#Plunder of the Sun

[ennaih]

Every Film I Watch In 2023:

80. Plunder Of The Sun (1953)

[spryfilm]

“Plunder of the Sun” (1953)

“Plunder of the Sun” (1953) Drama Running Time: 82 minutes Written by: Jonathan Latimer Directed by: John Farrow Featuring: Glenn Ford, Diana Lynn, Patricia Medina and Francis L. Sullivan Julie Barnes: “You stood me up because you think I’m a tramp.” Al Colby: “I don’t think you’re a tramp.” Julie Barnes: “Yes you do… cuz I am. I’m a tramp and everybody knows it; Julie the tramp. What’s a…

[telestoapologist]

ohhhh my god. i forgot eramis in a way turned eido against misraaks at some point in the story, and every once in awhile spider would take a little pick of him as well during ketchcrash. so it just. became this gif for a bunch of the missions

[seaslugfanclub]

Disneys Sleepiest Soldier

————————————————————————

The video essay on (Y/N)s phone becomes increasingly blurry as they take a slow bite of their sandwich, trying to keep their eyes open.

Holy shit, they were exhausted.

(Y/N) sat hunched over the break room table, their eyes feeling like lead sinkers and feet pulsing from walking miles around the park. (Y/N) had arrived to their shift already tired, construction work had been done throughout the evening below (Y/N)s apartment—so they didn’t get a lick of sleep the previous night.

And after being in the sun all day, up and walking around tending to both guest and entertainment, they felt like they were going to pass out.

Pausing the video essay, (Y/N) checked the time on their phone, their soul clenching when they saw that they had 5 hours remaining to their shift.

Finishing off their sandwich, they looked at the time again to see they had 20 more minutes left to their lunch break,

“I’ll just take a micro nap, 10 minutes tops…..no one will notice…” (Y/N) reasoned, setting a timer on their phone and resting their head in their arms, almost instantly falling asleep.

————————————————————————

Even though he technically didn’t have to eat or drink, Hades couldn’t resist having a secret martini around this time of day. He had all the ingredients prepped in his room; gin, glass, live worm, all he needed now were the olives that were kept in the employee break room fridge.

Appearing from a cloud of smoke right in front of the refrigerator, the Lord of the Dead retrieved the olives, about to vanish to his room when he noticed a slumped over form in the corner of his eye.

“Well, what do we have here?” Hades mused as he walked over to his favorite park attendant, who was passed out on the break room table.

He loomed above them for a few minutes just appreciating their sleeping form when he noticed how dark the rings under (Y/N)s eyes were, they also looked paler than he remembered.

Now (Y/N) could look like anything and Hades would still find them attractive (the old pervert) but even he hated to admit how corpse like they looked.

“Geez kid….they don’t make things easy for you do they? Poor schmuck.”

Sighing in resignation, Hades swished the olives in his had away with a wisp of smoke, pocketed (Y/N)s phone, and proceeded to lift their limp body into his arms, carrying them bridal style. Once he knew (Y/N) hadn’t waken up from being jostled, he teleporting out of the break room and into the Villains common area.

Being so used to living around dead people, the feeling of warm, living flesh against his cold body was a change that Hades didn’t know was so welcomed until now. It almost hurt to part from (Y/N) as he layed them down onto the sofa in the middle of the room. Hades stared at them for a moment longer, before turning around to leave the room. He needed a stronger drink…

————————————————————————

“Cripes—Silver!? Did you nab my blunderbuss again— oh..”

Hook trotted into the common area, hoping to find and berate Silver for his missing pistol, before cutting himself off when he spotted (Y/N)s sleeping form splayed out on the sofa.

It seems that their exhaustion overpowered Hooks shouting, (Y/N) not even stirring.

Hook slowly approached the couch, looking over His park attendants form with silent wonder. He had never seen (Y/N) asleep before, they were always up and running around the park, confident and energetic. Hook marveled in this rare vulnerability, (Y/N)s sleeping form reminded him of the old renaissance paintings he had plundered with his crew years ago. (Y/N)s face was absent of all emotion, their hair splayed around them—

Wait a minute….

Hook was brought out of his reverie when he noticed how awkward (Y/N)s head was resting against the arm of the sofa. How could his dear attendant sleep without proper pillow!?

“My poor poppet… I’ll set you straight right.”

Hook sped out of the lounge, only to return minutes later with a pillow from his own quarters. He didn’t mind the strange looks from the other villains who were stalking the halls, his only goal was to get back to the common area.

Making sure not to scrape (Y/N) with his hook, the old captain gently lifted (Y/N)s head to place his pillow underneath their neck.

Taking a step back he admired his work, (Y/N) looking much more comfortable lying against his down feathered pillow.

“Sleep well my dear~” he whispered has he stalked out of the room.

————————————————————————

Hans clenched and unclenched his fists, not liking the way his palms felt— being so unused to not wearing his gloves. He rarely takes them off, and of course the only time he does so he misplaced them. He tried to ask around to see if anyone had found his pair of cotton gloves, but like every other time in his life, Hans was ignored.

His last hope in his search was the lounge, praying to Mickey-fucking-Mouse that they had somehow made their way there.

Completely focused on finding his gloves, Hans entered the common area and immediately began rummaging around. He didn’t care if his trousers got dusty or his hair fussed up, he couldn’t bear the feeling of his hands making direct contact with everything.

“Kom igen… var är de?”

Hans’s frustration was finally overwhelming him, about to give up when he noticed a flash of white from underneath the couch.

“Aha! Oh, finally!!”

Hans kneeled to reach under the couch, finally grabbing his beloved gloves and wasted no time in slipping them back on his hands. Relief washing over him, Hans went to stand back up— only to be face to face with (Y/N)’s

He flinched back, stumbling to his feet. In his mad search for his gloves, he had completely overlooked the sleeping (Y/N).

He titled his head, confused on why 1: (Y/N) is passed out on the villains sofa when they’re in the middle of a shift, and 2: why their head is resting on a satin down pillow that probably costs more than their rent.

Hans was brought out of his thoughts when a noticed a shiver ran up (Y/N)s back, the park attendant squirming.

Huh, he never noticed how chilly the lounge was, probably because he was used to the cold, even the central AC being nothing but white noise to him. Looking at (Y/N) again, he felt a strange squirming in his stomach…

….eh, it’s probably pity.

Tugging on his gloves, he walked over to the common areas closet, where they kept all the cleaning supplies, lightbulbs, untouched board games, and blankets. Groping around until he found something that met his standards, Hans pulled out a knit throw blanket and walked back to the couch.

With a flick of his wrists, the blanket unfurled and fell onto (Y/N)s body, (Y/N) unconsciously burrowing their face into the knit wool. Hans was strangely reminded of the bakers in his castles kitchens, blanketing the tops pies with dough.

Shrugging off the memories, he gave (Y/N) a fleeting look before exiting the lounge, his fists clenching and unclenching.

————————————————————————

The overhead LED lights stung in Frollos eyes, making him wince and rub the bridge of his nose. He used to think Paris as a filthy city, but now what he wouldn’t give to be back in the 15th century.

Trudging down the hall, a pit of anxiety welled in the bottom of his chest, dreading having to go back out in the park and having to… eugh, interact with others.

His procession stopped as he passed the doorway of the common area, turning his head towards the sofa. Checking to make so no one else was near, Frollo approached the couch to look over (Y/N).

If it was anyone else, Frollo would’ve sneered and berated the person for their sloth. Such waste of time and insult to God.

And yet…

It was a rarity to see the park attendant so still, their resting body allowing Frollo to notice details he never saw before; The stray beauty mark on their cheek, a specific strand of hair the coiled around their face, cuts and scrapes that littered their hands…

Frollo huffed, allowing (Y/N) to continue their sleep, about to exit the room when he stopped.

Their (Y/N) laid, their form vulnerable and unprotected, resting amongst those with wicked tendencies. It would go against his “beliefs” to allow evil to take advantage of those unaware.

Reaching into his robe, he pulled out his personal Rosary, the old wooden beads clicking as they hind from his fingers. Delicately, Frollo hung his rosary from the edge of the couch, the cross resting right above (Y/N).

“Procul recedant somnia, Et noctium phantasmata; Hostemque nostrum comprime, Ne polluantur corpora.” Frollo muttered a prayer, signing the cross over (Y/N)s body.

Having so other excuse to stay, Frollo stalked out of the lounge

“dors bien et fais de beaux rêves..”

————————————————————————

Facilier was….well— he wasn’t sure what he was looking at.

(Y/N) sprawled out on the couch, head resting on a pillow that looked like it belonged in Big Daddy La Bouff’s mansion, worn knit blanket draped over their body, and a dingy rosary hanging above their head.

The shadow man stared down at (Y/N), his shadow trying to reach the couch, only to be shocked backwards. Probably the fault of the rosary.

“Ah forget it old sport— let the kid rest,” Facilier chastised his shadow.

The conman recalled seeing (Y/N) stumbling around the park earlier in the day, nodding off while standing. Poor sap must’ve surrendered to their bodies plea for rest.

Facilier’s been known to indulge in a nap once or twice, especially on the sticky summer days back in Orleans… but from personal experience, he always needed total darkness.

“I’ve got no idea how they can sleep with all this light… let’s do the poor Cher a solid. Shadow, cut the lights.”

With the command of his master, Faciliers shadow creeped towards the window on the neighboring wall, pulling down the blinds as Facilier walked over to the light switch, humming to himself.

“..pale moon's shining on the fields below…. The folks are singing songs, soft and loooowww~”

flicking off the overhead lights, the lounge was plunged in darkness.

“Much better, c’mon old sport—” Facilier beckoned his shadow, who gave (Y/N) a longing glance before return to his master.

“You needn't tell me, ‘cause I know… When it's sleepy time down south~”

————————————————————————

(Y/N) sighed in their sleep, nestling into the blanket and pillow. Although they were still fast asleep, far from waking up— they could feel the peace that washed over them. Something only achieved when you’ve reach maximum comfort after strenuous activity.

