, bypassing the courtesy of knocking—after all, he hadn't extended the same courtesy to you last night. You entered his chambers with your face flushed with agitation.

Inside, Gwayne was not asleep. He sat up in bed, bare-chested with the blankets draped over his hips, revealing that he wore nothing underneath either.

"Princess, what are you doing?" Gwayne asked abruptly, his gaze flickering to the sheerness of your nightgown, which left little to the imagination. It was evident that your attire was not quite appropriate for a princess, but after what Gwayne had witnessed the previous night, your choice of clothing was the least of your concerns.

"You walked in on me last night and now you avoid me all day?" you questioned boldly, lifting your chin as you approached his bedside. Gwayne's hands tightened on the blanket, his discomfort palpable as you drew nearer.

"You should go," he insisted, attempting to avert his eyes from you.

"Why?" You questioned sharply as he approached. "Are you ashamed of me now?"

Gwayne shook his head, you had not yet noticed, and he had hoped you hadn't as he looked away.

"It's not that." he insisted quietly.

Your eyes looked down the look of anger seeming to melt from your face as your eyes noticed the bulge beneath the blankets. He was hard, trying to hide it, but failing to do so.

"Please leave." He was begging with all restraint he had. Gwayne could not even look you in the eye as he kept the blankets around him.

You stood there for a moment unsure how to approach but desire beginning to burn between your legs as you looked to him.

"Do you desire me, uncle?" You questioned moving closer to him as a hand gently touched his thigh grabbing a handful of the sheets he was using to cover himself.

"It is wrong- I should not." He said, answering your question without actually answering your question. It was enough for you, his grip tightening to hold the sheets in place as you carefully slid one leg up on the bed, allowing it to rest on one side of him. Gwayne showed restraint, but only little.

"Who says?" you questioned, eyes staring into his as he finally had enough gull to look at you.

"The Gods." he declared. "Common law-" he tried to say with some reason, the one thread of restraint still holding on within him.

"Fuck the Gods," You declared as your hand gave a gentle pull at the sheets. "Fuck Common Law-" He continued to hold on as you pulled. "And fuck me." you said nearly pleading.

Gwayne held the blankets for a moment longer as his eyes looked to you. "You are a maiden, are you not?" He questioned unsure in this moment based on your behavior.

"I am." you declared honestly as you looked to him.

"I can not deflower my own niece." He said allowing a moment of pride to shield him.

"I do not want my first time to be with some lord that I am married off to as a bargaining chip." You insisted nearly pleading. "I desire you, uncle and you desire me." You declared, his grip on the sheet loosening.

Gwayne battled with himself for a moment, but only for a moment, for his strong hands would reach for your face, pulling you gently to meet his lips. Your body pulled onto him as your lips met his. Gwayne kissed your lips with the hunger of a starved man, his hands moved to your night gown and pulled it up, parting his lips to discard it from your body leaving you exposed to him.

He wasted little time in pushing you down onto the mattress, allowing himself to rest above you. In the moon light he took in your bare figure, soon peppering kisses between the valley of your breast and down your body to your cunt. His lips would kiss down to your bud before he grabbed onto your hips. Pulling your thighs to rest on his shoulders as his face pushed into your cunt in a way a pillow never could. It was by this that you were already squirming, back arching at his touch.

Gwayne would not hesitate to allow his tongue to lay flat against your flushed sensitive bud, your hips pushing down slightly as he tried to keep you in place with his grip. Gwayne would lick slowly, tasting your virgin cunt as if it was a delicacy, something he was determine to savor.

Soft moans left your lips as his tongue continued to work against your dripping cunt. Gwayne was carefully when he inserted a finger inside of you. He did not dare to put more than one for with just one finger he could feel how incredibly tight you were. a realization that caused his cock to ache.

Gwayne would slowly pump his finger in and out of you as you moaned loudly, your hands becoming entangled in his long locks, and your thighs pushing shut against him. Gwayne wanted to question you, to ask how you were so sensitive, why you tasted so sweet- but he could not bring himself to remove his tongue if the king himself demanded it.

There would be a hot coil inside of you that would form, growing tighter, as your wet cunt clenched around his finger, and within a moment the coil snapped. A warm orgasm flushing over you as your thighs squeezed his head without mercy, soft tears fell from your eyes as you came down from your high. You were panting as your thighs loosened, Gwayne would pull his finger from you before sticking it in his mouth to suck in clean of your sweet juices.

The two of you locked eyes as you stared at one another for a moment. His hard cock pushed against the inside of your thigh as he debated if he should go through with this.

"We shouldn't." Gwayne gave a small fight once more for the sake of his honor and your own.

"Who would know?" You offered a simple excuse, hoping he would not declare the gods again.

"Who would know . . ." he repeated before he nodded. "You're right. Who would know." Gwayne reasoned as he grabbed his cock as he had carefully begun to move it against the wet folds of your cunt.

"You could drink moon tea after." he suggested again as you nodded in response.

"You're sure?" he asked again his blue eyes looking to you with tender concern but also the last bit of restraint he had in him.

"I am." You said as you pushed yourself down on him slightly causing him to groan.

Gwayne could wait no longer and therefore he lined himself up at your entrance and gently he begun to penetrate you, sliding into your wet cunt slowly.

Your back arched at the feeling of him filling you, he stilled, with only part of himself in you.

"More." You whined out in a demand as you waited for him to fill you completely.

"Patient, princess. Please- I do not wish to be spent so soon." Gwayne insisted, he had slowly begun to push into you. Your legs would soon tighten around his waist, forcing him to put the rest of himself in. A moan came from the both of you as he would soon begin to move slowly.

"Gods, you're so tight." He groaned as he slowly thrusted in and out of you at a slow rate, doing his best not to spill himself inside of you this early.

Gwayne would allow his thumb to return to your swollen bulb, rubbing it softly as he continued to fuck you at a slow and passionate rate. Despite the slow thrust he pushed deep into your warm velvet walls each time, enjoying the feeling of you squeezing his entire length.

Gwayne would continue at this slow rate as you cried out, soon lewd sounds of your wetness would fill the room mixed with your moans.

"I want to be on top." You pleaded, his hips stilled with hesitation. "Please." you begged.

Gwayne hesitated, but even he could not resist. He pulled out of you slowly before allowing his body to fall onto the bed. You wasted no time climbing on top of him and taking his length in your hand. Carefully you lowered your hips onto him.

"Fuck." Gwayne would groan at the sight of you above him. The vision of a Targaryen princess nude above him, as your hips begun to feverishly bounce on his cock. It took everything in him to not spill himself in you at this very moment.

"Princess, please." He pleaded his hands grabbing on your waist to try and slow you down but it was no use, you used him. Moving your hips quickly as you looked to him.

