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hildergard · 2 months

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just thinking about aemond x lowborn!reader (I found myself in love with that trope) he helps her by giving her food, money, clothes, and stuff. but the reader is a younger daughter or lives in a toxic environment and everything is monopolized by her family and when aemond finds out he simply sees red. i'm sorry if this doesn't make sense, but the idea is there!!!

PRECIOUS ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

TAGS | Swearing, suggestive content, dysfunctional family

WORDCOUNT | 2.7k

NOTE | Enjoy this thing I wrote in one sitting and did not edit. If you see any mistake... no you did not. There probably is⏤English is not my first language. In my mind, they are "rich" enough to buy food so I focused on gifts instead. I hope you'll like it nonetheless. I tried to keep it short this time and, for once, I think I succeeded! Thank you for requesting this great prompt <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Downstairs, the intoxicated patrons sang their bawdy songs and shook the walls of the inn. Their lewd rhymes travelled through the dingy floorboards and vanished against your parted lips.

A hand went up your spine, grazed your shoulders, and stopped on your sweaty neck.

“Where is it?”

The voice hit the air and sent shivers down your spine. That authoritative tone, those proudly exhaled consonants, those whispered vowels... His words exuded nobility and education and set your whole body ablaze. You closed your eyes for a second and imagined yourself blessed with such gift of the gab, but your sentence fell awkwardly from your bruised lips.

“What do you mean?”

The sticky sheets crumpled under your weight. You squinted to make out the silhouette of your lover. In the moonlight, his hair looked as if it had been woven from the stars.

“Where is your necklace?" Aemond asked.

Mindlessly, your fingers hit an infinity of naked flesh. You gulped.

“Oh... Well... I didn't want to wear a beautiful object liked that in Flea Bottom. Thieves are everywhere with the blockade–”

“I gave it to you for you to wear it," he cut you off.

The pitch-dark night itself could not hide his discontent.

“I know, my love," you say softly.

He had been so happy to give it to you. The gold chain and the sapphire still sparkled in your dreams. Sometimes, at night, you would remember Aemond's delicate fingers against your neck, the refreshing coldness of the precious metal on your flesh, its weight against your throat... And then, the sun would tear you from your dreams and the only thing left around your neck would be the knot of your guilt.

“No matter," he finally said.

Your prince's fingers descended on your chest, brushed against your nipple but did not linger, much to your regret. Aemond got out of bed and left your body cold⏤it was so easy to let yourself be consumed by dragonfire. It burned your heart oh so beautifully.

Without a word, Aemond bent down and took a packet out of his leather bag. You looked away from his naked body, your cheeks aflame. The many nights you had spent with him, learning the map of his muscles and flesh, had done nothing for your shyness. It died in an explosion of pleasure each night but would always be reborn in the painful awareness left in the vanishing carnal bliss.

Aemond came back and handed you the gift, one knee resting on the thin mattress. A lump twisted in your throat and rendered you speechless. With a trembling hand, you pulled the ribbon and let the fabric fall to reveal a magnificent dress.

You closed your eyes for a moment and forced a smile onto your face.

“You shouldn't have," you said through clenched teeth.

“You say that every time," he laughed. “And you know very well that I will not stop. You deserve to be pampered, my love."

You don't command a nobleman, let alone a Targaryen. Perhaps that was why Aemond kept ignoring your request, for it never changed. Every gift was answered with this phrase. There was no false modesty there, just the familiar, creeping guilt⏤an old enemy coming to torment you.

“It’s beautiful.”

Your fingers brushed against the blue bodice, where golden threads wove in a fine, expensive, embroidery⏤a huge dragon slumbered in a field of flowers.

At your words, Aemond smiled brightly and kissed your forehead. His lips left their wet imprint, which you did not wipe away. You would cherish its feeling a little longer. He moved down your cheeks and finally attacked your lips. You groaned and buried your hand in his hair before pressing your chest against his.

“I must go now," he said reluctantly between kisses.

You stepped back with a sigh and glanced at the window. The hour of the wolf was darkening the sky. Downstairs, the patrons had quietened down. Heavy, awkward footsteps echoed in the corridor and doors slammed.

At last, the more festive souls were going to bed.

If you listened carefully, you could hear the bakers already hard at work. The first to rise, they sweetened the dreams of citizens with the sweet and greedy fragrances they distilled in the streets.

Aemond slumped onto the bed one last time and pulled you in for a last kiss.

“The next time I see you, I will rip that silk off your body," he smiled before pointing to the discarded dress.

You nodded, avoiding his gaze, and kissed him one last time.

Aemond⏤hood falling on his head⏤disappeared with an uttered I love you and left you alone with your guilt. A sigh shook your chest.

You got dressed and went downstairs, leaving the stains on the linen as the only trace of your love. You absently nodded at Denyse, busy wiping the tables, and set off into the streets of Flea Bottom.

It would take you a good hour to get to the forge.

You already longed for your bed on the other side of the town.

Flea Bottom, for all its faults, provided the discretion you needed to meet your prince every night. It was Aemond who had shown you this little inn after you refused to use the secret passages leading to the Red Keep⏤you would not throw yourself into the dragon's jaws.

Your feet cursed you, but your heart thanked you for these precious moments⏤away from the reproaches and the forge, the vices of the court and the pressure of power. In this dingy room, the Prince softened and removed his iron mask to reveal the gentle soul hidden behind it, while you forgot the shrill cries that tormented your days.

It took you longer than usual to reach the Street of Steel. As you passed through the wooden door, the hour of the Nightingale was casting its first rays of sunshine and waking up the workers.

Your mother was waiting for you, arms crossed and a bucket of water at her feet.

Without delay, she ripped the dress from your hands and replaced it with the bucket. A few drops splashed onto you, soaking the front of your sweaty tunic.

“Where did you get that?” her sharp voice asked. “You stole it, didn’t you? How many times do I have to tell you–”

“I didn’t– It's not–”

She cut you off before you could come up with an excuse.

Her fingernails scraped at the embroidery, which held firm.

“That’s some good work..." she mumbled. “We'll get a few silver stags out of it... Maybe enough to repair the oven. Meredyth? Meredyth! Come downstairs and take this to the weaver next door!”

You held out a shaking hand to try and retrieve the dress, but your mother glared at you. You lowered your head, your eyes wet. Aemond's face appeared in your thoughts and the guilt⏤always there⏤ignited.

You no longer had the strength to fight the inevitable. Dawn, beautiful as it was, always had its share of disappointments in store for you. Every morning, your prince's gifts were snatched from you without remorse and sold to the nearest merchant. All that remained of your jewels and dresses was a thick leather purse hidden under the floor of your parents' bedroom⏤both took great pleasure in lecturing you about stealing and sinning.

Your mother could pretend all she wanted to be pious and kind, a good believer with a guiltless conscience, but you knew the truth. She would never go through with her threats, far too happy with the gold dragons piling up under her pillow.

Your sister ran down the stairs and grabbed the package before examining its contents.

“Oh, Mum, it's so beautiful…” She took the dress out of its wrapping and pressed it to her chest before twirling around, not minding the dirt on the silk with her ashen fingers. “Can we keep it?”

Your mother scoffed.

“To do what? You don't need an embroidered dress to forge swords and shoe horses. Why don't you go and see if Claere can take it? And you!" she turned back to you. “Clean the grindstone. You’ll sharpen the commissions next. Corwyn isn't here.”

The knot tightened around your neck as you nodded and disappeared into the workshop.

The hours passed. Sweat stuck to your forehead and the sparks from the grindstone bit your fingers. At last⏤to your delight⏤ nine o'clock struck the end of the day. You gave Duncan⏤a golden cloak⏤the dagger he had ordered, pocketed the fifty silver stags and wished him a good evening.

When he closed the door, you hurried up to your room, washed yourself with the bucket of cold water, put on one of your best dresses and ran to Flea Bottom, ignoring your mother's cries, which faded under the beating of your soles.

You arrived at the inn out of breath, but happy to be away from home. Denyse greeted you with a wink and watched you stride up the stairs. The steps creaked under your weight, but you did not care. Habit and euphoria carried you to an innocuous door.

You opened it and a body flung itself against yours. A smile lit up your face. Aemond did not wait and pulled you to the bed.

As his lips peppered your neck with kisses, his hands slipped under your body and roamed the length of your back. They clung to your dress and sought out the threads of your bodice, but suddenly stopped. You tensed. Gently, Aemond straightened up. He looked at you before his eye fell on your cotton dress.

“What is this?”

“Aemond, I–”

“Wasn't it to your liking? You should have told me. I would have asked the royal weaver to make the necessary alterations. We just received Essos fabrics. Perhaps it would have been wiser to talk to you about it before commissioning it,” he frowned.

“It was perfect.”

“Was?”

You sighed and embraced him. Immediately, Aemond's hands searched for yours. Your fingers intertwined. He pulled you against him and tucked his chin into your neck. As he spoke, his breaths hit your skin and made you shiver.

“What are you not telling me, my love?”

His closeness calmed you. With the tip of your pointer finger, you brushed his back and caressed the hollow of his spine. Your hand came to rest on the small of his back and traced invented letters that told of all the love you felt for him. He smiled against your neck and kissed it, understanding the gibberish you were writing with an ignorant hand.

The language of love knew no illiteracy.

“Y/N?”

Your sigh struggled to come out, blocked by the muscular torso against your chest. It struggled to find its way to your lips and when it did come out, it poured all its guilt into the air before suffocating you.

“It's just that... I mean... Don't get angry, please, I couldn't bear it,” you begged.

“Never, my love. Now tell me.”

“Your gifts… My parents… They sell them.”

He straightened up and sought your gaze, but you turned your head away. Guilt lacerated your throat. You swallowed to get rid of the horrible feeling, but it remained.

The Gods were punishing you.

“They sell them and use the gold for the forge or when they feel like it.”

He said nothing, which worried you.

“Stop offering me more," you stammered. “I beg you, Aemond. I can't bear the guilt any longer. Please, Aemond. You must understand…”

He hushed you and gently caressed your cheek. You took refuge in the warmth of his palm and closed your eyes. His lips wiped away the few tears that rolled down your cheekbone.

“It is all right.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, my sweet. Now please, do not cry. I cannot bear this sight.”

After your conversation, Aemond stopped bringing you gifts. Your heart sank, but you told yourself that it was for the best⏤your parents would, at last, no longer monopolise his fortune. Now, all your prince had left to offer you were his caresses and words, but you felt richer than if he had given you a piece of jewellery.

Your hammer struck the iron, sending sparks flying. They nicked at your cheeks but did not dim the smile on your face. Your thoughts drifted back to last night, Aemond's warm skin against yours, his hand between your thighs, his warmth and his thrusts…

A metallic noise brought you back to reality. You raised your head and blinked, expecting to find Corwyn in the workshop, but there was only you.

It comes from the shop, you realised.

You frowned⏤thinking about the person behind the counter⏤and wiped your hands on an old towel before walking to the front. Worry settled in your chest as you quickened your pace.

Your father never dropped his tools. Years of experience had turned his hammer into a part of his hand. He was no longer the young apprentice you or your siblings still were.

You stumbled into the shop.

“M’prince!" your father stammered. “To what do we owe this honour?”

Your wide eyes met Aemond's satisfied one. The towel fell to the floor.

“Would you like a sword? I have several that might please you. No Valyrian steel around here unfortunately," he chuckled, "but they cut just as good.”

“I’ve come to discuss your daughter's affairs.”

“Meredyth?”

“Your youngest daughter," the Prince replied.

Your father gave you an incredulous look when you reached him. His fist tightened around the hammer he had picked up.

“I heard a rumour that rather annoys me, I must admit. A rumour about valuable objects that have an unfortunate tendency to disappear.”

Your father grabbed your upper arm to keep you in line⏤ unwilling to sully his image in front of the Prince Regent.

“Her mother and I...! We've told her a hundred times not to steal! She's a good girl, m’prince. She's just a little... lost. Youth, you know," he smiled nervously. “No need to make a big deal of it. Don't you think?”

“Oh, your daughter is innocent. You are the problem, sir.”

“M-me?”

“You see, those objects were gifts. From me, might I add. And I take great offence that you not only stole them but shamelessly sold them for your own gain, embezzling money from the crown. This is an act of treason, did you know that? I could have your head for this.”

You massaged the bridge of your nose between two fingers and sighed, cursing your lover's hot blood and praying to the Gods to give you the strength. Three eyes burned at your temple⏤two of embarrassment, one of pride. You met your father's gaze and shrugged.

“I… I beg your pardon, m’prince. We didn't know.”

Your father set down his hammer on the counter and curtsied. His callused fingers waved, unsure of what to do, before plunging into the centre pocket of his leather apron.

The prince stared at your father for a few more seconds, gloating as he squirmed with embarrassment, and moved towards you. Gently, he took hold of your wrist. You gasped when a cold sensation touched your hand. You looked down and found a magnificent ring on your finger⏤a fine circle of twisted gold with several sparkling sapphires.

“And there it was. Something as precious as you," he smiled, stroking the jewel with his thumb. “A thousand stones could not compare with your eyes, but I must admit I cannot wait to see it on your finger tonight. It will be all the more beautiful under the moonlight.”

Aemond kissed your hand before straightening up to glare at your father.

“If I hear this ring has been sold, you will suffer the consequences. Is that clear?”

“Yes, m’prince.”

“Hmm. Good.”

He left the forge with a confident step and slammed the door behind him.

Silence stretched on. Your teary eyes remained riveted on the jewel. The imprint of his kiss still warmed the back of your hand and made your heart race. You shook your fingers, welcoming this new weight, and smiled brightly.

After several minutes, your father, his mouth ajar, finally turned to you.

“Now, what on earth did you do to seduce a prince, girl?

#★ WRITING #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond fic #hotd x reader #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond angst #aemond x reader smut #hotd fanfic #hotd aemond #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfic

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venusiancharisma · 6 months

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Rising Sign & Your Perfect Festival Outfit

Here are the perfect any music festival outfits for each of the 12 zodiac signs and Ascendants, with details on color schemes, materials, accents, and overall aesthetics:

PSA: Images and descriptions are both complimentary, so they may not be entirely identical, but everything is relevent.

Aries Rising: Bold and daring, an Aries rising would rock a fiery red crop top paired with high-waisted denim shorts. Accessorize with a black leather choker, combat boots, and a statement belt. The outfit screams confidence and adventure.

Taurus Rising: Earthy and sensual, a Taurus rising would opt for a flowy, bohemian-style maxi dress in shades of green and brown. Pair with a leather fringe vest, ankle boots, and a wide-brimmed hat. The outfit exudes comfort and laid-back elegance.

Gemini Rising: Playful and eclectic, a Gemini rising would mix and match patterns and colors. A graphic tee paired with a colorful, patterned skirt, fishnet stockings, and high-top sneakers. Accessorize with layered necklaces and quirky sunglasses for a fun, youthful vibe.

Cancer Rising: Soft and feminine, a Cancer rising would choose a vintage-inspired, pale blue sundress with delicate lace details. Pair with a cozy, oversized cardigan, ankle-strap sandals, and a small, cross-body bag. The outfit radiates comfort and nostalgia.

Leo Rising: Bold and dramatic, a Leo rising would make a statement in a metallic gold romper with a plunging neckline. Accessorize with a chunky, gold chain necklace, oversized sunglasses, and platform heels. The outfit screams glamour and confidence.

Virgo Rising: Clean and practical, a Virgo rising would opt for a crisp, white button-down shirt tucked into high-waisted, black denim shorts. Pair with a black leather belt, minimalist jewelry, and comfortable, low-top sneakers. The outfit is polished and effortlessly chic.

Libra Rising: Elegant and balanced, a Libra rising would choose a flowy, pastel pink maxi skirt paired with a white, off-the-shoulder crop top. Accessorize with delicate, gold jewelry, strappy sandals, and a woven clutch. The outfit is feminine and harmonious.

Scorpio Rising: Mysterious and alluring, a Scorpio rising would opt for a black, lace bodysuit paired with high-waisted, faux leather leggings. Layer with a sheer, black kimono, and accessorize with a choker, ankle boots, and a dark, smoky eye. The outfit is seductive and intense.

Sagittarius Rising: Adventurous and free-spirited, a Sagittarius rising would rock a tie-dye, cropped t-shirt paired with distressed, cut-off denim shorts. Accessorize with a woven, multicolored belt, layered anklets, and gladiator sandals. The outfit is playful and adventurous.

Capricorn Rising: Classic and sophisticated, a Capricorn rising would choose a sleek, solid & colored co-ord with a structured, cinched waist. Pair with knee high or thigh high black boots or dainty shoes, minimalist jewelry, and subtly refined look. The outfit is timeless and powerful.

Aquarius Rising: Unique and unconventional, an Aquarius rising would opt for a holographic, iridescent bodysuit paired with high-waisted, flared pants. Accessorize with a chunky, silver choker, platform boots, and a brightly colored, faux fur coat. The outfit is futuristic and eccentric.

Pisces Rising: Dreamy and ethereal, a Pisces rising would choose a flowy, sheer, pastel purple maxi dress with delicate, floral embroidery. Layer with a soft, crochet cardigan, and accessorize with a flower crown, layered, beaded necklaces, and strappy, barefoot sandals. The outfit is whimsical and enchanting.

#astrology #zodiac #natal chart #sagittarius #astro notes #libra #capricorn #astro observations #virgo

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running-with-kn1ves · 10 days

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Could you do Orc Tribal Leader X Reader on your wedding night?

A/N: I SWEAR I'm literally just writing the same stuff over again b/c I had a story just like this, but you know what I never get tired of it because its like a top fantasy bro. Hope this one was better than that version at least

Content warnings: Forced Marriage, kidnapping, attempted escapes, nonconsensual touching, infantilization of reader

Synopsis: Your village, destroyed and burned. Your life picks up somewhere you would never have imagined. Maybe, death is a better option than being an orc’s spouse.

Word Count: Approx. 2600

The autumn solstice was a bountiful, beholden time of year. From the greeneries of cabbage and the fowls hatched in summer now fully grown, there was much to be harvested and ripened for the taking. Your town was boisterous, full of life with a variety of competitors and businesses attempting to lurch at any tourist’s or local’s wallet to get them to buy countless crops, meat, and woven goods.

Your tiny tea shop, suffering from last July’s drought, was finally starting to perk up with re-growth. Black tea, jasmine, bergamot, even hybrid blends like crushed raspberry and chamomile-- you could assemble enough to raise prices, label the small reaping as an imported foreign good luck charm that when drunken, blessed women with marriage prospects and men with wealth.

That was, before however, you became bound and gagged to a chair, pleasantries being exchanged around you in a language harsh in your ears. The fires... You remember them well, the putrid stench of charred meat from the butcher next door, his body even more ablaze. Your jade boxes of fine silk bags meant for holding gifts of tea, becoming laden with ash and dust. Every scrap of money you saved up under the floorboards disappearing into floating particles and melted coins.

“Brutes,” Your uncle called them, “deranged beasts with only two things in mind: bloodlust and greed.”

Orcs were not well-received in a conservative, fearful town of humans. Even the elves, seen as symbols of beauty in mortal standards, were causes of paranoia and irritation whenever they made their rounds nearby.

It was no wonder that the lines of tusked, olive-fleshed creatures in animal skin were spotted, the guards of your small city went on a rampage. Bows and arrows were no match for iron bones and teeth of steel.

You, were no match for anything wider than a tree trunk. So when fire caught to your village, your home now rampaged for its finest ‘offerings’ to the orcs, you were left to be eaten by the licking flames. And yet, was it a blessing or a curse that one of the warriors decided to haul you on his back, doting on how “nicely you’ll do” as a wedding gift. You didn’t realize that the gift was to be part of the ceremony yourself.

With smoke in your lungs and your eyes blurred by dirt and ash, you watched the ceiling cave in on your tiny tea-filled shack, bright orange and red dancing from behind the window panes as you drifted away.

Daraktan is spoken all around you, harshly and with flicking tongues. You can hear snippets of English, wondering what’s going on behind the black veil covering your head. You don’t dare remove it, recalling what the orc woman, supposedly your now husband’s ‘mother’ telling you in your native tongue.

“Touch this, and you will surely die. My alfhild will remove it, when it is time.”

And so, you wait. Digging your fingernails into your palms, crying quietly in heavy furs and leather, the occasional hand coming to pull your shaky one to their mouths, kissing the tip of your index finger.

“Aka’magosh..” They mumble to you, seemingly more at the body to your right.

The calloused hand of someone much larger than you, whom you have assumed is your husband from his constant appearance nearby, occasionally comes to grace your back, to rest a hand on the top of your head, to smoothen your veil or the soft fur shawl on your legs.