There were moments in their sleep when they were uncomfortable; neck aching, cold, bad dreams, and bright light stinging behind their eyes. But each time they almost roused from sleep, the problem was always solved, sending them deeper and deeper into the REM cycle.

So there (Y/N) rested, swamped in strange warmth and set to not wake for a long while.

————————————————————————

Can you tell that my love language is acts of service?

I just wanted to write something fluffy, (also I kinda want to write more Hans stuff, an obsession is growing…)

Anyway, enjoy!

[morbidology]

Long before European colonizers arrived in New Zealand, the native Māori people had a deeply rooted tradition of preserving the severed heads of the fallen. Known as mokomokai, these heads were meticulously prepared through a process that involved chopping them off, boiling, smoking, drying them in the sun, and dipping them in shark oil. These preserved heads were then displayed or paraded around as trophies, symbolizing both respect and remembrance for the deceased.

However, the arrival of the British in the 1840s brought significant disruption to this Māori tradition. The British colonizers, intrigued by the cultural artifacts of the Māori, began to pillage the mokomokai for themselves. One prominent figure in this cultural plundering was Major General Horatio Gordon Robley. Serving in the British Army during the New Zealand Land Wars in the 1860s, Robley developed a particular fascination with the Māori and their customs. He notoriously amassed a collection of at least 35 mokomokai, viewing them as exotic curiosities rather than sacred relics.

Robley’s collection, often displayed in his photographs, starkly contrasts the Māori’s reverence for mokomokai. To the Māori, these heads were more than mere trophies; they were treasured remnants of their ancestors, embodying a spiritual connection to their lineage and cultural heritage. The British, however, largely disregarded these cultural significances, treating the mokomokai as commodities. Many were sold to museums and private collectors worldwide, leading to a dispersal that the Māori community is still working to reverse today.

The desecration and commercialization of mokomokai by European colonizers reflect broader themes of cultural exploitation and the disregard for indigenous traditions. Efforts have been made in recent years to repatriate mokomokai to their rightful homes. Institutions and private collectors are increasingly recognizing the importance of returning these sacred items to the Māori, acknowledging the deep spiritual and cultural wounds caused by their removal.

[noxhawthorne]

Abaia

Imagine, if you will, that you’ve gone on a quiet vacation to the islands of Fiji. Feel the sand under your toes, the sun on your skin, the smell of saltwater. You take an excursion, and find a beautiful, deep lake, surrounded by lush greenery. It’s a sweltering day, and the lake looks so inviting.

You walk into the lake, the cool water stinging pleasantly as you go deeper. Eventually you’re floating, unable to feel the ground beneath you. It’s calm, soothing. The local birds sing, the breeze rustles the leaves… you’re relaxed enough to let your eyes close and just drift…

Your feet touch a slippery rock, slick with grime from centuries of being submerged. You pay it no mind… until you notice the layer of grime is thick enough to give, making the rock feel almost squishy. You open your eyes. The birds have stopped singing.

You realize that you aren’t touching the rocking. It’s touching you.

The Abaia. A massive eel of Melanesian mythology, said to live at the bottom of freshwater lakes. The legend comes from the Fiji, Vanuatu, and Solomon Islands, though the exact location varies. There’s not really a specific size given, but, for an idea of what we’re talking about, the average American Eel is 16-33 inches long and about 2.5 pounds. So… bigger than that. Much bigger.

The legend of the Abaia poses it as the guardian of the lake it dwells in, protecting the inhabitants from humans looking to harm them. If a fisherman were to try and get his daily catch from the lake, or if an ignorant tourist were to throw their trash in it, the Abaia will unleash its wrath. Thrashing and twisting, it causes impressive waves that will claim the life of the perpetrator, dragging them down to the depths to remain with the great eel.

There is another version of this legend that claims the Abaia holds control over the weather via magic. The story goes that a fisherman discovered a bountiful lake, full of critters and creatures to sate his village’s hunger. He led the village to this lake, and has them help plunder it of life. The Abaia, upon seeing this, causes a torrential rainstorm, wiping out the village and drowning everyone who had harmed the creatures. The Abaia is often depicted as a motherly being to the inhabitants that share its home.

As someone who knows the basics about various eels, I have to wonder if there is some electrical aspect to this creature. Perhaps its ability to cause storms is caused by a powerful electrical charge. According to the Smithsonian’s National Zoo and Conservation Biology Institute, the Electric Eel has three organs — the main organ, the Sach’s organ, and the Hunter’s organ — that produce electric impulses used for defense, communication, navigation, and hunting. At 6-8 feet long, this eel can generate up to 800 volts of electricity. Is the Abaia electric? Being so massive in size, could its electrical shock cause a storm? It’s unlikely, yes, but an interesting thought to consider.

[wri0thesley]

thinking about jing yuan somnophilia. it's normally him who lets his eyes fall closed when he finds a warm patch of sunlight and a chance to slip away from his work, but when he comes home very early before lunch one day (no matters needing his attention) and finds that you've taken the decision to have a very long lie-in and you're currently spread out across his bed, still in your nightgown with one thigh up high and the chiffon skirts all rucked up around your hips showing him a tantalising glimpse at the curve of your ass and the secret between your thighs . . . how is he supposed to resist?

he pads towards you as quiet as a big cat, humming low in the back of his throat in appreciation of the sight. you're so pretty with the sun dappling your peaceful sleeping face, the gown you chose to sleep in diaphonous and leaving nothing to the imagination. perhaps he even softly gathers your wrists in his (your face twitches and you whine in your sleep, but you allow him to gently manoeuvre you onto your back) and slowly, carefully and not too tightly, ties the red ribbon in his hair around them so that you can't squirm too much whilst he has his fun.

and of course, he cannot help but play a little game with himself as he does it all. it's far more satisfying than a game of starchess; the only one who can be conquered and plundered here is you. but he tells himself he will see how long he can keep you asleep as his big hands curve over your thighs, spread your legs. as his calloused fingers oh-so-softly brush over your slit, coaxing slick forward from you with only the barest feather-light touches. slips one finger inside of you and wins you moaning again, shifting, your cheeks heating up - but though your lashes flicker prettily, your eyes do not open.

when he softly rubs his hard cock all over the lips of your sex, brushing your clit, letting his precome mingle with your own arousal, you whimper his name and cant your hips up and your thighs reflexively tighten about his hips . . . and he knows putting it in you would wake you up, so all he can do is helplessly fuck into your thighs and the valley between the soft plump lips of your labia.

for the first time, he finds himself wanting to lose, if only so he could sheathe himself fully inside of you and give you the fucking you deserve.

[st4rrth0ughts]

not a request per se, i just want to ask— would our dear bladie enjoy being degraded, calling him all the names under the sun as he gets fucked so roughly or would he like to be praised? cooing so lovingly in his ear as he gets overstimulated <3 (also a reminder to take very good care of urself)

-💫

yes. yes he would.

Blade loves, loves, loves being degraded by you, being called a little bitch in heat with how whiney he is, all while your cock splits him open, plundering his cushy, warm walls relentless as he feels your cum fill him, pretty red eyes rolling back as drool spills from his lips.

And when your overstimulating him, he gets so wet again when you coo and praise him, in that mocking, lovely tone that sends butterflies in his stomach and making his once dead heart beat so rapidly it feels like its going to leap out of his fucking chest.

[brewed-pangolin]

Consider lovely charming Soap trying to make an innocent reader swoon for him, all for the reader to unintentionally pull an uno reverse on him. Hes chatting their ear off, talking himself up. All of sudden the reader interrupts him and says that he has the prettiest eyes they've ever seen. Johnny starts to malfunction, he can't talk, his face is going red hot.

Usually he doesn't get so tripped up but it came from such a genuine place, he tongue tied. Instead of him being a cassanova like usual he's just staring at you with the biggest puppy dog eyes and pining for you.

Blue Eyed Casanova

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Fem Reader

18+ MDNI Sexual Themes

Synopsis: Johnny Casanova pulls you in with his eyes, and you shake up his world with nothing but an unconscious whisper.

--

Look, you can't just throw Johnny's eyes out there and not expect me to go a little crazy. His baby blues fill my soul, okay.

I went back and forth on this for a while. Wanted to do a full fic but went for the drabble instead. Hope you like it.

Also including this with @glitterypirateduck SoapItUp Challenge. Used Prompt 29.

Happy Super Soap Sunday 🧼

You never thought you'd be so enthralled by a man while sitting at a coffee shop.

Hanging on every word, ears perking to the subtle nuances of his thick accent. Going all doey eyed as he reminisced about his younger years back home in Glasgow.

Eyes tracking his hands as accentuated his stories with gentle, undulating movements. Glancing every now and then at his luscious lips that just begged to be kissed.

You had to pull yourself back a few times. The urge to lunge over the table and lock him in an embrace, making your skin tingle and stomach churn with overwhelming eagerness.

But it was his eyes. Those gorgeous, cerulean orbs that sparkled like diamonds in the soft light of the morning sun. A blue that enchanted, pulled you into the maelstrom of his soul, and you were nothing but a wading vessel lost in his turbulent sea.

-

"You have such pretty eyes, Johnny," you whispered under your breath. Barely audible.

Johnny froze mid sentence. Hands raised, cupping the bulk of his account between his palms with his mouth agape and eyes twinkling in boyish bewilderment.

"W-what ya say?"

You smiled. Unashamed at being caught by your verbal plunder.

"I said, you've got the prettiest eyes I've ever seen."

Johnny closed the cavern of his gaping mouth with a dramatic gulp. Adam's apple undulating beneath the flesh of his neck as a rosey hue radiated over the circumference of his cheeks.

And those eyes glistened. Exploding waves of color like a supernova within the whites of deep space.

"Uh- me eyes? Ya- ya like me eyes?" He stuttered. That confident Casanova overtaken by childlike astonishment at the most beautiful words he'd ever heard.

"Yeah, Johnny. I do."

"Um, thanks. Got 'em from me mum. She's got th'most hypnotizin' stare I've ever seen. Y'know, the kind that..."

You couldn't help the curl to your mouth as he rambled on once more. The skiddish waiver on his tongue was all the confirmation you needed that your words had had the unconsciously planned impact.