"Hold on, uncle. I'm almost there." You would insisted in a moan as you continued, the feeling of him throbbing inside of you as you fucked yourself on him was enough to let out a cry of pleasure.

"Please get off . . . "He begged, "I shouldn't . . . not inside of you." He insisted more as he tried to steady your hips, though as you moved he relented.

Gwayne could not hold himself back any longer, his fingers dug into your flesh as he came deep inside you. You continued as he filled you with his warm seed. Allowing yourself to fuck every last drop inside of you, peeking your own orgasm that caused Gwayne to grit his teeth. You would roll your hips over him, riding out your high before falling helplessly on the bed next to him. His seed spilling onto your plush thighs.

Gwayne panted as he had looked over to you with soft affection. "I'll have the maester make you moon tea in the morning." he insisted as you looked over to him with a small smile.

"Perhaps if you seed me with your child mother would be forced to marry me to you." You offered looking to him next to you in the bed.

"Or she would have my head." he offered back.

When morning came you were nearly limping as you joined Daeron at the breakfast table, he seemed somewhat restless as he picked at the eggs on his plate.

"There you are." He declared looking to you with dark shadows surrounding his eyes.

"You look like shit." You declared to him with no one else around, he looked to you with somewhat of a resenting look.

"Yeah, well if you're going to fuck our uncle again could you at least keep it down." Daeron declared.

You froze at his comment, you were going to muster up some kind of denial but Daeron spoke again.

"My chambers are on the other side of Uncle Gwaynes." He informed you.

[coolllb0]

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[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

mornings with suguru feel like a pipe dream.

there’s something honeyed in the air, bleeding into the scent of freshly brewed espresso, fried eggs resting on the stove, newly bought flowers on the windowsill — apricot nectar heavy on your tongue, dripping down your lip in a sticky stream. his thumb reaches over to wipe it away before you can even try.

suguru is sitting right in front of you, looking like what dreams are made of. eyes a little bleary, mind still sinking into the reality of morning, hair put up into a messy bun; raven strands tickling his forehead and framing his eyes, warm and fond, a nice mocha brown. he’s wearing a white button-up, the scent of laundry detergent seeping into the fabric. he’s smiling, and you’re so in love you can barely breathe.

he always wakes up before you. always has breakfast prepared, or half-done, by the time you stumble into the kitchen on unsteady feet — you love clinging to his back while he cooks. but you love this even more.

outside the frail glass of your window, the world is subdued by the changing seasons. autumn is in full bloom, the sky enveloped by wet, molten clouds, a light layer of mist; on the ground are a row of golden trees. it’s a cozy, indoor kind of morning, the kind that makes your veins feel all sleepy, heart all tender, as if melted down by the gentle rain — the kind that has you sipping from your cup, rubbing your eyes, watching your fiancé from across the kitchen table.

there’s nectar on your tongue, espresso behind your teeth, and you wish you could open your mouth and speak. but you’re too tired, still far too groggy — far too sentimental. you can scarcely breathe. you can only sit there, and silently think: i could never love anyone like you. could never even come close.

do you have any idea what i’d do for you?

you’re sure he doesn’t. sure he prefers to see himself as your protector, not the other way around — that he’s most comfortable being a caretaker, rather than someone who gets taken care of. you know how he is. it’s in everything; the cup of coffee he made for you, the shirt he draped over you last night. his own, always, as if he thinks the fabric will bring you sweet dreams. it’s in the way he holds your hand when you cross the sidewalk, the way his thumb rubs over your knuckles when you’re anxious. it’s in the rain, gentle and comforting, watering your plant-like heart.

there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him.

nothing. absolutely nothing.

i’d drink a million cups of coffee, one after the other — i’d run out in the rain and pluck the apricots from every tree. i’d listen to that song you like. i’d listen to it until my eardrums bleed, and still wouldn’t stop.

nothing, nothing, nothing.

he turns his head, to gaze out the window, his bangs swaying gently as he does — and your gaze gulps down the lines of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, every flutter of his lashes. he parts his lips, and murmurs something about the weather. he’s smiling, a soft curve, his eyes just barely crinkled —

and you can’t breathe.

you’re so lovely it kills me.

your chest aches with yearning. you want to reach across the table and touch him, but you’re still too immobilized by how beautiful he is, how intense this love has come to feel. how devastating it is, to have this kind of life, to know you can do nothing but savour every bit of it. you can’t stop staring, drinking in his softened features, that content look in his amber-coloured eyes — the rasp under his velvety voice. your baby, your angel, your sun. 

(you want him to shine forever.)

when you look down at the table, there’s an open palm waiting for you. smooth skin, soft lines, gleaming under the dim glow of the kitchen lights. 

you look up, and suguru smiles.

he doesn’t speak until you’ve lifted your hand, tangled your fingers together with his. it feels good, the skin to skin contact, the sight of your rings pressed up against one another. his thumb begins to rub gentle circles into the knots of your knuckles, just the same as always. soothing, rhythmic, a mantra you’ve learned by heart.

”something on your mind?” he asks, softly.

(everything.)

”nothing,” you answer, a quiet lull of your tongue, averting your gaze with a heat to your ears. it’s too early for him to be so gorgeous, to aim his unbridled attention in your direction. ”i just love you…”

his lashes flutter, for a moment.

then his mind catches up to your words, and he laughs — breathy and sweet, the slightest gravelly residue. squeezing your palm in his own.

”i love you too,” he croons, lips curled upwards, and you swear you could never tire of hearing him say those words. ”is someone still a little tired, hm?”

”… maybe.”

a low chuckle. he tugs at your hand, gently, bringing it his lips; they’re warm against your skin, his hot breath seeping out, gliding across your knuckles, stopping right by your ring finger. his eyes gleam with mirth, like the golden leaves just outside your window, pressed against the glass. his voice comes out as a purr. ”do you need another cup, my love?”

his lips trails down, all the way to your wrist, catching onto your pulsepoint. you can’t help but shiver.

”or should i wake you up just like this?”

he’s smiling, and something about it seems smug. he knows exactly how weak you are. and he must think he’s flustering you, acting so suave — but that’s not quite it. when he’s tilting his head like that, he looks more like a puppy than anything, so cute you think you might just melt right through the floorboards.

through the sleepy haze of your mind, to the tips of your fingers — your brain retaliates.

you tug his hand back, bringing yours with it; all the way to your puckered lips. lazily smearing a kiss on the inside of his palm, just barely catching the hitch of his breath, the inhale his heartbeat deigns to swallow down. it makes you smile, against his skin.