His hearty laugh hurts your ears, the jingles of the metal jewelry he adorns constantly making noise as he shifts.

“Please..” You whisper, praying, to whoever may be listening. Why you? Why, out of all the fair, eligible humans of your town, were you picked out from the rubble to be “saved”? To be married to a faceless orcish man, who would surely break you in half before morning?

The bitter cold of coming winter brushes against your legs. You can feel that you’re not inside wooden walls, and yet unnatural lighting seems to shine through your veil at times.

“Omulork, I think I will take my… wedding gift, to be with in solitude.”

Loud, deep laughs fill the room, the guttural voices of female orcs being swallowed up by uncountable numbers of warriors surrounding you. Your body shivered as a gust of wind blew in, the autumn breeze barely being kept at bay from where you sat.

“Enjoy the festivities, shedzvagas!”

His unique husk leaves everyone in the room to cheer in their orcish language, tough and painful pats coming to your back, the festive shakes to your shoulder nearly making you topple.

That same heated, abrasive hand comes to grab your roped wrists, lurching you firmly, yet gently from your place on the ground. Panic started to fill your stomach as it rose to your chest, the warm aura of an orc next to you radiating to heat you from the chilly weather outside.

Now. It was now or never. You didn’t want to think anymore what he would do to you when you were alone, when you had no one to cry to for help.

Your feet moved before the thought finished crossing your mind. Your hands shook as you stumbled in a sprint forward. You passed thick bodies as you ran blindly, making it a mere five steps before a pair of meaty hands grabbed you by the hips.

“A feisty one, Gar’mak!” The sounds of the orc woman who forced you into your wedding attire spoke up, a drunken laugh leaving her plump lips. “Alfhild, better not leave it out of your sight.”

You hated how clear the English they used was to your ears, how human they all sounded, how when they spoke in your native tongue-- it was meant for your ears. She wanted you to know, to let the fear soak into your chattering teeth.

The orc keeping you captive merely laughed, tossing your weightless body to his shoulder just like he had done when pulling you from the cobble of what was left of your tea shop.

You screamed, biting down on what you could reach from under your veil. But the salty, thick flesh from beneath you was aloof, offering no reaction as a double pat was brought to your buttocks.

“Now now, Djenifor, don’t fuss.” Gar’mak mused, each step he took forward making your body thump against his. He held a tight grip on you, not caring for the scratches you layered his back with. “I won’t try to hurt you… I will keep you safe, try my best to keep your fragile body in one piece.”

The coldening night air was a drastic change to the room of heavy body heat and weighty movement where the wedding ritual and festivities were held. Now, it was quiet. You could hear the loud chattering begin to drift, songs and chants rising again as they once had when you were unceremoniously married to your new ‘husband.’

Gar’mak patted your butt again, moving down to rub at the back of your thigh with a gentle, firm rhythm. He seemed to hum to himself, satisfied with the nights events. Scored himself a spouse and the treasured belongings of a human town.

He must be pretty proud of himself, you seethed.

The tears were beginning to sting the corners of your eyes, frantically scratching at the orcs back when you felt the warmth of an enclosed area meet your skin.

“No, no--” You began to kick, trying to shove off the arm holding you steady on the orcs’ shoulder.

“Settle down now--” Gar’mak ordered softly, putting you down on the fuzzy ground. You managed to hit his face, the hard scrape of tusks scratching your hand as a firm nose nearly cracked your knuckles.

The orc went silent. Quiet in rage, he rips your veil away with a grip hard enough to tear hair out if he so desired.

Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimly lit tent, lanterns glowing at the corners as the mass of a creature leers over you. You forgot just how… big, orcs were. From afar they looked small, bigger than a human, but no threat due to distance. But now… he was above you, twice your height, twice your size, twice if not thrice everything. His palm the size of your skull, his eyes gleaming and looking over your body, weak with exhaustion and fright.

Small, intentional scars were placed under his auburn eyes, some kind of tribe symbol you were sure. Thick eyebrows furrowed at the way tears decorated your cheeks, the exhales from his flat nose blowing hot breath on your chest.

“Please, I, I can’t, I don’t belong--” You fumble over yourself, trying to slide back on the floor of soft wolf and caribou furs.

“Shh, shh now,” The orc puts a hand to your ankle, an action that jerks you to a stop. “I won’t hurt you, lebam…”

You sincerely doubt that, but the sentiment sounds genuine from his broken, baritone voice.

“What’s your name?” He asks, pulling slowly with immeasurable strength at your leg. You slide towards him with little strain, even with your muscles going rigid for you to stand your place, your fingernails digging into the ground beneath you.

You shake out your name, reluctant to give it.

“Ah. What a human name; a scared wee human, aren’t you?”

You don’t dare to respond, waiting for the sound of your snapping ankle.

“They call me Gar’mak, though that may be too difficult for simple human brains. Mak is fine, little Djenifor…”

You don’t want to call him anything, to refer to him at all-- yet, he looks keen to hear you say it. There’s an expectation in his eyes, a flick of his giant tongue against his lips.

“Mak..” You mumble, trying not to gag.

“Yes…” The orc’s hand frees your leg, caressing up to your cheek as he wipes away a forgotten wet stream of tears.

“Please, just let me go--” You beg under your breath, scared of the way he seems to be eyeing your knees, your frail neck, your round ears.

“You know that’s not going to happen,” He doesn’t seem angry at you for asking, just… Sorry. “We are bound forever now; even the gods couldn’t tear us apart. Wherever you go, I will find you. Whenever I leave, you will feel me gone. By sunrise tomorrow your scars will be given, and you will become one of us.”

The panic begins to settle once again in your stomach. Maybe, tonight, yes-- tonight, if you could escape. You could-- just maybe you could find a way, past their all-seeing eyes, their all-hearing ears, escape to the mountains they took to get you here.

“But can’t you change it back?” Your voice cracks, expression twisting into an ugly cry as you feel thick fingers dig into your hair. “Just, we can go back-- just let me be…”

You sob for what feels like too long, hours maybe, Gar’mak’s eyes never leaving you as he pulls you to his thigh. He brings a cotton blanket to your legs as he shushes you, the tenderness of his eyes a foreign sight compared to the façade he forced you to endure during the night's festivities.

When your cries had turned to miserable, quiet sniffles, a muscled knuckle finds its way under your chin. He turns your head to look at him, eyes red and droopy as you try to think of any method of escape.

“You’ll learn to like it here, human.” Gar’mak thinks for a moment, caressing your leg with a single finger.

“We are far more civilized than your kind-- far more… Fair. You’ll be treated well. The spouses of warriors do not go unfed, unbathed. Unloved, most of all. You will be cherished; I will cherish you, as long as you let me.”

The orc grips your jaw in his hand, firm enough to where his fingers made dimples in your cheeks, but softly to where you felt like a mouse in someone’s closing palm. A kiss was planted to your temple, your body pushed deep against your husband’s as he holds you close enough to suffocate. You wait for him to choke life from you, and yet it never comes. He is harsh with his touches, but not harsh enough to hurt.

“Please, let's finish tonight how it was meant to go, hm? Let me hold you…” He murmurs, all soft and lamblike into your ear. It sends shivers down to your soles, hot breath layering your neck as he looks at your lips with such intensity.

You fear saying no, but the word rises up to your throat.

It doesn’t make it out in time. Lips engulf yours, the stiff coldness of bone-colored tusks brushing against your face as Gar’mak holds you tight. Just one kiss is enough to make his demeanor act up.

Your unassuming, comfort-driven spot on his lap is altered swiftly. You find yourself straddling the orcs’ waist, a hand pressed against the back of your head as your tied hands remain useless against his chest.

You don’t know whether to speak, to scream, to bite at his lips-- but you remain flexile, afraid of the rough hand holding your skull so tenderly, the other gripping your thigh to wrap around his flank. You’re like a resistant doll, licked lips becoming tender as the orc pushes against you with such tenacity.

You see his eyes open, staring into your wide, unblinking ones. They seem to communicate more than just lust-- its desire, desire for your reciprocation.

Gar’mak waits… he kisses you, eyes narrowed on standby for your submission. They’re hazy and make you wonder if this is enough to make him release his brutish side, the part that showed no mercy for your neighbors or your home. What would happen, if you broke away or dared to claw at him?

That thought doesn’t stay for long, not when the tough hand on the back of your head moves to your neck, squeezing just enough to bruise.

You wince, lips pursing in reaction just in time for his next tongued assault.

That slight opening of your mouth, the press of your lips against his, is all he needed. You find yourself twisted beneath his body as you’re brought to lay on the furry floor, the orc lying above you.

“That’s right, I’ll be soft Djenifor… just do as I command, keep smelling so sweetly for me.”

Scars litter his shoulders and collarbone, metal necklaces and piercings dangling on his olive-green, lightly haired chest as you fear how much it would take for him to crush you.

He’s so quiet, letting go of your mouth as the orc’s curled tongue licks a slow, wet stripe down your jaw. His hands grab your thighs to wrap your legs around him, intent on keeping you steady and so close you practically breathe the same air.

Before he leans to kiss you feverishly again, the orc brushes your cheek with his knuckles, petting down the amalgamated fabrics you wear to commemorate your wedding.

“You’re so lucky I found you first, that I had saved you from that rubble without layering an extra scratch; my brethren would not be so kind.”

He kisses your cheek, a soft, hungry grin playing on his plumped and tusked lips. “So stay pliant like this for me, wee human, and you won’t feel any pain.”

You lay rigidly, squeezing your eyes shut as a tender, all-consuming kiss eats you up, preparing you for the night’s affairs.

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intheorangebedroom · 5 months

Text

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 4

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Christmas on a Friday means you won't be meeting Frankie this week. This break away from each other might be just what the two of you need to consider if you should carry on with whatever this is…

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey you mean more to me than you will ever know 🧡

Word count: 14.3k

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Chapter 4: Frankie

Frankie scratches the stubble on his jaw. Behind the green screen of his aviators, under his creased brow, his eyes are riveted to the red light in front of him. His grip on the steering wheel too tight for safety.

Something has to be wrong with this light because he’s been waiting at this intersection for ten minutes at least.

He takes in an angry breath. Loud, but constricted. Yet it’s enough for your scent to fill his lungs.

It might be a trick of the mind, because it’s been six days since you’ve been in here, and it’s still everywhere around him. It floats in the cab of the truck. It clings to the fabric of the seat. It’s woven into the suede leather of his jacket.

It’s probably what it is, just a trick of his brain, but he’d like to know for sure. If your presence has pervaded the whole space, or if he’s losing his goddamn sanity.

The light changes to green. His head rolls back on the headrest, eyes drifting close.

It’s a light fragrance. A pale shade of yellow, and celadon green. Orange blossom, citrus, honeysuckle. It’s the very last days of spring, when the air is still chill, but the sunbeams are warm and blinding. Before summer sets everything ablaze, the southern wind, the asphalt, the concrete walls and the bodies. It’s the first sunny day on a pale winter skin.

And there’s the sweet musk you exude, mixed with his own, when he’s fucked you hard and thorough.

The car behind him honks and he jolts up in his seat, knees knocking against the wheel. He puts the pedal down to the floor in less than a millisecond, tires screeching, engine revving up.

What the fuck is wrong with him? What is happening to him?

The route to Will’s place is a familiar one. He drives absentmindedly down streets and avenues lined with palm trees, his mind wandering. To Lua’s shot, that’s due next week; to his Thursday shift he has to swap with Felix. To the gutters that need cleaning, and the front door he should repaint. To the overnight diapers he has to restock soon.

To the feel of your smaller hands cupping his face, and the coolness of your touch. To that tiny pink wound on your forehead and the weariness in your eyes. To that scar on your knee in the shape of a grid, and that other one on your inner thigh you try not to let him see. To those two dimples above your ass and your scent, fuck, your scent, it does something to him. Something he didn’t ask for. Something he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

When he turned around, back in that dive, and his eyes met yours, he didn’t feel anything. Or rather, he felt everything, all at once. The end and the beginning. The sweetness and the pain. Blood and honey. It was all there, contained in your luminous, telling eyes. He saw something in them. Something frightened, but brazen. A hunger. A madness. A longing. Something he recognized, and wanted himself.

He took in your general appearance, the expensive clothes, the even more expensive bag, and he turned back around. Tried to convince himself you were just some corporate executive, bored with your life, looking for a cheap thrill and a quick fuck.

He could sense your gaze, burning holes through his shirt into the muscles of his back, those damn eyes, wide, exhausted. And they kept boring into him. Strong, determined. They wouldn’t let go. You wouldn’t let go.

So he left. He got up and stormed out. Went home to the guest room sofa, and his sleeping baby, and tried to forget about you.

Your eyes kept haunting his nights. And his waking hours too. And since he’s been clean, his days have gotten considerably longer.

No more drugs meant sleepless nights, followed by never-ending stretches of daytime, with nothing to sustain his focus but stress and coffee. It means going to work, and flying on three hours of nonconsecutive sleep, while his thoughts swirl in his overwrought brain. Nothing to take the edge off.

He hadn’t realized the weight he was carrying until Lua was born.

As long as he was in the military, he had kept his head straight. So many guys he served with were using; all kinds of shit. A genuine feel good hit of the summer. It was disconcerting, the ease with which they could score pretty much anything, in just about any country where they were deployed. As if it were made accessible to them purposefully.

But not him. He had never needed it. His focus was sharp, his mood even and leveled, his mind clear. Every fiber of his being striven towards one goal: to watch over his brothers. To leave no one behind.

Things started going south after he’d retired. They followed him. The ones he had left behind. Those times he’d been too quick on the trigger. All of them, soldiers and civilians. Faces without eyes. Deep, bleeding cavities, and dark gaping holes where their mouths should have been. Brothers and enemies merging into one big shapeless and viscous mass of casualties.

They came to him at night, and soon, he stopped sleeping. Exhaustion exacerbated his temper. His control became tenuous. But somehow, he still kept going.

When he met Lupe, he had told her everything. Five days a week, she was the voice in his headset, steady, constant, as she dispatched him and the crew of paramedics to wherever the emergency was located. She sent him to brutal, deadly pile-ups on the highway, burning high schools or heart attacks on remote hiking trails with an even tone that aroused his curiosity and inspired his trust.

When they’d started dating, he confided in her. The nightmares, the difficulty focusing. She understood, but she also didn’t want anything to do with it. She’d answered with a blunt warning. I have my own shit to deal with, Morales, I’m not in this to save you. He didn’t want her to, anyway. He wasn’t her responsibility.

He had stayed. And so did she. Things were good enough. They were in love. She was already well into her thirties, with a job that didn’t leave much time for dating, and even less for starting a family. She wanted a kid more than anything, and he thought normalcy would do it. That it would ground him enough to fix him.

After Lua was born, he resorted to drugs to numb out and function. At the time, he had considered it to be a momentary solution. He needed the energy to care for her, not to keep it together.

The drugs helped at first. It helped with the nightmares. It helped with the realization that flying had, for most of his life, been his sole purpose, main goal and greatest talent, and that he’d used it to destroy, ravage and kill. It helped with the guilt. Even as it generated more of it.

The benzos put him to sleep for dreamless hours, and then the coke kept him awake throughout the workday. He thought he’d find some sort of footing.

It didn’t help long, though. He got caught fast. Almost as if he wanted to be. And then it was all burning shame, and disintegrating self-esteem, with no means left to escape any of his feelings.

Lupe gave him hell, rightfully so. His sister said nothing, which nearly killed him. She wired him money so he could hire a good lawyer. She’d been the one to advise him in the first place to think twice about bringing a baby into his mess. He still hated himself for not listening to her.

What hit him the hardest was the suspension of his pilot license. Who was he, if not a pilot?

After the bust, he invested everything into being a good father. Lupe found it in her to forgive him, and things were pretty good for a couple of months.

Until Pope came back with his bullshit idea. Frankie watched his friends buckle and fold, one after the other. Ben, Ironhead and Redfly. Until he had no other choice but to follow suit. Watch over his brothers. Leave no one behind.

Flashes after that: Redfly coming back in a plastic bag, to join the mass of eyeless, gaping holes that kept him awake at night.

The cruel irony of his suspension being lifted within a mere two weeks after he’d crashed that fucking Mi-8. Pope going into hiding, perhaps dead himself. The rest of them left here to slowly fragment, standing amongst all the things they broke beyond repair, with nothing to show for it.

And then that one day, you collided into him.

When he came back to the bar two weeks after your first encounter, it was with the firm intention of giving you what he thought you wanted. Scratch your itch, and his. Fuck you once, use you as an outlet, same way you probably wanted to use him.

The very moment he saw you step inside the bar, he understood how wrong he’d been.

You were not out for a cheap thrill or a quick fuck; you were not a bored, cynical executive looking to mix with the very working-class you exploited.

You were in pain. Numbed out. Withdrawn. Absent.

For some reason, that fucked him up hard. He tried running away from you, but you came after him, headstrong. You sought him out. Without hesitation, or fear. And something held him back, prevented him from running away too fast or too far. He let you catch up with him.

You wanted him. You want him still.

The sounds you make when you come, that breathless moan, full chest, empty mind, he knew he was in trouble when he pulled it out of you that very first night in the parking lot, against his truck. You clung to him, cold hands with a feverish touch. He was greedy and you thrashed before you went slack in his hold and right away he had wanted more. He risked a taste, licked his fingers, and you were heaven. You were unreal.

He wanted to know so much more: what did you feel like from the inside when you came? How much of him could you take? What your voice would sound like after he’d fuck your throat?

How much of you really existed? How much of you had he made up?

He soon found out. About the sensation of your soft skin under his rougher hands. About your patience. About your scent. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. Intoxicating.

At the beginning, he thought you were coming to him for degradation, as much as for pleasure. There wasn’t a single debasing act he could come up with that you didn’t let him do to you.

You’d take anything he gave you.

Week after week, you let him fuck you numb, fuck you rough, fuck you raw. Tie you up, fold you down. Cover you in come, choke you on his cock, spit in your mouth.

Friday after Friday, you kept looking at him like you couldn’t believe he was still here, pounding you blind into that shitty mattress. Not grateful. Surprised. Or relieved. He didn’t know what to make of it, of that dignity you forfeited when you crossed the threshold of that room that very first night. Of your surrendering.

In retrospect, you understood your dynamic much faster than he did. Back then, he was still struggling with the idea that you were real.

He grew wary, and in his head, a refrain started playing. Tonight’s the last night. There won’t be a next week.

He couldn’t stop, though. One last night, that turned into two, then three, then four. He finally started getting decent nights of sleep, a restful slumber of which he felt undeserving.

He had to put a stop to this. Just one last night, and there wouldn’t be a next week.

He knew even more when his curiosity started to drift elsewhere. To your life outside the room with the brown rug and the yellow curtains. To that inner island of yours, the contour of which he was only starting to make out through the fog of his blunt desire.

You kissed him like you knew he’d never be yours, so you’d be his instead. Like his breath was yours. Like your heart only beat under his hand. And yet, you kept eluding him, silent and slippery. The paradox drove him insane.

He grew restless in between Friday evenings, booking the room earlier each week. He forbade himself any other kinds of relief, and instead turned to books. Browsing, flipping pages impatiently, searching for words and concepts. Intellectual tools to rationalize the feeling of you, to understand your presence and describe your scent, because you wouldn’t let him name you, and probably never would.

He thought that if he didn’t come inside you, perhaps you’d keep coming back to him.

It only made him want you more. The relinquishing drop in your shoulders, every time he asked you to stop him. He became obsessed with the thought of giving you what you knew better than to want. And in his head, the refrain kept playing.

One last night. One last fuck. One last fix.

In comparison, it had been easier to quit coke.

He can’t explain your pull. The way his body gravitates towards yours. He can’t explain the visceral craving.

Aloof and soothing, with a will so hard and unbending it scares him, you take, everything that festers ugly inside him, and absorb it, making it disappear. You turn it into something beautiful, something that blooms and purrs and breathes. Orange blossom and honeysuckle.

What do you do with all his rage? How do you cope with it? Where do you get this strength from?

Your strength. He’s only beginning to fathom the magnitude and depth of it.

It’s hidden beneath the surface of you, dormant, nestled in your quiet resilience, your accidental resistance. The remoteness of your gaze. It’s in your plea for him to take, until he knows he’ll stop breathing if he stops giving in.

That place within yourself, where you retreat not to get hurt. That’s where he wants to find you. That’s where he wants to live.

When you didn’t show up two weeks ago, he should have been relieved. He’d got out easy. You’d taken the decision for him. Inside his chest, however, anxiety chewed up his heart and set his nerves on fucking fire. The possibility that your absence was unwilling. That something might have prevented you from coming. Something, or someone.