You leaned over, just enough to cup his jaw in your hands to render him silent to your oncoming approachment.

"You talk too much," you purred, just before placing a tender kiss on his welcoming lips.

A subtle moan reverberated deep within his throat, making your eyes flutter closed as it vibrated against your mouth and echoed down the curve of your spine and into the hollow of your core.

The faintest gasp escaped your lips as you felt his tongue beg for entry into your mouth.

Granting him. Tasting him. Savoring the flavor of espresso and last night's whiskey on his breath as the calloused flesh of his palm cupped the supple curve of your jaw.

You wanted more. Needed more. Begged for the world to disappear and let his skilled hands work you over as his mouth greedily devoured your heart and soul.

The last remnant of your sanity made you pull away. A hushed whimper fell from your lips as your eyes cracked open to see the very flushed face of one breathless Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish.

"Steamin Jesus, lass. Was tha' your plan th'whole time? Makin me swoon all over ya, only fer you to get me all wrecked by them pretty words a'yers?"

"Maybe. Did it work?"

He nodded. Eyes swirling, bright blue darkening like an approaching storm.

"Aye. It did."

He leaned in to take your lips once more, yet you halted him. Pressing your fingers to his mouth while you pursed your lips with a knitted brow.

"Not here. Need somewhere more private."

"Why? Cannae I kiss ya out in public?"

A devious smile crept into your lips. Leaning in while simultaneously grabbing at your purse. Bringing your mouth to his ear to mutter the sweetest temptation and force a pleasured shrill down his spine.

"I don't want you to kiss me on my lips up here, Johnny. I want to see how pretty those eyes are gonna look between my thighs."

Drabbles Masterlist

@deadbranch @sofasoap @punishmepunisher @d3athtr4psworld @glitterypirateduck @shotmrmiller @ghosts-goldendoodle @astraluminaaa @writeforfandoms @obligatoryghoststare @homicidal-slvt @jynxmirage @queen-ilmaree @thetrashpossum @tacticalanxiety @simpingoverquestionablemen @mykneeshurt @kkaaaagt @haurasha @havoc973 @luismickydees @foxface013 @designateddeadend

[madkiska]

watching the entirety of jrwi: riptide again. here's some important things from the first few episodes that I feel we forgot (<110 mentions too though)

Jay

Had night terrors similar to those of Kubakinta's curse in episode 5, and they eventually start returning even after Loffinlot's curse is lifted ○ All of them were about her family and/or the navy ○ I simply think people leave her out of the nightmare stuff and she deserves it. Hurt her more, please (he said, lovingly)

was actually very upset at having to use her medal to get a Loffinlot rebellion to shut up ○ This could be because she didn't want them to guess she was a spy, but I choose to believe it's because she felt guilty

"If you're gonna be sailing with someone, you should have a good relationship with them. [nervous chuckle]." She says, while asking him for information about the Black Rose Pirates (ep. 10)

Said "thank god they didn't find me" after a nightmare about the navy attacking. Even when she was supposedly a spy, who one day would have to return to the navy ○ Very unclear if she was scared of her dad, or if it's because she was a secret spy so the navy would've just killed her

Rewatching, she was suspiciously into the plundering and gold and stuff. Like that was real sus. It doesn't fit her current character much

The only one among them who's gambled before

Chip

The entire thing literally starts off with Bizly holding a lit match

Called Gillion "Gill" and Jay "Sureshot" from an early stage

Was SO much more of a bastard. Lied to Gill constantly, didn't care about anything but the money, etc.

Had aggressive hand tremors alongside Jay's night terrors ○ Gill cures it with lay on hands

When he gets drunk married, they talk extensively about how he'd be released when he's dead. Welp.

They did actually break up and it was fine and they were still friends. They parted on good terms

Is really fucking good at chess ○ Beat Earl twice and Jay once. Jay had a point of exhaustion after a nightmare but Earl had no excuse ○ Lost to Gillion though, but only cause of prophetic screwup ○ This kid is smarter than he lets on, y'all

Was the first one to have a backstory dump while Jay is asking him about the Black Rose Pirates, yet still we know jack shit about his life before them other than "orphan"

Gill

Charlie has referred to Gillion with 'they' many times. I can pull receipts.

When describing Gill, Charlie said: "He's more.. elven, if you had to make a comparison. 'Cause I don't wanna be a fish guy". Oh, honey.

Smote a bald person by using his hair as a whip (ep. 4)

Was given anxiety and self-doubt alongside jay's night terrors and chip's tremors ○ "What do you want?" "I want the feeling of satisfaction I've been chasing my whole life." ○ This was episode FIVE.

First mention of the prophecy and how Gillion wasn't their ideal student is ep. 7, after he divine smites + prophetic screwups and deals like 60 damage to some beetles ○ Chip spends the next 30 seconds in gay awe

He refers to the crescent moon Niklaus tattoo as "my zodiac" (probably a bit) ○ It's not a lil basic white girl moon this thing is the entire size of his forearm

Gill had never heard about the Black Sea - it's unclear if the Undersea just don't know, or if that's just how sheltered he was (ep. 10)

Biz: "What would Gillion do. If he just had no goal - was just sitting there." "Gillion always has a goal." "Would his goal ever be to just.. Sit there?" "Absolutely not." ○ Later, Chip expresses that he doesn't know what Gillion likes. What he would want out of winning a bet. Gillion doesn't have an answer

Other

Apple, in a couple of early battles, acted like Gill's familiar (see: ep. 7)

They also pecked at his Niklaus tramp stamp and looked all confused at the idea of eating seeds

The specific crescent of the moon in the Niklaus tattoo is known as a symbol of "corruption" (ep. 9) and its antonym is the sun, for "life", similar to the yin and yang ○ Interesting to consider after what the tree said in 110 <_<

Pretzel has a masters degree in couple's therapy (ep. 10)

The Albatross/Millennium Chipper was described as the colour of rosewood or mahogany

Captain Lizzie's first introduction was a wanted poster, and Chip wanted to turn her in for the prize, then decided to try learn from her instead

Chip/Bizly called Old Man Earl "Erol" for a loooong time ○ Maybe it's an accent thing but I have an uncle called Erol and so this stands out to me

[lola-writes]

One-Eye & the Dreamer

(Aemond's POV)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x O.C Aylana Velaryon

Word Count: 2,2k

Themes & Warnings: slow burn, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, violence, blood, targcest, sexual themes, tension, drama, angst, fix-it of sorts, eventual smut, sexual inexperience, forbidden love, high valyrian, dance of dragons, POV first person

Summary: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Written from Aemond's POV.

More chapters

Gravity had nothing on us, my dear. 

You can’t untie red strings of fate. 

This is how it feels to fall in love with the atmosphere. 

The world surrendered to a symphony of wind.  Turbulence thundered in my ears and whipped my hair untamed as I ascended the skies. Rising higher and higher, the clouds enveloped me in a blinding haze, and the elements of the earth below decreased into a mosaic. I conquered the celestial at such speed that I felt like Aegon reborn. 

Vhagar was an extension of myself, her undulating muscles beneath my straddling body felt as if connected to my own, forcing our masses through the heavens with an effortlessness. I commanded her higher still, and she heeded my command. We defied gravity in a dance of grace and power.

As we approached the stratosphere where air ran thin, I straightened in my saddle, and my mighty Vhagar leveled out, conforming to every delicate change in my movements. The world below became an inverted dreamscape as we sailed the vague interstice that marked the transition between sky and oblivion - the clouds beneath were the unconquered sky, and the indigo above was the ocean, and I was flying upside down. 

Together, Vhagar and I, were limitless.

The memory of when I first claimed her was so potent it eclipsed everything else, real or imagined. It was like walking penniless and finding a mountain of gold at your feet. What was one to do with such power? A power so raw and exhilarating, it consumed. Suddenly, I had no fear. Suddenly, I was not alone…

I leaned into Vhagar’s warmth and she folded her wings against me. We plummeted back down towards the earth, a thrilling drop that sent a jolt of pure ecstasy through my veins. My stomach lurched, and beneath me, Vhagar’s thorax vibrated – a deep, primal roar that resonated through my very bones. In that moment, I mirrored her, a guttural exclaim of pure, unadultered joy escaping my lips.

Never had freedom tasted so sweet.

The force of our descent sliced through the nebulous clouds like a knife through cotton, and as we emerged, the Narrow Sea gaped wide, glittering beneath the noontide sun like a crystal embellished blue silk. I leveled out again and watched Vhagar’s twin loom out of the water. 

In the distance, the seven huge drum-towers, proud sentinels of pale red stone, rose out of the sea on their stony summits, and the tolling bells welcomed me back home. An unfamiliar fleet of ships coasted down Black Water Rush like wooden beads along a blue mesh - an unremarkable observation, as nobles from every corner of the realm had been descending upon King’s Landing for the wedding. They had all come through the gates by horse and carriage, none by sea. 

Traders perhaps? Coming just in time to fortify our stores for the upcoming plunder. 

So many fucking mouths to feed. I had seen them endlessly pour through the castle gates in a river of gold, silver, and polished steel – their banners displaying the sigil of house Lannister, Baratheon, Tully, and I could’ve sworn I saw a direwolf banner among them. Would the Starks truly find a Targaryen wedding of such importance that they would bother dragging themselves out of their frozen pits? It was to be a grand affair, to be sure. A celebration with tourneys, hunts, feasts, and dancing, to last for at least a fortnight.

If I had it my way, I would escape and race the wind on Vhagar. But mother’s orders were a bittersweet curse. We were to be on our best behavior, a euphemism for me babysitting my nuisance of a brother, to ensure he does not imbibe every wine cask in the keep, and to hearten my sweet sister who always grew gauche in social gatherings. 

One could hardly fathom I was the youngest.

But the chief of my worries was Aegon. He already had an inclination of getting unreasonable drunk on a plain day. I shuddered to think of the lengths he might go to in tribute to his own nuptials.

Unease filled my gut.

But it wasn’t the vigil of my siblings that rendered me apprehensive.