(and the tips of his ears bloom with heat.)

everything i need is you. the words are silent, unspoken, only barely mouthed against his skin. i don’t need the rain or the sun. just you, only you. 

when you pull away, your intertwined fingers finding their way back to the tablecloth, suguru gives you another smile. almost painfully tender.

you can’t help but feed into each other, like this. on sleepy mornings, when the words don’t come as easy, so actions are all you have. that, and loving gazes. all you can think is that you want more autumn mornings; you don’t want any of them to end before you’ve finished sipping from your cup of espresso, finished watching him from across the table. not until you’ve woken up enough to spill the words helplessly building up in the back of your throat, the butterflies stuffed in between your ribs. 

until then, this morning mantra will have no choice but to continue. until then, you’ll opt to stay silent.

until then, all you can do is stare.

(and all your mind can think, is nothing, nothing, could ever measure up to this. nothing in the world.)

[kirannair]

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[hurtspideyparker]

Thinking about restless spirit Tony Stark who just can't move on to the after life.

The first thing he does once he realizes he's an apparition is check on Pepper and Morgan. True to their word, they're okay. He watches them for a bit but feels this deep unrest pulling him away from the quaint home he yearns for.

There's a deep wrongness within him, some unfinished business that draws him back to New York.

He fears for a moment that it's Peter- but no, it can't be him. He'll be in Massachusetts right now, attending MIT as a freshman. There isn't a doubt in Tony's mind that his little genius is already making his mark.

Still, he follows the pull of his spirit to some dingy Queens' apartment he's never been to before.

It's deep in the night yet the apartment is empty. He looks around a bit, his body phasing through anything he attempts to touch.

It's small and dirty. There's old coffee cups on the desk, alongside a couple GED manuals. Great, the universe thinks he has unfinished business with some broke high school dropout.

He's pondering how he must have screwed up this kid's life; was it the Avengers, Stark Industries? Maybe his old playboy lifestyle is finally coming to bite him in the ass.

His contemplation is cut short by the sound of the window cracking open.

It strikes Tony for a moment that maybe he's stuck on Earth to be a guardian angel, Iron Man living on as some invisible protector against whatever creep is sneaking into people's windows. It doesn't make much sense considering the whole non-corporeal thing, but he still stiffens like he's ready for a fight.

He sees a man- no, a thing? A creature maybe, or an alien. Even in death Tony can't escape being one of Earth's mightiest heroes.

The creature is shrouded in darkness, something slick and bald crawling inside the room with terrifying grace and silence. It shuts the window with a soft kssssh as the seal is formed.

And then it pulls off its mask.

There, with the click of a table lamp, glows the face of Peter Parker.

He's definitely older now; sturdier shoulders, a rugged set of his jaw, hair tamed to something semi-professional. Still present, though, are those gentle brown eyes.

Nothing makes sense right now. Why is his kid here, in this apartment? Surely May wouldn't allow this. How many tenant laws does this place break? Where are his little sidekick friends? And on what planet would Peter Parker ever need a GED?

Tony's getting angry now, watching Peter move around the tiny space. He changes out of his costume and into pajamas. That spider suit isn't Tony's suit, it looks like cheap craft store fabric.

The kid opens a small freezer and pulls out the singular bag of peas that reside in there, pressing it against his ribs while he goes to pop some bread into a toaster.

Tony takes note of every glimpse he gains into Peter's life. Empty cabinets when he reaches for a jar of peanut butter. A fridge housing nothing but condiments and energy drinks when he goes to grab jam. A drawer with two spoons, no forks, and a paring knife which he pulls out and sticks into the strawberry jam jar just as the toast pops.

This is all so wrong.

Tony's outrage is coming to a rolling boil. Peter deserves the world- he was gonna give him the world. He couldn't wait to send Peter to MIT and show him off as his protégé. Tony was gonna fund his projects, tease him about pretty girls, maybe even see him step back from Spider-Man and act like a normal college kid. He wanted to see him flourish and grow up. It was all he could think about when Peter turned to dust between his fingers; he should be goofing off with his friends at a mathletes meeting, or building Legos, not fighting an intergalactic war.

Tony couldn't even conceive how much went wrong to end up here.

Alone. Broke. No school. He didn't even have his Stark suit to protect him. Everything that made him him has been stripped, leaving him in this shallow box with scuffed paint and hollow cabinets.

Tony can feel the violent rage burn deep in his spirit as he thinks about it.

This is why he's here. He can't let his boy live like this, wasting his potential to be some villain's punching bag. Where is everyone? Does no one care enough to stop this? The fury that builds in Tony is dangerous, wondering why a dead man is the only one who cares about the teen's life right now.

Without thinking Tony's hand reaches for the GED textbook, a mocking piece of work that laughs in his face, and throws it at the stupid little kitchenette that's mere feet from the bed.

It sails across the room with surprising speed before it's met with a thunk against Peter's palm, hand reaching out to catch it from the air before it collided with the toaster.

Oh.

Peter sets the book down and immediately picks up his web shooters, eyes darting furiously to every corner of the tiny apartment.

"Who's there?"

Tony steps a little closer but Peter's eyes just look right past him.

"C'mon Pete, c'mon. I'm here, I'm right here."

Tony looks for something else to grab. He swats at a hopefully empty coffee cup on the wooden desk, but his hand just passes right through it.

"Shit," the hope Tony felt waivers slightly and he tries again.

Nothing.

Peter is searching his apartment now, making sure the window is secure and feeling around every crevice, bookshelves, under the bed, in the top corners of the room. Searching for something nefarious, tech maybe.

Tony hits the cup, again and again, frustration building up and up and up till-

The cup flies across the room, Tony and Peter's eyes track its movements as it bounces against the ground and rolls to a stop.

"Shit," Peter breathes out.

Tony walks up to Peter now, standing before him.

"Figure it out. Think kid, you've met aliens, gods, magicians, surely ghosts aren't too far fetched."

Peter closes his eyes. His posture straightens, Tony watches him take a deep breath in as the hairs on his bare arms stand on end.

Peter's eyes blink open, and they're looking directly at Tony.

Tony smirks, "that's it."

Peter turns around and picks the cup off the ground, running to his desk with it and ripping a piece of lined paper out of a notebook and scribbling furiously on it.

Tony walks over as Peter places the cup in the center of the paper.

On the left is the word YES in bold print, NO on the right.

"Okay, okay okay. So, move the cup if, if you wanna talk. Um, is there someone in the room right now?"

Tony reaches for the cup, an intense glare as his fingertips graze it gently. It shifts minutely towards the YES.

"Shit! Shit. Sorry, whew. Okay. Are you friendly?"

Tony moves it to YES again.

"Are you a, um. Person? Like not an alien?"

YES.

"Are you wearing tech, invisibility suit or your molecules are uncalibrated or maybe it's a portal thing like, multiverse shit is happening again, a mirror universe! Oh, maybe a..."

Tony let's a frustrated sign. The kid is too practical, logical. He needs to think like a non-genius.

"... could be. Or, or maybe you're just a ghost-"

Tony perks up and immediately swats the cup, causing it to fly off the desk towards the YES.

"Oh. Oh that's... kinda normal. Or maybe really weird? I mean... I certainly have some ghosts in my past."