He had your plates written down in the little spiral notebook he kept in the glove compartment of his truck. He could’ve pull some strings, found out your address. Fuck, he could’ve found out your name. But it felt like a violation even thinking about it, no matter how sickly worried he was. Like a step too far into madness. Something he wouldn’t come back from.

And then, you did show up. Exhausted, wounded. Twice as determined. He felt the overwhelming urge to get you into his truck and drive away with you, and never come back.

He felt the familiar grip of wrath, a blinding surge of hatred for this man who’s not quite your husband.

Pulling in front of Will’s building, Frankie puts the truck in park. He grazes a palm over his face, eyes falling on the ugly condo to his left. The teal-colored, budget paint peeling off the sunburned walls in large flecks.

He sighs, remembering Will’s former house. The one he shared with his fiancée before she left him. Two stories, bow windows on the top floor, a white porch with a swing. Lilac trees in the front lawn. Conversations about having kids.

He readjusts his hat, fingers deftly combing through his hair, takes the six-pack next to him on the seat bench, and exits his truck, dark eyes quickly scanning the block for Ben’s car. The beat-up Camaro is nowhere in sight. He didn’t expect Ben to be on time anyway, but he’s hoping he won’t take too long to join them.

In the narrow corridor leading to Will’s apartment, a neon lamp goes off and on in a spasmodic, irritating blink. The damp stench of molded wood cloaks his tense frame. He knows that if he tilts his head down to his shoulder and inhales deeply enough, he’ll find you there.

He doesn’t.

Before he brings down his knuckles to the door, Frankie exhales long and slow. With closed eyes, pursed lips. It’s useless. His shoulders won’t relax.

When Will opens the door, Frankie’s taken aback by how good he looks. How normal. Thick blond hair kept short, with a carefully trimmed beard. Brawny shoulders, creaseless shirt, alert gaze. Seemingly unchanged, incomprehensibly constant.

Frankie leans a little longer than necessary into his friend’s full-body hug. When he lets go, the tall man briefly narrows his eyes at him, a steel-blue, surgical stare from behind long blond lashes.

“How are you doing, man?” Will asks in his lazy drawl.

The dim hallway feels too small for the two of them. Frankie’s skin is pulled taut under Will’s unblinking scrutiny. He lowers his head, tucking his face into the protective shadow of his hat.

“Good. Same,” he mumbles.

Benny’s buoyant entrance saves him, and it’s more hugs, bulky shoulders colliding, hands clasping and eruptive greetings as they slowly make their way inside the apartment.

“How’s my goddaughter?” Benny asks.

Frankie smiles at the question. A genuine smile, crinkled eyes and dimpled cheeks. The warmth of the younger man’s baritone spreads in his chest. It’s the care in his words.

“She’s good. Growing up fast. I think it’s just a matter of days before she walks, now.”

“The minute she walks, I’m gonna teach her how to throw a punch,” Benny grins.

Every time he visits, it takes Frankie a minute to adjust to the contrast between the exterior of Will’s building and the interior of his apartment, and tonight is no exception. The small, one-bedroom’s white walls look like they’ve been freshly painted. The sofa’s cushions are puffed as if no one has ever sat on it. Every surface is spotless, not a dust particle flying. The coffee table is bare, no glass of water, not even the remote control lying on it.

Matching frames lined methodically on the living-room walls display family pictures, chronologically arranged, as well as a couple of shots from their time together in the Army. Frankie catches a glimpse of his younger self, cropped curls, sharper jaw, smoother grin. His arm is wrapped around Pope’s shoulders. He averts his gaze.

In the kitchen, the stainless-steel sink is shiny and empty, clean dishes neatly stored away in the overhead glass cabinets. The stove looks like it was just delivered.

Frankie knows himself to be tidier than most. When they started dating, Lupe would often tell him it was one of her favorite traits of his.

But Will’s ability to inhabit a seemingly unlived place is unsettling.

They take their usual seats around the small, round kitchen table. The two brothers fill up the room. Benny’s presence is bright, cheerful, in complementary contrast with his brother’s density and observing silence. Frankie lands somewhere in the middle. Like a bridge. Like a common ground.

The conversation flows between them, effortless. It would be easy to believe nothing has changed. Up until nine months ago, they used to meet at least once a week. Fight nights, bar nights, gym nights... Pope was rarely in town, Tom busy trying to make ends meet, so it was often just the three of them.

Now, Frankie seldom sees the Millers more than once a month. But after thirteen years, ten of which they’ve spent serving side by side, he knows them well enough to notice the invisible changes.

There’s a new sort of gravity to Benny’s demeanor. His laughter isn’t as loud, not as immediate. A loss in spontaneity. There’s Will's unusual patience and leniency toward the young man. The nervous glances at his watch whenever his brother’s late.

Lately, Frankie has caught himself envying the two men’s bond. The many quiet ways in which they look out for one another. A tightly packed unit. Blood tied.

He could call his sister. Hell, he could even hop on a plane with Lua and fly across the country to visit her, Lupe could probably use the break. His sister would listen. She already has. And she never judged.

Will places three more cans of beer on the table. Frankie hesitates. He doesn’t need a DIU in his Christmas stocking.

“What are you guys doing for Christmas? Going back to Colorado?” he asks, stalling.

“Yeah, we’re flying tomorrow,” Benny answers with a slow nod. “Can’t leave mom alone.”

Frankie finds himself trapped under Will’s gaze again. It’s charged, with what, he cannot tell yet, but he’s ready to bet he’ll find out before the evening ends. That fourth beer is really tempting. Instead, his thumb finds the target tattooed on his left hand, blunt nail worrying at it.

“Say, Fish,” Will starts.

Here it comes.

“I met Lupe the other day at the grocery store.”

Frankie nods, steeling himself. Chin up, to meet his friend’s eyes. There’s the metallic crunch of a tall boy cracked open, followed by the bubbly, high-pitched hiss of the beer.

“Wanna tell me why she’s under the impression that we see each other every Friday evening?”

A second pair of storm-blue eyes dart to his face. If he wasn’t caught in the middle of it, Frankie could find the scene almost comical.

“Wait,” Benny cuts in, “you guys are back together?”

Frankie shakes his head. “No. No, we’re not.”

“But you still live together,” Will states, impassive, carrying on with his interrogation.

“For Lua,” Frankie says flatly.

Those two words have come out of his mouth for what feels like a thousand times in the past nine months, to family, close friends, colleagues, and acquaintances alike. Today, for the first time, he realizes how incomprehensible, how irrational it might have sounded to all of them.

“Why are you lying to her, then?” Will leans in closer, his face contrasted in harsh shadows under the overhead suspension.

“Look Will,” Frankie starts, his tone a notch too defensive, “I appreciate your concern, I know this comes from a good place, but I’m not on anything, ok? So you can– you can drop it.”

The request is rhetorical. Desperate, really. Ironhead is not known for letting go, once he has latched onto something. Across from Frankie, Benny drinks up in silence, eyes flickering between the two men and the growing tension that hangs like smoke between them.

An ugly apprehension creeps up along Frankie’s nape.

“I know you’re not using. I can tell. You look better than I’ve seen you looking in a while, aside from the fact that you’re wound up pretty tight. But we’re in this fucking aftermath together, Fish, so I gotta ask: what the fuck is it that you do every Friday evening?”

Frankie sits up straight, folding his arms over his chest, blood simmering.

“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” he asks, keeping his voice even.

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Will cocks his chin toward Benny as he adds, “I trust you with mine and my brother’s life.”

“But not with mine,” Frankie whispers, comprehension finally dawning on him, and somehow, his friend’s concern hits him harder than an unlikely lack of trust. Something snaps and goes slack between his shoulders.

Benny moves suddenly, his massive frame leaning forward. Propping his forearms on the table, he lets out a long, low whistle.

“Holy shit, man,” he says, “Fish got himself a new girl.”

Will frowns. His eyes do a quick back and forth between his brother and Frankie, who hangs his head, hiding under the brim of his hat, hissing an angered fuck.

Benny erupts in thundering laughter. Around them, the tension bursts open, the entire atmosphere dripping with it, the air moving again.

“No. No, I don’t,” Frankie mutters, shaking his head.

His denial is drowned under Benny’s booming voice.

“Come on! Look at yourself, old man, you’re fucking blushing! You got yourself some pussy!”

“Do you? Did you meet someone?” Will presses, trying to lock eyes with him.

Frankie gives it to him. Raises his head and looks him dead in the eyes, shaking his head still, a vein ready to pop in his corded neck.

“I didn’t meet anyone. She’s not a girl. I’m not talking about her here,” he grits.

Will leans back in his chair. It creaks loud and tired under his weight. He lets out a heavy sigh, of relief perhaps, or deepened worry.

“Come on, Fish! Give us something. At least tell us what she looks like,” Benny teases.

He opens another beer and slides it over to Frankie across the table.

Will’s eyes have yet to leave his face.

“Why don’t you tell Lupe about it? She’s the one who broke up with you,” he remarks.

“Less than nine months ago. After I fucked up, yet again. She’s the mother of my kid, Will, she’s been through enough on my account.”

Will nods in silence, apparently satisfied with this explanation.

“Anyway, it’s nothing. There’s nothing to tell,” Frankie adds, swallowing the bitter taste that sits at the back of his tongue.

Silence settles over the three of them. Frankie grabs the can and brings it to his lips, downing half of its content in long gulps.

Your scent is there, right there, meshed into the fabric of his jacket. It takes all of his willpower not to turn his head and breathe you in.

“She’s married, is she?” Benny asks with a shit-eating grin.

Will’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in sheer horror.

“Is she?” he asks, plunging forward to look at him.

Frankie grinds his teeth, jaw flexing, eyes clenching shut.

“Fish, is she married?” Will repeats, a shrill undertone in his usual low drawl.

“Well, I, for one, am not judging you,” Benny declares, giving his brother a pointed look and raising his can as if to toast Frankie.

Frankie sighs.

He’s never going back to that motel.

—

You don’t like champagne, but that’s all Adrian’s parents ever serve you. It’s fine. For once, you don’t mind. You’ll be driving later today, so you need your mind clear and your reflexes sharp.

You cradle the tall glass in your hand. The taste has long gone stale, the liquid lukewarm in the warmth of your palm. The bubbles are flat. On your lap, your phone buzzes quietly with a new message. Across the table, Adrian’s eyes dart in your direction, annoyance darkening them.

You swipe your thumb across the screen, and a smile plays on your lips at the sight of Ava and Polly grinning for the camera. They’re sitting in the middle of a large group of women, you quickly count twelve of them, wearing a rainbow of paper crowns.

They’re gathered in front of a festive table. A small living-room, brightly lit, cluttered with art, lamps, and plants. A Christmas tree stands in the left corner. In front of them, the plates are loaded with what looks like turkey and roasted vegetables. Napkins, cutlery, candles, and decorative pine tree branches scattered on the table. There’s a large cake dish at the center, on top of which sits the highest lemon meringue cake you’ve ever seen, the topping at least three inches high, clearly homemade.

Some of the women are holding wine glasses, white or red, half full, lipstick smeared on the rim. The photograph has captured them mid-cheers, their lips pursed around a word that’s not yet a smile. The picture is all crinkling eyes, ringing laughter, colorful clothes and flushed cheeks.

You tap your thumb on the screen in fast motions.

Gorgeous! All of you!

Wait, is that turkey vegan?

You add a winking emoji to clarify your tone before pressing send.

The three dots blink briefly and the dark-haired, shrugging emoji pops up on the screen.

You chuckle.

It’s Xmas!!!!! Lexi’s filling is fkg delicious!!!!!

What abt u? U holding up????

The little round yellow face, with its mouth turned downward, stirs guilt in your gut.

Ava was tearing up again, when you dropped her at the airport two days ago, despite your many reassurances that you would be perfectly alright. It’s not your first Christmas apart, but it’s the first one with over a thousand miles between you. You want to put her mind at ease. For her to remain carefree as long as life allows her to be.

I’m good, pup ♥ But I’d be even better if I was about to eat that meringue cake, OMG!

It’s not a lie, not exactly. Of course, it’s the first time in decades you’re completely sober to face the ordeal that is Christmas diner at Adrian’s parents. It’s almost an outer body experience. But strangely, not the nerve-racking one you feared. You anticipated worse. For every sensation to be impossibly loud, blinding, sharp. For your mind to spiral downward at the first uncomfortable interaction.

It hasn’t. You’re nervous, but also focused. And that grip provides you with just enough balance. This year, you’ve got a clear course of action. At least for the upcoming couple of days. One step at a time.

Pinching the screen, you zoom in on Ava’s face, before your eyes flicker up to the dining table you’re sitting at and the people around it.

Everything’s beige. From the tablecloth linen to the leftovers growing cold on the plates. From the Christmas tree and the guests’ clothing to Adrian’s mother’s hair.

Beige, bland, boring. Ashen.

The only touch of color is on Adrian’s face. Those ruby-colored specks spreading to his cheeks from the neck, standing out in his pale carnation. A reaction you only seem to arouse when he’s furious with you.

His mother announces dessert will be served in the jardin d’hiver, which is how Beatrice insists on calling the back porch.

Your phone vibrates, signaling another text from Ava. You slide it in the pocket of your jumpsuit without opening it. Adrian glowers at you a second longer before walking over to the end of the table to assist his grandmother.

His brother nearly races him to it. You watch the grown-up man in his bespoke Armani suit get up so fast he nearly trips over the legs of his chair.

Their motivation is not honorable. Affection doesn’t play into their eagerness. There isn’t a member of the Mountcastle family who harbors love or respect for the 92 year old, acrimonious matriarch. In their defense, she’s a dried-up, nasty piece of bigotry, built on pure, solid hatred, even by their conservative standards and values.

But she owns the estate and she holds the money. And so the two Mountcastle spawns scramble to their feet to make a show of their devotion.

The whole clan gets up to form a procession behind the old woman’s frail, hunched silhouette. Parents, aunts and uncles, in-laws and cousins, children in ruffled dresses and short dress pants flittering around them. Your so-called family. You can barely tell them apart.

Detached, you stride slowly behind, toward the back of the house. You haven't worn heels in two weeks. It’s quite surprising how fast you got unused to them. Your slick, black pumps press uncomfortably on your little toes, rubbing your skin raw. But you won’t be wearing them much longer. So you suck in the pain. You let it ground you.

Your choice of outfit elicited a stern glance from Adrian when you slipped it on this morning. He hovered behind you, disapproving and silent, still riled up from your earlier confrontation when you had announced you’d be driving your car to his parents’ house, so you could leave early.

You stood in front of the mirror, rigid and hesitant, sliding up the side zipper. A sleeveless black jumpsuit with a V-cut cleavage in the front, and a deeper one exposing your back, bought in a thrift store ages ago, when you were still in college. You exhumed it from the depth of your closet, in hopes it would convoke the boldness you had briefly experienced during this short period of your life. You’re done dressing to please anyone but yourself.

The help walks briskly past you through the double, ornate-glass doors leading to the porch. She lays a porcelain tray on the console near the railing.

“La bûche de Noël!” Beatrice declares triumphantly, opening her arms to gesture theatrically at the brown mass on the tray.

A wave of blond heads undulates toward the console, blue eyes in every nuance darting at the dish where a log-shaped lump of a cake sits.

“What is this monstrosity?” her mother-in-law croaks.

The entire family falls silent. Your eyes grow wide and you bite down on your grin.

Beatrice instantly loses her carefully crafted composure. It’s never been obvious to you until now, how vacant her gaze turns whenever something upsets her. You briefly wonder what’s her drug of choice to escape. You sure hope she has one.

“Oh but it’s French, Abigail,” she murmurs. “It’s a delicacy. I bought it from Sucré Table, on Kennedy Boulevard.”

“What’s wrong with an American pecan pie?” the matriarch spits out without so much as a look for her daughter-in-law.

Beatrice smiles her empty smile, sharp yellowed teeth, hardened gray eyes. You can’t bear to look at her any longer. You turn your head, and your gaze meets Agatha’s.

The young girl instantly lightens up, straightening her back in her baby-blue seersucker dress, smiling at you with something you can only describe as relief. She raises a little hand and wriggles her thin fingers. The ten year old is your favorite. You love her dearly. Her bubbly personality and burgeoning sense of humor have seen you through many family gatherings.

Today, it hurts you to admit, you’ve kept her at arm’s length, selfishly preserving yourself from Beatrice’s favorite question: when will you have a child of your own?

With a slight wince, you blink away the vision of Frankie holding his little girl in the photo booth picture. Their full heads of curls. Their dimpled grins.

Charles, Adrian’s father, is the first to break the uneasy silence, with a playful albeit daring remark on his mother’s failing sense of adventure. The assembly lets out a collective breath. Beatrice takes a seat on one of the cushioned wicker chairs, curtly signaling the help to cut the bûche and serve it.

You exhale slowly through parted lips. If you wait any longer, courage will fail you.

Smoothing your palms over your belly, you make your way to Adrian, where he’s leaning against the railing at the rear end of the porch.

“I’ll be going, now,” you whisper, eyes not quite meeting his.

He sighs, something constrained and hostile, facing away toward the sprawling, lush garden, hydrangeas, willow trees. Tension rolls off his lanky frame. Your stomach turns, your mind swivels, grasping for words of reassurance.

Incomprehensibly, you want him to talk to you, even though you’re terrified of what he might say. The poisoned words he’s capable of, somehow preferable to his irate silence.

“I’ll excuse myself to your mother before leaving. I’ll be discreet. I promise. I won’t do anything to jeopardize your–”

He turns to face you so fast it startles you.

“You could at least tell me where you’re going.”

You look up at him, taken aback by his pained expression. Under his pinched brow, his features are twisted in an unfamiliar expression. He slithers a hand around your waist, drawing you close, and it strikes you: he’s pleading.

A breath hitches inside your chest. From this close, you can see the flecks of green in his pale blue irises. You had forgotten their complexity. Their refined beauty. He tightens his grip on you, fingers curling into your tender flesh. The lie tumbles out of you before you can hold it.

“I’m just going to check in on Ava. It’s her first Christmas on her own.”

You catch a glimpse of his mother in your peripheral, handing out Bone China dessert plates. The heady perfume of the hydrangea bushes is going to your head. The day is swirling inside your brain, around you, jardin d’hiver, French dessert, delicacy. Agatha’s desperate little wave, her loneliness, your cowardice. Adrian’s eyes of green and their angry plea.

Your lungs constrict, not letting you breathe.

Adrian tilts down his face, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath skates your skin when he speaks.

“What happened to us, babe?”

His lips brush against the edge of your jaw. Static scrambles your brain; your hand motions upward of its own volition to rest on his back. The pain, the remorse in his voice sits like a razor blade inside your throat. You have to talk around the taste of your blood, voice unrecognizable.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.”

It’s not a lie. You will be back tomorrow. Facing a blank page, the rest of your life to figure out, to navigate with what you’ve learned about yourself.

His hand moves, sliding down to rest in the small of your back, the muscles of his back flexing under your light touch, and your palm, your entire body registers the difference. In sensation, in mass, in warmth.

“I miss you,” he whispers against your lips.

—

The car stereo plays a classical rendition of Let it snow. Ten minutes into driving, you gave up trying to find a station that would broadcast something other than Christmas tunes.

The traffic is fluid, the roads eerily deserted. The windows on both sides are cracked open, and the warm, late afternoon air that wafts in soothes your sore rib cage.

Your mind keeps wandering to the previous Friday, when you sat nestled into Frankie’s side as he drove aimlessly. To the smooth fabric of his jacket under your cheek, to the heat of his chest, to his solid breadth.

You stop it.

The memory is always a thought away. But it shouldn’t be summoned at random. You can’t risk its erosion. There won’t be another one.

You’re disappointed to find a lanky young man sitting in Raul’s place behind the counter of the motel’s office. His blond hair is tied in a bun on top of his head, and his phone blasts pop tunes in audio slices of fifteen seconds through revolving TikTok videos. You want to cover your ears. Or smash up his phone.

He hands you the key, and you all but rush out of the office, only slowing once you’ve reached the front door of your room.

Before stepping inside, you halt under the porch.

Beyond the parking lot, beyond the road, over the horizon, dusk descends in dark tangerine over the canopy of trees. Slowly, the sky turns saffron in seamless gradations. The air feels textured, grainy like an old photograph, like long-gone, sunny vacations, like faded memories. The evening breeze is pleasant. The night envelops you, violet-blue, regrets and losses.

Inside room number 2, you draw the yellow curtains. You stand still for a few moments, confused, your routine disrupted, since you’re not expecting him.

It’s too early to sleep, but the tension that has run through you throughout the week, culminating with Adrian’s kiss, is now flowing out of your body, leaving you limp.