As I drew close enough that I could make out the banners, I realized that these were no ordinary trading ships. In fact, these weren’t traders at all. I tugged at the reins and Vhagar gathered air beneath her leather and sprung up high, casting her mighty shadow atop the vessels. 

Memories consumed me like a bad aftertaste. The sigil-emblazoned sails draped across the masts below needed no introduction. The seahorse and the three-headed black dragon caught the wind. 

It could only mean one thing…

The thought got knocked right out of me as a bone-jarring impact to Vhagar’s thorax threw me off my saddle. Her earsplitting roar resounded across the blackwater, as I tumbled down her back. Instinctively, I snagged my wrist through a loop in her saddle ropes, dangling precariously until she steadied herself. I hauled myself back up, heart hammering in my chest, adrenaline pouring into my bloodstream. I scouted the skies for an attacker in a glassy bewilderment, growing acrimoniously aware of my disability. But the firmament was still and empty. 

What in the Seven Hells?

Another blow. It knocked me aslant, and I felt fury consuming me like poison. Gritting my teeth, I gripped the saddle horn and twisted the reins twice ‘round my forearm, and perceived every muscle of Vhagar’s back contracting beneath me, waiting to charge. 

Who would dare challenge me?

A flicker of movement caught my eye. A shape, shrouded beneath Vhagar’s wing membranes, was soaring alongside us. And when I turned to look, my eye met a stranger, masked and cloaked, stalking us on a dragon as black and swift as a raven. But the beast was miniscule in relation, just the age to breathe fire, and yet had nearly forced me to meet the gods. 

Humiliation morphed into a blinding rage that seethed through my veins and marred my vision with a red mist. “Ossēnagon, Vhagar!” Kill. I growled, and steered her toward the trespasser. But the figure crouched down in their saddle, and their dragon dove towards the city. 

Fucking craven.

We went after them. Their descent was swift and inaudible, while mine was slow and thunderous like a moving mountain. The pale orange rooftops of King’s Landing, bleached from the summer’s scorching sun, spread out like a vast rust beneath our darkening shadows. I pursued them to the Hill of Rhaenys, where we landed opposite each other outside the crypts of the dragonpit. 

Dismounting, I started towards them, each step a measured threat. The steel of my dagger sang its lethal warning as I drew it from my scabbard. But the stranger stood their ground, defiance flickering in their shadowed form. My anger, already a simmering cauldron, boiled over. I closed the distance between up, a growl ripping from my throat, raw and primal.

“You!” The word barely a breath before my blade bit their throat. A desperate struggle ensued, but my palm collared the nape of their neck, locking them to the steel. A Kingsguard’s alarming exclaims sounded in the distance, but the words faded underwater. 

“The Stranger requests an audience.” The contiguity drowned my voice into a whisper. I took pleasure in that I towered over them, and felt their hot, humid breath against me, hitching beneath the sharp edge.

“My prince!” Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, came running towards us. His voice, booming like thunder, always sufficed in snapping the whole court to attention. But it wasn’t his timber which stirred me this time. “Let her go!” 

His words carried me out of my raging inferno.

Her?

I blinked through my apprehension and scavenged the stranger’s frame with my eye, as if I’d awoken from a dream and seen them for the first time. A tug, a rustle, and their hood fell back and settled around their shoulders. 

A wave of ice ran down my spine. 

It was like seeing a ghost. The protagonist of all my nightmares coming alive, ready to haunt me. 

Aylana Velaryon.

Her eyes, the color of sunlit amber flicked with gold, held mine with an unsettling intensity. She seemed to see right through me, demanding answers I could not provide. Then, a knowing smile played on her lips.

“Skoros iksos pirta, kepus?” What’s wrong, uncle? A sardonic edge laced her voice. “Gaomagon ao daor gīmigon issa?” Do you not remember me?

The words hit me like a physical blow. I swallowed, stunned by her High Valyrian.

For a moment, I believe I stood petrified, unable to tear my gaze from her, unable to utter a word.

A torrent of questions, accusations, apologies – years of unspoken turmoil – churned within me. But now, with her life literally in my hands, the words deserted me. My tongue, usually an agile weapon, felt like lead. This was the person who had haunted my every waking and sleeping thought for years, and all I could manage was a stunned silence. Perhaps my countenance spoke volumes where my voice failed.

She echoed the girl I remembered, but time had woven its changes. I had to take it all in. Her voice, saccharine and laced with a hint of mockery, was a stark contrast to the playful child I held in memory. Her once youthful features had sharpened, cheekbones higher, lips fuller. Then, my gaze, fell upon the one jarring element – a crimson scar that snaked across her left eyebrow, expressing a raw pink sheen beneath a shell of transparent skin. Years had passed, yet the wound looked fresh.

The accident.

My jaw tightened as venom seethed through my veins.

I could still see her crumpled, lifeless form in the dirt, her skull cracked open, every time I closed my eye.

And I was holding the bloody rock.

Shame coiled in my gut like a suffocating weight. I could not bear to look at her.

“Some things never change,” she said facetiously. “Don’t you agree, uncle?”

Shit.

I was still holding my knife to her throat. I recoiled with such force that the effort pushed her back as well. A bright seam of red welled up at the lip where my blade had kissed her and painted the length of her neck like dark fruit. 

I reviled myself. I had tried to kill her. Again. 

But she just smiled, a dimple flashing in her cheek. As if we were still kids and she had made a humorous jest.

I realized I had been holding my breath when a gasp escaped my lips and air rushed back into my lungs. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy.

“Aylana.” I spoke her name derisively without intending to, as I sheathed the knife at my waist where my gaze lingered a moment, dreading to meet hers. 

My stomach turned. I never used to call her that. It sounded so formal and distant on my tongue, just like ‘uncle’ on hers. But that’s what we were to each other now - our friendship no more than a distant memory. I no longer assumed myself worthy of her alias. I had lost that privilege. Just as I had lost my friend. 

The weight of the past pressed down on me, suffocating.

Agitation infiltrated my mind and my whole disposition must have come off as reticent and hostile. I watched her pull her gloves off finger by finger and release the clasp of her cloak. There was an attitude in her movements and a poise in her posture. Beneath she was dressed in sable flying leathers that clung tightly to her body. 

I averted my gaze. 

Frustration clawed at my chest, and whatever other feeling it was that made my mouth dry and my palms clammy. 

“You look well, nuncle,” she said. 

My eye met hers and I noted them briefly flicker across my eyepatch. Her scrutiny made the leather singe my skin with awareness. Growing diffident, I looked away. 

“Hmmph,” I said, my favorite expression of disdain. 

I knew what she was implying. That if I had only listened to her that night, instead of acting like an arrogant scoundrel, I wouldn’t be looking like a eunuch with one eye at present.

And she was right in mocking me. If her insults were the currency for my betrayal, I would gladly become a spendthrift.

My breathing shallowed as I gazed at the damage I’d caused. I had to get out of there. 

“I hope we did not frighten you earlier,” she said, interrupting my escape. “I only thought I might test the mettle of the largest dragon in the world. She truly is remarkable. A fair exchange, to be sure.” 

I turned to look at her, and I didn’t know what I must’ve looked like, because the playful smile that had been dancing between her lips our entire encounter, vanished. There it is, I thought. The realization. The Aemond you knew is gone. This is the monster you forged.

“Ser Harrold,” I said. “Escort the princess to the Red Keep. And make sure she does not test the mettle of anyone else in the city.”

“Certainly, my prince,” said Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander who was the very first person to see my face after the loss of my eye. This fact made him remarkably significant somehow.

I mounted Vhagar and took to the sky, watching Aylana and Nymax blur into mere specks on a canvas. 

This would be a celebration I was sure to remember…

More chapters

[phoenixeclipse-lmkau]

Cursed Warlords AU Masterpost

Shadowpeach x Female Reader AU

Sun Wukong and The Six Eared Macaque are mated warlords who rule Flower Fruit Mountain. They plunder and destroy anyone who stands in their way, and they don't care about the consequences. Until one day when suddenly, they lose their powers and get stuck in the form of cubs!

Having to find a way home to break the curse, they run into a monkey demoness who is trailing behind a mortal. Unfortunately, the demoness in question is a lone monkey demoness who doesn't know how to speak monkey. So they are stuck with the woman and the demoness as this strange woman travels.

This woman, who is clearly mortal held no fear towards them. Obviously, because they were mere cubs.

Cursed Warlords Asks

#One - Several

#Two - Reader's knowledge on Lmk

#Three - Language

#Four - Language

#Five - Magic Understanding

#Six - Crushes

#Seven - Reader's Abilities and Hobbies

#Eight - How Reader saved Spirit

#Nine - Bathing + extra scene

#Ten - If someone flirts with Reader

#Eleven - Reader's world

#Twelve- Shadowpeach Arc Notes

#Thirteen - Concerns on Artifacts

#Fourteen - More on the Artifacts Debate and ideas

#Fifteen - Spirit's backstory

#Sixteen - Overheard Crushes!!

Main Story

Meeting The Mortal

Peaches and Plums

Passing Out - End Credits of Chapter

Boat Ride

[grimesgirll]

“c’mon, you can do better than that.”

“you think so?”

troy nods, moving nick’s nimble fingers aside to lean down and engulf your nipple in his mouth. you exhale shallowly in response, every muscle twinging as he runs his tongue along your sensitive bud.

“yeah, she loves this,” the ranch leader’s son muses, making a point to gently graze your nub with his teeth.

you whimper with delight. tremors and tingles of electricity hit you like a shock as the mouth on your chest just continues licking and sucking while a new sensation takes over between your legs. nick’s prodding touch tickles it’s way from your thighs to the top of your clit within seconds and suddenly you’re not sure how quiet you can stay.

“you’re right, she does,” nick agrees. “don’t you, pretty girl?” he traces a line from your lip to your chin as if his hand wasn’t attached to your clit.