Peter picks the cup up and puts it back on the desk.

"Do I know you?"

YES.

"You said you were friendly, and I'm not getting any danger tingles from you. I'm gonna start with people I know are dead, cuz I just really hope you're not a... new ghost. Um. M-May?"

The boy's voice cracks on the word and Tony freezes. May is dead? Tony starts to fear that things are a lot more wrong than he previously thought.

Peter's breath catches and Tony realizes he's waiting, dying for an answer, and quickly pokes the cup towards NO.

Peter's shoulders sag.

"Uncle Ben?"

NO.

"T- Mr. Stark?"

Tony grins, "now we're getting somewhere!"

YES.

Tony is going to have his work cut out for him, but being here with Peter just feels right.

Peter breaks out into a matching smile.

"Wow, okay. I think I'm gonna need more paper," he says as the boy gets to work making a more complex system than YES and NO.

Tony watches on proudly, reminiscing about all the great Peter was and all the great he still is, despite his situation. Whatever this is, they'll figure it out.

Together.

[pearlessance]

A Dance In The Dark

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: Joel has always taken care of you. Always been your kind, attentive protector. And that doesn’t change, even when you read a scene from a dark romance novel and discover your tastes may be a bit more sordid than you once thought. But even in this he wants to grant you your every wish—and when he offers to put on a mask and chase you through the woods, the opportunity is just too wicked to pass up.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content MDNI, feelings of embarrassment and shame, established relationship, Joel ties readers hands with his belt, knife play, BDSM undertones (primal play specifically), sexual aggression, degradation, fingering, p in v, hair pulling, shameless smut this is basically just pure filth

NOTE: this is a cowrite i did with joelmillersgirlfriend! we busted this out in less than two days because i was bound and determined to get this published on the best holiday of the year! please check out her stuff over on AO3 where we have several other cowrites because i love her 🩷

happy halloween my loves 🩷

Read on AO3!

MASTERLIST

You don’t tell him right away. Don’t tell him at all, really. 

Joel discovers your peculiar fascination all on his own.

He’s late coming home from work. His dinner sits on a plate in the microwave, leftovers packaged and put in the fridge for his lunch tomorrow. His lack of punctuality is nothing new, but you’ve always been good at filling the time and finding a distraction while you wait for him. 

On this particular night, you’ve changed out of your clothes and into one of his T-shirts, nestled into a soft cocoon on his side of the bed, book in hand. The tea in your mug on your nightstand has gone tepid, too lost between the pages to consume anything but the content in a timely manner. 

You’d found it in the horror section, a book written by a name you’d never heard of, a story of a young woman’s abduction with overarching themes of perseverance and self-discovery. You find it a bit graphic from time to time, the details of her torment vivid and lifelike. But that’s to be expected in a horror novel and doesn’t surprise you.

The part that does surprise you, however, is the romantic undercurrent between the woman and her captor. He makes declarations of love, fully admitting his obsession with the young woman, claiming to want nothing from her but her own empowerment.

It’s an even bigger surprise when you reach the halfway point and discover that your horror novel is also an erotica. And the text is well-written, pulling you into its depths, and you think it might be the craziest yet best book you’ve ever read if for nothing else than the way it makes your heart race behind your ribcage.

“Is it that good?”

His voice startles you so badly the book falls from your hands and into your lap. “What?”

Joel laughs, a soft sound of amusement. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, toeing off his shoes. He leans over the edge of the bed to press his lips to your forehead, and you find yourself swimming in the subtle affection.

And you know it’s because you’ve been reading smut for the last three hours straight, but the feel of his lips against your skin is heavenly. You abandon the book, tucking the edge of the dust jacket inside the pages to mark your place and discarding it onto the nightstand. It’s second nature as you twist your hands into the soft fabric of his flannel and pull him close.

He smells like pine and sawdust and sweat. His hands are rough and calloused as he cradles your face, lips turning upwards against yours. When you deepen the kiss, sliding your soft tongue against his, Joel laughs again, a little darker this time. He pulls away and the loss makes you whimper because you need him. And the bastard knows it. Because when his gaze roams over your face, lingering on your lips, there’s a heavy undertone of lust behind the playfulness. “S’alright, sweet girl,” he says gently. “None of that whinin’. M’gonna take care of you like I always do. Just wanna know what’s brought this on is all.”

You’re not sure you can admit the truth to him. And even more than that, you don’t have the words to explain that what’s got you so worked up is a scene in your book where the main character is being chased through the woods, her captor wearing a Halloween mask, under the pretense that if he catches her, he’s going to fuck her. Your cheeks warm at just the idea of such an admission, so instead you say, “I just missed you is all.”

Joel doesn’t believe it for a second. He knows you like the back of his hand and sees easily through the lie. And when he glances at your book on the nightstand twice, you know you’ve been caught before he even says a word. “Thought that was one of those scary books you like.”

“It is,” you tell him. Because, technically, it’s the truth.

He narrows his eyes at you, that all-knowing smirk still plastered on his face. “Yeah? Bein’ scared’s what’s got you all squirmy like this?”

As much as you’d like to deny it, to argue his assessment, Joel leans over a little further and his weight on top of you, heavy and sure and safe, makes your breath catch in your lungs. Warmth pools low in your belly and that low, husky tone in his voice only makes matters worse. 

“Think whatever’s in that book’s got you all worked up. What’s it about, baby? Hm?” Joel shoves the blanket out of the way and slides his hand between your body and his. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the feeling of his hands on you, the contrast of his roughness against all your softest parts. It’s like the first time every time, and you can feel the steady thump of your heart as it hammers behind your sternum.

Heat rises up your chest when his hand touches your favorite spot, already knowing what he’s going to say. You’re drenched, the insides of your thighs slick with excitement. Joel breathes out a tell-tale hiss at the feeling, pulling back to glance down at you. Humor is suddenly nowhere to be found on his face, no smirks or teasing words. Just dark, hot lust, turning Joel’s eyes black.

“Christ,” Joel groans, continuing to explore between your legs. 

You don’t want to tell him what the book’s about, and thankfully he seems to forget he’d asked the question as his long fingers find their place, curling inside of you. 

Joel keeps his promise. He takes care of the ache for you like he always does. He makes you finish on his fingers and his tongue and when he finally sinks deep inside you it feels like relief. You warm up leftovers for him afterward, and he doesn’t pressure you about talking about your book. Instead, he tells you about his day while the two of you sit at the kitchen table and the light of his love fills you from the inside out.

You finish the book in less than two days, but its content lives in your head for far longer. 

Showering, cooking, running errands - you find yourself thinking about that scene in the woods so often you begin to wonder if it’s altered your brain chemistry.