Adrian hadn’t held you like that in years. With passion and intent. Perhaps even sincerity. He’d never done that, attempted to use your nostalgic heart to his benefit. Intimidation had usually sufficed.

Toeing off your shoes, you slowly undress. You fold your clothes in a neat little pile, similar to the one you found on the desk last Saturday. Military-like.

The questions you never asked Frankie flood your brain. All the things about him you will never have the time to learn. They form a lump in the dip of your collarbone. They prickle under your eyelids.

You clench your eyes shut, and invoke the image of his daughter’s face, trying to picture their Christmas celebration to strengthen your resolve. Pecan pies and half-nibbled, minute portions of roasted turkey. Red boxes wrapped in white ribbons under the blinking tree. A teddy bear. Jigsaw puzzles with large pieces. Plastic toys with pushing buttons and synthetic lullabies. A rocking horse, maybe.

The image of him with that little girl has plagued you, continuously, throughout the week. Pain cloaking you like mist, seeping inside you, breaching the molecular structure of your flesh. Redefining it. Until you woke up one night, drenched in cold sweat, with a certitude ringing out inside your head: you had to give him up. Give him back, back to his wife and daughter.

You’d go to the motel one last time, one last indulgence, to say goodbye to the idea of him, and you’d give him back to his family.

When your heart rate has slowed down, you walk over to the bathroom to wash your face clean. You’ll miss your reflection in that black-edged mirror. You don’t smile and say, “Stop me.”

The bedspread is gross. The polyester fabric, once a peach shade of orange, is darkened in multiple places by stains of various shapes and consistencies. You’re probably responsible for most of it.

Grabbing a corner of the heavy quilt, you slide it off the bed entirely. The white linen underneath seems clean enough.

You climb into bed, and repress a shiver. You switch off the lights and pull up the sheet to your chin. The fabric is threadbare, starchy.

How can you be so cold, in the mild evening?

Lying curled up on your side, eyes strained on the curtains, you don’t feel yourself falling asleep.

Soon, you’re miles away from the motel, your naked body drifting into the Pacific Ocean. You’re half-immersed, but afloat. The undercurrent is strong underneath the white crests of the violent waves, but you’re not scared. As long as you lie in the water, as long as you don’t try to resist, you’ll be fine. Ears beneath the surface, you’re isolated by the silence of the dark abyss, eyes staring up into the immensity above you.

It’s a different kind of sunset. Flamboyant, carmine, and the whole sky is ablaze with it. The horizon is on fire, but you’re safe in the water.

A vague intuition roils your peace. You’re supposed to look for something. How, you don’t know, because you cannot shift from your position, or you’ll sink.

Suddenly, something tailspins across the sky in a fast downward fall. Too small to be a bird, too slow for a shooting star. Thick streaks of ominous gray fumes trail behind it in its descent.

Should you be scared? Should you try to get away from it? It’s so far in the distance, it can’t be much of a threat. It’s too late, now, anyway, you tilt your head to the side in time to watch it collide with the surface of the ocean.

You feel the impact in the undertow. Something too big stirs between your lungs, and you gasp as the muted sound of the collision reaches you in a vibrating shockwave.

The ripples of the impact are crawling fast over the surface, in your direction. A sense of dread, of impending doom, scrambles your brain. You jolt upward to a vertical position, legs and hands beating against the current, pushing against the water.

The balance is fractured. You’re pulled under.

You’re sinking fast, as fast as that thing fell into the ocean, and above the surface, the crimson sky is turning dim.

Instinctually, you rebel against it, screaming for help but it’s water, not air, that fills your lungs. Salty, cold, abrading your throat when you choke on it.

You’re dying, or you’re dead already, because something firm and soft radiates heat against your back.

“Shhh, it’s ok.”

A strong arm bands firmly around your chest, warm palm, splayed fingers, pulling you flush against warm skin.

“I got you, baby.”

Your eyes shoot open. The dark bedroom materializes in your blurred vision, the silhouette of the bedside table and the lamp, the pale square of the window. Its shape detached from the wall, dancing in the darkness.

“Frankie?”

Frankie presses you into him, a short, strong squeeze of an answer.

But your dream is clinging to the edges of your consciousness, salty water sloshing at the bottom of your lungs.

“‘S that really you?” you ask again, words slurred through sleep, panic in the inflection of your question.

His hand wraps around your breast. He slots his face into the curve of your neck, the scruff of his jaw a tickle against your bare skin.

“Why, you were expecting someone else?”

You close your eyes, tears rising, sudden, like the tide of the Pacific Ocean.

“I’m not still dreaming?” you breathe out.

His response is immediate. His teeth graze the slope of your shoulder. The bite is shallow, but firm, and you let out a little sound, between a surprised gasp and a relieved exhale.

“See? Not dreaming. Go back to sleep, I’ll take care of you in the morning,” he mouths against your skin before kissing it better. A pointed kiss, plush, parted lips. A promise.

The impact of that thing on the surface of the ocean is still pulsating through you. Ricocheting around your rib cage. You wiggle into his hold to turn around and face him, your palms finding the plane of his broad chest.

Your entire body registers the difference. In sensation, in mass, in warmth.

In the semidarkness, you can only make out the outline of his sharp features. You scoot closer, tucking your face into his neck, taming the vibration with his scent.

“Will you still be here in the morning?”

You feel the thick swallow in his throat against your temple. It’s a beat before he moves, tilting his head to rest his chin on the crown of your head, both arms circling your waist. Engulfing you in his hold.

“I will.”

—

Frankie knew you’d be at the motel. Instinctually so. A gut feeling, unnerving in its clarity.

He hadn’t planned on going when he headed out. He had decided never to set a foot there ever again, and he was going to stand by his decision. After he’d put his daughter to bed, he just needed to get out of the house. Escape the charged atmosphere.

It was Lua’s second Christmas, and he hadn't even managed to keep his family together that long.

Lupe was watching a movie in the living-room. He’d leaned against the door frame, already in his hat and jacket. She hated his hat. She had forbidden him to wear it inside the house when they started dating, and he still abided by that rule. A belated mark of respect.

“I’m heading out,” he announced, as neutral as possible. “Not sure when I’ll be back, don’t worry, ok?”

She was done being worried about him. He knew this much. He understood. He accepted.

They still shared a roof, however. Bills, deadlines, and most importantly, responsibilities regarding the child they had brought into this world. He owed her basic information on his whereabouts. He may have lied about where he went, but he had always been back home before Lua woke up, as agreed between them.

“Yeah, ok,” she answered, without lifting her eyes from the TV screen.

As he pushed away from the lintel, she turned to face him, as if remembering something.

“Wait, Francisco?”

She hadn’t called him Frankie since she’d broken up with him.

“Yea?” he said, backtracking to stand on the threshold.

Her dark eyes glimmered, lit up by the TV screen’s flickering light. She was beautiful. A superior kind of beauty. Like gilded age Hollywood nobility. Dolores Del Rio, Linda Darnell. Even when tired, even with a bare face, and sitting in her pajamas with a bowl of chips between her crossed legs. Frankie hoped Lua would grow up to look like her. To be like her. And not take from him and his rough features. And his fucked up brain.

“Could you stay in to take care of Lua next weekend? I know Friday’s your night, but I— I’ve got an opportunity to get away for the weekend. I might not be back until the 2nd.”

He recognized it in her demeanor. In the way she tried facing him without being able to look straight at him. The discreet, unconscious fiddling of the hem of her t-shirt. The concealment. Handing out a part, but not all the truth. Only what’s convenient.

He briefly wondered if he’d been this obvious when he was running around on drugs. Probably even more so. How she didn’t kick him in the jaw was still a mystery to him. He owed her so much for her patience alone.

“No problem, I’ll be here. Happy to do it for you,” he said in earnest, hoping it didn’t sound too awkward. Hoping she’d get the meaning behind it: she deserved someone else. Someone better.

“Ok. Cool.” She paused before she added, “Appreciate it.”

He nodded in silence and turned around, walking toward the front door.

Originally, the plan had been to drive without a goal. Pop an old Jefferson Airplane album into the truck’s stereo and listen to the music, drifting into the night. Slowly ease down from the day’s tensions.

Your scent had eventually dissipated from the cab. It’d been eight days. He was never going back to that motel, and with her request, Lupe had just made his resolution easier to translate into action.

The words formed inside his mind. He pronounced them out loud.

I’m never going back to that motel.

And he knew. You were there, at this very moment. He couldn’t explain how, but he knew. You’d said you couldn’t come, but it was Christmas evening, not Christmas Eve. Most families were done with the celebrations, heading home, cleaning up, storing away the china until next Thanksgiving.

He pictured you sitting on the edge of the bed, a lonely silhouette peering out into the twilight beyond the yellow curtains, and a violent pain shot through his chest. He thought he was having a heart attack, the way his heart squeezed and sank.

It hadn’t been more than a split second between his vision and his decision. He hit the brakes, ignoring the white SUV honking and swerving behind him, and U-turned on Ocean to head toward the 589 northbound.

When he pulled into the parking lot, the night was pitch dark. Your gray sedan appeared in his headlights. He let out a sigh of relief as he parked behind it. The pain inside his chest was only starting to ebb.

He got out fast and climbed onto the porch in front of room number 2. You hadn’t even locked the door.

—

Dawn wakes you. The light gently tugging at your consciousness, little by little. Pale but insistent, nudging your eyes open.

The room looks so different in the daylight. A miracle you have yet to tire of. Dust particles dancing in the grazing sunbeams of an early winter morning. Quiet and peace.

It’s been a long while since you last slept this well. You sigh at the cliché. A good-hearted, full-chested sigh.

Frankie’s heat behind you is nearly too much. His chest pressed against your back, his left arm, limp and heavy, resting across your waist.

His breathing is deep. Slow, and steady. With each rise and fall of his chest, a thin sheen of sweat glides between your two bodies. His breath ruffles the thin hair on your nape in a gentle tickle.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, you try peeling his arm off you. You’ve almost made it when he suddenly brings it back down.

“Nope,” he mumbles with closed eyes. The word is sleep-heavy, but the corner of his lips are twitching.

You stifle a delighted giggle.

“I have to use the bathroom.”

“Mmh.”

There’s a pause as he considers it, as you vainly try to bite down on your childlike grin.

“Ok,” he finally says, with exaggerated reluctance.

He doesn’t move his arm, though. You have to wiggle yourself out of his hold.

When you exit the bathroom, he’s still in the same position. The room is flooded with light. The sun darts its rays into his sleep-mussed hair. From golden strands to darker depth, his curls are pointing in every direction.

You tiptoe in silence, doing your very best to climb back on the bed without disturbing his slumber. You want this. More than anything you’ve ever wanted. This tranquil moment to yourself, alone with his sleeping body.

Kneeled behind him on the mattress, you take in his breadth, impressive even in this position as he lies on his side. You breathe in his scent, leather, cedar wood, and the musk of his skin, warm from sleep, from the morning sun, from your own body.

There’s a larger freckle on the left side of his neck. Your fingers hover over it, curious, tempted. Drifting higher, your gaze uncovers a faded tattoo behind his ear. You can’t make out what it represents. The green ink is blurred, as if smeared underneath his skin. You doubt it was professionally done. It tugs at your heart with a sharp little pang of a pain to imagine him as a teenager. Tall and lean, smooth cheeks, smooth skin, a friend hunched over him with a needle and an ink pen.

There’s another one on his left hand. This one, you know well. You’ve kissed it. Licked it. Held on to it. It’s nestled on the muscle between his thumb and index finger. Two circles and a dot in their center. A target, you assume, but you can’t be certain. The pile of clothes folded in military fashion springs to mind.

Your eyes continue their exploration, flicking to his other wrist, with its inked arabesque, but it’s over in a second.

You let out a sharp gasp, and he moves so fast you can’t deflect. His arm seizes you by the waist, strong and unyielding. He drags you over his body, and you stumble onto the mattress in front of him.

“What are you doing, back there?” he husks, a smile in his tone, and you giggle, again.

He pulls you in close to him.

“I’m looking at my Christmas present,” you answer.

He lets out a low chuckle. You made him laugh. Pride flares up in your chest. He smiles a dimpled smile, and you suck in a shaky breath, more pain blooming inside your rib cage.

“You’re so pretty in this light,” you whisper in wonderment.

“You’re pretty in every light.”

“How would you know, you haven’t opened your eyes yet,” you tease.

You tease. Your levity makes you dizzy.

His eyebrows disappear in his soft curls. He lifts one eyelid, pursing his lips. The morning sun catches at the mahogany of his iris.

“You questioning my judgment here?”

Smiling, you move your hips closer to his, to where you want to feel him. The low rasp of his voice is dripping down inside you, slowly, surely. Swirling like honey. Thick, rich trickles of amber, sticky and sweet. Like the light playing on his freckled skin. Like his warmth under your hands. Too much and not enough, pooling down between your legs.

Reaching up, you scratch your nails in his beard, tracing the heart-shaped, bare patch on his jaw with your fingertips.

“Is it ok that you’re still here? At this hour?” you ask, focusing on the tip of your finger.

“I don’t know. I hope my truck is not gonna turn into a pumpkin,” he answers, giving your waist a little pinch.

“I hope not. I like your truck.”

Your fingers travel down along his strong neck.

“How’s your head?” he asks.

The bobbing of his throat is mesmerizing. It’s a minute before you’re able to answer.

“You still don’t believe I fell, do you?”

“I believe you. It’s him I don’t trust.”

You’re brought back, violently so, under Beatrice’s porch, into Adrian’s arms and his lips pressed to yours, prying them open. To his taste on your tongue, bitter like stale champagne. Yesterday afternoon. Forever ago.

Perhaps he sees the memory clouding your gaze, because his leg wedges between yours, his body curling around your body. Protective, possessive. He nuzzles into the curve of your shoulder, taking in a deep, full breath. His lips trail open-mouth kisses, tickling and wet, along the line of your throat. You burrow into his chest, into his hold, into his world.

The words bubble up from the depth of your chest, from where they formed between your lungs, where the creature is purring, lapping honey, warm and content.

“My name is Lee.”

Frankie pulls back immediately with a wide-eyed stare. You see, more than you hear, the name rolling around the tip of his tongue, as he tastes it on his palate.

“Lee. Lee. Lee.”

On the third occurrence, his hand circles your hip and slides down to the round of your ass, grasping your flesh as if to hold you down. Make sure you won’t vanish. There’s that perpetual crease between his brow. His heart is thrumming hard and fast against yours. You grow restless between his arms.

“I hate it,” you say.

“What?”

You swallow thickly, mouth cardboard dry.

“My name.”

He props himself up on his elbow to better face your scowling expression, eyes piercing you under his deep frown.

“Why?”

“They gave me my grandfather’s name. Lee Abbott. Lee Abbott & Son, import export,” you recite. “It’s not even mine.”

Your eyes flicker, scanning his face, trying to read the ticking of his jaw, the widening of his pupils.

“I think it’s perfect. Lee’s perfect.”

His voice is breathy, like he just took a punch to the gut, and it sends your mind reeling. Is this what he sounds like when he’s lying?

“How?” You wrestle the question out of your throat, and it’s still barely audible.

“It’s fearless. It’s fucking badass,” he answers without missing a beat, his tone softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“What?” you scoff incredulously. You shake your head on the starched pillowcase. “I’m not badass. I’m not fearless, Frankie, I can guarantee you that.”

The pink tip of his tongue darts between his lips as he narrows his gaze on you. His hand leaves your hip. He brings it up to your face, and he pauses. An inch from your skin, like he’s taming an animal, scared, wild or wounded, or all three, before brushing his knuckles to your cheek.

It’s overwhelming, his body hunched over yours. Crowding your senses. Filling your vision. His rhythmic strokes, rough hand, gentle touch. It’s something you had foreseen but weren’t quite ready to experience: his ability for tenderness.

You’re cornered. Entirely. You should probably be scared. To some extent, you are. But you know you’re safe, the feeling instinctive. You must trust the waves, trust the tide of this deep dark ocean. It’ll keep you afloat. Embrace the impact. Embrace its concentric ripples.

“Ok,” he starts. “Here’s how I see it. Marion… Marion, she’s hiding. She’s running away with something that’s not hers, right? Something she stole. Whereas Lee… Lee got out there and she took chances. She got what she wanted. She made it hers.”

Your heart beats inside your throat, blood flushing your face and rushing through your ears with a deafening roar.

“Did she?”

He nods.

“Yea. Yea, she did.”

He leans down, slowly lowering his lips to yours. His kiss is patient, reverent, slow-building. Plush lips wrapped around yours, tongue gently prodding, softly coaxing you open. Between your arms, his shoulders tremble under the force of his restraint.

When you ease into it with a quiet whimper, he draws you in closer. You arch up in his embrace, fingers threading through his curls, right leg brushing up along his.

His mouth crushes yours with a groan. He licks inside you, tongues entwined, swirling. Honey dripping down your spine, fire licking up your core, electricity tingling along your limbs.

Kisses that are more teeth than lips, when he trails the line of your jaw, the coarse hair of his beard scrapping your cheeks. Calloused hands spamming the expanse of your smooth skin, cupping your breasts, rough and needy, and you feel the hot press of his hard length against your belly as he rocks against you.

Your heart is impossibly light. Like it’s going to rip through your rib cage and fly away. Like you’ll be left without one, and the wild creature, always demanding more, will take its place. Because that’s what it’s been waiting for, since the very beginning.

Forgotten, your good will and resolutions, weak promises you made to yourself. Pushed back, pushed down, guilt and photo booth pictures of his dimpled baby girl. Drowned, intrusive memories, blue eyes, white porch, French delicacy.

He’s yours, he said so himself, didn’t he? For the first time ever, something’s yours, wholly. You got him, because of everything you surrendered.

And it matters not that you’re lying to yourself. That, really, he belongs to somebody else. It matters not when his mouth is all over you, greedy, taking. Devouring you. When his fingers are gliding through your soaked folds, breaching your entrance. When they’re buried inside you, thick and curled and pumping.

When you’re blooming sticky and wet, pretty and dazed, bursting open under his touch, moaning his name.

He’s yours now. In this room. In the gift of your name. In your heart that’s flying away from you as you clench and shatter on his hand.

He pulls up, blown out pupils, damp wild curls falling on his forehead. He drags his fingers out of you and the emptiness prickles at the corner of your eyelids. His eyes are trained on you as he licks them. As he smiles, a cocky grin stretches his gorgeous lips and dimples his pretty face, and perhaps this is as close as you’ll ever get to see him looking like his teenage self. That smug smile. All pride and confidence.

You’re sinking into that shitty mattress, weighed down by melancholy and pleasure and regrets. And something else. Something more stubborn than you, that you still cannot name.

Frankie fastens his mouth to yours, sharing your taste with you, wedging his body between your legs, spreading your hips with his waist.

Your emptiness is throbbing at the center of you.

“Frankie please, please.”

“Yes, baby. Told you I was gonna take care of you.”

Flexing his hips, he rubs his length against your scorching heat, coating himself in your slick. Anticipation tingles through the blunt edges of your previous release. You squirm under the weight of him, knees touching the mattress, cracked open, vibrating.

He lines up at your entrance, dark eyes focused on your face, and oh god, the fucking size of him. The fucking stretch. The burn as he inches in, excruciatingly slow. It has you blinking away tears of pain and gratitude, it has you whining his name.

He’s all blown-out pupils, taut muscles, and slack jaw, as he sheathes his cock inside your heat, all the way in. Round head nudging at your cervix. The sight of him, nearly wrecked, control waning, as he makes room for himself inside you rips through you.

“You feel so damn good, Lee,” he says, impossibly soft, and you feel it inside your chest, with the way he’s lying on you.

It’s a stretching glide, when he starts moving. A spreading grind. You can feel every vein, every ridge of him. He hooks an arm under your knee and folds you around him. He’s not fully pulling out, he can’t, he needs you wrapped around him, this much you understand, clearly, through the annihilation of his deep strokes.

Forehead to forehead, chest to chest, you can’t breathe and your body’s a thinning envelope between your heart and Frankie’s. It’s too much, his weight inside and over you, his breath in your mouth, his smell everywhere.

You’re overwhelmed, forced to surrender to the fire coiling inside you. With the coarse hair at his base scraping against the sensitive bud of your clit, with his cock, hot and heavy, dragging against your walls.

Your body jerks underneath him, fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulder to draw him closer, your other hand pushing him away and he moves fast, strong fingers circling your wrist and sliding your hand above your head, twining your fingers. You’re pinned down. Helpless. Willing. Unmoored by the intensity of the building impact.