“mhmm.” you agree as well, albeit through a series of muffled moans. nick picks up the pace and introduces your newly sopping cunt to a fat finger. the pleasure of that new stretch has you gasping.

you hadn’t been expecting to find both troy and nick down in the armory when you traipsed down here for some quick gun cleaning. what should’ve been a quick chore before your shift on perimeter watch turned into an opportunistic trap. not a single firearm had been cleaned since you stepped foot in the basement. instead, you’d been assailed by lips and teeth. lovers threatening to leave the door unlocked, instead focusing on the pleasure points they could plunder.

nick was the one to run up the stairs and lock the door - not that you’d seen it, too busy wrapped up by troy in a bear hug. you couldn’t resist being engulfed in his arms for a second. not at night, not when he sneaks up behind you when you’re on watch, not when he’s trying to distract you from your chores, and most certainly not now. it’s the same reason as to why you remain in his arms and don’t march up the stairs and off to your shift.

a challenging choice that would’ve been but even more challenging is trying to keep cool beneath the tongues of the men tearing you apart.

a tear threatens your waterline from all of the overstimulation; it trails down your cheek as it puffs out with each uneasy breath you take. “troy,” you’re whispering aimlessly into the mop of blonde hair atop you.

“what’s that, baby?”

“pretty sure my shift on the perimeter starts in ten minu-,”

“pretty sure all you need to worry about,” troy smirks at you, adding, “pretty girl, is cumming all over nick’s tongue.”

you nearly fall apart at his words.

the blonde devil raises an eyebrow. “hmm? you wanna let nick lick you stupid?” his smirk reappears. “or do you want to be on time for your perimeter shift?”

“that’s-,” you shudder at the feeling of the alphabet being traced onto your vulva. “-that’s not a fair question.”

“it’s just a question,” nick says from between your legs.

you lift your head to make eye contact with him but suddenly your face is being cupped and a pair of familiar lips draw you back into his center of gravity.

knowing nick will be there when you’re released from your romantic restraints, you lean into troy, trying to disregard the nearly searing orgasm burning at your core. your long haired lover licks painfully wicked stripes up your center. none of your bucking or squirming deters them; your california boy’s strong, sinewy arms - courtesy of all of the ranch duties he’d tended to in the texas sun - pin you down to hold you in place just in time for your core to collapse and for you to exclaim his name into troy’s mouth.

crushed between the men, your orgasm has you shuddering and your torso aflame with pleasure. nick licks you through your high and grips your hips to pull them closer to your face until troy’s freed your lips. the chapped things land on your neck as nick spreads your legs even wider. a finger pumps into you.

“wanna get filled up, good girl?” nick asks and comes closer to steal a kiss before you can reply. “you were so pretty coming. i know you’re gonna feel good on my cock.”

“she wants it. right, pretty girl?”

troy’s on the shell of your ear now. he’s nearly in your ear - the world’s most attractive brainworm.

you’re not surprised or even sensible enough in the moment to hesitate when you nod your head. you don’t think twice when they’re suddenly pulling their pants down and kissing more hungrily at your desert tanned skin.

they can pull you into any position they want, pull you from patrol, just so long as they keep their hands on you. one touch is all it takes and you’re putty in their hands.

fuck patrol, you’d rather get fucked.

[kathiraven]

Once upon a time, in the bustling streets of Mumbai, India, there were two strapping lads named Ravi and Rajiv. Both were as tough as nails and had muscles that could rival any bodybuilder. They were the kings of their high school, feared by all and admired by many. But alas, they were not content with just being the best; they sought to rule over all they surveyed, including the nerdy lot that they despised.Ravi and Rajiv strut across the stage, flexing their muscles and tossing their hair. Their days were spent lifting weights, flirting with the pretty cheerleaders, and making fun of the poor unfortunate souls who dared cross their path.

As the scene shifts from the bustling streets of Mumbai to the open seas, Ravi and Rajiv find themselves aboard a pirate ship, their bodies morphing into swarthy sailors. Ah, but fate had other plans for these once proud jocks. One fateful night, while out on a joyride, their car broke down on an old abandoned bridge. Little did they know, this was no ordinary bridge but a portal to another world - a world of pirates and plunder! Suddenly, the boys are surrounded by towering figures clad in rags and wearing eye patches. The captain of the ship steps forward, his voice deep and gravelly. "Welcome to our realm", he growls, "You shall now be known as Captain Ravi and First Mate Rajiv"

As the waves crash against the hull of the ship, the transformation continues. The once-muscular frames of Ravi and Rajiv soften, their features becoming more delicate and feminine. Their clothing morphs into tight-fitting pirate outfits, accentuating their new curves.Captain Ravi and First Mate Rajiv gasp in surprise as they feel their bodies changing. They look at each other, eyes wide with confusion and fear. But then, something strange happens. A warm tingling sensation spreads through their bodies, and suddenly, they're attracted to one another in ways they never thought possible.Their hearts pound in their chests as they realize what has happened – they've been transformed into gay pirates!.

As the sun sets over the horizon, casting an orange glow over the ocean, Captain Ravi and First Mate Rajiv find themselves drawn together despite their initial discomfort.Captain Ravi takes a step closer to First Mate Rajiv, his heart pounding in his chest. He reaches out tentatively, placing a hand on Rajiv's shoulder. The touch sends a shiver down both their spines, and before either of them knows what's happening, they're kissing passionately under the starlit sky.They break apart moments later, panting heavily as they try to comprehend what just happened. But there's no denying the heat between them, nor the way their bodies fit together so perfectly. It seems that even in this strange new world, some things remain constant… like the undeniable attraction between two men who were once fierce rivals but are now falling head over heels for each other.

Rajiv whispers back, "This…this is crazy but I don’t want it to stop". His breath hitches when he feels Captain Ravi's fingers tracing along the length of his throbbing member.Captain Ravi bites his lip, struggling to hold back a moan as he feels First Mate Rajiv's hard cock rubbing against his own. He looks into First Mate Rajiv's eyes and says huskily, "Then let's not stop".

[villainofmyownstory]

Day Zero

chapter 1: The First One

masterlist taglist

-> Next

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x plus size fem!reader

summary: Ghost and his dog Riley regularly patrol the city. A man has his own routine, every day, for almost 2 years, has to look the same. The man knows that he cannot change his behavior because deep down he still feels that someone will answer his radio signal. He doesn't lose hope. However, exactly 730 days after "Day Zero", no one shows up at the transmitter mast. Just when you finally get there. You've been trying to get here for weeks, seeing a tower in the distance. You needed electricity, and the tower had a source of light every night. And so each of you, individually, still thinks that you are the only one alive.

Chapter 1: The First One

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Day 729

Ghost & Riley

5:43 a.m., the black Gamin watch on the man's right hand started ringing. In exactly 25 minutes, the sun will rise and Ghost will be able to leave the safety of his home and begin his daily routine.

This morning is definitely warmer than the previous ones. Getting out of bed, the man decides that in the evening he will cover some of the solar panels, so that excess energy for heating will no longer be needed. He preferred to keep some panels unused in case others failed. He couldn't find any more panels in the city, so unfortunately he had to settle for the few he found in recent months.

Riley ran to the man's leg, growling quietly, he had been extremely excited since the morning.

“What's up Riley?” Ghost stroked the dog behind the ear and spoke softly to him.

This dog had been the only living thing he could talk to for almost two years. It was actually a monologue, but Ghost knew that his beloved dog understood him and even though they didn't speak the same language, they understood each other perfectly.

The man also knew that he had to try to remain civilized, speaking, listening and behaving as he had before Day Zero. After years in the army, he remembered what soldiers released after years of captivity looked like. Who were locked in isolation for long months in small, dark cells. They were quickly losing their minds.

And he had to remain human. Despite everything.

Every day, after getting up and taking a quick bathroom break, Ghost would do some exercises to wake up. And be in good shape all the time. Unfortunately, his supplies of black tea were slowly running out and surprisingly there were few tea lovers in this damn city. He never drank coffee, so physical activity had to be enough for him to overcome sleepiness.

Once he put on his old military clothes and took his gun from the safe, he headed to the kitchen, taking a few military biscuits that he used to eat during his morning routine.

"Riley come on, it's time for patrol" the dog wagged his tail and ran to his master, waiting for Ghost to put a tactical harnesses and leash on him.

On his way out, Ghost checked the surveillance cameras he had installed around the house. The area looked like any other day. Intact. For a split second he felt disappointed, he was under the illusion that he was not the only one alive in this world.

Getting into the black Ford Ranger pickup truck, he checked the gas level in the canisters in the back and the air in the tires. Everything was in order. When Riley jumped on the back trunk and Ghost checked if the dog was safe, he got into the car and slowly drove away, looking around the surrounding area. Today he was going to the eastern part of the city, there were a few houses on the outskirts that he didn't check. As the days were getting longer, he could afford to travel further and plunder new abandoned houses.

When he reached one of his checkpoints, Riley on the trunk started barking and wanted to jump down to the ground. The man, concerned about the dog's behavior, quickly stopped at one of the dead ends. The dog barked and wagged his tail, staring as if in a trance, his attention focused towards the west.

“Riley calm down, Riley!”

Ghost quickly jumped onto the trunk and grabbed the dog by the collar, trying to calm animal down and direct its attention to himself. The dog barked louder and louder and suddenly growled in a way he had never heard before. Ghost froze, he had never seen such aggression from his dog before.

“Riley, sit down. Riley!”

man's voice trembled with growing fear, despite this he tried to pronounce the commands in a loud and decisive tone. Ghost was afraid that the dog might have gotten sick, maybe he had been bitten by some sick animal during one of the patrols in a new area and the wound was so small that Ghost he missed it. Even though he checked Riley every day after every patrol. He couldn't lose his only family member. Only friend.

Suddenly the dog calms down. He sat on his hind legs and, panting slightly, looked at his owner with peace in his eyes

“Bloody hell Riley, what the fuck was that?”

Ghost shook his head disapprovingly, looking up at the dog, patting it on the belly and stroking it for a while. After making sure that the dog had calmed down, the man returned to the car and drove again, glancing at the dog in the rear-view mirror from time to time. Fortunately, the rest of the journey passed peacefully, without any strange incidents.

Ghost drove in silence with the car windows open, looking around the suburbs. The eastern part of the city was mainly inhabited by elites, wealthier people from the upper classes.