That weekend you go out for drinks with a couple of girlfriends, letting Joel know you’ll likely be late coming home. He makes you promise to call him if you need a ride and says he’s going to invite Tommy over to watch the game.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Joel’s little brother practically lived with the two of you until Maria stepped into the picture, and you pinky swear to call if you need him.

You don’t, though. You spend more time gossiping and laughing and catching up than you do drinking. But it’s dark when you pull into the driveway, and though you don’t see Tommy’s truck you assume Joel might have picked him up and you fully expect to see him standing in your kitchen with a hand in the fridge grabbing another beer. 

Tommy’s nowhere to be found, though. And there’s no referee calling shots on the flat screen. There’s no sound at all, in fact. At first, it alarms you. But then you see Joel sprawled out on the couch in sweatpants and a navy blue t-shirt with a book in his hand.

He glances up from the pages only long enough to smile up at you and say, “Hey, sweetheart. Have a good time?”

You hesitate, watching him from where you stand at the doorway. Joel read occasionally, but only if he needed to. If he wanted to learn a new song on guitar, if he had taken on a new car project and had to teach himself how to repair it. He didn’t read for luxury.

“Yeah, it was nice. What about you? Where’s Tommy?” you questioned, tiptoeing over to where Joel was spread out. The book was positioned in a way that didn’t allow you to see its cover, but it most definitely wasn’t one of Joel’s manuals. 

Joel turned to grin at you, his eyes scanning your body, stopping to look at the frown on your lips. 

“He canceled, ditched me to hang out with Maria,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. Your frown deepened as you moved closer to Joel, still eyeing the book in his hand that was conveniently covered by his large palms. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve come back sooner,” you said, reaching down to run your palm through his gray-streaked hair. You had convinced him to stop touching up his roots, some sick part of you loving how mature he looked. 

“I didn’t wanna interrupt. ‘Sides, I wanted to see what got you all worked up the other night,” Joel explained casually, finally exposing the book he was holding. All of the colors left your face as you processed what was happening, that he was more than halfway done with the story. Joel was well into reading the disturbing erotica, but somehow still hadn’t put it down. 

“This is some dark stuff. You’re telling me that this is what had you drippin’? Had you clenched around me, legs shaking?” Joel asked, breaking heavy eye contact with you to go back to reading.

“Come on, Joel. Give it back,” you whined, reaching down to pull it out of his hands. The word embarrassed didn’t cover how you truly felt. Mortified was a better fit.

He wrestled around in your hold, turning his back to you and shielding the book with his body. “Not yet, I’m just about to reach the good part. I wanna know what happens when he catches her.”

Maybe not mortified. You were fucking humiliated. Tears threatened to spill as you reached down, pawing at Joel’s arms to grab the book. “Stop it. It’s just a stupid fantasy, I know it’s dumb.”

Joel glanced back to see the wetness filling your eyes, instantly releasing his grip so you could take the book back. His large palm reached up to cradle your face, to comfort you.

“Hey now, I never said it was dumb. I didn’t mean to upset you. I guess I never really knew you were into that kind of stuff. Nothing’s wrong with it.”

His words are sincere and make you feel a little bit better, but you still feel ashamed that Joel had read the book. You know he’d never judge you, but it feels like your closest kept secret has been thrust into the light without your permission. Warmth spreads over your face, down your neck, twisting your stomach into knots. “I know but I…I just didn’t expect you to read it.”

“Then I won’t,” he says quickly, pushing himself up off the couch. He places a warm hand on the side of your neck and says again, “I won’t. I promise. No tears baby, alright?”

You nod and sniffle, trusting him, knowing that his words hold sincerity. Exhaling a long breath, you try to shove the mortification away and focus instead on this man before you who loves you enough to learn everything about you, even the things best kept hidden. 

Joel gives you the book and you shove it in the back of your side of the closet, hidden beneath a shoe box. He helps you out of your dress and showers with you, washing your hair while you tell him all about girls’ night and the newest gossip.

After, when you’re both cozy in bed, wrapped up tight in his strong arms, stealing his warmth with your cold feet against his legs, you think maybe you might’ve overreacted about the book. You know Joel would never judge you, not even about this. You think maybe the embarrassment comes from somewhere within, that maybe it’s more like insecurity than shame. And so you say, “I’m sorry about earlier. You can finish the story if you want.”

Joel presses a kiss into your hair. “Not really my type of book, anyhow.”

Even though he says it mostly to comfort you, the words make you laugh. You bury your face into the crook of his neck and can feel the vibration of his amusement as he shares the moment with you.

And when you both settle enough to speak again, his voice is a little quieter as he asks, “You want me to do that to you?”

This time you fight your shame. Wrap it up tight and store it away for something else, something more worthy than a peculiar taste. You think about yourself in place of the main character, running between thick tree trunks with dead leaves crunching beneath your feet. 

You think of Joel in place of the woman’s captor, mask over his face, presence dark and looming as he seeks you out. A shiver runs down your spine, so sharp and demanding that your body trembles in his hold. 

“S’okay if you do,” he murmurs. You can feel each word through his chest, a delicious tremor against your suddenly too-hot skin. Joel lifts his hand and brushes your hair gently away from your face, thumb tracing the outline of your lips. “Know it did somethin’ to you. Turned you real greedy the other day. Hm?”

Arousal pools low in your belly, and you can hear your heart in your ears. You think he could convince you to do anything when he talks like that, voice low and gravelly. “Maybe,” you say. “I don’t know.”

“Read another part,” he whispers. His thumb travels slowly down your chin, over the curve of your jaw, down the column of your throat. “He’s got that switchblade in his hand. Touches her real nice, all sweet and loving. But he keeps that blade right…” Joel drags his index finger slowly across your neck. “ Here .”

The sound that escapes you is more than need, it’s something else entirely; more like desperation. You didn’t think it was possible to want him any more than you already do but this Joel who strikes just the right amount of fear in you? He makes your mouth water, makes you tremble and shake with just the caress of a single touch.

He grips the back of your thigh with his free hand, pulling you close, pressing you tight against the growing erection behind the cotton fabric of his boxers. Joel’s always been insatiable for you, sometimes getting worked up just from staring at you too long. But you begin to wonder if this is something he wants, too. “Should take you out someplace real nice,” he mutters. “Get all dressed up. You can wear that pretty pink sundress I like. Take you out to a nice dinner, treat you so fuckin’ good…an’ when the sun sets, I’d drive you someplace real dark. Let you loose.” 

Even though he’s barely touching you, thumb stroking the skin of your hip gently, your clit pulses between your legs, hips shifting against him of their own accord. Your breath comes fast and labored and you think you’ve never been this fucking wet before—never wanted him so bad . It feels like you can’t think, can’t breathe without it, without Joel . 

“Give you a head start,” he continues. “Long enough for me to put a mask on. Wouldn’t even let you see it ‘til I catch you…An’ I will catch you, sweet girl…but you’d have no way of knowin’ who it was. Could be me. Could be anyone.”