He feels it, feels your frantic flutter around his cock and the frenzied racing of your pulse and he drives in deeper, faster, harder. The room fills up with the sound of his sweat-damp skin slapping against yours. Louder than the creaking bed, louder than the headboard’s thud on the wall.

“Oh god!” you cry.

“Come on, baby, give it to me,” he grunts into your mouth.

—

Frankie sees the plea in your eyes, shiny with tears, too wide, too glassy. Come with me, you’re begging him, come inside. He’s never fucked you like that, not you, not anyone, he’s never bared himself so fully. He’s gonna lose himself for good, this time.

You’re breaking up under his rolling hips, bucking hard against the press of his body. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull, clenching cunt, clenched eyelids.

Something blares up in the back of his head. A signal. An alarm.

He can’t even fuck you through it. You let out a broken cry when he pulls out, spurting dense ropes of come on your mound with a tense “fuck.”

A dry little sob rattles through your chest. Muffled, apologetic.

He untangles his fingers from yours, unhooks your leg from his arm. Pushes away from you on the rumpled sheets, and it’s etched on your face, in your pinched brow, in your quivering lip. The disillusion. The void he’s failed to fill.

That fucking heart attack of a pain squeezes at his chest again.

He rolls onto his back, freeing you, and you gulp in a large breath.

In the room, the air is stifling. Charged with the coppery smell of sex. The daylight is unforgiving with the chipped furniture and the moth-eaten curtains. With that ugly painting of the Appalachian.

“Let’s go clean you up,” he says, sitting up with a cinch. Unable to bear your silence.

“No,” you whisper. “I need a minute.”

You shut your eyes close. You retreat. He watches you disappear beyond the shore of your inner island. Where he cannot follow you.

There’s noise coming through the paper thin walls from next door. Several voices, a television, maybe. Further away, the low humming of a vacuum cleaner.

How long until room-service robs you from him?

He lies back down. Stares at your profile, still and absent, cut out in amber against the light from the window.

Lee.

The most beautiful name he’s ever heard. He briefly noted the similarities: three letters, starting with an L. Lee. Lua. A perfect balance.

It tastes like honey. You said, “My name is Lee” but what you meant was, “I trust you.”

What has he done with your trust?

How could he ever imagine himself capable of living without this? Without you? Without this room, even?

His mind drifts to his early morning routine, Lua curled up on his lap, drinking her bottle with those hungry, little grunting noises. Chubby little fingers wrapped around his thumb.

He was always an early riser. Which was practical during his time in the Army. The nightmares, the drugs, they disrupted that. He could be up, without being awake. Without being there.

But lately, he’s the first to rise again, no matter how late sleep finds him.

He loves that Lua seems to know he’s awake. She never cried in the morning. When she was just a newborn baby, she would make those quiet babbling noises. Now she calls his name. Papa.

He comes into her room with her bottle ready. Most mornings, she’s up, already, holding herself upright with the bars of her crib. That smile she gives him, when she sees him. That’s his morning sun.

He picks her up with one hand, she weighs so little, and yet so much. He covers her face in tickling smooches until she stops giggling and starts pushing him away, making grabby hand gestures at her bottle.

These moments of a peace he doesn’t deserve, in the early, blue hours, he owes them to you. You’ve smothered the nightmares. You’ve quietened his mind. Patiently chipped away at the walls he had erected between himself and happiness, with your quiet, determined strength.

Fuck.

You’re getting up. He watches you climb off the bed and saunter off to the bathroom. He doesn’t want to stay alone on this bed, in this room. Without you.

So he follows you, standing on the threshold, leaning on the door frame of the windowless bathroom, looking at you as you clean yourself with a towel.

The paint is coming off on the lintel. The small neon above the sink lights up shit. The shower head is crusty with limestone. Humidity speckles the ceiling in black, hairy dots above the bathtub.

He hates himself for taking you here.

Back in September, he had chosen the place because it seemed sufficiently remote. Because he hoped it would deter you. Scare you away.

He hates that you didn’t even flinch.

He hates that he’s grown fond of this shithole.

You turn and hand him a glass of water. He steps inside with you. You watch him drink up, head tilted and your big, searching eyes on him. The resolve that sharpens them, that he witnessed emerging, Friday night after Friday night, as resignation receded. That’s what guides him now.

There’s something intrinsically soft, a new kind of intimacy, about standing together in that bathroom. Soon, you’ll have to part. The imminent separation hangs heavy and silent between you. Tangible. He wants you again, already.

You’ve sensed the storm raging inside his head. He can tell, because it’s as though you’re trying to absorb it with your calm demeanor. He resents that. Doesn’t want you to. His moods are not your burden to carry.

You take the glass from him and run the water over it to clean it. As if the cleaning service won’t do it once you vacate the place.

His eyes flicker up to that mirror, to your dim reflection. Mussed hair, relaxed shoulders. Your face, solemn, illegible. And his, darker looking. A trick of the weak lighting. Pitch-black eyes, flexing jaw. Towering over you. Threatening.

The reflection is like an old photograph, a decayed daguerreotype that reveals a ghost. A girl and her demon.

He moves forward to crowd you, until your hips knock against the sink, his own pressing against your cheeks, his cock half-hard already. The glass falls into the sink with a clatter when he grasps the hinge of your jaw, twisting your head upward and to the side.

“You like it when I spit in your mouth, Lee?”

You nod. “I do.”

He gathers it inside his mouth, and you open yours, diligent, hungry, pulling your tongue out with a soft whimper, and his cock twitches in the small of your back. His spit rolls down his tongue to yours. You raise to your tiptoes with a needy little moan. He watches your reflection as you swallow.

His mouth crashes over your lips, sloppy kiss, scraping teeth. Hands kneading rough at your tits, rubbing their hardening peaks between his fingers.

“I want to fuck you in that shower,” he growls, teeth finding the edge of your jaw.

You arch back into him with a broken moan, but to his surprise, you say, “We can’t.”

His hand skates down your front, down the slope of your belly, fingers roughly parting your folds and fuck. You’re soaked. You’re dripping for him.

“Why?” he brushes against the shell of your ear. “There’s time. I want you again, Lee.”

“I want you too, Frankie, I—” you try to move away from the sink, your strength a poor match for his. “We can’t because we literally can’t, that shower is impossible.”

Your laughter startles him. Stepping back, he gives you room, and you move immediately, sitting on the edge of the tub to demonstrate. Smeared with your arousal, his fingers circle his cock, absentmindedly, brain fogged in a lustful haze as you run the tap.

“There’s no hot water. Well, there is, a little, but look, there’s only pressure with cold water. And…” you look up at him with a cheeky grin, “that’s kind of where I draw the line.”

There’s a glimmer of pride in your eyes as you deliver your joke.

His heart fucking sinks. He’ll get that heart-attack, eventually.

“You’ve showered in there, with that broken tap, all this time?”

You nod with a bemused smile before you shrug, comfortable, easy.

“Well, at the beginning. I haven’t in a while.” You pause before you add quietly, “I like to keep you on me.”

Frankie lets out a long sigh. His cock resting thick and heavy against his thigh. You make him so fucking hard. You make him stupidly soft. You drive him out of his goddamn mind.

The words come out of him before he gets the chance to think them over.

“I’ll bring my tools next time. I can probably fix it, if I can access the boiler.”

Getting up, you close the distance between you.

“You could fix it?” you ask, wide eyes gazing at him in amazement.

He chuckles, a velvety rumble from his chest, something assertive and low, the sound of which he had forgotten. He considers telling you about his engineering degree. Enumerating all the aircraft he can fly. Fucking boast about it. Because he wants you to know.

The memory of the crashed Mi-8 in the middle of the coca field invades his mind. Twisted rotor, broken hull. Smoking motor, shattered glass. He can smell the gasoline. Feel the sting of his own sweat and blood in his left eye.

You skim your hands up along his arms. Bring him back to you, to room number 2.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he grits through a clenched jaw.

“Like what?” you ask, voice honey sweet.

You curl your fingers around his biceps.

“Like I can ask you anything.”

“Why not? You can.”

He has to tell you. Tell you he cannot come next week, but that he’ll be back the week after. And the following. As long as you’ll have him.

Only he catches it before he has a chance to speak. That shadow that plays across your face. The beginning of your retreat, behind the clouding of your eyes.

“What is it?” he asks, and he has to swallow down the taste of dirt in his mouth.

You let your hands drop to your sides. You can’t even look at him.

“Hey, what is it?” he presses, cupping your face.

“Can’t come next week.”

You’re so quiet, leaning into his palm, no more than a whisper, and it fucking breaks him.

“I’m going to that— stupid ski resort. Every year, I– I don’t even ski. I hate it. I just hate it. All I do is wait around all day.”

Eventually, you raise your eyes to his face as he flexes his jaw. He sees you police your expression for him.

“It’s not that bad. I get time to read,” you backtrack.

Like you triggered the fury his eyes are burning with, and not that piece of shit of a man who takes you to places where you don’t want to be, just to keep you around fucking waiting.

But his anger subsides abruptly. Everything falls into place. Your presence here last night, your sudden sadness. Like him, you had decided not to come here again.

“Were you going to tell me?” he asks, trying to suppress the resigned sorrow from his tone.

He doesn’t need you to answer. He knows the refrain. He’s never going back to this motel.

“I saw the picture in your wallet, Frankie. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. But I did.”

Three letters. Starting with an L. A perfect balance.

“And what does it change?”

His grip tightens, hands sliding through your hair to the back of your skull, thumbs rubbing circles into your cheeks. You’re cold to the touch. You grasp his wrists, hold on to him, like you did last week in the parking lot. Eyes glimmering, a first tear dangling from your lashes.

“Listen,” he starts, “if you want to stop… this, obviously, I won’t hold you back. But—”

He has to pause. Rake his brain for words, words that fail him, words to express the sadness and the loss and the fear.

He breathes deep, and your scent fills his lungs. A pale shade of yellow, and celadon green.

“But I will miss you, Lee. I will miss you so fucking much.”

That tear breaks free. Rolls down your cheek, and he catches it on his thumb.

“I’ll miss you too,” you whisper.

“Then come back to me. Keep coming back to me, baby.”

There’s that pull. The violence of it like a blow. And you must feel it too, because you leap up to him as he leans into you, and your mouths collide. He’s crushing your lips, licking into you, cocking your head to deepen the kiss. Fingers digging into your waist, into your hips, down your thighs as they roam. A harsh, restless furrow. Looking to bruise, to leave a mark, an imprint of him.

Your arms fold around his shoulders, pulling him in, nails denting little red crescents into his skin, and he groans into it. A primal sound that rumbles around you and bounces off the dirty tiles.

His mouth drags wet and hard along your throat. Biting down, sucking in, teeth sinking into your pulse point. He follows it down to your heart. The beating thud, the flowing bloodstream. Hunched over you, lips trailing to your sternum, face burying between your breasts. He bites into the swell of it, pushing the flesh of it into his mouth, latching onto your nipple. A hard suck. Sharp. Painful.

You keen. Folding over him when he falls to his knees. Threading your fingers through his curls with a choked off moan when his teeth scrape the soft flesh of your belly, where you still taste of him. He can smell your sex, rubbed pink and raw from when he fucked you earlier, less than twenty minutes ago.

He bites into the tender skin of your inner thigh, around the long, thin scar you hide there, and you spread your legs wider.

“Good girl,” he grunts.

There’s a knock on the front door. Someone calling “room-service” from outside, and you gasp, hand flying to clasp over your mouth. He couldn’t care less.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growls into your skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you answer, voice high and breezy, and it shoots straight to his cock.

He lifts your leg, slides it over his shoulder, and you grip the sink for balance with a little shriek as he dives between your folds, fingers curled around the swell of your ass. It’s not soft, it’s not tender, there’s no Stop me. It’s urgent and commanding. It’s messy, desperate, demanding.

His mouth is hard, wide open, cupping your cunt, his neck pulled taut. Tongue curling around your clit, flickering, plunging into your wet, hot center. Licking your slick straight from your walls, drinking you up. You buck into it, riding his tongue, your pleasure, his face, and he groans into your heat.

His face presses up into you until you nearly topple over. You’re all ragged breaths and wanton whimpers. He wants more, wants to feel you from the inside, and it’s a need, really. Your skin melding with his. Your sex scorching him raw.

It’s your louder cry, loud enough to cover the repeating knocking, when he pulls away.

“Gotta fuck you, baby,” he rasps, getting up, grabbing you by the waist to turn you around.

His voice sounds wrecked, as wrecked as he feels. Cock throbbing angrily between his legs.

“Fuck,” you pant, “I want— I want you to— want you to fuck me.”

He watches you, transfixed, as you face away from him, bracing your hands on the slippery porcelain of the sink. Back bowed, ass perked up. Offered. Waiting. Wanting.

“Oh shit,” he pants. “Fuck.”

He catches his reflection in the dark mirror. Black eyes, hungry. Lips shining with your arousal. A carnivorous expression. It scares him. Like he’s about to eat you whole, eat you raw. A girl and her demon. No one to stop him.

Circling his cock, he spits down on it, smearing the saliva down his length with a couple of strokes, and he’s at your entrance, hot like a fever, leaking wet and sticky for him.

Hand brushing up your arched back to curl around your nape, holding you still for him, he drives into you to the hilt with all his strength.

A broken cry rips through your chest. He pauses inside you, sweat breaking on his forehead, eyes trained on where he disappears inside you, forcing you open for him. Less to let you adjust than to revel into it, the feel of you from the inside, clenching around him. Gripping him, breathing heavily with the stretch of him.

“Good girl, good fucking girl,” he husks with an obscene smirk, something akin to pride at how well you take him.

Your head dips between your shoulders and he hears your breathless laughter.

He pulls out of you, cock catching thick and stiff at your entrance, glistening with your slick, and thrusts right back in. He keeps moving. Long, thorough strokes, fast and steady, dragging along your walls, bumping against your cervix. His other hand a bruising hold on your hip, and those little grunts tearing through your throat with every slap of his hips against your ass.

You’re standing on your tiptoes, legs trembling, but pushing back into him. Meeting him thrust for thrust, with your small hands braced around the edge of the sink in a white-knuckle grip, and he can’t take his eyes off it. Off that line pulled taut between your shoulders, your grip, your grit.

Your greed for him. Your fucking determination.

There’s that pull again, that hunger for more of you, all of you. He bands an arm between your breasts and draws your back flush to his chest. You’re always so pliant. His hand a careful wrap around your throat to hold you upright and fuck. You’re a sight to behold. In that black-edged mirror. You’re a fucking vision. The mess he’s made of you. Fucked out, flushed skin, cock drunk. Sweat-damp hair glued to your beautiful face.

You’re gripping his arms with both hands, holding on to him, and your eyes find his in the reflection, burning a hole through his soul like they did all those months ago, back in the bar. His heart trips. It swells furious and pounding inside him, how good you look together, how right this feels, your two bodies entwined, surrendering to each other.

“I feel so good, Frankie, so good when you’re moving inside me,” you tell him, eyes fluttering. Your voice trickling like honey inside him, your sweet slick dribbling around him, soaking the hair at his base. He can hear it with every one of his thrusts. Can taste it where it lingers on his tongue. Lick it from his lips.

It’s gonna fuck him up. How much he wants to be yours. Fuck up his sanity and everything he’s got that he hasn’t yet destroyed, just how fucking much he wants you to belong to him. Only him.

He will carve you into his shape if he can’t carve you out of him.

He skates his hand down to your mound, kneading your soft flesh along the way, the bone of your hip, the small slope of your belly. He finds the hardened peak of your clit, fingers gliding around it.

Driving into you in deep harsh strokes, he presses his lips against the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning your skin.

“Gonna fucking ruin you for him, baby. Won’t let you go until you’re fucked full of me.”

“Oh god yes!”

You clench around him, cunt impossibly tight when he shoves you down on it. He sees the tears streaking your cheeks. Feels the shallow bite of your nails into the tense muscles of his forearms when he grinds against your soft cheeks.

“Watch me, Lee. Watch me fuck you full of my come. Gonna fuck it so deep inside you, you’ll be leaking me for days.��

You suck in a sharp breath. Mouth gone slack, eyes locked on him in the mirror, wild and craving. Everything else disappears, the world fades around your two bodies. There’s nothing but your weight between his arms, the feel of you around him.

Hand wrapped around your neck, he angles up his hips, reaching deeper than he’s ever been, into that spot that makes you cry. His fingers rubbing at your clit, more slick gushing out of you.

There’s a fast coiling heat in his loins. A fire, licking up his spine, balls drawing tight, cock swelling.

“I’m coming,” you whine, “Frankie please—”

The words stretch out of you as you trash into his arms, crashing hard around him. He follows with a grunt, loud, primal, possessive. Pumping his come, thick and searing, deep inside your gripping cunt. His vision darkens.

There’s blinding pleasure. Your skin. Your scent.

The knowledge that you're his.

****

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aphrogeneias · 4 days

Text

it's been seven hours and fifteen days —

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (soulmate!au)

summary: an inventory of the things you kept hidden over the years.

word count: ~1k.

warnings: just your usual angst, stream of consciousness.

author's note: a little something before the big update 🤍

series masterlist

There was nothing special about it at first glance.

Just an old shoebox, weathered with time. The shoes that came with it no longer fit, not since you were in middle school — the “good ones” your mother made you wear on special occasions. The cardboard had loosened up at the edges, ripped a little bit at the seams, the bottom giving out under the weight of its contents.

You didn't really like touching it, opening it. That's why, ever since you found a purpose for it, the box lies under your bed, undisturbed until a new thing — small and precious, meant for you to protect — finds its way to you.

You would be lying, however, if you said you didn't touch it once in a while. When homesickness held your heart hostage, not letting up until you held a part of him in your hands. Late at night, when the gaping hole in your chest where Eddie was supposed to fill aches more than the dull pain you'd grown numb to.

At the very bottom, that edition of The Fellowship of the Ring. Pages yellowed over time, the gold details on the cover faded and chipped, the red cover that was once bright now pale. It was once a well loved book, read to your soulmate by his mother before he went to bed, cherished like the little boy he once was. Hiding it was your way of cherishing it, keeping her memory alive for him.

You'd never told Eddie, but you'd read the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy after you left home. Picked them up from the local bookshop and devoured Tolkien’s words in a way to feed the longing that made a home inside of you. It only made it worse, though, when each word on the page translated itself to his voice in your mind.

You re-read them every year.

A plastic Star Wars mug, also yellowed with time. You were pretty sure it came with a matching bowl, remember seeing it at the Munson’s trailer. You wonder if Wayne ever noticed it was missing among all the other mugs he proudly displayed on his wall.

You also often wondered if Wayne knew about your secret. Ever observant, but never one for many words, Eddie's uncle must have known something was off between you, especially in the last years of your friendship.

His uncle who lost his soulmate suddenly, a girl he used to exchange letters with. Eddie told you that, one day, when they were both young, she'd simply stopped responding. He speculated she must have been married off to another man, but Wayne didn't want to talk about it.

She, whoever she was, was on your mind when you'd cut contact with Eddie. Wayne too, his tired blue eyes and weathered expression. Had you cursed his nephew to a similar fate?

That question kept you up at night.

A mesh bag, dotted with tiny silver stars, held a simple set of black dice in it. Eddie's first set, purchased at a game store near Hawkins. You remember how excited he was about it, and how distraught he was to lose it, even though he's bought many others after that one.

An assortment of jewelry, all silver. Silver rings, a woven leather bracelet — the most recent item in this melancholic collection — a wallet chain, an upside down cross necklace from what you liked to call Eddie's Ozzy years. You thought about wearing them sometimes, but the guitar pick necklace already sat heavy between your collarbones, sometimes too heavy to bear.

A Hawkins Public Library card, the last book recorded in 1987 — a sci-fi you recognized — a year after you left. A handwritten note addressed to Gareth. A black pilot pen. A cassette tape, empty, still new. A green scrunchie, much unlike anything else Eddie owned, and it equally intrigued and hurt you to think about where it might have come from.

A pin, a black eye pencil, a train ticket, a song lyric on ripped notebook paper, still unfinished.

They were reminders of him. That Eddie was real, that he was, despite your distance, still living his life as normal. Recording tapes, reading, rehearsing, working… bound by a red thread that led his every move back to you.

Sometimes you thought of anonymously mailing it all back, getting rid of the guilt. It felt wrong, for all this to be one-sided. It felt like stalking, like stealing, even though these were meant to be yours, in the same way Eddie himself was supposed to be yours.

Supposed to. Intended, alleged. Not really, at the end of the day — not in this lifetime, anyway.

When you put these things back, regretful as if you'd been caught touching something you shouldn't even though you were alone in your room, back in the box, back under your bed, you couldn't help but wonder if Eddie had one of these too.