Was.

Ghost, remembering his old life, felt that he didn't miss it. Money, power, fame. He never aspired to it and didn't need it, but in connection with his work he often had contact with rich people and it was difficult for him to come to terms with them. He could never get along with them. So now, after so many days since Day Zero, looking at the empty large villas, he smiled to himself. People had so much in the past, they were concerned with getting rich, making more and more money. And what did they need it for? Now they were all dead. And large houses and expensive cars stood empty, deteriorating under the influence of the seasons.

When the former soldier reached the house he had last checked, he parked close to a large tree so that the car was hidden in the shade. He opened the trunk lid for Riley to jump down and search the front and back of the house first. Nothing really bad ever happened, no evil awaited them during the day.

But Ghost wanted his four-legged friend to feel important and appreciated. If only his life would be no different from the one before Day Zero. Even though the man was not sure whether the dog had previously served in the army, from the first day they met the man checked and was happy to find that Riley was well trained. Its previous owner must have taken care of it. Ghost was very grateful to this person.

Whoever that person was.

When the dog returned happily wagging his tail and meekly stood next to the man's right leg, it was a signal that the area was checked and safe. Ghost took a bag of raw meat from his tactical vest pocket and gave a piece of it to the dog as a reward

“Good boy” as he said this he patted the dog affectionately on the head and added

“Watch the door Riley, I'll be right back.”

Ghost easily entered the white house, which was small compared to other houses in the area. Knowing that the owners would not come back to it anyway, he simply broke the glass in the door and turned the lock from the inside.

It took him less than 10 minutes to search the house, and as he thought, unfortunately for him, he found nothing important. It was one of those houses where wealthy owners come for a few days a year when they had to do something in the city. Ghost found some bandages, batteries, two cans of beans and a package of pasta. He packed everything into a backpack and took a large pillow from the couch.

Something for Riley.

Leaving the villa, he looked around the area, the sun was shining more and more strongly and Ghost basked in the sun for a few seconds, closing his eyes for a moment. Waiting for Riley to run up to him. However, none of this happened.

"Riley, come on..."

Ghost said calmly, patting his thigh to encourage the dog to come to him.

Silence. No movement.

“Oh, come on boy, I've got something for you..” the soldier opened his eyes and stepped off the porch, looking around the front lawn.

For the first time in over 700 days, Ghost felt panic rising.

Riley was nowhere to be found.

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Day 730

You

The next day of walking was so tiring that you took each step slowly with a grimace on your face. Your feet are so injured that your white Converse shoes are not only dirty with dust and brown soil, but also have red stains on them.

You don't have the strength to walk anymore. You wipe the sweat from your forehead, straightening the old t-shirt that serves as a makeshift head cover. The days are getting hotter and the journey during the day is torture.

“Maybe I'll finally lose weight”

you mutter under your breath, standing in the shadow for a moment. The large billboard that stands in the western part of the city is slightly damaged. The advertisement for the movie, which premiered over two years ago, is slightly faded and torn.

You fan your face with your hand, hoping it will bring you some relief.

Even though almost two years have passed since Day Zero, you have not lost the excess weight, and walking in full sun was a real horror for you. Dropping your backpack at your feet, you take out a half-full bottle of water and take a few sips. Even the water in the bottle is warm.

You sigh and look around. Nevertheless, despite all the horror that took place so many days ago, the outskirts of this city do not look damaged or well-kept. Even in your previous life - as you call it - you had never been to this area. Maybe it would be worth looking around a bit, maybe you will find a working car. Or at least a bicycle.

The tingling and stinging in your feet constantly reminded you how hurt and bloody your feet were. But you had to get to the transmission tower. You had seen it for so many days and you knew there was electricity there. Even on a rainy night, the lights from the tower were visible from many miles away. You were hoping that you would be able to charge the electronics you collected two years ago and maybe you would finally hear a human voice. Some signal of life.

You couldn't be the only survivor on this earth.

After a moment of rest, you moved further west, the sun was shining stronger and higher. It must have been close to twelve o'clock. You wanted to reach the tower before sunset, hoping that apart from metal bars and many cables, there would be a technical building where you could spend the night and charge your equipment.

Life before Day Zero was kind and happy for you. However, after that day it was a fight for survival. You were suddenly alone, without family or friends. You were on your own for the first time in your life. And you weren't the survival type. You lived comfortably all your life and could count on family members. Walking towards the mast, you had time for further thoughts. After all, what else are you left with? You haven't seen a human in 2 years.

Alive, to be more precise.

You were having conversations in your head, speaking quietly to yourself every few days as if you were afraid that your vocal cords would grow together or that you would simply forget what it's like to be human. The silence of the desolate world scared you at first, sleepless nights and fear during the day accompanied you in the first year. It was only when you found a bigger city and nice, undamaged houses and moved into one of them, collecting found food and useful items, that you finally started to calm down and sleep through the nights.

However, when the batteries in the device ran out, the water in the tap stopped flowing, and the winter at home became so cold that you might as well have slept outside, because the temperature difference was practically negligible, you decided to head west.

One night, when a snowstorm and strong wind opened one window in the attic and you went to close it at least temporarily and secure it to prevent snow from entering the house, you noticed a flashing light on the horizon in the distance.

At first you thought it was just a hallucination. Maybe you didn't eat enough or ate some spoiled food and your eyesight is playing tricks on you. But as you stood there and looked out the open window. To the west, a small light kept flickering in the distance. And the next day and the next. And finally the next week too.

When more than a month had passed and the weather had finally normalized, you decided to pack the most necessary items and go in that direction.

It had to be some kind of sign.

Some miracle.

During those nights when you were waiting for the weather to allow you to travel on foot, you imagined many scenarios. You felt excited and happy. Hope. Maybe you weren't the only living person in this world, maybe there were other people that close. This thought kept you alive.

Thanks to this thought, after so many days of traveling with injured legs, you were finally close to your destination. You had to get there and see with your own eyes that you weren't crazy after all and that the red and white tower was a signpost that someone maintained to let you know that he was also here, that he was alive.

When you finally reached the fence, you didn't even notice that your emotions and tiredness had won and tears were rolling down your cheeks.

You were so very happy. So close to the goal.

The gate to the tower was padlocked.

“Fuck!”

you screamed, struggling against the metal fence. You stood there sobbing, not knowing how to get to the other side. It was impossible to climb the fence. Firstly, it was too high, secondly, there was barbed wire at the top and thirdly, you physically couldn't do it. You were too fat to pull your body up over the fence.

When you finally calmed down and wiped your tears, you walked away from the fence and noticed that next to one of the fence posts there was a piece of paper attached with a red material.

You froze.

You quickly pulled a piece of paper from behind the ribbon and unwrapped the paper with trembling hands:

“If anyone is reading this, it means I'm not alone here. You survived just like me.

My name is Ghost.

I have shelter, food and other necessary items to survive. If you are looking for help, wait here. I come to the towers every day, every day of the year. Right at noon and I've been waiting for an hour..."

You quickly looked at your watch and froze… 12:23…. No, it's impossible, you've been here for a long time, you must have seen someone, you wanted to cry again. It can't be true that the only living thing, ironically calling itself Ghost, didn't show up today. Just when you came here. Maybe you missed each other? Maybe you were here for a few minutes after all. There was hope. You were supposed to spend the night here anyway, so if by some miracle you two missed each other, there was a chance to meet the owner of this letter tomorrow.

You looked at the piece of paper again:

“...and I've been waiting for an hour.

However, if you have no good intentions and are counting on your own survival, I have to worry you. In my previous life I killed more people than you can count, now, apart from things to survive, I have a weapon with me and I know how to use it quickly.

Wait here, and until I appear, don't be afraid, because you will hear and see my dog…Riley.”

With your heart beating strongly, you finished reading the letter.

Your mind didn't even have time to fully read the content of the letter when a large German shepherd ran out from the west wing of the fence, barking loudly.

This couldn't be true.

When you turned towards the dog, you froze.

“Oh my God…Riley…boy”

It was your dog. Who disappeared on Day Zero.

And now, after 730 days, he was running towards you.

Your beloved dog has been found.

[cherubispunk]

CHERUB (PART II) - Dealer!Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

summary: you will forever be his fallen angel. his cherub. 

a note from Lucy: IT IS TIME! Now, I KNOWWWW i said that there woud be dp with tommy in part two...but that can wait until part three because this is just as disgusting as the last one hehehehe! Enjoy sinners, i'm off to bed. This is also unedited to just ignore any typos. I promise I’ll get round to reading it through later today. X

playlist | alternate banner by THE cherub @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin

wc: 4088 Warnings: 18+ MDNI! DARK CONTENT! Unedited for now, no outbreak, no use of y/n but joel calls the reader ‘Cherub’, porn with little plot, bombastic age gap (reader is in her early 20's and Joel is in his late 50s), Smut, car sex, very dubcon in theory but both parties want it, smut, P in V sex (unprotected — pleaseee don’t do tis irl), oral - m reeiving, handjobs, Creampie, choking, orgasm denial, slapping, dom!Joel:/sub!reader dynamic, gagging , mentions of gagging with panties, panty sniffing, nipple play, biting, Smoking, use of pet names (baby, cherub, angel, good girl...etc), Joel being foul mouthed, cursing, dirty talk. Again, some of the most animalistic, disgustingly wretched and vile porn I have written thus far...with so little plot that this earned me my place in hell, a circle lower than the last. Big Dick Joel Miller comes as his own warning.

series m.list | m.list

Lace. Pretty. Delicate and intricate. 

Torn and tossed to grimy carpet. His trailer, his bed. Laying in his large warm arms for no more than a brief moment of afterglow. Then observed by his hawk eye while you were strewn naked about his sheets in a divine headrush of oxytocin, endorphins. And numb to all but the ghostly ache of pleasure within your belly.  