The idea is filthy and disgusting but your body doesn’t seem to mind. Your spine arches, breasts pressing up against his chest. Joel lays there stone still, holding you, letting you rut against him like a woman starved. “ Please ,” is all you manage to choke out. He hardly acknowledges the word, but you can feel the smirk form on his lips against the shell of your ear. 

“I’d fuck the good girl right out of you,” he says. “Fuck you ‘til you’re nothin’ but a dumb little slut.”

“Jesus— Joel .” He's degraded you before, but it’s never been like this, never felt like this. You reach between your bodies and palm his cock in your hand, and a dark laugh leaves him as he helps you. 

In a few quick movements, he pulls himself out of his boxers, shoves your panties to the side, and sinks his cock inside of you, filling you so full it hurts . But you don’t care, because there’s nothing more you need than this, and thankfully he understands. Like he always does . 

Joel fucks you right then and there, whispering filthy things all the while, and you think he’s always understood you. Maybe even more than you’re able to understand yourself. Older and wiser and gracious—always giving you exactly what you need, exactly what you want. 

Before you fall asleep that night, he kisses you softly and asks, “Do you want me to tell you before it happens? To warn you?”

You’re not sure how to answer at first. Because the concept as a whole terrifies you; it’s new and foreign and dangerous. And you think you might need the warning to calm yourself enough to enjoy it. 

But you trust Joel. More than anyone else in the world, you know he’ll always keep you safe. You know he’d never do anything to hurt you. 

And so, you pull the blankets tighter around your shoulders and say, “No. I want it to be a surprise.”

That night, you dream about a man chasing you through darkness whose hands feel more familiar than your own. You think about it for the next week. Daydreaming at work, while you’re making dinner, while you’re driving to run errands. It’s all you can think about, the only thing that fills the gaps of silence in your day-to-day life. 

You wait. And wait. And wait . 

Joel tells you Friday night that he’ll have to work overtime this weekend to make up for a lost part shipment. Nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. Saturday morning he encourages you to sleep in, kisses your forehead before he leaves, tells you he loves you. And despite no inclination from him, you have a feeling that today is the day. 

When you wake up a little while later, the sun casts shadows through the blinds, and you notice that Joel’s placed that pink sundress on his side of the bed. Laid it out for you. 

You shower and groom yourself, mentally preparing for the moment it finally happens. It has to be today. And if Joel is lucky and planned it out right, he’d find out that you opted out of wearing panties underneath the sundress. He’d find you slick, shaved, aching in anticipation. 

He notices your nervous excitement when he comes home from work, late and covered in sweat from a long day. You’re practically bouncing on your heels, having spent the entire day filling the time, waiting for his arrival. The sun had already started to set in the distance - you probably only had about an hour left of the day. 

Please, God, let it be today .

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart. Had an electrician cancel last minute, left me scramblin’ to get the project covered. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he muttered into your lips as he greeted you. His arms wrapped around you, his body warm and hot against the thin fabric of your dress.

“That’s okay,” you say. “Everything go to plan other than that?”

“Sure did. Finally finished up that warehouse over on Cherry Street. Figured I’d go out and celebrate.”

You find yourself deflating at the words. Because, usually, Joel celebrating the end of a big project means the involvement of Tommy, too. And if Tommy’s there, then tonight is decidedly not the night.

Joel seems to notice the change in your demeanor. He places his hand on the side of your face and drags his thumb down your jutting bottom lip, releasing it with a wet pop . “Wouldn’t be a celebration unless I had a pretty little girl to buy a drink, now would it?”

Either way, even if it’s not tonight, you know you’ll enjoy the time with him like you always do. So you shelve your disappointment and timidly ask, “Will it be…just the two of us? Did you want to invite anyone else?”

He shakes his head, a playful spark glinting in his warm eyes. “Nah. Just wanna take my baby out. Give me a minute to change and we’ll head out. Sound good?”

You know your nod of approval probably looks too hopeful, too excited, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not with this golden excitement fills you to the brim, the anticipation making your hands tingle. 

It only takes Joel ten minutes to change out of his work clothes and into a nice pair of jeans and a flannel, but it feels like forever. He asks you about your day while he drives to your favorite restaurant, and listens intently even though you have nothing interesting to say other than the fact that you’ve changed the curtain on the window above the dining room table.

He opens the car door for you and holds your hand as he directs you through the crowd at the restaurant, and orders for you when the waiter comes over. Even though you get the same thing every time, the gesture makes you feel small and safe and cared for.

You drink a glass of wine, and he tries out some sort of hoppy beer. Joel tells you about a song he heard on the radio that he wants to learn on guitar, but while you try to listen all you can think about is what comes after this.

A million thoughts run rampant through your head. He hasn’t said anything about it, hasn’t given you any hints besides laying the sundress out for you, but the rush of it all weighs heavy on your chest. Paired with the lowered inhibitions from the wine and you interrupt him to say, “Joel. Can you just…can you tell me? I changed my mind. I want to know so bad.”

That playfulness returns to his eyes. He tilts his head the smallest bit and leans over the table to hear your whispered words. “Tell you what?”

“You know ,” you insist. “Don’t make me say it here.” Despite the embarrassment that climbs your cheeks as you listen to the chatter around you, you can’t wipe the grin from your face. You try to hide it behind your hand instead. 

“Can’t say I know what you’re gettin’ at here, girl,” he says. But that knowing smirk says otherwise. You can see the challenge in his eyes, the push for you to ask the question you’ve been swallowing down all night. 

Folding your arms on the edge of the table, you lean in as close as you can and ask so softly, “Are you taking me to the woods tonight?”

He smiles—a big, toothy show of enjoyment, and leans back in the booth. Joel’s big, you’ve always known it…but seeing him now, shoulders broad and rugged, arms straining beneath the cotton sleeves of his flannel… God , he makes you weak. You can feel yourself flush beneath his scrutinization. Can feel the familiar stickiness of your arousal begin to gather between your legs, too. “An’ why would I do that, sweetheart? Ain’t nothin’ out there for a little thing like you.”

The wine is sweet on your tongue as you take the last sip and shrug casually, pretending as if your hands don’t tremble with anticipation. You try to put on a show of confidence. “Never know,” you say. “Could be a big, bad wolf out there that needs hunting down.”

Joel laughs at that, but he’s waving down the next waiter he sees for the check.

When you leave the restaurant, you realize now the sun has fully set and the darkness has descended. The moon hands high in the sky, the only illumination granted apart from the headlight of Joel’s truck. He helps you into the passenger side and buckles you in, hands gentle and caring, always taking care of you. 

Pressing a kiss to your shoulder, he asks a single-word question. One you know is likely equally for his comfort as it is yours. “Okay?”