Looking up at the mold stains on your ceiling, you asked yourself if he did this too with the few and far between belongings you let yourself lose along the years. Does he wonder about you? Has he ever longingly touched an earring missing its pair, a tube of half-finished lip gloss, a post-it note, and thought about who you were?

Tossing and turning, you shrugged to yourself. It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter. Knowing him, they probably ended up in a dumpster, or given away. That's what you told yourself to quiet down that voice that made you grow hopeful.

You stomped it down, yanked away at the thread that connected you to him, violently, like a rebellious child in a rage. It never loosened, never faltered.

It only grows stronger. The box remains untouched until the next sleepless night.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfic

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 4 months

Note

Hi again! Can't pass the opportunity of suggesting a prompt either ^w^ Thanks so much!

V. "I'm a little disappointed. I expected a bit more of a struggle." for the Vampire / Werewolf AU

Thank you so much! I always love your comments, so I hope this is to your taste as well! ❤️

Leader of the pack

Rated: T

Words: 996

Tags: Vampire & Werewolf AU; Vampire Eddie; Kas!Eddie; Werewolf Steve; Eddie Munson Whump; Jason Carver being an asshole; Blood and violence; Nudity; Eddie is having a bad day

“You know,” the hunter says, and his companions snicker. “I'm a little disappointed. I expected a bit more of a struggle.”

“Well, what can I say?” Kas retorts. “You have very convincing arguments.”

He tries to struggle free, but his skin burns at each contact with the net. It’s woven of delicate silver thread. It might as well be made of steel. His grin turns into a pained snarl, lips peeling back to reveal his fangs.

“You flash those all you want,” the hunter drawls. “You won't be able to for long.”

“What?” Kas sneers at him. “You gonna kill me? I'm terrified.”

The hunter smiles sharply.

“Oh, no. I won't kill you yet. I know there's more of you wretched bloodsuckers lurking in the mountains, and you …” One of his hands grabs Kas by the jaw. “You are going to tell me where to find them.”

Kas snaps at him. The man laughs.

“Patrick,” he says to one of his companions. “Give me the pliers. Let's see how he likes biting once we pull out his-”

He doesn't get any further.

Something rustles and before he has a chance to fully turn, a giant, snarling shadow flies out of the darkness and latches on to his throat.

Kas hits the ground. His skull connects with a rock, and the world descends into a blur of teeth and fur and terrified shouts as more shadows lunge from the forest.

When the fog lifts, the hunters are gone. Their cries mingle with the sounds of howls and snarls in the darkness.

In front of him, staring at him with eyes like liquid gold, is a giant, furry beast.

Kas groans, head thunking back against the ground.

“Fucking mutts.”

The wolf huffs something that might be a laugh. Then, it hunches in on itself and the sound turns into a whine. Kas screws his eyes shut to block out the sight of the shift while the wolf’s pained noises mingle with the crunch and slide of muscles and bones rearranging themselves.

“The polite thing to say would’ve been thank you. I thought your kind was known for their good manners.”

When Kas blinks his eyes back open, the wolf is gone. In its place is a young man. His eyes are more hazel than gold, but still sparkling with smug amusement. His hair is the same caramel color as the fur of his other form.

He’s also bumfuck naked.

“Yeah, well,” Kas says, “I thought yours was known for keeping your noses out of the affairs of other races.”

The stranger huffs again. He stands and stretches - a long, graceful ripple of lean muscle - before he twists around to unsling the leather bag strapped to his back.

“We do, usually,” he says, sitting back on his haunches and rifling through its contents. “However, we tend to take it personal when strangers wander into our territory and hunt down our prey. Animals don't grow on trees, y’know?”

Kas stares at him, because … what? Surely this is a joke, because who'd say something like that with a straight face? The answer to that question, evidently, is naked wolf boy right here, because he refuses to even crack a grin.

“Wha-?” is what he finally says. “What animals? I haven't touched any of your precious prey.”

Wolf boy measures him with a long, doubtful look, like he's trying to figure out whether or not to believe him. Finally, he sighs and pulls his hand from the bag. Glinting between his fingers is a long, jagged knife.

Kas hisses.

Wolf boy rolls his eyes. “Are you always that dramatic? I was only gonna cut you loose.”

The knife slices through the thin thread with ridiculous ease, but it still takes a while to free him. Wolf boy needs to be careful to not touch the silver himself, after all - not the easiest of tasks without even a shred of fabric on his body.

“What’s your name?”

This must be the most bizarre conversation of his long, tedious un-life, he thinks. Exchanging smalltalk and platitudes with a naked werewolf while being cut out of a hunter’s net.

“Kas.”

“Bless you,” wolf boy says. Kas can’t see his face, having turned his back to give him better access to the net there, but he doesn’t need to. He can practically see the dorky grin. “What’s it with you vampires and your stupid, made-up fantasy names, huh?”

“It’s a question of style, alright?” he grumbles. “Not like I’d expect you to get it. What’s your pack leader called again? Otis?”

Wolf boy’s hands freeze, but only for a second. Then, the knife gives one final, brisk tug, and Kas can feel the last of the net fall away from his blistered skin. He can’t quite help the relieved sigh that escapes him.

“Anyhow, it was nice meeting you,” he mumbles, rolling his neck and reveling in the feeling of his powers slowly seeping back in. “Have a nice rest of your life, I guess.”

“Huh?” Wolf boy asks. “Oh no, you got that wrong. You’re coming with us.”

Before he even has a chance to ask what that means, something closes around his wrists. This time, the silver is encased in a thick layer of leather, so it doesn’t make his skin blister and burn. It still draws all of his strength right back out, leaving him weak and harmless like a kitten.

“What the actual fuck?” he snarls as wolf boy hoists him to his feet. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Funny that you should mention grandpa Otis,” wolf boy says merrily. “He’s been dead for ten years. My name’s Steve, by the way. Sorry if it’s not fancy enough for your taste. Come on now, I hate making my pack wait.”

Kas is powerless to resist as he grabs him by the elbow and walks him towards the myriad of glowing eyes staring at them from the treeline.

More celebration ficlets

Steve said "I'm the alpha" 😅

Part 2

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #hype's 1k follower ficlets

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alexelcrafts · 7 months

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Italy Leather Doctor Bag

Embrace everlasting sophistication with our Italian Leather Doctor Bag. Constructed with top-quality leather from Italy, this chic staple showcases opulence and resilience. Ideal for those in a professional field or daredevils, it boasts plenty room for belongings and a quintessential pattern. Enhance your fashion statement with this unique item.

#leather handbag for women online #woven leather bags online #tote bags for women online

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months

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A Guiding Hand 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won’t let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: happy sunday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stop in the openness of the library. Just ahead is the long counter that arcs in front of the windows that look into an office space lined with desks. There are monitors facing away from you, those meant for the librarians and their assistants, and along the far edge, a sign denotes the stations meant for self-checkout.

You always thought of coming down but never found the energy. Besides, you wouldn’t want to borrow books that could be ruined at home. Beyond that, venturing into public has never been a simple task for you. You go for biweekly trips to spend the food credits on groceries and that’s about it.

Your eyes skitter around frantically. You hear the babble of children in the kids’ section with its bright colourful chairs and couches and a table of toys for the tots. You quickly surpass it and wander into the stretch of tables and chairs by the reference section. You put your bag down on a chair and sit next to it, folding your hands on the table then pulling them back into your lap.

You look over at the wall of tall windows that look out into a narrow strip of foliage. The brick walls are covered in thickly woven vines and birds flit in and out of the leaves. It’s pretty. You feel entirely out of place here.

You check the time on your digital watch. Almost ten. You can at least tick the early box, even though you might fall short of everything else.

You twiddle your fingers and keep your head down. Your toes tap in your sneakers and you fidget as the time ticks on. What if he doesn’t come? What if you’re not worth it? Should you check your email?

As you reach your bag, a figure approaches the table from the other side. You retract your arm and peer up at the man as he sets a leather briefcase on the wooden surface. Professor Smith nods at you and greets you by name. You feel like you should stand to greet him.

He offers his hand as you struggle to get to your feet. You tremble as you hesitantly accept the gesture. You don’t touch people and they certainly don’t touch you. It’s only a handshake. His grasp is firm and his skin slightly rough. Your hand feels weak and tiny in his confident grip.

He let you go as your fingers tingle, “good morning.”

“Morning, Professor, er, sir,” you stutter dumbly.

“Please,” he pulls out the chair on his side and you lower yourself back to the seat. “How are you today?”

“Mm, okay...” you swallow dryly, “er... you?”

You almost cringe. It must be rude to forget that. You’re not so use to interaction and you’re certain it shows.

You cross your arms over the table as his cheeks twitch and he smooths back his blond hair, “good, good,” he answers in his edged accent, “lovely sunshine today.”

“Erm, yeah, uh...” you don’t know what to say or do.

You close your eyes and reproach yourself. You must look totally lost. You drag your bag into your lap and unzip it. You take out your notebook and fish around for the chewed bic pen. You flip back the cover and flutter the pages, looking for a blank one. Your conscious of every single move you make as you feel his gaze on you.

“Right, so, I suppose you’re eager to be done with it,” he begins, “was their particular activities you found challenging? Maybe a formula in particular--”

“No, I... I think I got it but...” you twirl the pen and try to look at him. You get as far as the knot of his tie, the rest of it tucked beneath a sweater that seems rather much given the weather. “I just... fell behind. I’m s-sorry.”

“Well, that’s fine. It happens. So, if you can do the work, I can wait on it,” he assures you. “I’m not here to reprimands, that hardly fruitful for either of us. I want us to come to an accord. Let agree on a course of action.”

“Oh, alright,” you answer stuntedly, “well, I guess if I start Coursebook Four tonight I could have it done by—by Monday?”

“That’s a good first step,” he encourages as he pushes his glasses up his nose, drawing your eyes up to his. They are icy blue but not cold. “I like it. Setting your own goals. I find for some, it’s more effective than tossing a bunch of dates at them.”

“Thanks, professor, I... I really appreciate you... doing this,” you can’t help the shame that seeps into your voice. He pities you, you know it. You can see it in his face so you put your focus back to the table.

“Mm, given your...situation I think it’s understandable,” he says, “not easy to work in a racket.”

“Professor,” you put your hand to your forehead, dipping your head to hide behind it.

“Very concerning to hear,” he says, “and to think of a young woman in that environment.”

“Just my mom and her boyfriend. They don’t bother me.”

“Seems they do with all that yelling.”

“I-- I guess but—I—I need to use the bathroom,” you stand up and sway, “sorry.”

"As you will," he allows lightly, "I'll be here."

He sits back and checks his watch. It's much nicer than your plastic casio. You nod and sidle out from between the chair and the table. You shuffle away, only looking for a sign as you come out next to the front counter. You have to turn back to get to the bathrooms, your clueless meandering adding to the heat in your cheeks.

You lock yourself in a stall and try to muster the strength to come back out. Why did you come here? You feel so much worse sitting across from that man. Look at him. How could he not judge you?

You take and breath and try to shake away the anxiety. Someone else comes in and you make yourself leave. You wash your hands and steel yourself for another delve into the general public. You emerge and stop before the room of tables.

Professor Smith sits patiently across from your things. You round the table and close your notebook, sliding the pen back in the spiral. You chew your lip and slide it into your bag.

“I will have Assignment Four done like I said,” you speak barely above a whisper.

“Sounds great,” he stands as well, “I must thank you for going to the trouble of meeting me here today. I do find virtual appointments hardly have the same... effect. Might I buy you a coffee for the inconvenience?”

“A coffee? I... no, that’s--”

“Or a tea?” He suggests.

“Professor, um, no, that’s okay.”

“I insist,” he says, “I saw a cafe on my way in. Just on the corner.”

“I didn’t... bring my wallet.”

“As I said, my treat,” he intones, “don’t worry, we won’t be talking business.”

“Erm,” you sniff and slant your mouth one way then the other, “well, I...” you hate to keep saying no, it’s starting to feel rude. “Sure, er, okay, thanks.”

“My pleasure,” he gestures you ahead of him, “ladies first.”

You sling your bag on your shoulder and step past the table. You cross the library floor and tread by the curved counter. As you come to the doors, he quickly gets ahead of you and pushes the door open, holding it for you. He’s polite, almost to a stifling degree.

The sunshine you casts a yellow haze, warming the dark fabric of your hoodie. You descend the steps and he catches up to you, keeping pace as he stays at your side. He points you to the left, “this way.”

You obey and feel the brush of his sleeve against yours. Pedestrians across the street seem to stare at you. No doubt they can see how you don’t belong with that man. Him in his prim outfit; his sweater pulled over a tidy collared-shirt and tie, and his glasses denoting and air of professionality. But you, in your wrinkled hoodie and jeans, must make a paltry contrast to the man.

“Right ahead,” he nudges the back of your arm gently before you can veer in the wrong direction, “would you like to sit outside? It’s beautiful out and I see a free table.”

“Er, if you like,” you shrug and cross your arms, “you really don’t have to...”

“I want to,” he assures as you come up to the patio area before the corner cafe, “please, you find a table and I’ll go inside. What would you like?”

You stop just beside the short wooden fencing that block off the seating area. Tea is usually cheaper. You’d rather not stretch his pity past a few dollars.

“Black tea.”

“Milk?” He asks.

“No, thanks.”

“Sugar?” He arches a brow.

“Just tea.”

“Ah, got it,” he dips his chin, “I will return. Please, have a seat.”

He turns on his heel and as he struts up to the front door, you search the patio. You find a table for two near the wall. You won’t be centre stage there. You put your bag under the chair and sit with your back to the street.

What are you doing? You could leave now. You could just go home. You came to talk about your schoolwork. So why are you here getting tea with this man? You need to go home and get started on it. You hang your head and lean back in the chair, arms folded as you gnaw your chapped lip.

The voices of the patrons around you buzz in the air. You catch snippets of conversations; excitement over a date they just had, or complaints about their work life, and even the low murmurs of intimate partners cooing at each other. Life is all around you, happening to other people but you remain in your corner.

You wince as Professor Smith returns. He places a porcelain cup before you. One you can’t just run off with. He sits across from you as you look up.

“Thank you, sir,” you utter as you sit up.

“Not at all,” he blows over his mug, a dark coffee with a thin layer of foam around the sides. You can smell it. “I do get curious,” he sets the steaming cup own, “about my students. Teaching from a screen can be rather disconnecting. I meet all sorts in my work but you... I didn’t see your name in the introductory forum.”

You look evasively at the brick wall. You untangle your arms and pinch the tag of the tea bag dangling over the brim. You shrug.

“I must’ve forgot to post.”

“Ah, never to worry, I won’t dock marks for it,” he kids, “so, you live with your mother.”

You nod and your eyes drop to the table.

“She must be proud.”

You tear the tag from the string and it recoils and falls into the tea.

“Proud?”

“Yes, well, you’re going to school. It’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, but...” it goes without saying; you’re not doing very well.

“Like I said, you’ve shown you can do the work, so do it,” he intones.

“I know.”

“What made you choose this program?”

“I don’t... know.”

“Well, you seem to have a natural affinity for numbers. Did anyone ever mention it?”

“I guess,” you lift the cup by the handle and blow over the top. You cautiously taste it and burn yourself nonetheless. You put it back down and cover your singed lip, the tip of your tongue pulsing.

“You alright?” He asks.

You nod furiously.

“Mm, well, I must admit, I am rather bad at subterfuge. This is a bad ploy,” he sits back, one hand on the table as he taps his index against his thumb, “I’d rather you take your time with the tea and not only for the sake of your tongue. I... hoped to keep you busy so that you needn’t return home so quickly. To that.”

“That?”

“What I overheard,” he says.

“Oh, I told you--”

“It may be usual for you but it doesn’t make it any safer,” he interjects. “I don’t know if you saw the email but I sent some resource you might look into. Grants. Some for housing. You could extricate yourself. You should.”

You’re breathless. It’s humiliating. How pathetic you must be in his eyes.

“I didn’t come to embarrass you,” he leans forward and slides his hand across the table.

You turn your head and gulp, the lump in your throat suffocating. Your nose tingles as your face scalds. You shudder and push your shoulders up.

“You’re a bright young woman, I only thought I might...” he struggles to find words, “well, I did not begin as a professor. I did not even start as some high and above pupil. No, I was a miserable lad. Barely made it through my first year but... all I’m saying is I might not have been where you are, but I get it.”

Your lashes flutter as you fight back tears. You’re so tired of crying. You’re exhausted of feeling this way. No matter what you do or where you are, you just feel like you don’t belong.

You look at your watch, “I’ll have to go soon.” You won’t even come up with a lie. You need to go before you break down completely.

He sighs, “right.”

#raymond smith #dark raymond smith #dark!raymond smith #raymond smith x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #a guiding hand #series #the gentlemen

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nyc-looks · 11 months

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Hanna, 27

“The core set is design I did for my brand Earthling VIP, the collection is called Poetic Lust. The woven hoodie under is a 1980s military garment, styled with the translucent pink leather Rick Owens shoes, MF DOOM belt by Stolen Arts, Burberry sunglasses & my boyfriend’s late Grandma’s vintage Louis Vuitton bag.”

Sep 10, 2023 ∙ Nolita

#nyc looks #street style #new york #street fashion #style #vintage #fashion #rick owens #burberry #louis vuitton

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monstersandmaw · 2 years

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Male werewolf x trans male reader (nsfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

___

Commission #5 out of 5! That means I’ve written 21,271 words in total this week (according to Scrivener). Ooof! I’m gonna go sit down now... (this is my second go at posting this because the formatting was off the first time. Tumblr, pls stop and let me post the werewolf boyfriend story. This is literally the werewolf boyfriend website)

Anyway, thank you lovely commissioner for trusting me with your prompt, and for checking it over for me before I shared it here, since I’m not trans.

Contents: trans male reader, injury and mention of blood to our werewolf-spirit, a very expensive gift, oral sex (no specific words used for reader’s anatomy), non-penetrative sex, visible werewolf knot, fluffy ending

Wordcount: 4407

With a forager’s bag slung across your shoulder and a woven basket hooked over your arm, you swigged the last dregs of your morning tea down and darted towards the door. The bounty of a new autumn day beckoned, and the forest around your cottage would be bursting with fruit and mushrooms at this time of year.

You tugged open the door, the reluctant hinges groaning at you, took a single step outside, and froze. At first you thought that the enormous creature sprawled quite literally across the doorstep was a bear, but as you stared dumbstruck at the too-long limbs and the thick, grey-brown coat, and the shaggy, lupine tail, your heart stopped beating. This was something supernatural.

The thought of stepping silently back into the safety of your stone cottage, closing the door, and staying inside until it went away flashed across your mind, but almost before you could process what you were doing, you had dropped the basket at the threshold and stepped over the creature’s outstretched left arm to walk around to its side.

It was still breathing, though the sound had an unhealthy, wet whistle to it, like a punctured blacksmith’s bellows, and there was blood matting the thick fur on its left side where the short, stocky shaft of a crossbow bolt was cruelly embedded in its ribs.

“Oh,” you gasped, hand rising to your lips even as horror plunged right through you at the sight of it. Blood still seeped around the shaft, and something silver glinted beneath the fur. You looked anew at the creature and wondered if it was a werewolf. “If you are and that’s silver, it’ll be fatal if I don’t get it out,” you muttered, kneeling and bringing your fingertips carefully to the creature’s side. “No way I can move you though,” you added, glancing at the creature’s long, powerful, solid legs and at the breadth of its shoulders and the muscles on its arms, visible beneath the thick, coarse fur that covered its body.

At the sound of your voice, the creature’s left ear flicked and it rumbled a growl at you.

“Easy now,” you said through gritted teeth. “I’m trying to help you here.”

The growling did cease, but the way it petered out made you think that perhaps they’d just run out of breath.

“I can work with that,” you said to yourself. “I’m going to get my bag, and I’m going to get this nasty thing out of you, alright?”

You hurried back inside, removed the empty foraging bag from your shoulders and skidded to a halt beside the bookshelf. Among all the tomes on herbs and plants and mushrooms, there was a reference book about supernatural entities. You knew they existed — you'd lived in the woods too long to doubt that there was more than the mundane out there — but you’d never actually thought to encounter anything, let alone find the supernatural bleeding out in your own back yard.

Puffing the air from your lungs, you rallied your courage and opened the leather-bound book to the section on ‘lycanthropy’. Silver was indeed poisonous to them, but the book said it caused the skin and fur to smoke and burn, neither of which you’d seen in the creature outside. Perhaps it was only steel, but you thought the colour was wrong for that. You’d seen the blacksmith forging her blades of bright, greyish steel, and you glanced over at a silver penny pendant that hung in your window for luck. The tone of the pendant was different, brighter and whiter than the steel, and the same hue as the tip of the crossbow bolt.