Truth can be ugly. It can beat and maim even the strongest of heart and half of soul. It can dampen spirits, bash, batter and bruise a hope so bright to such a degree it is nothing but a mere flickering flame, awaiting its snuffing out from a final exhale of a familiar broken heart. It can go pummeling, plundering and pillaging a love you held so tightly to your chest, that once was so dear to one’s self, the mere idea of letting it slip through your fingers would bring on an agonising loneliness even death's pain could not compete or match with. 

One night later was your time to face truth, the world fell dark again. The rain had subsided back to choking heat, summer’s final scorch before biting winter rolled in, icy and frostbitten on its heels. You were catatonic in bed from that day forward. Contemplated the end of it all. Then got up for work again when the sun peeked over aluminium trailer rooftops. All of this…just come back to your own bed again. 

You belong to the ground now. Your purple knees might as well be caked in dirt. Each of your hairs stood on end in protest to your shivers, vexatious and unforgiving. And choked sobs suffocated you, face red, raw, puffy and salty. Everything seemed to hurt. The sound of humanity seemed so far away from you now. Even the crackling of TV static in the next room over. Nothing felt quite real. It was just…dull. Exhaustion ached in your bones, sinking in deeper - bone marrow level deeper - after twenty-four hours of little to no rest. You bit down on your bottom lip and scrunched your eyes closed as your fingers and toes curled in and you writhed in emotional pain inside yourself. Physically you were still. A weight had pressed itself into your chest, digging at you and carving a hole through your sternum. Your teeth were now gritted as you let out strained whimpers muffled by the pillow. Desperate for some form of relief, you were clasping at your upper arms, clawing your flesh until red lines rose

No one knew. No one could know. they did not have to carry the idea that someone, who roamed the halls of your mind peacefully, passively, vacantly, now rampaged through those same corridors with an iron fist and a burning torch, setting you alight, leaving breadcrumb trails for ravens to pick at and fragments such as that of sharp, cutting mirror glass for you to piece together with no map or original picture but your own memory. You tumbled, spiralling into a world of ‘was it this?’ or ‘was it that?’. And the line between each question soon grew thinner, smearing together like streaks of sunlight smudging in tears. 

—

It was a slow roll of a shift. No one but the regulars on a quiet Monday morning. The bikers who stop for coffee. The business man here for the Bessy's Diner ‘premium’ breakfast before his day starts. Greasy and warm but with the crispy potatoes. Eggs sunny side up on two slices of golden brown white bloomer bread. The smell stuck in your hair. 

You watched through the window as the world turned dark under bruising night sky. His name on your tongue at the back of your teeth. His handprint on your thigh under your yellow polyester skirt. It was the branding of him on you in the most achingly beautiful way you could imagine. You might not be bent in half any more but in your mind you are replaying each thrust that edged you over the side of harrowing oblivion. You were in his bed. Right there. You could almost feel him.

The ding of the pass bell made you blink once, twice, thrice, with a sharp inhale through your nose while you tuned in a daze to collect a cheeseburger and curly fries. You weren't much to look at by your standards – grease stains on your uniform, scuffed shoes and bruised knees; But the man you delivered the meal too had you for his appetiser. Eyeing you like a juicy cut of rump steak, plump and tender to sink one's teeth into. Your nostrils flared and you couldn't help but wonder what Joel would think of his roaming eyes as you gave the trucker a curt but saccharine ‘Enjoy!’ through gritted teeth. 

Then it was back to staring out the window while more coffee brewed and the sky sunk deep blue, a rim of purple at the horizon. Like it had been beaten and left by the sun. Clouds murking the sky above like dried blots of ink. A heavy downpour to come and you hadn't bought your coat or umbrella. Headlights beamed through the window in the blue, sailing over your eyes and the wall behind you, making you strain and squint at the familiar number plate. 

That very truck had been parked in the middle of your trailer and his. Taunted you now whenever you saw it. Reminded you that he had not come calling since a few nights ago. How long was it now? A week of no contact that made you claw at your skin and the marrow of your very bones ache with the pain as they hollowed out. Waiting for him to fill that place in you again with a sense of being needed. The place only he knew how to reach. It was pathetic and you knew it. But, oh, how you'd fall to your knees in the dirt each time to just see him. To have him call you Cherub. It felt like a dream no one would get to see or feel but you and him. A secret whisper of delight that had a pending knot of tension tighten and twist in your gut. Then a flutter when his truck door opened to reveal him in his usual wife beater tank and dirty denim combo. This time a leather jacket straining over his broad shoulders. Your mouth watered at the sight of his bulge. How, when he stood with the devils own smirk at the sight of you through the window, arm slung over the top of the drivers door, the tank rode up to give a tease of happy trail on his softer tummy. He was a man who could ruin you with a look; Have you pleading to be his anything. 

He licked his lips at the promise of his meal. You. All you could do was stand with feet planted firmly to the floor in your frilly hemmed socks and patent mary janes. His picture of innocence dressed in a ditsy diner uniform. His eyes were dark and lit only by the inside glow. They snared you in ways you often found hard to elucidate to yourself. But you'd be a liar if you refused to admit the excitement your gaze held his with. The beaming toothy grin you shone at him as he walked through the entrance. A chilly gust of wind hot on his chunky book clad heels. 

“Be right with ya!” You called to him as you took the coffee from its hotplate, unable to keep yourself from smiling. He was here. You would once again be his. Whole. 

A girl could dream. Oh she can dream up to the clouds and pass the very sun. But, lord above, how calamity hits like a stone to a dove’s wing. Causing the fall to earth and the fire to consume. This time, Icarus waited for the night. Who knew Selene would give the same backhand as Apollo.

“No need.” He cleared his throat, ambling over in his swagger to slump over the counter against the bar stool. “Lookin’ awful happy, Cherub.” There it was. It had your eyes glazing over in a haze. The first man who gave you a reason. An ability to serve and care and be wanted. “Just happy ‘cause I'm seein’ you.” You sighed. His arms crossed over themselves on the counter and there was Lucifers smile to lull you closer.

“That so?”

You nodded eagerly. “Yeah.” It was ineffable to explain, really. The temptation. But it was so damn perfect you couldn't get enough of it.

“What time you get off then, Cherub?”

“Ten.” You replied instantly. A heat warmed your core. A fizzle of something, a cramping of a dull pleasure spasm in your belly. From there he leaned over, breath tickling your ear as his scuff scratched the shell of it. Made your pulse thrum under your skin. He could feel your supple warmth, noticed how your pretty round chest hitched at the feel of his words in your ear. He ogled you like a hunter would his prey. His next feast.

“Y’think you can help me get off?” 

If you had it your way you’d trace each scar, pale of almost rare silver, raised upon his skin. Gnarled. But so unmistakably beautiful it takes your breath away for a moment. Born again, the first breath you take. Learning how to inhale, familiarise yourself with how his chest rises, to then fall with tumble of the exhale. But this was on his terms. It would do. Ideally you'd do it your way. However, he wanted what he wanted. He took. You had so much more to give him if you were just gifted the miracle of opportunity. Jeopardising this love now would be a foolish idea. 

“Yes, Joel.” You whispered, though it caught in your throat a little. Joel pulled back to eye you. Chuckling at the sight of your open wide doe eyes. A pretty helpless fawn for him to scrape off the road after being crushed by a truck. Or a bird whose wings needed patching. Little did you know he wasn't mending your wings. Merely plucking feathers from them until you could no longer glide through skies. Only be dragged by him across the ground on a leash. Rubbing flesh raw to the point of bleeding.

“Then i’ll be waitin’ here for ya, Cherub.” 

—

He had his eyes on you the whole time. In his stare you saw each scene of what could be play out. What position he'd fix you in before the descent of his hips into yours. The slap of heavy balls against your ass. The ripple of your skin while a hand clapped down on one cheek, then the other. Rendering you useless for the rest of the night. Unable to walk without legs trembling. Poor pretty Bambi. Poor precious Cherub. 

You could feel the heat of his eyes lick up the back of your neck. Flushing bright colour into the apples of your cheeks. Each time you passed him, a silent glance from you. A primal, phallic stare from him. Cogs in his mind turning to see what scenario would take his fancy. The look from other customers didn't fall short on his attention. He noticed the way that trucker had eyed you upon giving him the bill. Jealousy curled in his gut because how dare another man so much as think about touching what is rightfully his. What you were so eager to please with. The plush of your breasts, the encompassing warmth of your slick wet cunt. Joel would remember that when you stumble home, his come dribbling down your leg in a thick, gluttonous rivulet. You, so ready to flay yourself open at his word and present all to him. Your broken ribs and beating heart. The blood that bled in vain for him. 

At the end of your shift he waited while you got you things from out back, taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Thick fingers plucking one ready to light. 

“Can't smoke in here, Joel.” You pointed out as his lighter hissed under the roll of his thumb.

“Then hurry up ‘n let me get you outta here, Cherub.” He mumbled, eyes trained on the cigarette between his lips. You admired how the yellow hue of the lighter washed him a glow in brief flashes. The scruff on his jaw lighter. Greyer. Handsomer. 

“Okay.” 

He led you out with a hand to your back. Hoisted your bike into the bed of his truck and you had to hold your breath at the swell of his muscles under his leather jacket. Its dark shine scuffed and worn down. 

He drove you back downtown with the cigarette lit in his mouth to puff on, a hand on your clenching thigh, inching closer up to dangerous territory. He felt how you squirmed inside yourself. As if your bones were begging to be rattled by him. Until the highway bled off into smaller roads towards the trailer park where he opened the window to flick his smoke out and then shut it. You weren’t expecting him to pull over in a lay-by. The trees skeletal as leaves had started to fall here. 

The engine sputtered before shutting off with the twist of the key. You found yourself staring at your skirt, picking a loose thread from the hem of it before his finger hooked under your chin. Just like the first time. Still smelling of tobacco and something mustier. Something human. It was hard to see in the dark, but his shadow said it all. It was carved out by the backdrop of trees outside the window. It made a rattling burst of desire dart down your spine and fill the hollow slowburn in your womb. 

“Look at me.” So you did. And his finger grasped your chin, almost embedding his touch into your with trembling tingle were he to ever let go. Like a solder’s phantom limb.

“What are we doing here, Joel?” You asked, eyes innocent. Begging to be corrupted and crying. 