You are. Despite the fear that begins to rise in your chest, knowing the impending events likely to unfold, despite the shadows and the traversing of the unknown, you know that you’ll always be safe with Joel. “I’m good,” you promise.

He drives for far longer than you expect. Past every stoplight, outside of the city limits, weaving through the backroads until you’re well and truly lost. Every time you pass a wooded area you think he’ll slow to a stop, but he doesn’t. And every moment fuels the adrenaline coursing through you, ratcheting both your panic and excitement to immeasurable heights.

When he does finally stop, pulling off to the side of a road you swear you’ve never been down before, your heart is beating so fast you can hear it in your ears. 

He pulls the key from the ignition and the lights cut out, wrapping the both of you in complete darkness. You can make him out just enough, though. Enough to see the predatory look on his face, enough to sense the danger you’ve placed yourself in.

Your mouth goes dry and your brain goes fuzzy as you watch Joel reach into his pants pocket, pulling out a switchblade that glimmers in the moonlight. The small knife makes a snapping noise when it opens, gleaming, taunting you. Excitement buzzed through your body, a nagging voice in the back of your head screaming to run. 

“Better get a move on,” Joel whispers, his face shadowed and lips pressed into a grim line. The energy had shifted so quickly that you were uncertain what to do. Even if you did try to run, you doubted that your shaking body would make it very far. 

A brooding intensity surrounded Joel, and even though he barely moved to reach back and grab something out of the back seat, the air still felt tense with a silent warning. In his free hand was a gas mask, worn and frayed. The round, glass eye lenses were clouded, displaying its years of disuse. He reached up with one hand to slip the mask down his face, leaving only his eyes revealed.

The white-hot heat that was burning through your veins somehow ignited even further when he finally locked eyes with you. Joel’s eyes were narrowed, carrying a different energy behind them; one that was full of mischief and lust. The moment lasted for a couple of beats…

One, two, three…

And then Joel’s hand snapped out, reaching rapidly to lock around your wrist. Thinking, breathing; none of it mattered. The only thing on your mind was running, some animalistic survival instinct that you didn’t know still existed within you taking over. Your wrist easily slipped out of his grip as you flung open the car door, escaping Joel and running into the dark forest.

There was a chill in the air that made your breath fan out in front of you while you ran, your heavy footsteps practically echoing through the woods. Every couple of moments you would stop and glance around, attempting to see through the endless rows of trees. You didn’t see anything and only heard the sound of your own breathing.

Joel could be scary when he wanted to. Like that one time, a couple weeks into knowing him. Some asshole had followed you around the grocery store late one evening, trailing behind aisle after aisle until your hands were shaking in fear. Joel was one of the only people you had befriended in town since you were new to the area. 

He’d showed up five minutes after you’d called him, despite the fact that you knew he lived over ten minutes away. Joel approached the man, and you were grateful that you weren’t the one he was speaking to. Despite not hearing his words from where you were standing, you could see the dark anger on his face, a look that made your blood run cold. 

The guy who was following you left immediately after, scurrying off with his tail between his legs. Joel followed you home in his truck even though your apartment was on the other side of town. He’d never been scary to you .

Until now. 

Joel’s body came out of nowhere, grabbing you and yanking you against him. The switchblade pressed onto your throat, your heartbeat pounding against the cold metal. You couldn’t see Joel since his vice-grip had your back pushed on his chest. 

“You call that running?” he asked, letting his fingers skate down the skin of your thigh, just under the low cut of your sundress. His calloused fingertips caught against your soft skin,  raising higher and higher.

“I think you wanted me to catch you. Here you are, lettin’ me rub on you like the little slut I knew you were. I haven’t even properly touched you yet, but you’re already spreading your legs for me.”

Your face warmed at his degrading words. He was right. The excitement of the story wasn’t only the anticipation, but it was the thrill of the hunt. As much as you wanted Joel to touch you, to make your vision blur just from using his fingers, you knew you couldn’t give in so easily. 

With all of your strength, you push away both of his hands, ripping out of his grip. He reached down to grab you but you snatched his shirt instead, pulling at it fiercely in an attempt to dodge under him. You heard the fabric rip, but you were too afraid to really acknowledge it. 

You took it as an opportunity to escape, dodging Joel’s grasp. You wasted no time in steadying yourself before sprinting away, only sparing a quick glance back to see Joel. His shirt was half ripped, the gas mask blocking any form of expression on his face. 

“Damn, baby,” Joel spoke. He stood, shrugging off his flannel before using the switchblade to finish ripping the fabric of his shirt. “If you wanted me to get naked, you should’ve just said so.”

As much as you wanted to watch the way Joel’s chest flexed in the moonlight, you couldn’t handle any distractions. You had to run.

And you did run for what felt like hours. By the time you stopped for a moment, your heartbeat was in your throat and you could feel a slick mess building between your thighs. Your legs were speckled with dirt and pieces of leaves from the way you were kneeling on the ground, searching for Joel. 

You didn’t see anything extraordinary through the branches of the forest, but you heard something. A snap.

It was enough to get you back on your feet in an attempt to flee.

You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him. Though your eyes betrayed you, you could sense his closeness, could sense the space between you lessening with each passing moment. Sweat beads at your hairline and your panting echoes between the trees.

The cracking sound of wood beneath his heavy work boots cuts through the deafening silence, and you turn abruptly and throw yourself in the opposite direction. But Joel’s fast, too fast . 

He catches up to you in a second, and you know you won’t get lucky twice, yet still you try. You push your legs as hard as you can, running as fast as you can, trying to navigate the uneven terrain.

Joel’s fingertips grasp your shoulder, and you pull away from him so violently you lose your balance, scraping your knees against the rough forest floor.

You quickly turn onto your back, kicking yourself away from him, trying to see through the thick fog of terror in your mind. His slow breaths sound mechanical through the gas mask’s respirator. He looms over you menacingly, looking every bit the wicked man you know he can be.

His shoulders rise and fall slowly, his breaths even while you struggle to catch yours. He tilts his head, a predator indulging in the chase.

And you know right then that you’ve been caught. Stuck in the spider’s web with no hope of extraction. Your voice shakes when you speak. “Joel?”

There’s no softness in him now. None of that gentle ease he always has with you. He lowers himself to the ground, knees on either side of your hips, and grabs for your hands.

You struggle against his hold, even knowing it’s useless. He wraps a calloused palm around your wrists and squeezes tight, and when you buck your hips up against him, trying to wiggle out from beneath his heavy weight, it serves no purpose but to further diminish the little energy remaining in your weary limbs. 

Joel raises your arms above your head, pushing your too-sensitive skin deep into the earth, trapping you in place. You can hear the clicking of his tongue behind the mask. “Stupid little girl,” he says. “Never had a chance. Did you?”

His voice is muffled, deeper. You know it’s Joel. Behind the fear, behind the adrenaline, you know it’s him. But it doesn’t sound like him, not in the way you’re so accustomed to, and it sends a chill down your spine.