“Not a werewolf then?” you frowned, but that didn’t change the fact that whatever it was, it was slowly bleeding out on your doorstep.

With the supplies you’d need hastily gathered, you went back outside to find that the creature had rolled a little more onto its good side, exposing the black shaft of the bolt, and a bit more of its face and chest.

Lupine rather than ursine in its features, it opened its black eyes and gazed dolorously up at you, half-heartedly baring huge canines on one side.

“Hey,” you scolded. “Here to help, remember. That looks like silver, but you don’t seem overly bothered by it…”

The creature scoffed a laugh at you.

“I mean, aside from the fact that it’s punched a hole in your ribs and you’re bleeding to death,” you said, and again, the creature huffed at you.

Then, just as you knelt down in the dirt beside it, the creature spoke. Its voice was low and rough, like an avalanche in the distance, and the words were clearly slurred with pain. “You’re right. Not… a werewolf.”

“Oh,” you breathed. “You can talk… If you’re not a werewolf, what are you?”

“I am… an aspect… of the forest itself,” the creature ground out around a mouthful of sharp teeth.

You blinked, half wishing you hadn’t asked. “Right. Well, I guess I’d better get this bolt out of you all the same, huh?”

“If you would be so kind,” the creature said with a dry note of humour to its gravelly voice that made you relax just a fraction.

You gave a quiet warning as you prepared to take the bolt out, and the wolf-like creature nodded in readiness. All in all, the procedure went as well as you could have hoped for, and there was a neat row of stitches pinching the slate grey skin together in no time at all.

“Thank you,” the wolfish entity said, laying its head back down on the path and breathing steadily for a few minutes before casting you a sidelong look. “I interrupted your morning,” they said wryly.

“Yeah, no shit,” you laughed, eyeing the formerly-clean swatch of linen you’d used to staunch the bleeding. “But that’s alright. The berries and hazelnuts will be there tomorrow.”

“And thanks to you, so will I.”

Something akin to pride kindled in your ribcage at that, and you smiled. “The forest has been good to me since I came here,” you shrugged. “About time I returned the favour. What should I call you, by the way?”

The creature blinked slowly, apparently surprised. “I have had a few names in my life, but not many of them have been kindly given by humans — Hunger, Strife, Sheep-Thief, and… worse.”

“Never too late to buck the trend,” you said with another twitch of your shoulder. For all the warnings those names implied, you felt no fear when you looked at the creature; only curiosity, and an odd sense of kinship you couldn’t define. “You hungry? I’ve got some smoked venison that I got from the butcher yesterday. We can think of a new name for you while you get your strength back.”

Your deliberate and relentless optimism seemed to rub off on the creature, because they heaved a huge sigh and smiled in a ‘do as you please’ kind of gesture, tail thumping ever so slightly against the path while you went to fetch some food.

“Here,” you said, returning to sit cross-legged beside them on the dirt outside your cottage. They had managed to heave their body out of that undignified sprawl, but they were still lying down on one side. You sliced off pieces of the smoked venison from the haunch on the wooden board and held them out one by one for the wolf-spirit to take with their clawed, paw-like hand. They didn't eat particularly elegantly, but there was something rather adorable about a creature the size of a grizzly bear taking strips of meat from your hand.

“You know,” you said, “I thought you were a dead bear when I opened the door. Gave me quite the surprise.”

They laughed at that, dark eyes glinting. “Wouldn't be the first time.”

“People have mistaken you for a dead bear before?”

Again, the wolf-like creature laughed, but the sound cut off into a brief but high whimper as the wound on their side flared with pain. “No,” they grunted. “Not a dead one, at least.”

“Maybe we should call you ‘Beorn’ this time.”

They tilted their head, big, triangular ears listening to the sound on your lips, and then they nodded. “My mother used to joke that her boy was born a bear instead of a wolf,” he said quietly after a moment. “The name is more fitting than you realised.”

“Beorn it is then,” you said, feeling just a little emotional. “How quickly do forest spirits heal, anyway? I’m pretty good with humans, but I’m in uncharted territory with your kind.”

“I’ll be well again in no time,” he said.

“Who shot you with that anyway?” you asked as you stared at the dart that lay abandoned in the grass beside you, its bloody, silver tip glinting like a lost fang. “Will they come looking for you?”

He shook his head and eyed the venison again. You sheared off another piece for him and he took it gratefully before answering. “I don’t think so. They were werewolf hunters by the look of them —”

“— explains the silver,” you interjected and he nodded.

“And why they shot at me. They say my kind are what sorcerers modelled their curse on when they created werewolves, thousands of years ago.”

“Huh,” you breathed.

When the venison was almost all gone, Beorn looked a little guilty. “Thank you for sharing your food with me,” he said. “I fear I’ve deprived you of something valuable.”

He had, but you weren’t about to tell him it’d cost you a small fortune, or that you’d planned to make the preserved meat last through most of the coming winter. “Eh, don’t worry about it. The forest will provide, right?”

Beorn fixed you with a steady look but said nothing. He heaved himself up, first onto all fours, and then, using the stone wall of your cottage, onto his hind legs. Standing like that, he must have been nearly seven feet tall, and as you looked up at him, you felt your mouth go a little bit dry. He was obviously still extraordinarily powerful despite his injury, and the way the claws on his hind paws dug into the earth and his chest filled as he inhaled did strange things to your equilibrium.

You swallowed, waiting nervously to see what would happen next, and he offered you a smile that was quite literally wolfish before looking over his shoulder towards the nearby trees.

“Wait,” you croaked. “You’re not leaving like that, are you?”

“No,” he said. “I was going to sit a while in the sun and recover my strength, if you will permit the trespass a little longer?”

“Stay as long as you like,” you smiled. “I live in your woods, don’t I?”

He just smiled at that. “Don’t wait around on my account,” he said after a moment. “The day is still fairly young, and I’ve held you up long enough.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind?”

He moved to sit beneath your kitchen window, lounging with his long hind legs splayed, his left bent at the knee so he could hunch protectively over his injury while the other stretched out. He flexed his paws, dark claws glinting in the sunlight, and laid his head back against the stone wall just beneath the windowsill.

“You… want me to bring you anything?” you asked him, as though you were going to the village shop and thought he might want a bagel or a pint of milk.

He cracked his eyes open again and smiled. “I can always be won over by a blackberry or two. There are some out near the stream now, but be careful. The moss and algae has grown over the banks and made it slippery. I had to haul a young fawn out of there not long ago.”

The image of him grabbing a slender little deer by the belly and lifting it out of the gully was almost too much for you to take without making an undignified squeak, so you just grinned at him and nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

Three hours later, you came back to find him gone, and you tried not to let the sudden barb of disappointment sting too much. After all, he wasn’t some stray dog that had come limping into your yard for help. He was a forest spirit.

You eyed the spot where he’d been lying though, and set a large handful of blackberries down on the flattened grass, just in case.

In the morning, the berries were gone, but in their place was something of such value that you could hardly take in what you were seeing. It didn’t look like much, but you knew it was worth a king’s ransom. “No way,” you breathed, stepping over to the small, dark brown, lumpy, spherical object and crouching down. You swallowed.

A twig snapped behind you and you whipped around, losing your balance and sitting down hard on the damp ground. Beorn was standing on his hind legs at the edge of the path, and if he was injured anymore, you couldn’t see it.

“Beorn,” you breathed, and then looked back to where a specimen of the rarest and most expensive truffle in the whole world sat on your doorstep like it was just another autumn mushroom. “Do you know what this is?”

He tilted his head and smiled, baring his huge, thick canines. He leaned his elbow on the fence post of the paddock that you hoped one day would contain a goat and some geese. “Of course I know what it is. You humans are always hunting through the forest for them.”

“They’re… They’re more expensive than gold, Beorn!”

“You shared your food with me, and deprived yourself of your winter stores just so that I could eat and heal, and you never looked for anything in return. If I happen to know where to find a few of these, then that’s only fair in my eyes. Now you can sell it in town.”

“Where am I going to say I got it?” you asked, still sitting stunned on the ground. “They’ll think I’m hiding the secret!” In fact, if you sold it in the capital, you could probably get enough for it to buy a whole forest of your own. You’d be richer than half the aristocracy in the land. Dizziness swept over you and you started to laugh.

He approached you then, walking on his hind legs, talons just pricking into the earth and flexing slightly with each step. He halted in front of you and held out his enormous, paw-like hand. He had rough pads like a wolf, but his fingers and thumb were humanoid in shape, though they had curved, black claws. You slid your hand into his and let him haul you carefully to your feet again.

“You’re… healed?” you asked, eyeing the spot on his side where the crossbow bolt had been only the previous day.

Beorn nodded. His dark eyes glinted softly in the morning light, and somehow he didn't seem quite real anymore. It was as though he might vanish if you blinked or looked away too long, and you tightened your grip on his hand. He rumbled something that was somewhere between a sigh and a purr, and then laughed softly.

“I can’t believe you brought me a truffle,” you laughed. “You could have brought me a deer to feed me or something, but no. You bring me a truffle.”

“I can take it back if you like,” he said with an easy chuckle. “There are wild boar in the forest who would very much enjoy devouring that for breakfast…”

“No!” you yelped, playfully putting yourself between the stupendously expensive mushroom and the terrifying forest spirit who could probably just bite your entire head off with a single snap of his jaws. He laughed, the sound deep and rich as it rose from his belly and he tipped his head back, tail swishing from side to side.

“Oh, I like you,” he said when his mirth had faded. “I like you a lot. I’m glad we met, human.”

“I’m not glad you got hurt, but I’m glad we met too,” you said. “And not just because of the truffle. Gods, I could buy my own castle with that.”

He froze and then his ears swivelled back just a little. “Would you… leave?” he asked.

“No,” you said without a second thought. “I earned this place — this peace,” you said with a growl of your own to match the fierceness in the wolf you saw before you. “I wouldn’t change any of it for anything. You’re stuck with me, Beorn. Friend for life.”

His shoulders dropped a few inches and he sighed softly. The trees around the cottage swayed and sighed too, and the whole forest seemed to let go of a tense breath with it. “May I visit you from time to time?” he asked.

A grin spread across your face and you nodded. “As often as you like. After you disappeared yesterday, I kind of thought that was it,” you admitted. “I mean… You’re a forest spirit — I wasn’t sure how much you’d want to hang around with a boring old human.”

“I’d very much like to spend time with you,” he said, his voice dipping low and warm. “And you’re anything but boring.” Before he could go on though, one of his large, triangular ears flicked back and he tensed with a growl. “Someone’s coming up the path. I should not be seen with you.”

“Come back tonight?” you asked, even as he spun on the spot and darted for the trees on all fours, moving like a shadow. He was out of sight in a handful of heartbeats and you ducked inside to get something to put the stupidly expensive truffle in. No point in advertising that you had something that valuable just lying around, even if the inhabitants of the nearby village were the gentlest, kindest folk you could ever have hoped to meet.

After three nights spent talking with Beorn — the first sitting outside in the surprisingly balmy autumn air, and the second two inside your own house, with him stretched out on the hearthrug, soaking up the heat of the fire in luxurious bliss — you decided to take the truffle to the city. It would be a long journey to travel the King’s Road around the ancient, sacred forest, and Beorn instead offered to guide you through the heart of it to save you weeks of unnecessary tramping.

“You’re sure the forest won’t… object?” you asked as you packed your bag one morning and he sat on his haunches like a hound near the door. He always liked to keep one ear on the forest nearby if he could, as though expecting trouble or looking for an easy way out. He was, after all, a wild spirit. He seemed comfortable enough in your presence, but being inside the stone walls of your cottage for too long made him twitchy.

“With my blessing and friendship, you could travel freely through the whole forest alone, and nothing would dare harm you.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No,” he said, and the simple truth of it almost moved you to tears.

“Well… thanks,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly as you stuffed a spare shirt into your pack.

You moved together through territory you knew on that first day, but he led you to a secret, mossy glen that night. You were so tired, you almost fell asleep with your pack on, but he helped you make a camp and a little fire to boil water for tea, and when the night grew chilly, he curled up around you and let you rest with your back against his ribs and your cloak pulled up around your chin. You fell asleep there, and woke stiff and achy in the morning, but gloriously warm.

That became the pattern of your days in the forest with Beorn: you ate a breakfast of wild berries and nuts when your bread rations ran out, and he guided you through the most beautiful country you’d ever seen: thundering, white waterfalls plunging down into mossy crevasses that seemed to swallow the river whole; groves of autumn aspen that rained leaves down around you like a shower of little gold coins; bramble thickets so old and so dense that nothing grew beneath them and the thorns were as large as your hand and each blackberry was the size of an apple. Finally, on your last night before you reached the edge of the forest on the southern side, he took you to a grove where fireflies danced and spiralled with blue-green will-o-the-wisp fairies.

You crouched with him at the edge of the clearing, hardly daring to breathe as the lights winked and sparkled, coiling and twisting in and out of each other in an endlessly varied choreography. Beorn placed his palm at the small of your back to steady you, and you leaned further into his touch as the performance continued.

Eventually, on some intangible cue, the fireflies and fairies all rushed upwards towards the opening in the canopy above, speeding out like sparks from a campfire into the night, and leaving you and Beorn alone in the mossy glen.

“That was incredible,” you whispered when you finally got your breath back.

“I thought you would enjoy that,” he said. He surprised you by lowering his great wolf’s head and nuzzling his cheek against your shoulder. He rumbled a soft moan and closed his eyes.

You turned to look at him and brought your hand slowly to his cheek. “You’re so beautiful, Beorn,” you murmured. You hadn’t meant to speak your thoughts, and the moment you did, he froze. Before you could call the words back or formulate some lie to cover your embarrassment, Beorn sighed happily once more.

“I don’t think a human has ever called me ‘beautiful’ before,” he said with a shy laugh. His big, dark eyes stared intently at you in the dark, and you felt a prickle of arousal go through you. He inhaled and then nuzzled against you again.

“Beorn…” you gasped, your fingers tightening in his fur, tugging. “I… I want you…”

With another whining moan, he let his teeth rake over your throat, his tongue hot and wet against the cool night air on your skin, and you gasped, exposing your neck to him.

He growled at you and lowered you down onto your back, your cloak spread out beneath you amid the soft moss. “I want… I want to taste you,” he said in a deep, rough voice. His hands gripped your waist and you found your legs parting for him almost without a second thought. “Will you let me?”

“Gods, yes,” you grunted, and helped him undo the belt at your waist. He drew off your clothes delicately with his claws and your skin prickled into goosebumps.

He ran the rough pads of his paw-like hands up the inside of your thighs, his jaws loosely parted. He was panting slightly and you could see his white teeth glinting in the moonlight. He pressed his cold, wet nose against you and you jerked and bucked as he let his hot, rasping tongue lave over you; tasting you, savouring you.

His talon-tipped fingers tightened on your thighs, claws pricking, holding your legs open for him as he got to work. After a few strokes, his eyes rolled closed and he let out a deep, low-frequency growl that went right through you. He lavished attention on you until you were shaking and gasping, and he was unrelenting.

“Beorn, I’m going to come,” you gasped and his teeth just nudged against your skin for a moment, adding a perfect counterpoint to the rolling heat of his tongue and his breath. “You’re going to make me come.”

He hadn’t once stopped growling, and you weren’t sure he could speak until he grunted and removed his left hand from your thigh. You just about had enough strength to raise your head behind the pleasure buzzing through you, and you looked down the length of your body to see that he was working his own cock in his hand while still letting his tongue toy with you. Thick, red, and leaking all over his fingers, dripping freely onto the moss between his knees, his cock was hard and there was a knot forming at the base. He squeezed his hand around it but he leaned down over you again and you saw stars as his cold nose pressed against you with an insistent eagerness.

“Come for me,” he snarled through bared teeth. “Come for me.”

A few seconds later, your back arched and you came against the heat of his mouth. He spilled a heartbeat after you did, and you cracked an eye open to watch him throw his head back and howl.

Unabashed, he broadcast his pleasure to the forest, and you lay there and watched his cock pulse and spurt over his knuckles as he gripped the swollen knot hard. He made such a beautiful mess of himself, and he never took his other hand off your leg, keeping himself grounded through the roaring pleasure that tore through him in waves.

When he finally stopped coming, the howl faded from his throat, and he let his head drop down to regard you. He was breathing like he’d just raced across the forest, and his pupils were blown black and wide.

“You’re perfect,” he said. “Gods, but you’re perfect.”

You laughed quietly, fondly, and lay there dazed and sensitive and satisfied.

“Come back to me?” he asked in a whisper as he lay down beside you a while later and pulled you tight against his chest.

“What do you mean? I’m right here…”

You felt him shake his head a little. “When you’re done in the city. Will you come back to me?”

“Of course I will,” you promised, half-twisting in his embrace to look up at him. “Anyway, it’s all your fault that I’m going to the city with the world’s most expensive mushroom in my pocket!”

He laughed and held you tight, and when you parted at the edge of the forest the next day, he told you he would wait for you there until you returned.

Thanks for reading this story, and I hope you’ll consider reblogging it (as well as leaving a like) if you enjoyed it, since that will help others find it.

Take care, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.

Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar) | Library/Story Archive Blog

#werewolf #werewolf boyfriend #male werewolf x reader #trans male reader #trans reader #male werewolf #werewolf x reader #werewolf romance #forest spirit #exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster romance

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vixenpen · 7 months

Text

Hobie Brown loves black women (duh) but also (head canons)

because daddy is my latest obsession 🤭

Damn, I leave these tumblr streets for a year and yall out here wildin. It’s come to my attention that yall have the unmitigated gall, the glittering nerve to argue with black women about whether or not Hobie Brown likes black girls. Excuse me???? Does the black punk radical revolutionary from the SEVENTIES!!!! (Cuz yall keep forgetting he lives in 1970s London) like black women?!?!?!

Honey not only does he LOOOVE black women. He loves BLACK women. What do I mean when I say that?

Hobie loves soul sistas with sky high Afros, TWAs, shaved heads, close cut fades

The girls that can quote Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X, bell hooks, and WEB Du Bois with equal conviction and knowledge

I’m talking fist to the sky, power to the people, say it loud I’m black and I’m proud, type tease

I’m talking they wearing all black, leather jackets with their black panther pins stuck to the lapel (and if you think I’m talking about the hero you ain’t black enough for this conversation)

I’m talking the black ladies with the barets that call all black men “my brotha” and all black women “my sistah”

The black women that keep that thang on em and ain’t ever gotta get ready

Hobie loves the loc’ed black girls and the turban wearing sisters

The girls who keep Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, or Langston Hughes on deck usually tucked into their woven knapsacks/leather messenger bags

The sage and incense burning girlies who cleanse their space and say a little prayer of protection on your journey

The orisha worshipping black girlies with alters in their windows and tarot cards on their bookshelf

The girlies that can guess your star sign based on your jaw line.

The girls that smell like cocoa butter with paint on their skirts

Hobie likes his fellow black fem punks with their spiked jewelry and shaved heads

The girlies pushing, shoving, and rioting during the mosh pits

The black girlies with the braid/Mohawk combos.

The girls stomping through the club in demonias with their piercings and black leather accessories

The girls with the drawn on angry eyebrows yet the kindest, gentlest smiles

The girls who prowl the record stores and flip off the shop owner that keeps following them.

The black girlies in the band who are front row and center wailing like Betty Davis and dancing like Tina Turner, a mic in hand or a guitar over her shoulder

Hobie loves the disco divas

The girlies in their sparkly bell bottoms killing it in the discos on Saturday nights

The girlies who think disco will never die

The funky divas and dance floor queens

The girls that audition for soul train every season and win.

The girls with the best record collection especially when it comes to party hits and speaking of parties

He loves the girls who are the first on the dance floor and the last to leave. The lives of the party and the queens of the kick backs

Hobie loves his pothead black girls that always have the good gas

His Mary Jane muses who are always a chill vibe and a good time

The black girls who always have snacks and gum on em cuz they’re always hungry and high.

With their red eyes and quick smiles.

He loves the black girls with a little dime bag and something “a little bit stronger if you need it”

And he loves his black girls black mixed with nothing but black. Two black parents, four black grandparents, the darker the berry the sweeter the juice. Yes he loves dark chocolate girls BUT he loves his black girls of all hues

Albino

Butter scotch

Mahogany

Blue-black

Hobie loves BLACK women

Yall please stop forgetting this man lived during the 70s and there is a very particular type of black woman that was around during the 70s

#hobie brown #atsv hobie #hobie x black!reader #hobart brown #Hobie brown #across the spiderverse #atsv #headcanons

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villainsimpqueen · 6 months

Text

Echos in Paradise Lost

Adam x Reader x Eve

reader is intersex

(My fics are 18+)

(Also there was fan comic of adam holding baby cain which i wanted to use for this chapters cover but i couldnt find it. I just know it had Adam saying "Your my paradise now" To baby cain and I- 🥺🥺😭😭💗💗 I cant believe i didmt save it. I know i saw it somewhere...)