“Gettin’ me off, Cherub.”

His lips crushed yours like seeds of pomegranate. Chapped and split. The metallic taste of his blood on your tongue. Your lungs breathed him, absorbed him. What noise he gave you, nonsensical as it was, it was a relief there was something. Something you could do. Part your thighs.

While one hand stayed fastened to your chin in its vice grip, his other palmed himself through his jeans. Hips rolling into the heel of his hand and a groan departed from his chest heavily. One you happily consumed with a needy inhale. Desperate to feel something of him inside you. 

“Gonna make me feel good, ain’t you, Cherub? My pretty little thing.” 

It was hard to nod in his grip. But you managed with the aiding of a whimpering “Mhm!”

“‘M gonna let you feel it.”

The bulge in his jeans was straining at denim and suffocating him. You felt blindly for his erection, fumbling with the belt, button and zipper. Joel smirked into your mouth while his tongue trialled sloppily over your bottom lip, enclosing it between the prison of his gnashers. Biting down hard. The friction of his beard was coarse against the dichotomy of your soft, supple skin. 

“Yeah.” He sighed, leaning back in the passenger seat, detaching his lips from you. “Jus’ like that.” You swallowed. Aching to feel him. To have him as a part of you again. But for now you'd settle with the steady dragging stroke of his thick heavy cock in your hand. 

You watched him with curiosity, the way his eyes fluttered closed. It was more the way a child would observe a butterfly trapped in a jar. Even though he was anything but delicate. 

“Fuckin’ angel aint ya, Cherub?” He swallowed, hips twitching and bucking up into your hand while your thumb rolled over the sensitive head of his dick, smearing a bead of precum over the delicate flushed skin. You salivated like a rabid dog at the sight. The smell of his sex thick on your nose. 

You felt the curl of this large hand at the crown of your skull before he pushed you down. Pulling you with him to hell’s heat once more. 

“Suck it.” 

And you did willingly; Took him into the warm cavern of your mouth, swirling your tongue over the flushed red tip to have the heady taste of him thick on your tastebuds. His hips stuttered, meaning you had to hollow out your mouth and relax your throat to take him as far as he wanted. The ache in your oesophagus burned, bruising deliciously. Tears stung the backs of your eyes, heavy and wet and dripping over the threshold of your eyes, streaking clumpy mascara down your face like an abstract painting for him to smirk at later. His fingers twisted in your hair like brambles through hedgerows. His hands were being laid on you. More like beckoning you closer to being laid to rest in the dirt. Ready for that little death his anatomy promised. The lust between you heated the car, fogging windows slightly. 

As you went a little further, and little faster, nails digging into his jeans to ground yourself, you realised you’d never rather be anywhere than with him. Saliva running from your mouth down his shaft, collecting in a shine around the base and rolling over his tightening balls. He chuckled when you gagged, spluttering and heaving on him. Begging for more, you dared to ghost a single finger over your dripping slit. Cunt twitching at the attention. An action that was far from lost on him. 

“Did I tell ya you could touch yerself?” He hissed, ripping you from his cock as the heat of an orgasm started to bubble in his lower belly. You spluttered a no, holding your hands up in surrender to him. “Little minx.” He sneered.

You yelped at the grip on your thighs as he kicked your legs out from under you, tugging your underwear from your heat in one swift yank. He held the cotton up to his nose, taking a deep inhale. “Fuckin’ filthy. Just imagine what your uncle would think ‘bout this?  Ruining your fucking panties for me.” Shame flooded your gut, but the clench of your tight, drooling hole told you otherwise about disliking the thought. A heat warming your cheeks once more. “Oh, you like that dont you, Cherub?”

“Yeah.” You owned up to the fact. There was no point in lying. He’d fuck the truth out of you one way or another. 

With your hands still raised, you watched in fucked out awe of his tonge that darted out to taste your slick on your underwear. His eyes closed as he savoured the tang on his tongue. There was no need to commit it to memory. If he wanted it again all he need do was ask. Your legs would part open, panties in his hand again. 

“Taste like fuckin’ honey, Cherub. All sweet and sticky.” His voice verberated in your chest and his and had your eyes blurring in a split of a second. Crawling back once again to the memory in his trailer. “What do you think? Should I shove these in your mouth instead of my cock? Huh, Cherub?” You swallowed at the thought. “Nah…” He cast the thought aside, tossing them in the backseat. “I might just go easy on ya tonight.” 

That was a short lived promise, for he was sliding back his seat as far as it would go, dragging you into his lap, thick head prodding the weeping entrance of your cunt. Waiting deliciously for the stretch of him. Whole again. Make me whole again. You begged to the ears of your own mind. Please!

“Sit down.” He demanded. And you obeyed; Notching him between the slick lips of your pussy. He hands found grounding purchase on your hips, grinding you along the underside of his thick length. Smearing your juices over himself. Each time the tip so much as grazed your clit it had you whimpering his name. Had your brain scrambling to form a coherent sentence. It was sinful Disgusting. But the way it felt was enough to cast a shadow on those doubts. Turn out the light, and set them to temporary sleep in your head. 

The roll of your hips worked in tandem with the taboo buck of his thrusts. His neck strained and veins bulged under tight tension knotted, gnarled skin.

“This pussy’s made for this, ain't it, Cherub? Made for makin’ me feel good.”

“Yeah.” You mumbled while two thick fingers slipped into your mouth. The rough pads of them pressing into your tongue. You pressed your lips around them, taking his digits down to the last knuckle. His taste was rich in your mouth. One you'd never even dream of forgetting. 

Your humping got faster, more erratic and less careful. Big. Mistake. 

“Don’t go getting sloppy on me now, Cherub.”

You whined. It was all you were good for. All you could do. There was only so much finesse you could master with the steering wheel at your back, digging into your arching, aching spine. You waxed and waned over him in more careful movements now. Made sure to press down with each roll back over his shaft. All while he had an open mouthed trained gaze on the way his fingers slipped in and out of your mouth. Slow. Setting the pace for you to mimic. Lips puffy, saliva slick. 

From there, it was your dress. Greedy and heavy hands popping the buttons of it open and stripping you down to nothing but flesh. It crumpled around your waist. His lips pursed while suckling your nipples into his mouth until they were pert and erect on his tongue. Teeth sinking into tender flesh, jaw unhinged as he took a bite of their swell and mimicked it on the other side.

It was so bad. So, so, so bad. If there truly was a god you’d be signed over to hell. But you didn't care, how could you when you felt the burn in your belly of your orgasm. The stars sputtering over the backs of your closed lids in a hypnotic kaleidoscope image. Either way, you were damned. Icarus to Apollo’s heat. His heat was burning. Scalding. Making a sheen of thick, damp sweat accumulate over your skin. Chest heaving into his mouth while your back arched and held tight like the string of a bow ready to release.

“Fuck– please, Joel. Wanna– fuck– come. Wanna come!” You whined around his fingers. To which he replied by ripping them from your mouth and striking a heavy hand over your cheek. The sting was thrilling. It made the apples of your cheeks tingle, begging him to do it again. Abuse you in any way he saw fit because the pleasure burning, building in your core had your cunt clenching. Ready to let go at his given word. He bared his teats at you while he smeared his tongue and spit over your tits.

“No. You come when I say and only when I say.” 

And with those as his damning words, he lifted your hips off his, using a hand to line himself up with precision, spearing into you in one fowl swoop. You bit back a scream on your bottom lip from the intrusion. But before you could let the pain sink in it melted into brain fogging pleasure. You had to clench your walls around his thick length, his cock hot and pulsing within your cunt that spasmed with the promise to unwind. Had you a babbling crying mess in his lap while he jackhammered up into you. Balls slapping your spread cheeks. 

His palm closed around your pulse, the other in your hair as you held yourself just above him on trembling legs so he could have the room to thirst upwards, swollen cockhead nipping your cervix vigorously like the last time. Whatever broken thing inside you that made you yearn for this could rattle around within of you. It was nothing unless it got you here to the sheer pleasure you felt when in his unforgiving arms. You’d go easily like this. Tear stained cheeks as you babbled his name nonsensically. All for him to keep up the relentless pace of his hips. The coarse hairs at the base of his cock adding a friction to your twitching clit that wasn't needed. You were already on edge. God, how you lived for the little death.

“Please, sir!” If anything else you did didn't set him off, that did. The words sweetened by the whine that curled from the back of your throat and dripped into his ears like fine wine. High pitched needy for him to finish you off. Deliver the killing blow. 

The hand tangled in your hair jerked your head back, leaving your jaw to hang open and your eyes to roll back in your skull. Your toes curled in their frilly socks and shoes, the tingle turning to numbness and then to an overstimulated pain that you couldn't stave off any longer. 

“Gonna come ain ya, Cherub? After I’ve been so fuckin’ nice to ya. Let ya touch me. Feel me inside of ya.” He pressed a hand over your womb, feeling the bulge of himself each time he fucked up to meet that perfect spot inside you. “Feel me fuckin’ wrecking this cunt for anyone else?” And you nodded stupidly, finding it hard to breathe with his other hand still at your neck. He could feel the quickening of your pulse under your flesh. “Words, Cherub.” He growled with heat into your pulse. “Or have I fucked you dumb, pretty girl?”

“Yes! Yes, Joel, I'm yours! Yours yours yours!”

“The fucking come. Show me.” 

And finally, the closing scene to this act of sin. The little death you had been waiting for swelled within you, sending you falling from the stars in your eyes and back down to earth – crashing into the wall of his chest. A string of curses from his sneering lips and he released inside of you, balls tightening and dick twitching sheathed within you. His thick, hot come dribbled gluttonously from your quivering cunt. And you were twitching uncontrollably against him. 

Your chests heaved out of sync with each other. Him out, you in. You accommodated the invading rise of his chest with the crushing and concaving of your own. His cock softened inside of you and in the mess he had made of you cunt. You were well and truly wrecked for anyone but him. Your body, no matter how much you may come to hate this fact in future, belongs to his pleasure. 

You will forever be his fallen angel. His Cherub.