He adjusts his position, sliding down your legs just enough to grip the bottom of your dirt-stained sundress and rip it upwards. The air feels like ice against your center, slick with your arousal. You clit pulses with need, despite the way you still fight him, struggling nonsensically in his tight hold. “Look at how fuckin’ wet you are, baby,” he says. “Haven’t even touched you yet an’ that pretty pussy’s just fuckin’ crying for it, ain’t she?”

Your spine bends, arching off the ground. The sounds that leave your mouth are animalistic, a desperate whimpering, a wanton need.

And then suddenly his hand is tangled in your hair, pulling hard at the roots, holding your head up just enough to witness your exposure. “I said look ,” Joel grits out. “Want you to watch just how fuckin’ selfish she is. You listenin’ to me?”

“Yes— yes, ” you choke out. The muscles in your neck strain to keep your head held high enough to see the moment he lets go of your hair. But you heard him loud and clear, and you do just as he says.

His hand slips between your legs, and you fight the urge to let squeeze your eyes shut as his fingers slide over your clit. He circles it roughly and you can feel yourself clench around nothing, your body begging to be filled, begging for Joel . He uses the perfect amount of pressure, deft fingers moving fast, and it takes less than a minute before that familiar warmth begins to trickle in. 

But you want more, you always want more, and so you find yourself lifting your hips upwards, trying to shift his hand lower, trying to let him know right where you need him most. 

Joel laughs. A sick, maniacal sound that sends a cold flood of terror through you. “See? What’d I say? Fuckin’ greedy ,” he says. You know it’s meant to be an insult, but there’s a strange fondness as he says it. An undertone of worship.

You sigh out his name, unable to form another word, forgetting all else that came before this moment, disregarding all things that may come after. All that matters is this, all that matters is him . 

“She wants it so bad,” he murmurs. “An’ I’m gonna give it to her.” His movements are cruel and almost painful as he turns you over, pulling your hips out from under him. Joel shifts your wrists to his other hand and sets them against the small of your back, using his free hand to force your head down. The earthy smell of decaying leaves greets you, and you greedily suck in cold breaths of air, trying to will your heart to slow its racing. 

You can’t see his movements but you can feel him shift behind you, and a second later can hear the familiar clink of his belt buckle and the swish as he rips it from the loops of his jeans. The bite of leather is harsh as he winds it around your wrists, tightening it in a familiar, practiced way.

“Joel,” you breathe out. It sounds like a plea in your ears, and maybe it is. Because everything is too much, too intense . You need all of him, you think. Need the wickedness, that dark thing he’s been hiding all this time. But you need your Joel, too. The one who buckles you in, who kisses your forehead before he leaves for work in the morning. The one you know will always keep you safe, even when he defiles you. “ Joel ,” you say again. 

His hands freeze on your hips, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin as he leans over and presses his cheek to yours. He waits for you to speak, giving you as long as you need to sort through the heightened emotions. 

Your brain feels like mush and you struggle to form a coherent thought that’s more than one or two words strung together. You know you’re terrified. But you know, too, that you don’t want him to stop. And so all you manage to say is a barely audible, “I love you.”

He cradles your head in his hand, thumb stroking gently over your temple. And then he runs his nose over the curve of your jaw, and though he doesn’t say it, doesn’t break the spell he’s so carefully created in order to indulge your wildest fantasies, you know that no one has ever loved anyone the way that Joel Miller loves you. 

But just as quickly as that gentleness appeared, it vanishes into nothing like the fog of your breath in the cold air.

“Gonna show you what happens when little girls roam into the woods,” he says. You can feel his erection as he presses it against you, heavier and harder than you think it’s ever been before. “Can try an’ hunt down the big bad wolf all you want. But if he catches you …”

You’re a trembling mess in his strong hands. His words are the only beacon keeping you grounded, you’re certain of it. 

The metal teeth of his zipper grate as he pulls it down and undoes the button of his jeans, pulling his cock out. He slides the head through your arousal, coating himself in your slick. “Just know, whatever he decides to do with you is gonna hurt .”

And then he’s pushing his length into you in one smooth movement, leaving you no time to adjust to the size of him. The stretch is painful and foreboding, every muscle in your body tensing up at the impact. “ Fuck— oh my God —”

“Can pray all you want, but there’s no one out here to save you,” he spits. Joel doesn’t give you a single second to breathe before he’s rocking his hips into you, setting a punishing pace. You can feel his cock throb inside you, can feel that he’s enjoying this just as much as you are. 

You grit your teeth against the pain of it, fingers flexing in his grip. “ Joel —I can’t—!”

“Yes, you can, baby,” he says, voice low and echoing. “I know you can. So shut up and fuckin’ take it.” He leans over you, pressing the side of your face into the ground. You can taste moss and earth but with each thrust, the pain is quickly subsiding, replaced instead with a blinding pleasure. 

That warmth builds again, coiling around your spine. Pressure builds quickly and you can feel yourself dripping around him, making a mess of the coarse hair above his cock. “Joel— fuck .”

He reaches on hand around your hip, easily finding your clit and strumming it with swift, practiced movements. You clench around him and he lets out a deep groan in response. When he leans forward and tells you, “Open your mouth,” you do so immediately, brain fuzzy and overstimulated, unwilling to do anything unless he tells you to. 

Joel slides two of his fingers into your mouth and shoves them so far down you nearly choke. It’s instinctual when you close your swollen lips around him and suck. 

You can hear the smile in his words as he speaks. “There you go,” he mutters. “Told you how this would go, didn’t I? Told you what would happen. Nothin’ but a dumb little slut for me now, baby, hm? Yeah?” 

All you can do is nod, unable to form a single coherent thought. Your orgasm hits hard and fast, almost unexpected. It washes through you, electricity dancing beneath your prickling skin. Your moans reverberate through the trees, and you’re suddenly glad he’s driven you so far out so no one can hear you. 

“Oh, she likes that ,” Joel says, talking you through it, circling your clit and fucking into you a little harder. “Likes the way it feels to be all full’a me, hm? Yeah, there you go. Gonna give this pretty pussy just what she needs.” 

His rhythm falters, staggering just the smallest bit. And while he’s just given you the best orgasm of your fucking life, there’s something about this that makes you feel finally satisfied, full in a way you’ve never been before.

The moment he bottoms out inside of you, Joel turns you on your back and pulls the mask off of his face. His cheeks are flushed and rosy, but there’s a sense of completion in his eyes that you’re sure is mirrored in your own. He kisses your cheeks, your forehead, the bridge of your nose. 

And all you can say is, “Oh my God.”

Joel laughs. It’s one of those full, good-natured belly laughs. Your favorite kind. “Well? Was I better than your book?”

You cover your face with your hands, muffling your giggles between your fingers. “Much better.”