Chapter seven

Months continued to draw by and each one Adam had became very devoted to Eve's care and health.

Each month his loving life blessed him with the image of life growing inside of her as your stomach grew larger and larger.

With each month passed his wife became more demanding of him, requesting him to hunt certain animals no matter how dangerous they could be for him to strike down with his spear. A nasty five line scar on his side healed by her soothing salves was proof of that when she demanded to have a bear for a super and next day's meal.

Bruises coloring his backside from when he fell from a tree when Eve whined to him for wanting only the highest fruit as they tasted the sweetest.

She would even wake him from his deepest slumber in the night, wanting him to leave the warmth of their caved home to gather honey from sleeping bees.

He would grumble in blooming annoyance or her demands but then seeing the image of her placing her hands to rest on her swollen abdomen that carried a growing child with her soft glowy face as she whined for whatever it was she so desperately needed him to gather or hunt would make his eyes soften and mood shift to a serving one.

He began waking up earlier as well way before morning's light, not because he had too but simply because he wanted to. He liked the peace he had in the morning where he could lay beside his beloved wife and watch the fire's light dance on her glowing features as she laid beside him.

She had this glow to her skin, and a shine to her hair that had formed shortly after the ball of life in her stomach had started glowing. Her gentle features became even softer as she slept beside him. He loved waking up to simply admire her and her beauty, before he would get up to find her a filling meal for the day.

This part of her pregnancy had brought a simple joy to Adam as he carefully prodged over her swollen stomach before laying a hand on there holding his breath for a moment before he felt the ball of life inside of his wife kick back at his hand. A hush chuckle left him as he pressed his fingers into Eve's stomach feeling the little ones kicking against them.

The little one had started this development months ago, For eve had been the one to so eagerly show him when the first kicks had started. It wasn't long until she had later told him that sometimes the little ones kicking had hurt.

He wondered how long until they could meet Eves and Your little one.

Adam watched as his wifes sleeping face contorted a murmured groan from her lips made him feel guilty as he softly rubbed at her stomach in apology for riling up the little one from its slumber. He moved to his hands and knees softly kissing her stomach before moving up to kiss her cheek before climbing away from their furred bed making sure she was securely covered in the thickest of blankets before getting up for the day.

Adam had gotten up early gathering his spear strapping it onto his back with a leather strap Eve had made for him and gathering a woven bag from his wife's hands tie8ng it to his person.

His wifes soft snores hitting his ears as he turned to watch her sleep, furred blankets bundled around her tightly and some even folded under her stomach cushioning it more from the lower blankets that covered the floor.

He had stopped in his movements to simply watch her breath and exhale in her sleep, sometimes he allowed his mind to play tricks with him.

To picture you sleeping beside her, arms curled from behind her, your face buried into the back of her shoulder.

You would have your arm protectively placed on her stomach protecting the ball of life inside your shared beloved wife. How you open your e/c eyes to look at him tiredly seeing if he would request your help in his hunting.

He would have requested you to tend to Eve.

Adam shook his head allowing himself to smile fondly at his wife before quietly leaving the cave, heading down to where the air changed tasting of salt and became more breezy, where the forest changed to wide open meadows to golden sandy beaches.

Being on earth allowed them both to learn of new things, like new bodies of water that opened up to new food possibilities.

The sound of soothing crashing waves would wash up the beat tasting morsels if you awoke right before the sun just as the first light was peaking on the land.

He enjoyed mornings like this, where the sky was painted of bright colors and the soothing sound of the washing waves calmed any quells in his soul. He moved down to the wetten sand using his spear to move the sand as the waves washed around it and his feet, as his spear hit softly against what he was searching for he tipped it causing the two shelled creatures to fly from its buried state. He bent over gathering the clam and dropping it into his wifes woven basket before continuing on to gather more.

He would also gather bunches of washed up seaweed for his wife to make soothing salves with and store for when they needed to apply it to wounds or to ichy or sun dried skin, more for his sake than hers.

He also gathered a few pretty shells for Eve,seeing as his wife had liked making new things she calls necklaces and ear prettys.

He had thought them to be ridiculous at first but as she made some and excitedly showed him her small collection she made for himself, he found himself taking time to find pretty stones, rocks and shells to take to Eve for her necklaces and ear prettys.

He reached a spot on the beach that was covered in large stones, a small area having a rocky fire pit he had built with a giant clay bowl he had Eve make for him a few days ago. He had not explained why despite her confusion, not because he didn't feel the need too, he simply had not wanted to excite his wife to lead to disappointment if he was wrong.

He wondered what made his and Eves hair so stiff and their clothes as well when they left the Beaches waters.

Then

Days ago he had found dead fish on the beach,far from the water, stiff and crystallized, but it did not seem like sand had made it so stiff and crunchy, the meat seemed almost safe to eat, had it not been for how unsure he was of it being dead, or what could have possibly ate half of it before he had found it…

so he had Eve make a bowl for him, after he built this fire pit on the beach, he had carried it to the beach and filled it with the salty tasting water and set it over a low flame and left it for days to slowly cook and boil the water.

As he now five days later approached the pit he could see the smoke of a dying fire as he neared it, hoping that his thoughts were correct as he neared the smoldering clay pot, he crouched down beside it moving the branches he set on top to keep it covered and then the large dried withered leaves and peered down inside.

The brown oranged clay cowl was covered in white crystals all around, not at all like the sand in the beaches. He moved a stone carved blade from his robes folds and scraped it against the white crystals watching how easily they crumbled under his blade, he worked carefully scraping it all around the bowl, crunching them until it was a sandy powder. With a curious look he gathered his blade and brought it up to his face, eyeing it carefully before forking out his tongue to lick at the powder.

Its sharpening bitter tangy and salty taste melted on his tongue much too quickly for him to adjust to it, making him sputter and choke as his eyes watered. It was far stronger than the beach's waters and he turned his head far from the clay bowl to spit out the taste from his lips. Despite his clear disgust at the over sensitivity of taste, excitement had filled Adam as his next actions was to cut leather from his robing to place the powdery sand in its middle and bunch the leather around it tying it shut with a thin strap before placing the pouch into the folds of his robes.

He gathered bowl carrying it back to the waving sea filling of its salty waters and back to the pit, filling it more with wood from the forest he had piled beside it days ago he brought the beach pit to flames once more and left it to gather more large leaves to place on top of the bowl to cover it shut and place wooden logs on top to keep the leaved weighed down and in place.

Once he had finished he moved on down the rocks that entered the beach's waters, then he gathered more taste morsels to fill Eve's woven basket up with them.

By the start of noon, Adam was heading back to their caved home. His excitement of the new powdery discovery died as he approached hearing loud piercing shrills of something so tenderly pathetic.

He pulled open the log door looking inside to find the blankets of their furred bed in disarray, small movement from it as the shrills came from it, but his attention was brought to all the red that stained the blankets, smeared across the cave floor in puddles to a back wall where his scratching eyes finally landed on his wife.

Eve cowardly went to the wall, her hair a mess and clung to her in sweat, her soft sobs wracking her body as she held her knees with bloodied hands, a pool of blood surrounding her.

He approached her first in concern, falling to his knees in front of her, unbothered by the blood that soiled them as he reached his hands to her.

“Eve.” He spoke softly as he tried to reach her only to watch and she coward away from him, her honey eyes opening in panic

“Halt!” She spoke sharply, causing him to father as he stared at her tear stained face.

"Verily, I am tainted, Adam. To lay thy hand upon me would but deepen thy damnation.” She sobbing out in gentle wails as she moved away from him. Though Adam did not understand as he looked upon her, she was covered in blood, so much of it, but she was as she always was, she had no resemblance of a snake. He cupped her cheeks wiping her tears with the pads of his roughen thumbs.

"I discern no impurity, but rather concern for thy well-being. Art thou injured?” He asked as his eyes moved to the puddle of blood she sat in with worry.

"To heal this affliction, might salves offer solace to thy wound?”

His eyes moved to meet Honeyed gold ones that wavered at him, tears falling from their glow but Eve's did not part to tell him what to do. Another high pitched shrill from behind him echoed amongst the cave walls, making him turn his head to the messy array of blankets, he moved to stand to head towards it when bloodied hands grabbed at his wrist.

"Prithee, do not, for at the sight thereof, thou shalt deem me unclean, and thus depart. I beseech thee, stay, and forsake me not.” Eve begged, Adam had turned his head to take in her fearful gaze at him, and yet another wail from the blankets gathered his attention as he took his wrist from his and neared the furrs, carefully going on his knees he moved the blankets from the small moving thing and then revolted backwards as he stared into the image of the ball of life he had cherished in his wifes stomach hours before.

It was not of you at all.

Its skin is unlike the three of you all together.

Bright red circles burned into its cheeks and eyes open like the snake that had sired it.

Adam felt disgust move through him as the little fein had an extra limb that moved like a body of a serpent coiling around its one little legs.

He could hear Eves sobbing behind him, as he turned his head from the little snake in front of him. Its wails echoing over his beloved's wifes sobs and echoing through the cave's walls.

And yet, he did not get up and leave.

He forced himself to turn back to stare at the little feinds moving towards it and picking it up in a blanket staring down at it, watching how it's yellowed slit eyes morphed to a soft wonderfully familiar e/c. The red cheeks dullen and its inhuman skin changed to a soft light s/c tone. It's the blackened nose of a goat morphing into a soft human like one mimicking your own, The tail wrapped around its leg fading from sight as it looked up at him and cried, wailing for attention and comfort.

Adam turned his head again, closing his stinging eyes, his chest aching with pain and sorrow.

Not even a few hours alive and it has already lied and played tricks like its true sire.

already a true snake.

And yet Adam did not drop the small thing in disgust. Did not find it in his heart to hate it like he had with its true father, he looked into those little e/c eyes with tears stinging his own as he moved a gentle finger to trace at its small nose it falsified to look like yours, before moving his hand down where little fingers wrapped around it. The little thing stopped all its wailing and stared up at him with gentle soft noises, soft coos of sweetness.

"Let us bestow upon him a noble name, one befitting his worth.” Adams words hit Eves as she looked up seeing her husband turn to him, the snake wrapped in her husband's arms in the tormenting image it too hard played on her. She looked up at Adam in astoundment, taking in how watery his blazing eyes looked as he looked back down to the snake's sired son.

"Doth thou desire to bestow upon it a name?” She asked her husband dumbfoundment in her tone with disbelief, he couldn't possibly be so forgiving…

He stared at its little e/c eyes and even though they pained him so, knowing that they were not the little things true eyes, he could not find hatred as he stared into them.

Because he could hear you, as if you were beside him with a hand on his arm, as if your gaze was on the little deceiver as well.

Yet so adoringly for the child had come from your shared wife and that was all that concerned you, for you would not care if it was not your sired child. For you would see it as your own, like you would for any of his that came from another, simply because you'd see any bastard child of theirs as innocent deserving your love and protection.

“No matter the outcome, love them as if they are mine own, As thine own, and thou shalt always feel my love beside thee.”

And he did.

His sourching eyes moved to dumbfounded honey ones as a weak smile bit his face and the tears he held back finally fell down his own cheeks, Forgiveness and love so strongly in Adams eyes as he gazed on her lovingly once again looking past her sins and hurt she brought to him.

"Why, prithee, would I be cruel to withhold a name from our very own son?”

And she cried, knowing that Earth was no true punishment for her, it was simply the pain she would bring to You and Adam and having to watch you both accept it and her regardless, and the child was simply a forever reminder of it.

Cain.

That was the Name bestowed on his first son. And learning to be a father and a mother to the small son was an experience Adam and Eve found themselves thrown into, for the little one wailed almost all of the time. Screaming for comfort, for food, for whatever it was that it wailed for almost at all hours of the day and worst in the night.

Both grew envious of the other when one was able to escape the childs never stopping wails to either gather, or hunt, to wash in the stream, or simply needing to get away for a few minutes.

Eve had been away, towards the creek to wash herself in desperation, She was too worried to speak to her husband, too worried if he would finally look upon her in disgust seeing that she was truly impure.

Sharp pains dug into her making her cry out as she washed the never ending blood that seeped from her legs.

The pain was similar to when she had birthed Cain into existence but this time there was no child's head finding its way from her legs. She sat on knees and cried, she did not understand why she was bleeding.

She only felt shame and a need to make sure Adam never found out that she bleeds for no child.

She sobbed as she walked into the creek sitting down in its cold waters letting it soothe her burning body.

she weeped as she glared at the abandoning heavens, wondering why they must punish her so harshly. A bitterness towards heaven growing thicker, she had joined Adam with his prayers to the benevolent heavens, which they still did not speak to them anymore.

Now she was experiencing a pain of no other in her own womb and it weeped out painful red tears down her legs and into the creek's waters.

The heavens gates turned their backs onto them and she will not forgive them.

Eve let out a bitter snarl at a sharp pain that stabbed into her lower back bringing her discomfort.

She had no need to praise cruel beings of her prayers, and she will not utter them a single one for as long as she suffers from childless bleeding.

She washed herself clean as best as she could, the pains dulling from the soothness that came from the creek. She washed her clothes of the blood letting them dry in the breeze and sun before going back to relax in the chilled cold waters. She only left it again when her skin was running and pulled on her mostly dried clothing. She was unsure what to do about her new bleeding problem, how she would hide the blood that wanted to run down her legs.

She walked towards the cave that was their home holding her stomach in slight pain as she wondered how she would possibly hide this from Adam.

hide her shame.

Her eyes stung with bitter anger as she rubbed them harshly from tears she did not want to shed as she stomped through the trail back to the cave. Until a soft breeze moved past her and what felt as a gentle hand across her back made her pause as the wind blew softly again and soft feeling fingers turned her head to the side, something white and puffy swayed into the grass catching her attention. Bundles of the puffy flowers swayed in the blowing wind letting her near and crouch down slowly to them. Her hands softly plucking some up feeling how bouncy and soft the white flowers were…

The wind blew again and that feeling of a softly hand grasping her shoulder made her jump as she turned back, facing back towards the creek. She sat there unsure as she spent so much time away knowing that Adam must be going crazy by little Cain's external crying. But the next gentle breeze coaxed her back to the creek where she stared at its cool waters and the bundle of white flowers in her hands.

Then she wondered if they could hold water.

She moved to the creek plunging them in watching how the white flowers swelled thickly and when she lifted them by their wilting stems she watched how they dripped.

The flower heads had tripled in size from the water giving Eve a strong idea.

She could sew leather together like a pouch and stuff the leather with as many fluffy flowers as needed until she stops bleeding.

She stopped as her excitement for the solution of her problem faded.

She would stop bleeding right?

A thought that had worried her as she went back to gather as much of those white fluffy flowers as she could.

Adam sat outside of the cave trying to carve a new blade with Cain snuggled to blankets between his crossed legs. The child kept crying, bringing Adam to quick frustration as the small thing had already been fed, changed to new blankets and was being held safe in his protection and yet that did not seem to please the selfish thing. His temper grew as each small wail chipped away at his patients, he threw the blade he tried working onto his side as he drugged his tired face into his hands letting out a frustrated yell into them of his own.

"Pray, wilt thou ever cease thy incessant prattle?!” He yelled in frustration moving his fingers to glare at the child in his lap only to met with silence, and wide hurt tear stained e/c looking up at him small sniffles leaving the small thing bringing immense guilt to Adams chest, he moved his hands from his face to carefully run fingers across his sons cheeks wiping the tears.

"Forgive me...Forgive me... Thou art fresh and diminutive... 'Tis unjust of me to berate thee for thine innocence and youth…” He whispered to his small son, watching how his little fingers moved to grab at his own and he allowed the small thing too.

Adam stared at his son silently watching him, before letting out a weak little chuckle as the small thing tried eating his finger.

"They would have cherished thee beyond measure…” He whispered, watching how those e/c little eyes moved to look up into his own, making him out softly in agreement to his last statement.

"Aye, thou hast another akin to us, little one... A…” Adam paused as he did not know what you would be to little cain..He did not want to tarnish your image with wrongful words. He did not know of any words that would fit you, for you were both a mother and father to Cain and choosing one or the other seemed wrong to do so, and thus Adam decided he would create a word for you, to honor your image.

“A parent, Your parent Y/n” He softly spoke as little Cain let out a soft coo upwards at him making him smile at his son.

"They may not be present in flesh, but their spirit resides within.” He whispered as he moved his finger from Cain's mouth to poke at the small things chest causing the child to let out a smaller squill, his little hands moving to take back his fathers larger finger. Adam chuckled pausing stiffly as a warm gentle hand touched his shoulder making him turn hisneyes away from his son and into the warm honeyed ones of his wife Eve.

She sat beside him leaning onto his shoulder looking at Cain, her fingers moving through the childs mimicking h/c locs.

"They were always filled with boundless affection for thee, my dear Cain. Their utmost desire was thy happiness, to witness joyous smiles upon thy visage.” His wife spoke of you softly warming his soul as he smiled at her fondly before looking at his son.

They spent the evening talking, telling his son memories they shared of you, until the little one finally fell into a peaceful sleep letting both them fall into one too under the warm sunny day until hours later they woke to the starry night sky and watched it before taking themselves and cain to bed.

Cain's first steps were a tremendous day, As it had been at the beach with His father and mother playing in the sand with him. The small toddler coos and makes noises of delight each time His mother and Father handed him seashells to add to the sand pile he was patting high.

Adam and Eve had sat merely a foot away from him, his mother resting her head on his fathers shoulder, her hands resting on a starting to swell belly.

"Dearest, might I beseech thee for some clams this eve?” Eve softly requested and Adam let out a small noise.

“"Do they not bring upon thee discomfort come the morrow?” He softly questioned her as he took his gaze away from Cain's play to her. Eve scrunched up her face at him, crossing her arms as she stared at him.

“They doth not.” She huffs more in trying to convince herself than him making Adams lips twitch upwards softly before letting another sigh pressing his lips to her forehead before moving up. He swore his wife did not care of her well-being sometimes as he moved to the water kicking the sand with his feet to gather the shelled creatures that she craved for tonight's supper.

That he will later have to pry open for her and cain to happily eat.

“Adam..” Eve soft voice did not register as he focused well on his given task.

“Husband! Adam seek!” Eve shouted louder but as if not to startle one as she watched as Cain wobbly tried to stand up. Her eyes moved from.her child to Adam who had not turned, finding herself frustrated but in a panic to get her husband to see the wonderpus thing their little cain was doing. Her eyes fell to a shell near Cain's foot and she carefully leaned taking it as to not startle the little cain before pulling away.

Her eyes glued to the childs chunky littles wobbles as he bent them, starting to wobble and push upwards to stand. Hsr hands shook, hesitating to grab the small child to help or to pull away to not hinder her son's attempts.

She looked back at Adam before pulling her arm back before thrusting it forward, feeling the shell leave her palm and into the air for a short while before it nailed her husband right in the back. She heard a yelp leave him making her bite her tongue to not dispel into laughter that would startle young Cain and make him fall, who now was fully standing with a slight wobble. Her eyes darted to see Adam turning before he too froze, eyes widening causing her to snap her own gaze back to cain.

The child cooed as he shuffled slightly trying to turn his small body around with the dragging of his feet before he faced Adams' direction. A delighted shrill leaves the small boy as he stumbles forwards making Eve yelp to push on her knees to grab him only for him to land on his foot and wobbly fall again to his other.

Eve rose her hands shaking them as she let out noises of excitement of her own watching Cain take his precious first steps cooing with delight as his wobby arms failed into the air with each small step he took towards his father. Her eyes darted to Adam who had a wide grin on his face as he moved closer to his son getting on his knees holding his arms out to Cain who cooed delightedly to take stumbling steps until he fell forward into his fathers arms.

Over joyment filled Adams face as he bounced to his feet holding Cain in hisnarms pure bright laughter leaving her husband brightly.

“He walks! He walks!” Adam hollered in pride as he spun little cain around in his arms his eyes finding hers as she found to her feet, moving to her to wrap one of his arms around her pressing his lips to her in silent cheer before pulling away cheering with little cains delighted squeals as he lifts his son into the air.

"Hark! My son doth tread upon his own two feet!” He screams to the ignoring heavens showing them his pride and enjoyment that they ignored.

Unbeknownst that one hidden away weeped silent tears of joy in an endless slumber.

chp 8

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